越战纪念碑二十六个字母
便把这么多年青的名字
嵌入历史
万人冢中
一个踽踽独行的老妪
终于找到了
她的爱子
此刻她正紧闭双眼
用颤悠悠的手指
沿着他冰冷的额头
找那致命的伤口
and twenty six letters of the alphabet
etch so many young names
onto history
Wandering alone
amid the mass grave
an old woman has at last found
her only child
and with her eyes tightly shut
her trembling fingers now feel
for the mortal wound
on his ice-cold forehead
【赏析】 诗人以平实的语言，以看似简单叙述的方式，铺陈诗歌表达主题。深入而浅出的再现了，在世人共知的越战事件中，许许多多的热血青年，献出自己宝贵青春生命的事实。短短的十二行文字,凝成一枚尖利的镞矢,射向罪恶的战争深处!战争，这邪恶的幽灵,以残酷的手段分裂了人间的至爱亲人，令他们从此迷失在找寻的路途!诗人以一个年迈而独行的老妪为典型来呈现，场景生动且富有强烈的画面感染力。让人读后内心被深深的撕咬撞击着,仿佛一种痛,散发着血腥的气味,越过头顶!
从这篇文字中，我们读到了一个关注和平，关注人间疾苦，有着高尚思想情怀的诗人灵魂内质！他以自己手中的笔，开始了另一场战争，讨伐那些喜欢玩弄野心的战争贩子：他们不顾百姓民生的疾苦，不惜牺牲千千万万的年轻生命，以达到自己霸权私欲目的。多么可恨和可耻！让读者在顷刻间，调动了各种情感元素，跟随诗人语言的脚步，深挖出一个业已被众人忘却一段历史隐痛，引起情感上的共鸣！
让我们以沉痛而崇敬的心来一起默哀，缅怀我们无辜死难的兄弟同胞吧!愿他们的灵魂在天上安息!让我们用愤恨的力量来诅咒,诅咒那些人类灾难性战争的制造者吧!过去的,现在的,未来的!（鹤雨）
致海伦
<>海伦啊，你的美貌对于我，
就象那古老的尼赛安帆船，
在芬芳的海面上它悠悠荡漾，
载着风尘仆仆疲惫的流浪汉，
驶往故乡的海岸。
你兰紫色的柔发，古典的脸，
久久浮现在波涛汹涌的海面上，
你女神般的风姿，
将我带回往昔希腊的荣耀，
和古罗马的辉煌。
看，神龛金碧，你婷婷玉立，
俨然一尊雕像，
手提玛瑙明灯，
啊，普赛克，
你是来自那神圣的地方！
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
安娜蓓尔·李
那是在许多年、许多年以前，
在海边的一个王国里
住着位姑娘，你可能也知道
她名叫安娜蓓尔·李：
这姑娘的心里没别的思念，
就除了她同我的情意。
那时候我同她都还是孩子，
住在这海边的王国里；
可我同她的爱已不止是爱－－
同我的安娜蓓尔·李－－
已使天堂中长翅膀的仙子
想把我们的爱夺去。
就因为这道理，很久很久前
在这个海边的王国里，
云头里吹来一阵风，冻了我
美丽的安娜蓓尔·李；
这招来她出身高贵的亲戚，
从我这里把她抢了去，
把她关进石头凿成的墓穴，
在这个海边的王国里。
天上的仙子也没那样快活，
所以把她又把我妒忌－－
就因为这道理（大家都知道），
在这个海边的王国里，
夜间的云头里吹来一阵风，
冻死了安娜蓓尔·李。
我们的爱远比其他人强烈－－
同年长于我们的相比，
同远为聪明的人相比；
无论是天国中的神人仙子，
还是海底的魔恶鬼厉，
都不能使她美丽的灵魂儿
同我的灵魂儿分离。
因为月亮的光总叫我梦见
美丽的安娜蓓尔·李；
因为升空的星总叫我看见
她那明亮眼睛的美丽；
整夜里我躺在爱人的身边－－
这爱人是我生命，是我新娘，
她躺在海边的石穴里，
在澎湃大海边的墓里。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
最快乐的日子
最快乐的日子，最快乐的时辰
我麻木的心儿所能感知，
最显赫的权势，最辉煌的容幸
我的知觉所能期冀。
我说权势？不错！如我期盼，
可那期盼早已化为乌有！
我青春的梦想也烟消云散——
但就让它们付之东流。
荣耀，我现在与你有何关系？
另一个额头也许会继承
你曾经喷在我身上的毒汁——
安静吧，我的心灵。
最快乐的日子，最快乐的时辰
我的眼睛将看——所一直凝视，
最显赫的权势，最辉煌的荣幸
我的知觉所一直希冀：
但如果那权势和荣耀的希望
现在飞来，带着在那时候
我也感到的痛苦——那极乐时光
我也再不会去享受：
因为希望的翅膀变暗发黑，
而当它飞翔时——掉下一种
原素——其威力足以摧毁
一个以为它美好的灵魂。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
乌鸦
从前一个阴郁的子夜，我独自沉思，慵懒疲竭，
沉思许多古怪而离奇、早已被人遗忘的传闻——
当我开始打盹，几乎入睡，突然传来一阵轻擂，
仿佛有人在轻轻叩击，轻轻叩击我的房门。
“有人来了，”我轻声嘟喃，“正在叩击我的房门——
唯此而已，别无他般。”
哦，我清楚地记得那是在萧瑟的十二月；
每一团奄奄一息的余烬都形成阴影伏在地板。
我当时真盼望翌日；——因为我已经枉费心机
想用书来消除悲哀——消除因失去丽诺尔的悲叹——
因那被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她美丽娇艳——
在这儿却默默无闻，直至永远。
那柔软、暗淡、飒飒飘动的每一块紫色窗布
使我心中充满前所未有的恐怖——我毛骨惊然；
为平息我心儿停跳．我站起身反复叨念
“这是有人想进屋，在叩我的房门——。
更深夜半有人想进屋，在叩我的房门；——
唯此而已，别无他般。”
很快我的心变得坚强；不再犹疑，不再彷徨，
“先生，”我说，“或夫人，我求你多多包涵；
刚才我正睡意昏昏，而你来敲门又那么轻，
你来敲门又那么轻，轻轻叩击我的房门，
我差点以为没听见你”——说着我拉开门扇；——
唯有黑夜，别无他般。
凝视着夜色幽幽，我站在门边惊惧良久，
疑惑中似乎梦见从前没人敢梦见的梦幻；
可那未被打破的寂静，没显示任何迹象。
“丽诺尔？”便是我嗫嚅念叨的唯一字眼，
我念叨“丽诺尔！”，回声把这名字轻轻送还，
唯此而已，别无他般。
我转身回到房中，我的整个心烧灼般疼痛，
很快我又听到叩击声，比刚才听起来明显。
“肯定，”我说，“肯定有什么在我的窗棂；
让我瞧瞧是什么在那里，去把那秘密发现——
让我的心先镇静一会儿，去把那秘密发现；——
那不过是风，别无他般！”
我猛然推开窗户，。心儿扑扑直跳就像打鼓，
一只神圣往昔的健壮乌鸦慢慢走进我房间；
它既没向我致意问候；也没有片刻的停留；
而以绅士淑女的风度，栖在我房门的上面——
栖在我房门上方一尊帕拉斯半身雕像上面——
栖坐在那儿，仅如此这般。
于是这只黑鸟把我悲伤的幻觉哄骗成微笑，
以它那老成持重一本正经温文尔雅的容颜，
“虽然冠毛被剪除，”我说，“但你肯定不是懦夫，
你这幽灵般可怕的古鸦，漂泊来自夜的彼岸——
请告诉我你尊姓大名，在黑沉沉的冥府阴间！”
乌鸦答日“永不复述。”
听见如此直率的回答，我惊叹这丑陋的乌鸦，
虽说它的回答不着边际——与提问几乎无关；
因为我们不得不承认，从来没有活着的世人
曾如此有幸地看见一只鸟栖在他房门的面——
鸟或兽栖在他房间门上方的半身雕像上面，
有这种名字“水不复还。”
但那只独栖于肃穆的半身雕像上的乌鸦只说了
这一句话，仿佛它倾泻灵魂就用那一个字眼。
然后它便一声不吭——也不把它的羽毛拍动——
直到我几乎是哺哺自语“其他朋友早已消散——
明晨它也将离我而去——如同我的希望已消散。”
这时那鸟说“永不复还。”
惊异于那死寂漠漠被如此恰当的回话打破，
“肯定，”我说，“这句话是它唯一的本钱，
从它不幸动主人那儿学未。一连串无情飞灾
曾接踵而至，直到它主人的歌中有了这字眼——
直到他希望的挽歌中有了这个忧伤的字眼
‘永不复还，永不复还。’”
但那只乌鸦仍然把我悲伤的幻觉哄骗成微笑，
我即刻拖了张软椅到门旁雕像下那只鸟跟前；
然后坐在天鹅绒椅垫上，我开始冥思苦想，
浮想连着浮想，猜度这不祥的古鸟何出此言——
这只狰狞丑陋可怕不吉不祥的古鸟何出此言，
为何聒噪‘永不复还。”
我坐着猜想那意见但没对那鸟说片语只言。
此时，它炯炯发光的眼睛已燃烧进我的心坎；
我依然坐在那儿猜度，把我的头靠得很舒服，
舒舒服服地靠在那被灯光凝视的天鹅绒衬垫，
但被灯光爱慕地凝视着的紫色的天鹅绒衬垫，
她将显出，啊，永不复还！
接着我想，空气变得稠密，被无形香炉熏香，
提香炉的撒拉弗的脚步声响在有簇饰的地板。
“可怜的人，”我呼叫，“是上帝派天使为你送药，
这忘忧药能中止你对失去的丽诺尔的思念；
喝吧如吧，忘掉对失去的丽诺尔的思念！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“先知！”我说“凶兆！——仍是先知，不管是鸟还是魔！
是不是魔鬼送你，或是暴风雨抛你来到此岸，
孤独但毫不气馁，在这片妖惑鬼崇的荒原——
在这恐怖萦绕之家——告诉我真话，求你可怜——
基列有香膏吗？——告诉我——告诉我，求你可怜！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“先知！”我说，“凶兆！——仍是先知、不管是鸟是魔！
凭我们头顶的苍天起誓——凭我们都崇拜的上帝起誓——
告诉这充满悲伤的灵魂。它能否在遥远的仙境
拥抱被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她纤尘不染——
拥抱被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她美丽娇艳。”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“让这话做我们的道别之辞，鸟或魔！”我突然叫道——
“回你的暴风雨中去吧，回你黑沉沉的冥府阴间！
别留下黑色羽毛作为你的灵魂谎言的象征！
留给我完整的孤独！——快从我门上的雕像滚蛋！
从我心中带走你的嘴；从我房门带走你的外观！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
那乌鸦并没飞去，它仍然栖息，仍然栖息
在房门上方那苍白的帕拉斯半身雕像上面；
而它的眼光与正在做梦的魔鬼眼光一模一样，
照在它身上的灯光把它的阴影投射在地板；
而我的灵魂，会从那团在地板上漂浮的阴暗
被擢升么——永不复还！
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
梦
呵！我的青春是一个长梦该有多好！
愿我的灵魂长梦不醒，一直到
那水恒之光芒送来黎明的曙光；
不错！那长梦中也有忧伤和绝望，
可于他也胜过清醒生活的现实，
他的心，在这个清冷萧瑟的尘世，
从来就是并将是，自从他诞生，
一团强烈激情的纷乱浑沌！
但假若——那个永生延续的梦——
像我有过的许多梦一样落空，
假若它与我儿时的梦一样命运，
那希冀高远的天国仍然太愚蠢！
因为我一直沉迷于夏日的晴天，
因为我一直耽溺于白昼的梦幻，
并把我自己的心，不经意的
一直留在我想象中的地域——
除了我的家，除了我的思索——
我本来还能看见另外的什么？
一次而且只有一次，那癫狂之时
将不会从我的记忆中消失——
是某种力量或符咒把我镇住——
是冰凉的风在夜里把我吹拂，
并把它的形象留在我心中，
或是寒月冷光照耀我的睡梦——
或是那些星星——但无论它是啥，
那梦如寒夜阴风——让它消失吧。
我一直很幸福——虽然只在梦里，
我一直很幸福——我爱梦的旋律——
梦哟！在它们斑斓的色彩之中——
仿佛置身于一场短暂朦胧的斗争，
与现实争斗，斗争为迷眼带来
伊甸乐园的一切美和一切爱——
这爱与美都属于我们自己所有！
美过青春希望所知，在它最快乐的时候。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
模仿
一股深不可测的潮流，
一股无限自豪的潮流——
一个梦再加一种神秘，
似乎就是我童年的日子；
我是说我童年那个梦想
充满一种关于生命的思想，
它疯狂而清醒地一再闪现，
可我的心灵却视而不见；
唯愿我不曾让它们消失，
从我昏花速成的眼里！
那我将绝不会让世人
享有我心灵的幻影；
我会控制那些思路，
作为镇他灵魂的咒符；
因为灿烂的希望已消失，
欢乐时光终于过去，
我人世的休眠已结束
随着像是死亡的一幕；
我珍惜的思想一道消散
可我对此处之淡然。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
湖——致——
我命中注定在年少之时
常去这荒芜世界的一隅，
现在我依然爱那个地方——
如此可爱是那湖的凄凉，
凄凉的湖，湖畔黑岩磷峋，
湖边还有苍松高耸入云。
可是当黑暗撒开夜幕
将那湖与世界一同罩住，
当神秘的风在我耳边
悄声诉说着蜜语甜言——
这时——哦这时我会醒悟，
会意识到那孤湖的恐怖。
可那种恐怖并不吓人，
不过是一阵发抖的高兴——
一种感情，即便用满山宝石
也不能诱惑我下出定义——
爱也不能——纵然那爱是你的。
死亡就在那有毒的涟漪里，
在它的深渊，有一块坟地
适合于他，他能从那墓堆
为他孤独的想象带来安慰——
他寂寞的灵魂能够去改变。
把凄凉的湖交成伊甸乐园。
<>海伦啊，你的美貌对于我，
就象那古老的尼赛安帆船，
在芬芳的海面上它悠悠荡漾，
载着风尘仆仆疲惫的流浪汉，
驶往故乡的海岸。
你兰紫色的柔发，古典的脸，
久久浮现在波涛汹涌的海面上，
你女神般的风姿，
将我带回往昔希腊的荣耀，
和古罗马的辉煌。
看，神龛金碧，你婷婷玉立，
俨然一尊雕像，
手提玛瑙明灯，
啊，普赛克，
你是来自那神圣的地方！
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
安娜蓓尔·李
那是在许多年、许多年以前，
在海边的一个王国里
住着位姑娘，你可能也知道
她名叫安娜蓓尔·李：
这姑娘的心里没别的思念，
就除了她同我的情意。
那时候我同她都还是孩子，
住在这海边的王国里；
可我同她的爱已不止是爱－－
同我的安娜蓓尔·李－－
已使天堂中长翅膀的仙子
想把我们的爱夺去。
就因为这道理，很久很久前
在这个海边的王国里，
云头里吹来一阵风，冻了我
美丽的安娜蓓尔·李；
这招来她出身高贵的亲戚，
从我这里把她抢了去，
把她关进石头凿成的墓穴，
在这个海边的王国里。
天上的仙子也没那样快活，
所以把她又把我妒忌－－
就因为这道理（大家都知道），
在这个海边的王国里，
夜间的云头里吹来一阵风，
冻死了安娜蓓尔·李。
我们的爱远比其他人强烈－－
同年长于我们的相比，
同远为聪明的人相比；
无论是天国中的神人仙子，
还是海底的魔恶鬼厉，
都不能使她美丽的灵魂儿
同我的灵魂儿分离。
因为月亮的光总叫我梦见
美丽的安娜蓓尔·李；
因为升空的星总叫我看见
她那明亮眼睛的美丽；
整夜里我躺在爱人的身边－－
这爱人是我生命，是我新娘，
她躺在海边的石穴里，
在澎湃大海边的墓里。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
最快乐的日子
最快乐的日子，最快乐的时辰
我麻木的心儿所能感知，
最显赫的权势，最辉煌的容幸
我的知觉所能期冀。
我说权势？不错！如我期盼，
可那期盼早已化为乌有！
我青春的梦想也烟消云散——
但就让它们付之东流。
荣耀，我现在与你有何关系？
另一个额头也许会继承
你曾经喷在我身上的毒汁——
安静吧，我的心灵。
最快乐的日子，最快乐的时辰
我的眼睛将看——所一直凝视，
最显赫的权势，最辉煌的荣幸
我的知觉所一直希冀：
但如果那权势和荣耀的希望
现在飞来，带着在那时候
我也感到的痛苦——那极乐时光
我也再不会去享受：
因为希望的翅膀变暗发黑，
而当它飞翔时——掉下一种
原素——其威力足以摧毁
一个以为它美好的灵魂。
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乌鸦
从前一个阴郁的子夜，我独自沉思，慵懒疲竭，
沉思许多古怪而离奇、早已被人遗忘的传闻——
当我开始打盹，几乎入睡，突然传来一阵轻擂，
仿佛有人在轻轻叩击，轻轻叩击我的房门。
“有人来了，”我轻声嘟喃，“正在叩击我的房门——
唯此而已，别无他般。”
哦，我清楚地记得那是在萧瑟的十二月；
每一团奄奄一息的余烬都形成阴影伏在地板。
我当时真盼望翌日；——因为我已经枉费心机
想用书来消除悲哀——消除因失去丽诺尔的悲叹——
因那被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她美丽娇艳——
在这儿却默默无闻，直至永远。
那柔软、暗淡、飒飒飘动的每一块紫色窗布
使我心中充满前所未有的恐怖——我毛骨惊然；
为平息我心儿停跳．我站起身反复叨念
“这是有人想进屋，在叩我的房门——。
更深夜半有人想进屋，在叩我的房门；——
唯此而已，别无他般。”
很快我的心变得坚强；不再犹疑，不再彷徨，
“先生，”我说，“或夫人，我求你多多包涵；
刚才我正睡意昏昏，而你来敲门又那么轻，
你来敲门又那么轻，轻轻叩击我的房门，
我差点以为没听见你”——说着我拉开门扇；——
唯有黑夜，别无他般。
凝视着夜色幽幽，我站在门边惊惧良久，
疑惑中似乎梦见从前没人敢梦见的梦幻；
可那未被打破的寂静，没显示任何迹象。
“丽诺尔？”便是我嗫嚅念叨的唯一字眼，
我念叨“丽诺尔！”，回声把这名字轻轻送还，
唯此而已，别无他般。
我转身回到房中，我的整个心烧灼般疼痛，
很快我又听到叩击声，比刚才听起来明显。
“肯定，”我说，“肯定有什么在我的窗棂；
让我瞧瞧是什么在那里，去把那秘密发现——
让我的心先镇静一会儿，去把那秘密发现；——
那不过是风，别无他般！”
我猛然推开窗户，。心儿扑扑直跳就像打鼓，
一只神圣往昔的健壮乌鸦慢慢走进我房间；
它既没向我致意问候；也没有片刻的停留；
而以绅士淑女的风度，栖在我房门的上面——
栖在我房门上方一尊帕拉斯半身雕像上面——
栖坐在那儿，仅如此这般。
于是这只黑鸟把我悲伤的幻觉哄骗成微笑，
以它那老成持重一本正经温文尔雅的容颜，
“虽然冠毛被剪除，”我说，“但你肯定不是懦夫，
你这幽灵般可怕的古鸦，漂泊来自夜的彼岸——
请告诉我你尊姓大名，在黑沉沉的冥府阴间！”
乌鸦答日“永不复述。”
听见如此直率的回答，我惊叹这丑陋的乌鸦，
虽说它的回答不着边际——与提问几乎无关；
因为我们不得不承认，从来没有活着的世人
曾如此有幸地看见一只鸟栖在他房门的面——
鸟或兽栖在他房间门上方的半身雕像上面，
有这种名字“水不复还。”
但那只独栖于肃穆的半身雕像上的乌鸦只说了
这一句话，仿佛它倾泻灵魂就用那一个字眼。
然后它便一声不吭——也不把它的羽毛拍动——
直到我几乎是哺哺自语“其他朋友早已消散——
明晨它也将离我而去——如同我的希望已消散。”
这时那鸟说“永不复还。”
惊异于那死寂漠漠被如此恰当的回话打破，
“肯定，”我说，“这句话是它唯一的本钱，
从它不幸动主人那儿学未。一连串无情飞灾
曾接踵而至，直到它主人的歌中有了这字眼——
直到他希望的挽歌中有了这个忧伤的字眼
‘永不复还，永不复还。’”
但那只乌鸦仍然把我悲伤的幻觉哄骗成微笑，
我即刻拖了张软椅到门旁雕像下那只鸟跟前；
然后坐在天鹅绒椅垫上，我开始冥思苦想，
浮想连着浮想，猜度这不祥的古鸟何出此言——
这只狰狞丑陋可怕不吉不祥的古鸟何出此言，
为何聒噪‘永不复还。”
我坐着猜想那意见但没对那鸟说片语只言。
此时，它炯炯发光的眼睛已燃烧进我的心坎；
我依然坐在那儿猜度，把我的头靠得很舒服，
舒舒服服地靠在那被灯光凝视的天鹅绒衬垫，
但被灯光爱慕地凝视着的紫色的天鹅绒衬垫，
她将显出，啊，永不复还！
接着我想，空气变得稠密，被无形香炉熏香，
提香炉的撒拉弗的脚步声响在有簇饰的地板。
“可怜的人，”我呼叫，“是上帝派天使为你送药，
这忘忧药能中止你对失去的丽诺尔的思念；
喝吧如吧，忘掉对失去的丽诺尔的思念！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“先知！”我说“凶兆！——仍是先知，不管是鸟还是魔！
是不是魔鬼送你，或是暴风雨抛你来到此岸，
孤独但毫不气馁，在这片妖惑鬼崇的荒原——
在这恐怖萦绕之家——告诉我真话，求你可怜——
基列有香膏吗？——告诉我——告诉我，求你可怜！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“先知！”我说，“凶兆！——仍是先知、不管是鸟是魔！
凭我们头顶的苍天起誓——凭我们都崇拜的上帝起誓——
告诉这充满悲伤的灵魂。它能否在遥远的仙境
拥抱被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她纤尘不染——
拥抱被天使叫作丽诺尔的少女，她美丽娇艳。”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
“让这话做我们的道别之辞，鸟或魔！”我突然叫道——
“回你的暴风雨中去吧，回你黑沉沉的冥府阴间！
别留下黑色羽毛作为你的灵魂谎言的象征！
留给我完整的孤独！——快从我门上的雕像滚蛋！
从我心中带走你的嘴；从我房门带走你的外观！”
乌鸦说“永不复还。”
那乌鸦并没飞去，它仍然栖息，仍然栖息
在房门上方那苍白的帕拉斯半身雕像上面；
而它的眼光与正在做梦的魔鬼眼光一模一样，
照在它身上的灯光把它的阴影投射在地板；
而我的灵魂，会从那团在地板上漂浮的阴暗
被擢升么——永不复还！
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梦
呵！我的青春是一个长梦该有多好！
愿我的灵魂长梦不醒，一直到
那水恒之光芒送来黎明的曙光；
不错！那长梦中也有忧伤和绝望，
可于他也胜过清醒生活的现实，
他的心，在这个清冷萧瑟的尘世，
从来就是并将是，自从他诞生，
一团强烈激情的纷乱浑沌！
但假若——那个永生延续的梦——
像我有过的许多梦一样落空，
假若它与我儿时的梦一样命运，
那希冀高远的天国仍然太愚蠢！
因为我一直沉迷于夏日的晴天，
因为我一直耽溺于白昼的梦幻，
并把我自己的心，不经意的
一直留在我想象中的地域——
除了我的家，除了我的思索——
我本来还能看见另外的什么？
一次而且只有一次，那癫狂之时
将不会从我的记忆中消失——
是某种力量或符咒把我镇住——
是冰凉的风在夜里把我吹拂，
并把它的形象留在我心中，
或是寒月冷光照耀我的睡梦——
或是那些星星——但无论它是啥，
那梦如寒夜阴风——让它消失吧。
我一直很幸福——虽然只在梦里，
我一直很幸福——我爱梦的旋律——
梦哟！在它们斑斓的色彩之中——
仿佛置身于一场短暂朦胧的斗争，
与现实争斗，斗争为迷眼带来
伊甸乐园的一切美和一切爱——
这爱与美都属于我们自己所有！
美过青春希望所知，在它最快乐的时候。
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模仿
一股深不可测的潮流，
一股无限自豪的潮流——
一个梦再加一种神秘，
似乎就是我童年的日子；
我是说我童年那个梦想
充满一种关于生命的思想，
它疯狂而清醒地一再闪现，
可我的心灵却视而不见；
唯愿我不曾让它们消失，
从我昏花速成的眼里！
那我将绝不会让世人
享有我心灵的幻影；
我会控制那些思路，
作为镇他灵魂的咒符；
因为灿烂的希望已消失，
欢乐时光终于过去，
我人世的休眠已结束
随着像是死亡的一幕；
我珍惜的思想一道消散
可我对此处之淡然。
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湖——致——
我命中注定在年少之时
常去这荒芜世界的一隅，
现在我依然爱那个地方——
如此可爱是那湖的凄凉，
凄凉的湖，湖畔黑岩磷峋，
湖边还有苍松高耸入云。
可是当黑暗撒开夜幕
将那湖与世界一同罩住，
当神秘的风在我耳边
悄声诉说着蜜语甜言——
这时——哦这时我会醒悟，
会意识到那孤湖的恐怖。
可那种恐怖并不吓人，
不过是一阵发抖的高兴——
一种感情，即便用满山宝石
也不能诱惑我下出定义——
爱也不能——纵然那爱是你的。
死亡就在那有毒的涟漪里，
在它的深渊，有一块坟地
适合于他，他能从那墓堆
为他孤独的想象带来安慰——
他寂寞的灵魂能够去改变。
把凄凉的湖交成伊甸乐园。
PREFACE.
In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
published at New York in 1850.
In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
bibliographical points of view.
JOHN H. INGRAM.
CONTENTS.
MEMOIR
POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
Dedication
Preface
The Raven
The Bells
Ulalume
To Helen
Annabel Lee
A Valentine
An Enigma
To my Mother
For Annie
To F----
To Frances S. Osgood
Eldorado
Eulalie
A Dream within a Dream
To Marie Louise (Shew)
To the Same
The City in the Sea
The Sleeper,
Bridal Ballad
Notes
POEMS OF MANHOOD:
Lenore
To one in Paradise
The Coliseum
The Haunted Palace
The Conqueror Worm
Silence
Dreamland
To Zante
Hymn
Notes
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
Note
POEMS OF YOUTH:
Introduction (1831)
To Science
Al Aaraaf
Tamerlane
To Helen
The Valley of Unrest
Israfel
To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
To the River----
Song
Spirits of the Dead
A Dream
Romance
Fairyland
The Lake
Evening Star
Imitation
"The Happiest Day,"
Hymn. Translation from the Greek
Dreams
"In Youth I have known one"
A P鎍n
Notes
DOUBTFUL POEMS:
Alone
To Isadore
The Village Street
The Forest Reverie
Notes
PROSE POEMS:
The Island of the Fay
The Power of Words
The Colloquy of Monos and Una
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
Shadow--A Parable
Silence--A Fable
ESSAYS:
The Poetic Principle
The Philosophy of Composition
Old English Poetry
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
charity of her neighbors.
Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
Stoke-Newington.
Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
destruction a few years ago.
The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
spent in the English academy, says,
"The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce si鑓le de fer!'"_
From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
"In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
remembers as
"a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
"A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
between the two classical schools of the city; we _select_ed Poe as our
champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
golden apples."
"In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
level with Poe, I do him full justice."
"Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
recitation:
_'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
And
_'Non ebur neque aureum
Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
"I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
his position.
Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
immediately after the performance.
The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
"While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
--to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
passionate youth."
When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
away most regretfully."
The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
recurs in his youthful verses, "The P鎍n," now first included in his
poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
session in December of that year.
"He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
and have been entitled to diplomas."
These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
"I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
the others more as a task than sport."
Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
and well executed.
As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
"As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
however, did not regard his 'prot間?s' collegiate career with equal
pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
profit for its author.
Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
her three sons. Poe was not named.
On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
rapidly passed through.
In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
consented to assume the post of editor.
Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une esp鑓e de
trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
cipher.
The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
correspondent he writes in January 1848:
"You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
_death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
Harris's reminiscences.
Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
writer says:
"It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
wife, the distracted man
"would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
"employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
his employment with us."
A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
rules.
Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
either his most admired poems or tales published.
Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
series of lectures in various parts of the States.
His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
body has recently been placed by his side.
The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
typified by that:
"Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
bore--
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
JOHN H. INGRAM.
* * * * *
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
TO
THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
TO THE AUTHOR OF
"THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
TO
MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
OF ENGLAND,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
1845 E.A.P.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
mankind.
1845. E.A.P.
* * * * *
THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite--respite aad nepenth?from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenth? and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
Published, 1845.
* * * * *
THE BELLS,
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A p鎍n from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the p鎍n of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the p鎍n of the bells--
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
1849.
* * * * *
ULALUME.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere--
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir--
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic.
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll--
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole--
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
Our memories were treacherous and sere--
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year--
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
(Though once we had journeyed down here)--
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn--
As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn--
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs--
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies--
To the Lethean peace of the skies--
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes--
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust--
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright--
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom--
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of a vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried--"It was surely October
On _this_ very night of last year
That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
That I brought a dread burden down here!
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
This misty mid region of Weir--
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
1847.
* * * * *
TO HELEN.
I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them--they were the world to me.
I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
_They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me--they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
1846.
* * * * *
ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
_I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
* * * * *
A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
Divine--a talisman--an amulet
That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
The words--the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
1846.
[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
fourth and so on, to the end.]
* * * * *
AN ENIGMA.
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
[See note after previous poem.]
1847.
* * * * *
TO MY MOTHER.
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother--my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
1849.
[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
* * * * *
FOR ANNIE.
Thank Heaven! the crisis--
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last--
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length--
But no matter!--I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead--
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:--ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness--the nausea--
The pitiless pain--
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain--
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
_That_ torture the worst
Has abated--the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:--
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:--
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground--
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed--
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses--
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies--
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies--
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie--
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast--
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm--
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead--
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead--
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie--
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie--
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
1849.
* * * * *
TO F--
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path--
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)--
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea--
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storm--but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
1845.
* * * * *
TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not;
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise.
And love a simple duty.
1845.
* * * * *
ELDORADO.
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old--
This knight so bold--
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be--
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
1849.
* * * * *
EULALIE.
I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less--less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.
Now Doubt--now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astart?within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
1845.
* * * * *
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream:
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision or in none,
Is it therefore the less _gone_?
_All_ that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
_One_ from the pitiless wave?
Is _all_ that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
1849.
* * * * *
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
For the resurrection of deep buried faith
In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
The truest, the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him--
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
1847.
* * * * *
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
* * * * *
THE CITY IN THE SEA.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently--
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye--
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass--
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea--
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave--there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow--
The hours are breathing faint and low--
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
1835?
* * * * *
THE SLEEPER
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully--so fearfully--
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold--
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals--
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone--
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
1845.
* * * * *
BRIDAL BALLAD.
The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command.
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell--
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to reassure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the churchyard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"
And thus the words were spoken,
And thus the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden keys
That _proves_ me happy now!
Would to God I could awaken
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,--
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
1845.
* * * * *
NOTES.
1. THE RAVEN
"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
by N. P. Willis:
"We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
suggested if not written by Poe himself.
["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
(stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
better understood."
ED. 'Am. Rev.']
* * * * *
2. THE BELLS
The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
I.
The bells!--ah the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats--
From their merry little throats--
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells!
II.
The bells!--ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats--
From their deep-toned throats--
From their melancholy throats
How I shudder at the notes
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells!
In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
'Union Magazine'.
* * * * *
3. ULALUME
This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
To bar up our path and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds--
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls--
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
* * * * *
4. TO HELEN
"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
coupling those two words".
* * * * *
5. ANNABEL LEE
"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
* * * * *
6. A VALENTINE
"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
have been written early in 1846.
* * * * *
7. AN ENIGMA
"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
* * * * *
8. TO MY MOTHER
The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
* * * * *
9. FOR ANNIE
"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
afterwards caused a corrected copy to be _insert_ed in the 'Home Journal'.
* * * * *
10. TO F----
"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
* * * * *
11. TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
as "To----."
* * * * *
12. ELDORADO
Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
author's finishing touches.
* * * * *
13. EULALIE
"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
1845.
* * * * *
14. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
* * * * *
15 TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
have hitherto been included.
* * * * *
16. (2) TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
named posthumous collection.
* * * * *
17. THE CITY IN THE SEA
Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
Review' for April, 1845.
* * * * *
18. THE SLEEPER
As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
* * * * *
19. THE BRIDAL BALLAD
"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
* * * * *
POEMS OF MANHOOD.
* * * * *
LENORE.
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
_Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
For her, the fair and _d閎onnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a p鎍n of old days!
Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
1844.
* * * * *
TO ONE IN PARADISE,
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine--
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"--but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more--no more--no more"--
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
1835
* * * * *
THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length--at length--after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
O spells more sure than e'er Jud鎍n king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
"Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
Not all the magic of our high renown--
Not all the wonder that encircles us--
Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
1838.
* * * * *
THE HAUNTED PALACE.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace--
Radiant palace--reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion--
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This--all this--was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tun雂 law,
Bound about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh--but smile no more.
1838.
* * * * *
THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
1838
* * * * *
SILENCE.
There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
1840
* * * * *
DREAMLAND.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule--
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters--lone and dead,
Their still waters--still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,--
By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
By the gray woods,--by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,--
By each spot the most unholy--
In each nook most melancholy,--
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past--
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by--
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not--dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
1844
* * * * *
TO ZANTE.
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
_No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
1887.
* * * * *
HYMN.
At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo--in good and ill--
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1885.
* * * * *
NOTES.
20. LENORE
"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The P鎍n"--now first
published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
* * * * *
21. TO ONE IN PARADISE
"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
time, to the piece.
* * * * *
22. THE COLISEUM
"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
* * * * *
23. THE HAUNTED PALACE
"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
* * * * *
24. THE CONQUEROR WORM
"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
* * * * *
25. SILENCE
The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for April, 1840.
* * * * *
26. DREAMLAND
The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
for June, 1844.
* * * * *
37. TO ZANTE
The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
* * * * *
28. HYMN
The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
* * * * *
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Aless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas_. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly--a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
Not even deep sorrow--
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_Aless_. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas_. I will drop them.
_Aless_. Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas_. I'll see to it.
_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas_. Much, much, oh, much I want
In proper dignity.
_Aless.
(haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cos.
(abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless_. Heard I aright?
I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
Sir Count!
(_places her hand on his shoulder_)
what art thou dreaming?
He's not well!
What ails thee, sir?
_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio_.
_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
--what's the matter?
(_observing Alessandra_).
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
_Aless_. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
And little given to thinking?
_Di Brog_. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
_Aless_. 'Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer, and shut out
From common passions.
_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
(_Exeunt._)
II.
ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
carelessly upon a chair.
_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?
_Jacinta
(pertly_). Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
_Lal_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac. (aside_). 'Tis time.
(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look. Lalage continues to read._)
_Lal_. "It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
(_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so--her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story--
But like--oh, very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
_Jac_.
(_pettishly_). Madam, what is it?
_Lal_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists?
_Jac_. Pshaw!
(_Exit_)
_Lal_. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
There, ma'am, 's the book.
(_aside_.) Indeed she is very troublesome.
_Lal_.
(_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta?
Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trustworthy and respectful.
(_resumes her reading_.)
_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
_Lal_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
_Lal_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
_Jac_. Oh, perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
(_Exit_)
(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it_.)
_Lal_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(_taking up the mirror_)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved_)
_Monk_. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
_Lal.
(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below;
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!
_Lal_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
And think of me!--think of my trusting love
And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
_Monk_. I did.
_Lal_. 'Tis well.
There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
A solemn vow!
_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!
_Lal_. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
_I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
And the deed's register should tally, father!
(_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in heaven!
_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
_Lal_. 'Tis sworn!
III.
An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
_Baldazzar_. Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
And live, for now thou diest!
_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar!
_Surely_ I live.
_Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus!
_Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
_Bal_. To the field then--to the field--
To the senate or the field.
_Pol_. Alas! alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is--what voice was that?
_Bal_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
_Pol_. Then I but dreamed.
_Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
_Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then_?
_Bal_ I heard it not.
_Pol_. Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
We have been boys together--school-fellows--
And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
_Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.
_Pol_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
_Bal_. Indeed I hear not.
_Pol_. Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard--yet it were well
Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!
_Bal_. I myself hear it now.
Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.
_Pol_. Be still!--it comes again!
_Voice_
(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England--never so plaintively--
Hist! hist! it comes again!
_Voice
(more loudly_). "Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. 'Tis hushed and all is still!
_Pol_. All _is not_ still.
_Bal_. Let us go down.
_Pol_. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
_Bal_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
_Voice_
(_distinctly_). "Who have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
_Pol_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
(_going_).
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue."
_Bal_. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.
_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
the voice
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
(_Approaching the window_)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.
_Bal_. Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
_Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night.
IV.
The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
_Politian_. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
(_arising_.)
Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
Thy beauty and thy woes.
_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?
_Pol_. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it--
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust--so we descend together?
Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And then perchance
_Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And still _together_--_together_.
_Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester!
Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.
_Pol_. O Lalage!
(_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
And lovest thou _me_?
_Lal_. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(_walks across and returns_.)
I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
_Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.
_Lal_. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?
_Pol_. Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?
_Lal_. A deed is to be done--
Castiglione lives!
_Pol_. And he shall die!
(_Exit_.)
_Lal_.
(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
V.
The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
_Politian_. This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
_Enter Baldazzar_.
_Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.
_Pol_. _What_ didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
_Pol_. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you:
The Count Castiglione will not fight.
Having no cause for quarrel.
_Pol_. Now this is true--
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!--
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
(_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?--at the Vatican.
_Pol_. At the Vatican.
(_Exit Bal_.)
_Enter Castiglione_.
_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not, that I am here?
_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl!
(_Draws._)
_Pol_.
(_drawing_.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage_.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.
_Pol_. Now, by my halidom,
I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the Earl._)
Alas! my lord,
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
_Pol.
(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
_Cas_. And Lalage--
_Pol_. _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(_baring his bosom_.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
_Pol_. Now's Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
thee,
Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
(_Exit_.)
_Cas_. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
* * * * *
NOTE ON POLITIAN
20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.
_Duke_. Why do you laugh?
_Castiglione_. Indeed.
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.
_Duke_. Perfectly.
I do remember it--what of it--what then?
_Cas_. O nothing--nothing at all.
_Duke_. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
At nothing at all!
_Cas_. Most singular--singular!
_Duke_. Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
What are you talking of?
_Cas_. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.
_Duke_. Him!--Whom?
_Cas_. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
_Duke_. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.
_Cas_. Ha! ha!--now did I?
_Duke_. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.
_Cas_. 'Tis singular!
Most singular! I could not think it possible
So little time could so much alter one!
To say the truth about an hour ago,
As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
Was gravity itself--
_Duke_. Did I not tell you?
_Cas_. You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.
_Duke_. So, so, you see!
Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It cannot be the Earl?
_Cas_. The Earl! Oh no!
Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
(_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain.
[_Politian bows haughtily_.]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.
_Duke_. Ha! ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding--
_Politian_. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
_Duke_. Retire!--so soon?
_Cas_. What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell.
(_Enter Benito_.)
_Ben_. This way, my lord!
(_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
_Duke_. Retire! Unwell!
_Bal_. So please you, sir. I fear me
'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.
_Duke_. Return anon!
Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
You surely were mistaken in what you said
Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man?
(_Exeunt_.)
* * * * *
POEMS OF YOUTH
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
LETTER TO MR. B--.
"WEST POINT, 1831
"DEAR B--
...
Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
have I hesitated to _insert_ from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
pinnacle.
"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
many letters of recommendation.
"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.
"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplified.
"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
implies precisely the reverse.
"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
means of obtaining.
"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
thousand.
"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
with the passions--or age with poetry.
"'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
of a man.
"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
glacier.
"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
they should be destitute of vigor.
"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. 'Tant鎛e animis?' Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
author of 'Peter Bell,' has '_select_ed' for his contempt. We shall see
what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
"'And now she's at the pony's tail,
And now she's at the pony's head,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed....
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
"Secondly:
"'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
extract from his preface:
"'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
'_J'ai trouv?souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
nient_;'
and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
light that are weltering below.
"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
Titania!
"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?
"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
"'No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
* * * * *
SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
1829.
* * * * *
Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
* * * * *
AL AARAAF. [1]
PART I.
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy--
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill--
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
O! nothing of the dross of ours--
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
Adorn yon world afar, afar--
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
Fit emblems of the model of her world--
Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue--
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar--
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last--
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part--
Who livest--_that_ we know--
In Eternity--we feel--
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own [11]--
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee--
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne--
By winged Fantasy [12],
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."
She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
"What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
Her way--but left not yet her Theras鎍n reign [15].
PART II.
High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
Of rosy head, that towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die--
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that grayish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
And every sculptured cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud? [20]
But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
The zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
Yet silence came upon material things--
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
"Neath blue-bell or streamer--
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away--[22]
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like--eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now--
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours--
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too--
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up! shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night--
It would weigh down your flight;
And true love caresses--
O! leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross, [23]
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep--
But the strains still arise
Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower--
The murmur that springs [24]
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things--
But are modell'd, alas!
Away, then, my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray--
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast--
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid--
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee--[25]
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea--
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumber'd to hear--
For what can awaken
An angel so soon
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
O death! from eye of God upon that star;
Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
Beyond that death no immortality--
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
A gazer on the lights that shine above--
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of wo)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
How drowsily it weighed them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
More beauty clung around her columned wall
Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wished to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
"But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurled,
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
"We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
_She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
1839.
[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
been seen since.]
[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
river.]
[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
the cradle of his childhood.]
[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
fol. edit.
The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
Dicite sacrorum pr鎒sides nemorum Dese, etc.,
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
Eternus, incorruptus, 鎞u鎣us polo,
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
--And afterwards,
Non cui profundum C鎐itas lumen dedit
Dirc鎢s augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
[Footnote 12:
Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
Seinem Schosskinde
Der Phantasie.
'Goethe'.]
[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
centre, into innumerable radii.]
[Footnote 15: Theras鎍, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
mariners.]
[Footnote 16:
Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
'Milton'.]
[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
"Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
閞ig?au pied d'une cha頽e de rochers steriles--peut-il 阾re un chef
d'oeuvre des arts!"]
[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
"Asphaltites."]
[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
[Footnote 21:
Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
alludes.]
[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
"The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
do make when they growe."]
[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island,
Tho' ever so wild,
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido sueno--
Un dia puro--allegre--libre
Quiera--
Libre de amor--de zelo--
De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
the delirium of opium.
The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
life, is final death and annihilation.]
[Footnote 27:
There be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon.
'Milton'.]
[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
[Footnote 29:
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
'Marlowe.']
[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
* * * * *
TAMERLANE.
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope--that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
Its fount is holier--more divine--
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bowed from its wild pride into shame
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the Jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again--
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fevered diadem on my brow
I claimed and won usurpingly--
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the C鎠ar--this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy;
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head
Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush--
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
The hum of suitors--and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurped a tyranny which men
Have deemed since I have reached to power,
My innate nature--be it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then,
Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
Burned with a still intenser glow
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.
I have no words--alas!--to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters--with their meaning--melt
To fantasies--with none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love as in infancy was mine--
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense--then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright--
Pure--as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age--and love--together--
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather--
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
_I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears--
There was no need to speak the rest--
No need to quiet any fears
Of her--who asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye!
Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone--
I had no being--but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth--the air--the sea--
Its joy--its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure--the ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
And dimmer nothings which were real--
(Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image and--a name--a name!
Two separate--yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious--have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I marked a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lot--
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walked together on the crown
Of a high mountain which looked down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills--
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically--in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly--
A mingled feeling with my own--
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seemed to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
And donned a visionary crown--
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me--
But that, among the rabble--men,
Lion ambition is chained down--
And crouches to a keeper's hand--
Not so in deserts where the grand--
The wild--the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
And who her sovereign? Timour--he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diademed outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birth--
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly--
And homeward turned his softened eye.
'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
_Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one--
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown--
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
I reached my home--my home no more--
For all had flown who made it so.
I passed from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known--
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believe--
I _know_--for Death who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar.
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity----
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path--
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,--
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt-offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
The light'ning of his eagle eye--
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair!
1829.
* * * * *
TO HELEN.
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
To the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
1831.
* * * * *
THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay,
_Now_ each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless--
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Unceasingly, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye--
Over the lilies that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:--from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
1831.
* * * * *
ISRAFEL. [1]
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven),
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings--
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty--
Where Love's a grow-up God--
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit--
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute--
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely--flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
1836.
[Footnote 1:
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
'Koran'.]
* * * * *
TO----
I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath--little of Earth in it--
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:--
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
Who am a passer-by.
1829.
* * * * *
TO----
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips--and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words--
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall--
Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy--
Of the baubles that it may.
1829.
* * * * *
TO THE RIVER
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks--
Which glistens then, and trembles--
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies--
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
1829.
* * * * *
SONG.
I saw thee on thy bridal day--
When a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
As such it well may pass--
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
1827.
* * * * *
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness--for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee--and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night--tho' clear--shall frown--
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given--
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more--like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze--the breath of God--is still--
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token--
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
1837.
* * * * *
A DREAM.
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed--
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream--that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar--
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day star?
1837.
* * * * *
ROMANCE.
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been--a most familiar bird--
Taught me my alphabet to say--
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child--with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings--
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away--forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
1829.
* * * * *
FAIRYLAND.
Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane--
Again--again--again--
Every moment of the night--
Forever changing places--
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down--still down--and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be--
O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
Over spirits on the wing--
Over every drowsy thing--
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light--
And then, how deep!--O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like--almost any thing--
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before--
Videlicet a tent--
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented thing!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
1831
* * * * *
THE LAKE.
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less--
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody--
Then--ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight--
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define--
Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining--
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
1827.
* * * * *
EVENING STAR.
'Twas noontide of summer,
And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold--too cold for me--
There passed, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
1827.
* * * * *
IMITATION.
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride--
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my wordly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
1827.
* * * * *
"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
I. The happiest day--the happiest hour
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
II. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been--
But let them pass.
III. And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me--
Be still my spirit!
IV. The happiest day--the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feel have been:
V. But were that hope of pride and power
Now offered with the pain
Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
I would not live again:
VI. For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered--fell
An essence--powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
1827.
* * * * *
Translation from the Greek.
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
I. Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
II. Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home--
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
III. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.
IV. Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
1827
* * * * *
DREAMS.
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be--that dream eternally
Continuing--as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revelled when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,--have left my very heart
Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit--or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
_I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy--and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
* * * * *
"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
_How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
I. In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held--as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
II. Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
III. Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
From us in life--but common--which doth lie
Each hour before us--but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
IV. Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
* * * * *
A P艫N.
I. How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
II. Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!--oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
III. They loved her for her wealth--
And they hated her for her pride--
But she grew in feeble health,
And they _love_ her--that she died.
IV. They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak--
That I should not sing at all--
V. Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully--so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI. But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.--
VII. Of the dead--dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes.
And the life upon her hair.
VIII. Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike--the murmur sent
Through the gray chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
IX. Thou diedst in thy life's June--
But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
X. From more than friends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven.--
XI. Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a P鎍n of old days.
* * * * *
NOTES.
30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
collections:
AL AARAAF.
Mysterious star!
Thou wert my dream
All a long summer night--
Be now my theme!
By this clear stream,
Of thee will I write;
Meantime from afar
Bathe me in light!
Thy world has not the dross of ours,
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our love or deck our bowers
In dreamy gardens, where do lie
Dreamy maidens all the day;
While the silver winds of Circassy
On violet couches faint away.
Little--oh! little dwells in thee
Like unto what on earth we see:
Beauty's eye is here the bluest
In the falsest and untruest--
On the sweetest air doth float
The most sad and solemn note--
If with thee be broken hearts,
Joy so peacefully departs,
That its echo still doth dwell,
Like the murmur in the shell.
Thou! thy truest type of grief
Is the gently falling leaf--
Thou! thy framing is so holy
Sorrow is not melancholy.
* * * * *
31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
least.
* * * * *
32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
others of the youthful pieces.
The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
but with the addition of the following lines:
Succeeding years, too wild for song,
Then rolled like tropic storms along,
Where, though the garish lights that fly
Dying along the troubled sky,
Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
The blackness of the general Heaven,
That very blackness yet doth fling
Light on the lightning's silver wing.
For being an idle boy lang syne,
Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
I early found Anacreon rhymes
Were almost passionate sometimes--
And by strange alchemy of brain
His pleasures always turned to pain--
His na飗et?to wild desire--
His wit to love--his wine to fire--
And so, being young and dipt in folly,
I fell in love with melancholy.
And used to throw my earthly rest
And quiet all away in jest--
I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
Were stalking between her and me.
* * * * *
But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
Gone are the glory and the gloom--
The black hath mellow'd into gray,
And all the fires are fading away.
My draught of passion hath been deep--
I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
And after drunkenness of soul
Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
An idle longing night and day
To dream my very life away.
But dreams--of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
Yet should I swear I mean alone,
By notes so very shrilly blown,
To break upon Time's monotone,
While yet my vapid joy and grief
Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
Will shake his shadow in my path--
And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
Connivingly my dreaming-book.
* * * * *
DOUBTFUL POEMS.
* * * * *
ALONE.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were--I have not seen
As others saw--I could not bring
My passions from a common spring--
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow--I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone--
And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
_Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still--
From the torrent, or the fountain--
From the red cliff of the mountain--
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold--
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by--
From the thunder and the storm--
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
March 17, 1829.
* * * * *
TO ISADORE.
I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door--
Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!
II. And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love's serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!
III. Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV. Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,--
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V. In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
* * * * *
THE VILLAGE STREET.
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high,--
On the ocean's star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm's long branches
To the pavement bending o'er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night's irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
'Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Bitter memories of the past--
On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered--
Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night's first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
* * * * *
THE FOREST REVERIE.
'Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of wo,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth
Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow--
That in the sun
Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow--
The wild rose pale
Perfumed the gale,
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow--
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,--
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
* * * * *
NOTES.
Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
claimed for them."
Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
by the author of "The Raven."
* * * * *
PROSE POEMS.
* * * * *
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
"Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
_Servius_.
"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
own cognizance of the _animalcul鎋 which infest the brain, a being which
we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
same manner as these _animalcul鎋 must thus regard us.
Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
[2].
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
is a thing that does not exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
from the sunset fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
stream.
So blended bank and shadow there,
That each seemed pendulous in air--
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
tulips with wings [4].
The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
entombed.
This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
dark water, making its blackness more black."
And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
'De Sit?Orbis', says,
"Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
[Footnote 4:
"Florem putares nare per liquidum 鎡hera."
'P. Commire'.]
* * * * *
THE POWER OF WORDS.
'Oinos.'
Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!
'Agathos.'
You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
the angels freely, that it may be given!
'Oinos.'
But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
'Agathos.'
Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
all, were the curse of a fiend.
'Oinos.'
But does not The Most High know all?
'Agathos'.
_That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
unknown even to HIM.
'Oinos.'
But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
be known?
'Agathos.'
Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
appeared to blend into unity?
'Oinos'.
I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
'Agathos'.
There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
'Oinos'.
And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
not God?
'Agathos'.
I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
'Oinos'.
Explain!
'Agathos'.
In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
immediate results of the Divine creative power.
'Oinos.'
Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
extreme.
'Agathos.'
Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
'Oinos.'
I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
denominate the creation of animalcul?
'Agathos.'
The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
'Oinos.'
Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
immediate handiwork of the King?
'Agathos.'
Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
'Oinos.'
And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
'Agathos.'
Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
'Oinos'.
But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
'Agathos'.
In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
_creation_.
'Oinos'.
Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
'Agathos'.
It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
'Oinos'.
God.
'Agathos'.
I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
'Oinos'.
You did.
'Agathos'.
And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
air?
'Oinos'.
But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
passions of a turbulent heart.
'Agathos'.
They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts!
* * * * *
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
[Greek: Mellonta sauta']
These things are in the future.
_Sophocles_--'Antig.'
'Una.'
"Born again?"
'Monos.'
Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
secret.
'Una.'
Death!
'Monos.'
How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
upon all pleasures!
'Una.'
Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
'Monos'.
Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
'Una'.
But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
'Monos'.
And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
begin?
'Una'.
At what point?
'Monos'.
You have said.
'Una'.
Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
'Monos'.
One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
--principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
_analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
[Greek: mousichae] which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
[1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se r閐uit ?c閐er au
sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
that he must be "_born again._"
And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
but still for the _material_, man.
'Una'.
Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
'Monos'.
Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
being awakened by external disturbances.
I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
_sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
loud cries.
They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
purely sensual pleasure as before.
And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
_that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
_Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
the temporal eternity.
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
the deadly _Decay_.
Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
flight--without effort and without object.
A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
_place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
[Footnote 1:
"It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
_music_ for the soul."
Repub. lib. 2.
"For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
the true.]
* * * * *
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
I will bring fire to thee.
_Euripides_.--'Androm'.
'Eiros'.
Why do you call me Eiros?
'Charmion'.
So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
'Eiros'.
This is indeed no dream!
'Charmion'.
Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
'Eiros'.
True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
of _the new_.
'Charmion'.
A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
'Eiros'.
In Aidenn?
'Charmion'.
In Aidenn.
'Eiros'.
O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
the august and certain Present.
'Charmion'.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
fearfully perished.
'Eiros'.
Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
'Charmion'.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
'Eiros'.
Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
'Charmion'.
And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
philosophy of the day.
'Eiros'.
The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
bowed down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
excessive interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
vegetable thing.
Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
Thus ended all.
* * * * *
SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
'Psalm of David'.
Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chald鎍, nor any Egyptian God.
And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
accents of many thousand departed friends.
* * * * *
SILENCE.--A FABLE.
The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
of the river Z鋓re. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
one unto the other.
"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Z鋓re there is
neither quiet nor silence.
"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
in the solemnity of their desolation.
"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
the dreary river Z鋓re, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
he sat upon the rock.
"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
SILENCE.
"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
...
Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
* * * * *
ESSAYS.
* * * * *
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
very long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
the stamp upon the wax. De B閞anger has wrought innumerable things,
pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
following exquisite little Serenade:
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me--who knows how?--
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream--
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
critical than in the popular view:
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tide--
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And honor charm'd the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair--
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true--
For heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo--
But honor'd well her charms to sell,
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair--
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail--
Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world's peace to pray,
For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!--
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
By man is cursed alway!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
other works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
solely for the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
feel_ as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
essence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
consideration, than by the citation of the Pr鰁m to Longfellow's "Waif":
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
Nothing can be better than
--the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming bird.
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me;
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is--that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,--
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon--
Her health! and would on earth there stood,
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
the chaff_ for his reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
they are _not_ merits altogether.
Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
for me an inexpressible charm:
O saw ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down
And rob the world of rest
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners-waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,--
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more!
"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;--
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd--
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,--
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,--think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family--
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily,
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother!
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Take her up tenderly;
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,--kindly,--
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,--
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
is the thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in _thee._
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from _thee._
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain--it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one--
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of _thee_.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
long poem, "The Princess:"
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
harp of 苚lus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
altogether divine majesty of her _love._
Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
of the old cavalier:
A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
A sword of metal keene!
Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
Al else on earth is meane.
The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
The rowleing of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
Be soundes from heaven that come.
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
When as their war-cryes welle,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rowse a fiend from hell,
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine,
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!
* * * * *
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
accounting for what had been done."
I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _d閚ouement_ before
anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _d閚ouement_
constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
to page, render themselves apparent.
I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
occasion, _select_?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
aid me in the construction of the effect.
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious _select_ions
and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
put together. I _select_ "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
of a mathematical problem.
Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
popular and the critical taste.
We commence, then, with this intention.
The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
effect.
It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
the production of any effect at all.
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
fact, a hundred and eight.
My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
of the poem.
Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
a single word as the best _refrain_.
The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
_select_ a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
first which presented itself.
The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
_tone_.
I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
the stanza:
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
attainment less of invention than negation.
Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
true poetical thesis.
The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
knocked.
I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
serenity within the chamber.
I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
many a flirt and flutter."
Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
_But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
out:
Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
"Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
_Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
With such name as "Nevermore."
The effect of the d閚ouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
the line,
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
the _d閚ouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
_directly_ as possible.
With the _d閚ouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
transcendentalists.
Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
apparent in the lines:
"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
* * * * *
OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the _select_ions of the "Book of
Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
without even an attempt at adaptation.
In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
author says:
"By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties con
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness--
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight."
But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
of its species:
"It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet,
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when't had left me far away
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within."
How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
"And trod as if on the four winds!"
a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
"fill itself with roses,"
"And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
"Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within."
[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
published at New York in 1850.
In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
bibliographical points of view.
JOHN H. INGRAM.
CONTENTS.
MEMOIR
POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
Dedication
Preface
The Raven
The Bells
Ulalume
To Helen
Annabel Lee
A Valentine
An Enigma
To my Mother
For Annie
To F----
To Frances S. Osgood
Eldorado
Eulalie
A Dream within a Dream
To Marie Louise (Shew)
To the Same
The City in the Sea
The Sleeper,
Bridal Ballad
Notes
POEMS OF MANHOOD:
Lenore
To one in Paradise
The Coliseum
The Haunted Palace
The Conqueror Worm
Silence
Dreamland
To Zante
Hymn
Notes
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
Note
POEMS OF YOUTH:
Introduction (1831)
To Science
Al Aaraaf
Tamerlane
To Helen
The Valley of Unrest
Israfel
To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
To the River----
Song
Spirits of the Dead
A Dream
Romance
Fairyland
The Lake
Evening Star
Imitation
"The Happiest Day,"
Hymn. Translation from the Greek
Dreams
"In Youth I have known one"
A P鎍n
Notes
DOUBTFUL POEMS:
Alone
To Isadore
The Village Street
The Forest Reverie
Notes
PROSE POEMS:
The Island of the Fay
The Power of Words
The Colloquy of Monos and Una
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
Shadow--A Parable
Silence--A Fable
ESSAYS:
The Poetic Principle
The Philosophy of Composition
Old English Poetry
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
charity of her neighbors.
Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
Stoke-Newington.
Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
destruction a few years ago.
The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
spent in the English academy, says,
"The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce si鑓le de fer!'"_
From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
"In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
remembers as
"a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
"A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
between the two classical schools of the city; we _select_ed Poe as our
champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
golden apples."
"In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
level with Poe, I do him full justice."
"Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
recitation:
_'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
And
_'Non ebur neque aureum
Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
"I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
his position.
Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
immediately after the performance.
The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
"While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
--to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
passionate youth."
When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
away most regretfully."
The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
recurs in his youthful verses, "The P鎍n," now first included in his
poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
session in December of that year.
"He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
and have been entitled to diplomas."
These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
"I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
the others more as a task than sport."
Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
and well executed.
As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
"As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
however, did not regard his 'prot間?s' collegiate career with equal
pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
profit for its author.
Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
her three sons. Poe was not named.
On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
rapidly passed through.
In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
consented to assume the post of editor.
Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une esp鑓e de
trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
cipher.
The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
correspondent he writes in January 1848:
"You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
_death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
Harris's reminiscences.
Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
writer says:
"It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
wife, the distracted man
"would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
"employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
his employment with us."
A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
rules.
Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
either his most admired poems or tales published.
Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
series of lectures in various parts of the States.
His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
body has recently been placed by his side.
The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
typified by that:
"Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
bore--
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
JOHN H. INGRAM.
* * * * *
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
TO
THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
TO THE AUTHOR OF
"THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
TO
MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
OF ENGLAND,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
1845 E.A.P.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
mankind.
1845. E.A.P.
* * * * *
THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite--respite aad nepenth?from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenth? and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
Published, 1845.
* * * * *
THE BELLS,
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A p鎍n from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the p鎍n of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the p鎍n of the bells--
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
1849.
* * * * *
ULALUME.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere--
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir--
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic.
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll--
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole--
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
Our memories were treacherous and sere--
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year--
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
(Though once we had journeyed down here)--
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn--
As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn--
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs--
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies--
To the Lethean peace of the skies--
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes--
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust--
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright--
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom--
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of a vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried--"It was surely October
On _this_ very night of last year
That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
That I brought a dread burden down here!
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
This misty mid region of Weir--
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
1847.
* * * * *
TO HELEN.
I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them--they were the world to me.
I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
_They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me--they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
1846.
* * * * *
ANNABEL LEE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
_I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
* * * * *
A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
Divine--a talisman--an amulet
That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
The words--the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
1846.
[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
fourth and so on, to the end.]
* * * * *
AN ENIGMA.
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
[See note after previous poem.]
1847.
* * * * *
TO MY MOTHER.
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother--my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
1849.
[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
* * * * *
FOR ANNIE.
Thank Heaven! the crisis--
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last--
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length--
But no matter!--I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead--
Might start at beholding me
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:--ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness--the nausea--
The pitiless pain--
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain--
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
_That_ torture the worst
Has abated--the terrible
Torture of thirst,
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:--
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:--
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground--
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed--
For man never slept
In a different bed;
And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses--
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies--
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies--
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie--
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast--
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm--
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now in my bed
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead--
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead--
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie--
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie--
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
1849.
* * * * *
TO F--
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my earthly path--
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose)--
My soul at least a solace hath
In dreams of thee, and therein knows
An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea--
Some ocean throbbing far and free
With storm--but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
1845.
* * * * *
TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not;
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise.
And love a simple duty.
1845.
* * * * *
ELDORADO.
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old--
This knight so bold--
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be--
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
1849.
* * * * *
EULALIE.
I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less--less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.
Now Doubt--now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astart?within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
1845.
* * * * *
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream:
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision or in none,
Is it therefore the less _gone_?
_All_ that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
_One_ from the pitiless wave?
Is _all_ that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
1849.
* * * * *
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
For the resurrection of deep buried faith
In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
The truest, the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him--
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.
1847.
* * * * *
TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
* * * * *
THE CITY IN THE SEA.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently--
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye--
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass--
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea--
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave--there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow--
The hours are breathing faint and low--
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
1835?
* * * * *
THE SLEEPER
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully--so fearfully--
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold--
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals--
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone--
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
1845.
* * * * *
BRIDAL BALLAD.
The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command.
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell--
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to reassure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the churchyard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"
And thus the words were spoken,
And thus the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden keys
That _proves_ me happy now!
Would to God I could awaken
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,--
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
1845.
* * * * *
NOTES.
1. THE RAVEN
"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
by N. P. Willis:
"We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
suggested if not written by Poe himself.
["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
(stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
better understood."
ED. 'Am. Rev.']
* * * * *
2. THE BELLS
The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
I.
The bells!--ah the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats--
From their merry little throats--
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells!
II.
The bells!--ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats--
From their deep-toned throats--
From their melancholy throats
How I shudder at the notes
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells!
In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
'Union Magazine'.
* * * * *
3. ULALUME
This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
To bar up our path and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds--
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls--
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
* * * * *
4. TO HELEN
"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
coupling those two words".
* * * * *
5. ANNABEL LEE
"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
* * * * *
6. A VALENTINE
"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
have been written early in 1846.
* * * * *
7. AN ENIGMA
"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
* * * * *
8. TO MY MOTHER
The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
* * * * *
9. FOR ANNIE
"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
afterwards caused a corrected copy to be _insert_ed in the 'Home Journal'.
* * * * *
10. TO F----
"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
* * * * *
11. TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
as "To----."
* * * * *
12. ELDORADO
Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
author's finishing touches.
* * * * *
13. EULALIE
"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
1845.
* * * * *
14. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
* * * * *
15 TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
have hitherto been included.
* * * * *
16. (2) TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
named posthumous collection.
* * * * *
17. THE CITY IN THE SEA
Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
Review' for April, 1845.
* * * * *
18. THE SLEEPER
As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
* * * * *
19. THE BRIDAL BALLAD
"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
* * * * *
POEMS OF MANHOOD.
* * * * *
LENORE.
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
_Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
For her, the fair and _d閎onnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a p鎍n of old days!
Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
1844.
* * * * *
TO ONE IN PARADISE,
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine--
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
"On! on!"--but o'er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er!
"No more--no more--no more"--
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
And an unholy pillow!
From me, and from our misty clime,
Where weeps the silver willow!
1835
* * * * *
THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length--at length--after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
O spells more sure than e'er Jud鎍n king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
"Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
Not all the magic of our high renown--
Not all the wonder that encircles us--
Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
1838.
* * * * *
THE HAUNTED PALACE.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace--
Radiant palace--reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion--
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This--all this--was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tun雂 law,
Bound about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh--but smile no more.
1838.
* * * * *
THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
1838
* * * * *
SILENCE.
There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
1840
* * * * *
DREAMLAND.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule--
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters--lone and dead,
Their still waters--still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,--
By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
By the gray woods,--by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,--
By each spot the most unholy--
In each nook most melancholy,--
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past--
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by--
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not--dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
1844
* * * * *
TO ZANTE.
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
_No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
1887.
* * * * *
HYMN.
At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo--in good and ill--
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1885.
* * * * *
NOTES.
20. LENORE
"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The P鎍n"--now first
published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
* * * * *
21. TO ONE IN PARADISE
"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
time, to the piece.
* * * * *
22. THE COLISEUM
"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
* * * * *
23. THE HAUNTED PALACE
"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
* * * * *
24. THE CONQUEROR WORM
"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
* * * * *
25. SILENCE
The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for April, 1840.
* * * * *
26. DREAMLAND
The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
for June, 1844.
* * * * *
37. TO ZANTE
The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
* * * * *
28. HYMN
The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
* * * * *
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Aless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas_. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly--a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
Not even deep sorrow--
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_Aless_. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas_. I will drop them.
_Aless_. Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas_. I'll see to it.
_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas_. Much, much, oh, much I want
In proper dignity.
_Aless.
(haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cos.
(abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless_. Heard I aright?
I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
Sir Count!
(_places her hand on his shoulder_)
what art thou dreaming?
He's not well!
What ails thee, sir?
_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio_.
_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
--what's the matter?
(_observing Alessandra_).
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
_Aless_. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
And little given to thinking?
_Di Brog_. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
_Aless_. 'Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer, and shut out
From common passions.
_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
(_Exeunt._)
II.
ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
carelessly upon a chair.
_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?
_Jacinta
(pertly_). Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
_Lal_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac. (aside_). 'Tis time.
(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look. Lalage continues to read._)
_Lal_. "It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
(_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so--her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story--
But like--oh, very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
_Jac_.
(_pettishly_). Madam, what is it?
_Lal_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists?
_Jac_. Pshaw!
(_Exit_)
_Lal_. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
There, ma'am, 's the book.
(_aside_.) Indeed she is very troublesome.
_Lal_.
(_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta?
Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trustworthy and respectful.
(_resumes her reading_.)
_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
_Lal_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
_Lal_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
_Jac_. Oh, perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
(_Exit_)
(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it_.)
_Lal_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(_taking up the mirror_)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved_)
_Monk_. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
_Lal.
(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below;
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!
_Lal_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
And think of me!--think of my trusting love
And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
_Monk_. I did.
_Lal_. 'Tis well.
There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
A solemn vow!
_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!
_Lal_. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
_I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
And the deed's register should tally, father!
(_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in heaven!
_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
_Lal_. 'Tis sworn!
III.
An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
_Baldazzar_. Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
And live, for now thou diest!
_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar!
_Surely_ I live.
_Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus!
_Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
_Bal_. To the field then--to the field--
To the senate or the field.
_Pol_. Alas! alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is--what voice was that?
_Bal_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
_Pol_. Then I but dreamed.
_Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
_Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then_?
_Bal_ I heard it not.
_Pol_. Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
We have been boys together--school-fellows--
And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
_Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.
_Pol_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
_Bal_. Indeed I hear not.
_Pol_. Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard--yet it were well
Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!
_Bal_. I myself hear it now.
Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.
_Pol_. Be still!--it comes again!
_Voice_
(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England--never so plaintively--
Hist! hist! it comes again!
_Voice
(more loudly_). "Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. 'Tis hushed and all is still!
_Pol_. All _is not_ still.
_Bal_. Let us go down.
_Pol_. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
_Bal_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
_Voice_
(_distinctly_). "Who have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
_Pol_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
(_going_).
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue."
_Bal_. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.
_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
the voice
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
(_Approaching the window_)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.
_Bal_. Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
_Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night.
IV.
The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
_Politian_. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
(_arising_.)
Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
Thy beauty and thy woes.
_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?
_Pol_. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it--
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust--so we descend together?
Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And then perchance
_Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still--
_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
_Pol_. And still _together_--_together_.
_Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester!
Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.
_Pol_. O Lalage!
(_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
And lovest thou _me_?
_Lal_. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(_walks across and returns_.)
I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
_Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.
_Lal_. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?
_Pol_. Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?
_Lal_. A deed is to be done--
Castiglione lives!
_Pol_. And he shall die!
(_Exit_.)
_Lal_.
(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
V.
The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
_Politian_. This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
_Enter Baldazzar_.
_Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.
_Pol_. _What_ didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
_Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.
_Pol_. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
_Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you:
The Count Castiglione will not fight.
Having no cause for quarrel.
_Pol_. Now this is true--
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.
_Bal_. My lord!--my friend!--
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
(_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
_Bal_. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not?--at the Vatican.
_Pol_. At the Vatican.
(_Exit Bal_.)
_Enter Castiglione_.
_Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not, that I am here?
_Cas_. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
_Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas_. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl!
(_Draws._)
_Pol_.
(_drawing_.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage_.)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
_Pol_. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas_. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.
_Pol_. Now, by my halidom,
I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
_Cas_. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the Earl._)
Alas! my lord,
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
_Pol.
(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
_Cas_. And Lalage--
_Pol_. _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
_Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(_baring his bosom_.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
_Pol_. Now's Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
thee,
Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
(_Exit_.)
_Cas_. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
* * * * *
NOTE ON POLITIAN
20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.
_Duke_. Why do you laugh?
_Castiglione_. Indeed.
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.
_Duke_. Perfectly.
I do remember it--what of it--what then?
_Cas_. O nothing--nothing at all.
_Duke_. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
At nothing at all!
_Cas_. Most singular--singular!
_Duke_. Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
What are you talking of?
_Cas_. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.
_Duke_. Him!--Whom?
_Cas_. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
_Duke_. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.
_Cas_. Ha! ha!--now did I?
_Duke_. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.
_Cas_. 'Tis singular!
Most singular! I could not think it possible
So little time could so much alter one!
To say the truth about an hour ago,
As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
Was gravity itself--
_Duke_. Did I not tell you?
_Cas_. You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.
_Duke_. So, so, you see!
Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It cannot be the Earl?
_Cas_. The Earl! Oh no!
Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
(_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain.
[_Politian bows haughtily_.]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.
_Duke_. Ha! ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding--
_Politian_. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
_Duke_. Retire!--so soon?
_Cas_. What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell.
(_Enter Benito_.)
_Ben_. This way, my lord!
(_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
_Duke_. Retire! Unwell!
_Bal_. So please you, sir. I fear me
'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.
_Duke_. Return anon!
Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
You surely were mistaken in what you said
Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man?
(_Exeunt_.)
* * * * *
POEMS OF YOUTH
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
LETTER TO MR. B--.
"WEST POINT, 1831
"DEAR B--
...
Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
have I hesitated to _insert_ from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
pinnacle.
"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
many letters of recommendation.
"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.
"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplified.
"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
implies precisely the reverse.
"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
means of obtaining.
"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
thousand.
"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
with the passions--or age with poetry.
"'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
of a man.
"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
glacier.
"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
they should be destitute of vigor.
"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. 'Tant鎛e animis?' Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
author of 'Peter Bell,' has '_select_ed' for his contempt. We shall see
what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
"'And now she's at the pony's tail,
And now she's at the pony's head,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed....
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
"Secondly:
"'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
extract from his preface:
"'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
'_J'ai trouv?souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
nient_;'
and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
light that are weltering below.
"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
Titania!
"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
soul?
"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
"'No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
* * * * *
SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
1829.
* * * * *
Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
* * * * *
AL AARAAF. [1]
PART I.
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy--
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill--
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
O! nothing of the dross of ours--
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
Adorn yon world afar, afar--
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
Fit emblems of the model of her world--
Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue--
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar--
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last--
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part--
Who livest--_that_ we know--
In Eternity--we feel--
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own [11]--
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee--
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne--
By winged Fantasy [12],
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."
She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
"What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
Her way--but left not yet her Theras鎍n reign [15].
PART II.
High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
Of rosy head, that towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die--
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that grayish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
And every sculptured cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud? [20]
But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
The zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
Yet silence came upon material things--
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
"Neath blue-bell or streamer--
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away--[22]
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like--eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now--
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours--
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too--
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up! shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night--
It would weigh down your flight;
And true love caresses--
O! leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross, [23]
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep--
But the strains still arise
Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower--
The murmur that springs [24]
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things--
But are modell'd, alas!
Away, then, my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray--
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast--
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid--
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee--[25]
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea--
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumber'd to hear--
For what can awaken
An angel so soon
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
O death! from eye of God upon that star;
Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
Beyond that death no immortality--
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
A gazer on the lights that shine above--
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of wo)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
How drowsily it weighed them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
More beauty clung around her columned wall
Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wished to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
"But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurled,
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
"We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
_She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
1839.
[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
been seen since.]
[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
river.]
[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
the cradle of his childhood.]
[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
fol. edit.
The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
Dicite sacrorum pr鎒sides nemorum Dese, etc.,
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
Eternus, incorruptus, 鎞u鎣us polo,
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
--And afterwards,
Non cui profundum C鎐itas lumen dedit
Dirc鎢s augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
[Footnote 12:
Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
Seinem Schosskinde
Der Phantasie.
'Goethe'.]
[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
centre, into innumerable radii.]
[Footnote 15: Theras鎍, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
mariners.]
[Footnote 16:
Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
'Milton'.]
[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
"Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
閞ig?au pied d'une cha頽e de rochers steriles--peut-il 阾re un chef
d'oeuvre des arts!"]
[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
"Asphaltites."]
[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
[Footnote 21:
Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
alludes.]
[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
"The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
do make when they growe."]
[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island,
Tho' ever so wild,
Where woman might smile, and
No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido sueno--
Un dia puro--allegre--libre
Quiera--
Libre de amor--de zelo--
De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
the delirium of opium.
The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
life, is final death and annihilation.]
[Footnote 27:
There be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon.
'Milton'.]
[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
[Footnote 29:
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
'Marlowe.']
[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
* * * * *
TAMERLANE.
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope--that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
Its fount is holier--more divine--
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bowed from its wild pride into shame
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the Jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again--
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fevered diadem on my brow
I claimed and won usurpingly--
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the C鎠ar--this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy;
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head
Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush--
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
The hum of suitors--and the tone
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurped a tyranny which men
Have deemed since I have reached to power,
My innate nature--be it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then,
Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
Burned with a still intenser glow
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.
I have no words--alas!--to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters--with their meaning--melt
To fantasies--with none.
O, she was worthy of all love!
Love as in infancy was mine--
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense--then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright--
Pure--as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age--and love--together--
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather--
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
_I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears--
There was no need to speak the rest--
No need to quiet any fears
Of her--who asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye!
Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone--
I had no being--but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth--the air--the sea--
Its joy--its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure--the ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
And dimmer nothings which were real--
(Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image and--a name--a name!
Two separate--yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious--have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I marked a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lot--
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walked together on the crown
Of a high mountain which looked down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills--
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically--in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly--
A mingled feeling with my own--
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seemed to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
And donned a visionary crown--
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me--
But that, among the rabble--men,
Lion ambition is chained down--
And crouches to a keeper's hand--
Not so in deserts where the grand--
The wild--the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
And who her sovereign? Timour--he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diademed outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birth--
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly--
And homeward turned his softened eye.
'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
_Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one--
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown--
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
I reached my home--my home no more--
For all had flown who made it so.
I passed from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known--
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believe--
I _know_--for Death who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar.
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity----
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path--
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,--
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt-offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
The light'ning of his eagle eye--
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair!
1829.
* * * * *
TO HELEN.
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
To the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
1831.
* * * * *
THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay,
_Now_ each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless--
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Unceasingly, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye--
Over the lilies that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:--from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
1831.
* * * * *
ISRAFEL. [1]
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven),
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings--
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty--
Where Love's a grow-up God--
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit--
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute--
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely--flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
1836.
[Footnote 1:
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
'Koran'.]
* * * * *
TO----
I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath--little of Earth in it--
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:--
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
Who am a passer-by.
1829.
* * * * *
TO----
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips--and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words--
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall--
Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy--
Of the baubles that it may.
1829.
* * * * *
TO THE RIVER
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks--
Which glistens then, and trembles--
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies--
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
1829.
* * * * *
SONG.
I saw thee on thy bridal day--
When a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
As such it well may pass--
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
1827.
* * * * *
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness--for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee--and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.
The night--tho' clear--shall frown--
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given--
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more--like dew-drops from the grass.
The breeze--the breath of God--is still--
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token--
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
1837.
* * * * *
A DREAM.
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed--
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream--that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar--
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day star?
1837.
* * * * *
ROMANCE.
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been--a most familiar bird--
Taught me my alphabet to say--
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child--with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings--
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away--forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.
1829.
* * * * *
FAIRYLAND.
Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane--
Again--again--again--
Every moment of the night--
Forever changing places--
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down--still down--and down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may be--
O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
Over spirits on the wing--
Over every drowsy thing--
And buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of light--
And then, how deep!--O, deep!
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Like--almost any thing--
Or a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as before--
Videlicet a tent--
Which I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
Of which those butterflies,
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again
(Never-contented thing!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.
1831
* * * * *
THE LAKE.
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less--
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon the spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody--
Then--ah, then, I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight--
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define--
Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining--
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
1827.
* * * * *
EVENING STAR.
'Twas noontide of summer,
And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold--too cold for me--
There passed, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
1827.
* * * * *
IMITATION.
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride--
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my wordly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
1827.
* * * * *
"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
I. The happiest day--the happiest hour
My seared and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
II. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been--
But let them pass.
III. And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me--
Be still my spirit!
IV. The happiest day--the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
The brightest glance of pride and power
I feel have been:
V. But were that hope of pride and power
Now offered with the pain
Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
I would not live again:
VI. For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered--fell
An essence--powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
1827.
* * * * *
Translation from the Greek.
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
I. Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
II. Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home--
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
III. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.
IV. Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
1827
* * * * *
DREAMS.
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be--that dream eternally
Continuing--as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revelled when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,--have left my very heart
Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit--or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
_I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy--and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
* * * * *
"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
_How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
I. In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held--as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
II. Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
III. Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
From us in life--but common--which doth lie
Each hour before us--but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
IV. Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
* * * * *
A P艫N.
I. How shall the burial rite be read?
The solemn song be sung?
The requiem for the loveliest dead,
That ever died so young?
II. Her friends are gazing on her,
And on her gaudy bier,
And weep!--oh! to dishonor
Dead beauty with a tear!
III. They loved her for her wealth--
And they hated her for her pride--
But she grew in feeble health,
And they _love_ her--that she died.
IV. They tell me (while they speak
Of her "costly broider'd pall")
That my voice is growing weak--
That I should not sing at all--
V. Or that my tone should be
Tun'd to such solemn song
So mournfully--so mournfully,
That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI. But she is gone above,
With young Hope at her side,
And I am drunk with love
Of the dead, who is my bride.--
VII. Of the dead--dead who lies
All perfum'd there,
With the death upon her eyes.
And the life upon her hair.
VIII. Thus on the coffin loud and long
I strike--the murmur sent
Through the gray chambers to my song,
Shall be the accompaniment.
IX. Thou diedst in thy life's June--
But thou didst not die too fair:
Thou didst not die too soon,
Nor with too calm an air.
X. From more than friends on earth,
Thy life and love are riven,
To join the untainted mirth
Of more than thrones in heaven.--
XI. Therefore, to thee this night
I will no requiem raise,
But waft thee on thy flight,
With a P鎍n of old days.
* * * * *
NOTES.
30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
collections:
AL AARAAF.
Mysterious star!
Thou wert my dream
All a long summer night--
Be now my theme!
By this clear stream,
Of thee will I write;
Meantime from afar
Bathe me in light!
Thy world has not the dross of ours,
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our love or deck our bowers
In dreamy gardens, where do lie
Dreamy maidens all the day;
While the silver winds of Circassy
On violet couches faint away.
Little--oh! little dwells in thee
Like unto what on earth we see:
Beauty's eye is here the bluest
In the falsest and untruest--
On the sweetest air doth float
The most sad and solemn note--
If with thee be broken hearts,
Joy so peacefully departs,
That its echo still doth dwell,
Like the murmur in the shell.
Thou! thy truest type of grief
Is the gently falling leaf--
Thou! thy framing is so holy
Sorrow is not melancholy.
* * * * *
31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
least.
* * * * *
32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
others of the youthful pieces.
The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
but with the addition of the following lines:
Succeeding years, too wild for song,
Then rolled like tropic storms along,
Where, though the garish lights that fly
Dying along the troubled sky,
Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
The blackness of the general Heaven,
That very blackness yet doth fling
Light on the lightning's silver wing.
For being an idle boy lang syne,
Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
I early found Anacreon rhymes
Were almost passionate sometimes--
And by strange alchemy of brain
His pleasures always turned to pain--
His na飗et?to wild desire--
His wit to love--his wine to fire--
And so, being young and dipt in folly,
I fell in love with melancholy.
And used to throw my earthly rest
And quiet all away in jest--
I could not love except where Death
Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
Were stalking between her and me.
* * * * *
But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
Gone are the glory and the gloom--
The black hath mellow'd into gray,
And all the fires are fading away.
My draught of passion hath been deep--
I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
And after drunkenness of soul
Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
An idle longing night and day
To dream my very life away.
But dreams--of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
Yet should I swear I mean alone,
By notes so very shrilly blown,
To break upon Time's monotone,
While yet my vapid joy and grief
Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
Will shake his shadow in my path--
And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
Connivingly my dreaming-book.
* * * * *
DOUBTFUL POEMS.
* * * * *
ALONE.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were--I have not seen
As others saw--I could not bring
My passions from a common spring--
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow--I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone--
And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
_Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still--
From the torrent, or the fountain--
From the red cliff of the mountain--
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold--
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by--
From the thunder and the storm--
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
March 17, 1829.
* * * * *
TO ISADORE.
I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door--
Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!
II. And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love's serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!
III. Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
Now strangely clear thine image grows,
And olden memories
Are startled from their long repose
Like shadows on the silent snows
When suddenly the night-wind blows
Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV. Like music heard in dreams,
Like strains of harps unknown,
Of birds for ever flown,--
Audible as the voice of streams
That murmur in some leafy dell,
I hear thy gentlest tone,
And Silence cometh with her spell
Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
When tremulous in dreams I tell
My love to thee alone!
V. In every valley heard,
Floating from tree to tree,
Less beautiful to me,
The music of the radiant bird,
Than artless accents such as thine
Whose echoes never flee!
Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
For uttered in thy tones benign
(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
* * * * *
THE VILLAGE STREET.
In these rapid, restless shadows,
Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining
On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
On the mountains far and high,--
On the ocean's star-lit waters,
Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered
From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm's long branches
To the pavement bending o'er;
Underneath the mossy willow
And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty
All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
Of the Night's irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty
Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
'Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered
In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her.
On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
Bitter memories of the past--
On me, like the rain in Autumn
On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted,
By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered--
Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered,
Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
When the Night's first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
* * * * *
THE FOREST REVERIE.
'Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of wo,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The virgin Earth
Gave instant birth
To springs that ne'er did flow--
That in the sun
Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow--
The wild rose pale
Perfumed the gale,
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow--
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,--
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
* * * * *
NOTES.
Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
claimed for them."
Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
by the author of "The Raven."
* * * * *
PROSE POEMS.
* * * * *
THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
"Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
_Servius_.
"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
own cognizance of the _animalcul鎋 which infest the brain, a being which
we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
same manner as these _animalcul鎋 must thus regard us.
Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
[2].
These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
is a thing that does not exist.
It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
from the sunset fountains of the sky.
About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
stream.
So blended bank and shadow there,
That each seemed pendulous in air--
so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
tulips with wings [4].
The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
entombed.
This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
dark water, making its blackness more black."
And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
'De Sit?Orbis', says,
"Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
[Footnote 4:
"Florem putares nare per liquidum 鎡hera."
'P. Commire'.]
* * * * *
THE POWER OF WORDS.
'Oinos.'
Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
immortality!
'Agathos.'
You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
the angels freely, that it may be given!
'Oinos.'
But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
'Agathos.'
Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
all, were the curse of a fiend.
'Oinos.'
But does not The Most High know all?
'Agathos'.
_That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
unknown even to HIM.
'Oinos.'
But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
be known?
'Agathos.'
Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
appeared to blend into unity?
'Oinos'.
I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
'Agathos'.
There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
'Oinos'.
And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
not God?
'Agathos'.
I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
'Oinos'.
Explain!
'Agathos'.
In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
immediate results of the Divine creative power.
'Oinos.'
Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
extreme.
'Agathos.'
Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
'Oinos.'
I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
denominate the creation of animalcul?
'Agathos.'
The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
'Oinos.'
Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
immediate handiwork of the King?
'Agathos.'
Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
'Oinos.'
And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
'Agathos.'
Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
'Oinos'.
But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
'Agathos'.
In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
_creation_.
'Oinos'.
Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
'Agathos'.
It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
'Oinos'.
God.
'Agathos'.
I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
'Oinos'.
You did.
'Agathos'.
And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
air?
'Oinos'.
But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
passions of a turbulent heart.
'Agathos'.
They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
unhallowed of hearts!
* * * * *
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
[Greek: Mellonta sauta']
These things are in the future.
_Sophocles_--'Antig.'
'Una.'
"Born again?"
'Monos.'
Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
secret.
'Una.'
Death!
'Monos.'
How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
upon all pleasures!
'Una.'
Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
'Monos'.
Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
'Una'.
But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
'Monos'.
And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
begin?
'Una'.
At what point?
'Monos'.
You have said.
'Una'.
Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
'Monos'.
One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
--principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
_analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
[Greek: mousichae] which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
[1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se r閐uit ?c閐er au
sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
that he must be "_born again._"
And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
but still for the _material_, man.
'Una'.
Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
'Monos'.
Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
being awakened by external disturbances.
I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
_sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
loud cries.
They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
purely sensual pleasure as before.
And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
_that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
_Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
the temporal eternity.
It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
the deadly _Decay_.
Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
flight--without effort and without object.
A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
_place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
[Footnote 1:
"It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
_music_ for the soul."
Repub. lib. 2.
"For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
the true.]
* * * * *
THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
I will bring fire to thee.
_Euripides_.--'Androm'.
'Eiros'.
Why do you call me Eiros?
'Charmion'.
So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
'Eiros'.
This is indeed no dream!
'Charmion'.
Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
'Eiros'.
True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
of _the new_.
'Charmion'.
A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
'Eiros'.
In Aidenn?
'Charmion'.
In Aidenn.
'Eiros'.
O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
the august and certain Present.
'Charmion'.
Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
fearfully perished.
'Eiros'.
Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
'Charmion'.
Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
'Eiros'.
Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
'Charmion'.
And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
philosophy of the day.
'Eiros'.
The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
bowed down and adored.
That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
excessive interest.
What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
vegetable thing.
Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
Thus ended all.
* * * * *
SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
'Psalm of David'.
Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
mankind.
Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chald鎍, nor any Egyptian God.
And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
accents of many thousand departed friends.
* * * * *
SILENCE.--A FABLE.
The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
of the river Z鋓re. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
one unto the other.
"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Z鋓re there is
neither quiet nor silence.
"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
in the solemnity of their desolation.
"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
the dreary river Z鋓re, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
rock.
"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
he sat upon the rock.
"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
SILENCE.
"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
...
Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
* * * * *
ESSAYS.
* * * * *
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
very long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
the stamp upon the wax. De B閞anger has wrought innumerable things,
pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
following exquisite little Serenade:
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me--who knows how?--
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream--
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
critical than in the popular view:
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tide--
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And honor charm'd the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair--
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true--
For heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo--
But honor'd well her charms to sell,
If priests the selling do.
Now walking there was one more fair--
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail--
Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world's peace to pray,
For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!--
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
By man is cursed alway!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
other works of this author.
While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
solely for the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
feel_ as poetic.
The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
essence of the poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
consideration, than by the citation of the Pr鰁m to Longfellow's "Waif":
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
Nothing can be better than
--the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming bird.
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me;
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is--that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,--
The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon--
Her health! and would on earth there stood,
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.
It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
the chaff_ for his reward.
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
they are _not_ merits altogether.
Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
for me an inexpressible charm:
O saw ye not fair Ines?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down
And rob the world of rest
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write!
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near!
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners-waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
If it had been no more!
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,--
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore!
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more!
"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;--
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd--
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,--
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,--think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family--
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily,
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother!
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Take her up tenderly;
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,--kindly,--
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,--
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
is the thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in _thee._
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from _thee._
Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain--it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one--
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of _thee_.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
long poem, "The Princess:"
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
harp of 苚lus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
altogether divine majesty of her _love._
Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
of the old cavalier:
A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
A sword of metal keene!
Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
Al else on earth is meane.
The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
The rowleing of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
Be soundes from heaven that come.
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
When as their war-cryes welle,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rowse a fiend from hell,
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine,
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!
* * * * *
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
accounting for what had been done."
I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _d閚ouement_ before
anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _d閚ouement_
constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
to page, render themselves apparent.
I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
occasion, _select_?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
aid me in the construction of the effect.
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious _select_ions
and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
put together. I _select_ "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
of a mathematical problem.
Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
popular and the critical taste.
We commence, then, with this intention.
The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
effect.
It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
the production of any effect at all.
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
fact, a hundred and eight.
My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
of the poem.
Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
a single word as the best _refrain_.
The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
_select_ a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
first which presented itself.
The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
_tone_.
I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
the stanza:
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
attainment less of invention than negation.
Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
true poetical thesis.
The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
knocked.
I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
serenity within the chamber.
I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
many a flirt and flutter."
Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
_But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
out:
Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
"Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
_Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
With such name as "Nevermore."
The effect of the d閚ouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
the line,
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
the _d閚ouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
_directly_ as possible.
With the _d閚ouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
transcendentalists.
Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
apparent in the lines:
"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
* * * * *
OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the _select_ions of the "Book of
Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
without even an attempt at adaptation.
In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
author says:
"By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties con
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness--
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight."
But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
of its species:
"It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet,
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when't had left me far away
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within."
How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
"And trod as if on the four winds!"
a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
"fill itself with roses,"
"And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
"Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within."
[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
诗选反复阻止我的神，我对你无限感激，
你用这一层又一层工事将我环绕：
榜样，习俗，恐惧，还有不顺的运气——
人所鄙薄的这些却筑成了我的城堡。
我战战兢兢，不敢把头探出城堡，
用目光把下面咆哮的深渊窥视，
罪的深渊啊，你肯定早已将我淹没，
如果它们不曾为了保护我而抵御我。
1833
（灵石 译）
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补偿
为什么我可以逍遥地看日头，
别人却没有这样的闲暇？
当然是因为他们快活的时候，
我独坐在痛苦的荫翳下。
为什么欣喜的人们口若悬河，
我却要像坟墓一样喑哑？
啊！以前我宣讲，他们沉默，
现在却已轮到他们说话。
1834
（灵石 译）
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杜鹃花
有人问，花从哪里来？
五月，当海风刺穿我们的孤独，
一丛清新的杜鹃让我在林间停驻。
无叶的花朵在潮湿的角落里铺开，
荒野和迟缓的溪流也感觉到了爱。
紫色的花瓣，飘坠在池塘里，
给幽暗的水面增添了几分明媚，
红雀兴许会来这里梳理羽翼，
即使花儿让心仪的它自惭形秽。
杜鹃啊！如果智者问你，这样的景致
为何要留给不会欣赏的天空与大地，
告诉他们，若神是为了看而造双目，
那么美就是自己存在的缘故：
你为什么在这里，玫瑰般迷人的花？
我从未想过问你，也不知晓答案；
可是，无知的我有一个单纯的想法：
是引我前来的那种力量引你来到世间。
1834
（灵石 译）
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个体与整体
田野里穿着红衣的农夫毫不知晓
你正从高高的山顶极目远眺；
丘陵的农场远远传来母牛的声音，
但它并不是为了赢得你的欢心；
教堂的司事在正午敲钟的时辰
不会想到叱咤风云的拿破仑
正驻马道旁，愉悦地侧耳倾听，
当他的队伍席卷阿尔卑斯的峰顶；
你也不知道你每日生活的情状
如何悄悄地改变了邻居的信仰。
每个个体都与别的个体关联，
没有孤立的美，没有孤立的善。
黎明，麻雀在赤杨的枝条上歌唱，
我觉得它的音乐来自天堂；
黄昏，我把麻雀带回它的小窝，
同样的歌却再不能给我快乐，
因为我带不回河流与天空——
眼睛而非耳朵才是它们的听众。
精致的贝壳躺在海滩上；
每一波海浪携着泡沫涌来，
都用珍珠装饰它们的釉彩，
大海汹涌起伏，似乎是想阻拦
它们安全地逃到我身边。
我拭去上面的泡沫和水草，
往家里带回海里诞生的财宝；
而那些相貌平平的贝壳
只能继续在海滩陪伴太阳、
沙砾和喧嚣不息的风浪。
恋人注视着他优雅的新娘，
缓缓行进在送亲的路上，
他不知道她最美丽的衣裙
是雪白的唱诗班的陪衬。
当她终于来到他的房子，
像林间的鸟儿关进了笼子——
梦幻般的魔法顿时消失，
虽温柔体贴，却不再有魅力。
于是我说，“我渴恋真理；
而美，只是青涩童年的玩具；
我把它和儿时的游戏留在一起。”——
我正说着，在我站立之处，
土柏美丽的藤蔓便聚拢，
缠绕在石松的边缘；
我呼吸着紫罗兰的芳香，
周围站着橡树和云杉；
松果和橡子落了一地；
永恒的天空在头顶盘旋，
充满光明和神的意念；
我重新看到，我重新听到
流淌的河水和早晨的小鸟——
美悄悄穿过我的感官，
我在这完美的整体中消散。
1834
（灵石 译）
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暴风雪
天空所有的喇叭都在宣告
雪的来临，它在原野上飞翔，
仿佛无处降落：密集的雪片
隐藏了山、树林、河与天空，
也遮住了花园尽头的农舍。
行客停下了雪橇，邮差耽搁了
路途，朋友也不来拜访，一家人
围坐在明亮的壁炉边，关在
被喧嚣风暴隔开的私密世界里。
快来欣赏北风的石匠手艺。
这个狂暴的匠人，它的采石场
砖瓦取之不尽，每处向风的
木桩、树和门都变成白色堡垒，
又被它添上向外突出的房顶。
它的千万只手迅捷地挥洒着
奇幻野蛮的作品，丝毫不关心
格律和比例。他还恶作剧地
给鸡笼和狗窝挂上白色的花环，
把隐藏的荆棘变成天鹅的模样；
他也不顾农民的叹息，从屋到屋
将村中的小路填满，又在门口
造一个尖塔，放在作品顶端。
当他将整个世界据为己有，便在
注定的时辰撤走，仿佛从不曾来过，
当太阳出现，惊愕的“艺术”只能
缓慢地模仿，一块石头一块石头，
用一个时代来复制狂风一个晚上
就完成的建筑：雪的游戏之作。
1835
（灵石 译）
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康科德颂
1837年7月4日，庆祝战役纪念碑落成。
河上那座简陋的木桥旁，
旗帜曾翻卷着四月的风。
农夫们在这里换上戎装，
他们的枪声把世界惊动。
敌人早已在幽寂中安睡，
胜利者也在幽寂中沉埋。
湮灭的时光里桥已倾颓，
随深暗的河水归向大海。
今日的岸边宁静而翠绿，
我们在碑石里寄托追思，
愿荣光能在记忆中永驻，
当子孙和先祖一样消逝。
灵啊，是你赐他们勇敢，
为后代的自由慷慨赴死，
别让碑石在岁月里凋残：
它属于他们，也属于你。
1837
（灵石 译）
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大黄蜂
健壮的大黄蜂，你嗡嗡歌唱，
你在的地方就是我梦想的地方。
让他们扬着帆，向波多黎各进发，
飘洋过海，寻觅热带的天涯，
我只愿跟随你，与你为伴，
你就是热带，充满生命和灵感！
你跳着曲线之舞，令荒野愉悦，
让我追踪你波浪般的路线，
让我靠近你，做你的倾听者，
当你歌唱在灌木和葡萄藤间。
小小的昆虫，太阳的恋慕者，
它用欢欣照亮了你的王国！
天穹的水手，空气的浪涛里，
你无忧无虑地游弋；
日光和正午的不倦行客，
你尽情享受着明亮的六月；
求你等着我，等我靠近，
包围我，用你嗡嗡的低吟——
外面的一切都是苦痛与艰辛。
在五月的日子，当南风
将闪烁的薄雾之网掀动，
让银灰的色泽印在天际，
当它抚摸万物的温柔手指
也在所有人的脸上
抹上了一丝浪漫的奇想，
当它悄悄地向地下传递暖意，
把泥土变成了紫罗兰的香气，
你，在阳光灿烂的孤独里，
寻访着灌木丛中花的踪迹，
你圆润、轻快的低音
令翠绿的宁静更显深沉。
炎炎仲夏宠爱的丑陋歌手，
你催眠的曲调于我却是享受，
它讲述着阳光下的无数时辰，
漫长的白昼，和开满花的水滨；
讲述着印度的原野，
无边无际的芳香世界；
讲述着叙利亚的恬淡静谧，
鸟儿般的快乐，永恒的闲适。
从未有污秽可憎的景观
呈现在我心仪的昆虫眼前；
它流连的是越橘，紫罗兰，
火红的枫树，金黄的水仙，
深深的草，像绿色的旗帜，
与天空相配的菊苣，
耧斗菜盛满蜜的角，
芳香的蕨，龙牙草，
苜蓿，捕虫草，赤莲，
还有野蔷薇，点缀其间；
此外都非它所知，非它所牵挂，
只是它飞翔时变幻的图画。
穿黄色马裤的哲学家，
你远比人类的先知令我惊讶！
你只让美丽的东西入眼，
你只让甜蜜的东西入口，
你嘲弄命运，你超脱忧患，
你筛掉了糠，让小麦存留。
等到凛冽凶猛的北风
牢牢将大地和海洋掌控，
你早已遁入深沉的梦乡；
痛苦和匮乏徒然守在一旁；
匮乏和痛苦，反复把我们折磨，
你的睡梦却让他们手足无措。
1837
（灵石 译）
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厄洛斯*
世界的意义其实很简单，
各种解说却冗长纷繁，
无非是爱与被爱，
人和神却依旧没有学会，
哎，他们一再把它违背，
永远不知悔改。
1844
注释：
*厄洛斯（Eros），希腊神话中小爱神的名字。
（灵石 译）
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自然
被九重的神秘所包围，
世界反而看起来更美：
虽然困惑的先知不能传递
它运行不息的秘密，
但若你的心与自然一起跳动，
一切便呈现出来，从西到东。
每一种形式里潜藏的精神
都呼唤着同类精神的回应；
每一颗原子都点燃自己，
隐约照见它未来的轨迹。
1844
（灵石 译）
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巴克斯1
给我葡萄酒，但不是葡萄的腹中
生长出的那种饮料，
也不是源于藤蔓，深深的根延伸无穷，
从安第斯山向下直达好望角，
保存了大地的全部味道。
让它的果实自黑暗之境
问候每日的黎明，
它的根浸润在地府里，
感觉到斯底克斯河2的毒汁；
它将夜的痛苦
用自己的的魔法，酿成醇厚的幸福。
我们买的面包只是灰烬；
我们买的葡萄酒3，掺了太多的水；
给我真正的食物——
它的卷须和茂盛的叶
盘曲在天国的银色群山间
沾满了永恒的露；
酒中之酒，
世界之血，
形式的形式，模子的模子，
让我酩酊大醉，
让我成为它的梦寐，
在所有事物、所有本性间随意飘移；
洞悉鸟的语言，
完美表达一切意念。
那酒就像
地平线上
日光的瀑布，
或是像不绝的海流奔涌在大西洋，
朝着呼唤它们的南方归宿。
面包和水，
无需变形的食物，
彩虹是它的花，智慧是它的果，
那酒已经化身为人，
那食物有理性，也有灵魂4。
那酒是音乐——
音乐和酒融为一体——
饮酒的时刻，
我将听见遥远的“混沌”对我低语；
还未诞生的国王和我一起散步；
贫乏的草将会尽情设想，
当它轮回为人，当如何行动。
被它们的魔力触发，我会打开
每一块岩石的秘密世界。
我感谢这快乐的汁液，
它赐给了我一切知识——
神秘的风吹过，
复活了远古的记忆，
似乎坚不可摧的习俗的城堞
也突然倾颓、消逝。
斟出你神奇的葡萄酒，巴克斯！
找回失去的我，失去的旧日！
酒是酒的解药，
葡萄是葡萄的酬劳！
快疗治长久侵蚀我的绝望——
理性早被遗忘的尘沙淹没，
过去世代的记忆早已熄灭；
让它们焕然一新；
用酒修复时间毁损的一切；
在醉意扩散的地界，
让灿烂的历史死而复生；
为古旧的画布重新上色，
将磨蚀的印版重新雕刻，
用钢笔在蓝色的书板上
描绘我昔日的传奇，
追溯人类的第一日,
跳舞的神祗和不朽的英雄。
1846
1． 即狄俄尼索斯，希腊神话中的酒神。
2． 希腊神话中的冥河。
3． 基督教圣餐仪式中，教徒都要领受面包和葡萄酒，纪念耶稣。
4． 按照基督教的传统说法，葡萄酒是耶稣的血，面包是耶稣的身体。吃面包、喝葡萄酒就是与基督融为一体。这种变化（transubstantiation）是在教会执行的圣餐仪式中发生的。爱默生此处显然否定了基督教的立场。
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
梅林1
1
你那低回的竖琴永不能令我欢欣，
或填满我渴求的耳朵，
弦的弹奏当如天地间风的运行，
自由，超迈，大气磅礴。
小夜曲的婉转低吟，
钢琴的清脆音符，
哪能将野性的血惊醒
自神秘的深处？
诗人当如君王，
击打琴弦必须有野蛮雄健的力量，
仿佛用权杖或铁锤驱遣
雷霆般的技艺
奔驰在琴弦之间，
揭示太阳旋转的秘密，
和辽远星球的火焰。
梅林的敲击是命运的敲击，
它应和着森林里的声音，
当枝干猛烈撞击着枝干；
它应和着洪流沉闷的呻吟，
当冰的囚室在春天里震颤；
它应和着演说家奔涌的言辞，
应和着阳刚灵魂的脉动，
应和着熙攘喧嚣的城市，
应和着炮火连天的战争，
应和着勇士慷慨的行进，
应和着洞穴里回荡的圣徒的歌音。
伟大的诗艺
必定有伟大的气质。
诗人不会用节奏和格律
将他的思想束缚，
而要抛开一切陈规；
他将不断攀登
朝着诗韵的巅峰。
“进来，进来，”天使说，
“进入最上面的门，
不要数下面有多少层，
一级级靠近乐园的景致
沿着那惊奇的楼梯。”
他是游戏之王，熟谙自己的技艺，
永不愧疚，无可挑剔，
他将每日的快乐分赐，
藏在诗歌的甜蜜流体里。
当他玄妙的心灵
高声唱出自己的乐音，
意念便纷纷幻化显形，
它们和着曲调，
一边走，一边手舞足蹈，
汇成浩浩荡荡的大军。
这丰富的快乐令他沉迷，
他把一切主题歌唱；
梅林雄健的诗行
足以化解自然的一切对立，——
他剥夺暴君的意志，
他给狮子温和的脾气，
他的歌声撒在翻涌的空气里，
便平息了迫近的风暴，
他让季节宁静地生长，
像诗歌一样安详。
如果没有灵感，情绪低落，
他不会奢望去编织
惊人的诗；
他会静待力量恢复。
就像鸟儿从休歇的地方
向天空的最高处扶摇直上，——
即使这也远远不及缪斯翱翔的高度。
他也不会如此僭越，
以为凭巧智就可达到那样的境界，
它只属于特定的灵魂，
特定的时辰。
有时世界仿佛豁然敞亮，
上帝的意志自由驰骋，
那时即使白痴也会惊醒，
洞见千年里人世的变迁，——
突然，不经意间，
我们被自己触动，冲到门边眺望，
即使天使的剑也无法呈现
它们隐匿的景观。
2
诗人的韵
调节君王的事务；
爱平衡的自然
成对地铸造万物。
每一点都为另一点而设，
每一种颜色都有相反的颜色，
每一种声音呼应着另一种声音，
或高或低，
各种味道快乐地融合在一起；
叶子在枝条上相互应和，
还未发芽时它们就是如此亲近。
手挨着手，足挨着足，
新郎新娘将同一个身体分享；
古老的仪式，婚姻的双方
在每位凡人的生命里居住。
光的熔炉在远处亮闪，
它熔化球形与条形，
锻造成对的星星，
让它们谁也不孤单。
动物们因爱而癫狂，
因相思而押韵；
都在恰当的时辰
加入世界的合唱。
就像舞者的乐队有条不紊，
思想也手拉着手现身；
它们成对地表演，
时而交换一下舞伴；
彼此帮助，彼此映衬，
不乏智慧，也不乏青春。
那些形单影只的奇想
却只能短暂地飘荡，
就像单身汉
或嫁不出去的女孩，
他们做不了祖先，
无法留下让谎言恐惧的后代，
也无法让真理永不朽坏。
像鹰的双翼那样完美，
万物的韵在于平衡搭配，
数学与贸易
同样要求助于和谐的缪斯。
奈米西斯女神2
也是让奇数与偶数相配，
她在天地间驻临，
纠正一切失衡，
让音符尽善尽美，
让歌曲浑然天成。
微妙的韵，丰盛的废墟，
在生的房子里喁喁低语，
三姐妹3一边织，一边唱；
我们这些轮回中的泥土，
应和着她们完美的音律，
当黎明黄昏的暗淡天幕
把音乐饮醉的我们掩藏。
注释：
1． 梅林（Merlin）是传说中亚瑟王手下的魔法师。
2． 奈米西斯（Nemesis）是希腊神话中的报应女神，其主要功能是维持宇宙的平衡。
3． 三姐妹指命运三女神，她们纺织每一个人的命运。
1846
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
尤利埃尔*
在那遥远，遥远的古代，
只有冥思的灵魂能够瞥见；
甚至时间都还只是荒野，
没有标出后来的日月年。
这是尤利埃尔被逐的经历，
这是发生在天堂里的旧事。
一次，诗人路过昴宿星团，
偶然听到了年轻诸神的交谈。
一宗尘封已久的叛逆大罪，
向他的耳朵揭开了幕帷。
年轻的神祗们正在讨论
形式的法则，格律的标准，
天体，本质，太阳的光芒，
哪些是实体，哪些是幻象。
其中一位的声音深沉刚健，
毫无敬畏，不容任何置辩，
他的神情仿佛要融化整个天穹，
让各处的魔鬼都不禁蠢蠢欲动。
他以神的身份断言，
应当抛弃线的概念。
“自然界根本没有线，
个体和宇宙都是圆，
所有光线的旅行都是徒劳，
恶会赐福，冰会燃烧。”
尤利埃尔目光如剑，
天空漾起一个寒颤；
老战神纷纷摇头，脸色阴郁，
桃金娘花坛上的天使皱眉不语，
天堂的居民们隐隐感觉，
这莽撞的话语将带来灾祸，
命运天平的横梁突然折断，
善与恶的界限突然洞穿，
强大的冥王也乱了方寸，
向着混乱的深渊沉沦。
刹那间，意识到自己的处境，
尤利埃尔的美像枯叶凋零；
他曾是天界的神，尊荣非凡，
此刻却悄悄退到云的后面，
不知是因为他将注定
在重生的海里旋转不停，
还是因为他顿悟的光芒
会将孱弱的眼睛灼伤。
立刻，一阵消弭记忆的风
罩住了每一位神的身形，
他们的唇锁住了秘密，
就像把火种埋在了灰烬里。
但真理的幽灵仍时时显现，
令天使遮掩的翅膀羞惭，
从太阳的轨道里，
从化学反应的果实里，
从灵魂在物质界的旅行里，
从水的迅速变化里，
从诞生于恶的善里，
仍会传来尤利埃尔尖利的声音，充满蔑视。
天空深处，一抹绯红掠过，
诸神颤动着身体，却不知为什么。
1846
注释：
*尤利埃尔（Uriel）是密尔顿《失乐园》中太阳的天使长的名字。
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
辩护词
不要以为我桀骜不驯，
因我独自在山谷间游荡；
我是去拜谒森林之神，
把他的智慧向世人宣讲。
不要指责我懒散怠惰，
因我终日只把溪水凝视；
每一片云从空中飘过，
都在我书里写下一个字。
勤劳的人不要责备我，
因我只顾采撷闲适的花；
这手里的紫苑，每一朵
都会装着一个思想回家。
天地所有神秘的讯息
都藏身于眼前花的形象；
古今所有隐秘的历史
都被鸟儿在树荫里传唱。
强壮的牛离开田野时，
带给你的只是一种收获，
另一种庄稼留在原地，
我拾起它们，变成了歌。
1846
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
艺术
将传奇的光泽和魅惑
赋予手推车、碗碟和煎锅；
让隐藏在石堆光影里的正午
也能笼罩月光的神秘孤独；
让城市整齐的水泥路面，
变幻出遍布甜美丁香的花园；
让涌动的喷泉送来凉爽，
在烈日炙烤的广场歌唱；
让雕塑、图画、公园和大厅，
歌谣、旗帜和公共的节庆，
唤醒过去的记忆，装点今日，
让明天成为一个新的开始。
如此，尘土中辛勤劳作的人
将透过城市的时钟之门
瞥见似真似幻的国王与侍从，
天使的裙边和缀满星星的翅膀，
他的先祖在明亮的寓言里闪烁，
他的孩子在天国的餐桌旁围坐。
这样快乐的表演
是艺术的特权，
让人习惯地球上的旅程，
让放逐者领受他的天命，
既然创造他的那种质料
也把日子和天穹创造，
他便应缘着这些楼梯攀登，
他的尊贵与时间同等；
上界不朽的生命，同样
也由凡人柔弱的溪流滋养。
1847
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
日子
时间的女儿，伪善的日子，
裹着头巾，沉默如赤足的舞僧*。
她们排成一列，无穷无尽，
手里拿着王冠和柴捆，
按人们的意愿把礼物馈赠：
面包，王国，星辰和挂满繁星的天穹。
我在枝叶交错的花园里，看见她们的队列，
我忘记了早晨许下的心愿，仓促间
摘了一些香草和几个苹果，日子
转过身，沉默地离开了。太迟了——
在她阴郁的束发带下，我看到了蔑视。
注释：
*原文dervishes，是穆斯林的一个支派，其特点是苦修和狂舞，借此进入灵魂出窍的神秘状态。
1851
（灵石 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
梵天1
若染血的杀人者以为杀的是别人，
若被杀者也以为被杀的是自己，
他们都还未识得我的奥妙法门，
我遵循，超越，又从反面开始。
遥远的，遗忘的，都在我身边，
阴影与阳光也没什么不同，
早已消失的神祗还会向我显现，
耻辱与声名我都纳入胸中。
那些忘记我的人只是一厢情愿，
他们远翔时，我是他们的羽翼；
我是怀疑者，也是怀疑的意念，
我是僧侣们日夜不息的颂诗。
大神们2终日觊觎着我的园庭，
七圣徒3也被无益的梦想折磨。
可是你，谦卑的爱善的心灵，
我为你备的礼物让天堂失色！
1856
注释：
1． 梵天（Brahman）是印度教的最高神。
2． 大神指印度教中的Indra（天空神）、Ani（火神）和Yama（死神）。
3． 七圣徒指Maharshis，印度教中最高的圣徒。
（灵石 译）
PREFACE
In Mr. Cabot's prefatory note to the Riverside Edition of the Poems,
published the year after Mr. Emerson's death, he said:--
"This volume contains nearly all the pieces included in the POEMS and
MAY-DAY of former editions. In 1876, Mr. Emerson published a _select_ion
from his Poems, adding six new ones and omitting many[1]. Of those
omitted, several are now restored, in accordance with the expressed
wishes of many readers and lovers of them. Also some pieces never
before published are here given in an Appendix; on various grounds.
Some of them appear to have had Mr. Emerson's approval, but to have
been withheld because they were unfinished. These it seemed best not to
suppress, now that they can never receive their completion. Others,
mostly of an early date, remained unpublished, doubtless because of
their personal and private nature. Some of these seem to have an
autobiographic interest sufficient to justify their publication. Others
again, often mere fragments, have been admitted as characteristic, or
as expressing in poetic form thoughts found in the Essays.
[1] __Select_ed Poems_: Little Classic Edition.
"In coming to a decision in these cases it seemed, on the whole,
preferable to take the risk of including too much rather than the
opposite, and to leave the task of further winnowing to the hands of
Time.
"As was stated in the preface to the first volume of this edition of
Mr. Emerson's writings, the readings adopted by him in the _Select_ed
Poems have not always been followed here, but in some cases preference
has been given to corrections made by him when he was in fuller
strength than at the time of the last revision.
"A change in the arrangement of the stanzas of 'May-Day,' in the part
representative of the march of Spring, received his sanction as
bringing them more nearly in accordance with the events in Nature."
In the preparation of the Riverside Edition of the _Poems_, Mr. Cabot
very considerately took the present editor into counsel (as
representing Mr. Emerson's family), who at that time in turn took
counsel with several persons of taste and mature judgment with regard
especially to the admission of poems hitherto unpublished and of
fragments that seemed interested and pleasing. Mr. Cabot and he were
entirely in accord with regard to the Riverside Edition. In the present
edition, the substance of the Riverside Edition has been preserved,
with hardly an exception, although some poems and fragments have been
added. None of the poems therein printed have been omitted. "The
House," which appeared in the first volume of _Poems_, and "Nemesis,"
"Una," "Love and Thought" and "Merlin's Songs," from the _May-Day_
volume, have been restored. To the few mottoes of the Essays, which Mr.
Emerson printed as "Elements" in _May-Day_, most of the others have
been added. Following Mr. Emerson's precedent of giving his brother
Edward's "Last Farewell" a place beside the poem in his memory, two
pleasing poems by Ellen Tucker, his first wife, which he published in
the _Dial_, have been placed with his own poems relating to her. The
publication in the last edition of some poems that Mr. Emerson had long
kept by him, but had never quite been ready to print, and of various
fragments on Poetry, Nature and Life, was not done without advice and
careful consideration, and then was felt to be perhaps a rash
experiment. The continued interest which has been shown in the author's
thought and methods and life--for these unfinished pieces contain much
autobiography--has made the present editor feel it justifiable to keep
almost all of these and to add a few. Their order has been slightly
altered.
A few poems from the verse-books sufficiently complete to have a title
are printed in the Appendix for the first time: "Insight," "September,"
"October," "Hymn" and "Riches."
After much hesitation the editor has gathered in their order of time,
and printed at the end of the book, some twenty early pieces, a few of
them taken from the Appendix of the last edition and others never
printed before. They are for the most part journals in verse covering
the period of his school-teaching, study for the ministry and exercise
of that office, his sickness, bereavement, travel abroad and return to
the new life. This sad period of probation is illuminated by the
episode of his first love. Not for their poetical merit, except in
flashes, but for the light they throw on the growth of his thought and
character are they included.
In this volume the course of the Muse, as Emerson tells it, is pursued
with regard to his own poems.
I hang my verses in the wind,
Time and tide their faults will find.
EDWARD W. EMERSON.
March 12, 1904.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
POEMS
GOOD-BYE
EACH AND ALL
THE PROBLEM
TO RHEA
THE VISIT
URIEL
THE WORLD-SOUL
THE SPHINX
ALPHONSO OF CASTILE
MITHRIDATES
TO J.W.
DESTINY
GUY
HAMATREYA
THE RHODORA
THE HUMBLE-BEE
BERRYING
THE SNOW-STORM
WOODNOTES I
WOODNOTES II
MONADNOC
FABLE
ODE
ASTRAEA
蒚IENNE DE LA BO蒀E
COMPENSATION
FORBEARANCE
THE PARK
FORERUNNERS
SURSUM CORDA
ODE TO BEAUTY
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH
TO ELLEN
TO EVA
LINES
THE VIOLET
THE AMULET
THINE EYES STILL SHINED
EROS
HERMIONE
INITIAL, DAEMONIC AND CELESTIAL LOVE
I. THE INITIAL LOVE
II. THE DAEMONIC LOVE
III. THE CELESTIAL LOVE
THE APOLOGY
MERLIN I
MERLIN II
BACCHUS
MEROPS
THE HOUSE
SAADI
HOLIDAYS
XENOPHANES
THE DAY'S RATION
BLIGHT
MUSKETAQUID
DIRGE
THRENODY
CONCORD HYMN
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
MAY-DAY
THE ADIRONDACS
BRAHMA
NEMESIS
FATE
FREEDOM
ODE
BOSTON HYMN
VOLUNTARIES
LOVE AND THOUGHT
UNA
BOSTON
LETTERS
RUBIES
MERLIN'S SONG
THE TEST
SOLUTION
HYMN
NATURE I
NATURE II
THE ROMANY GIRL
DAYS
MY GARDEN
THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT
THE TITMOUSE
THE HARP
SEASHORE
SONG OF NATURE
TWO RIVERS
WALDEINSAMKEIT
TERMINUS
THE NUN'S ASPIRATION
APRIL
MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP
CUPIDO
THE PAST
THE LAST FAREWELL
IN MEMORIAM E.B.E.
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
EXPERIENCE
COMPENSATION
POLITICS
HEROISM
CHARACTER
CULTURE
FRIENDSHIP
SPIRITUAL LAWS
BEAUTY
MANNERS
ART
UNITY
WORSHIP
PRUDENCE
NATURE
THE INFORMING SPIRIT
CIRCLES
INTELLECT
GIFTS
PROMISE
CARITAS
POWER
WEALTH
ILLUSIONS
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
QUATRAINS
TRANSLATIONS
APPENDIX
THE POET
FRAGMENTS ON THE POET AND THE POETIC GIFT
FRAGMENTS ON NATURE AND LIFE
NATURE
LIFE
THE BOHEMIAN HYMN
GRACE
INSIGHT
PAN
MONADNOC FROM AFAR
SEPTEMBER
EROS
OCTOBER
PETER'S FIELD
MUSIC
THE WALK
COSMOS
THE MIRACLE
THE WATERFALL
WALDEN
THE ENCHANTER
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE
RICHES
PHILOSOPHER
INTELLECT
LIMITS
INSCRIPTION FOR A WELL IN MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF THE WAR
THE EXILE
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
THE BELL
THOUGHT
PRAYER
TO-DAY
FAME
THE SUMMONS
THE RIVER
GOOD HOPE
LINES TO ELLEN
SECURITY
A MOUNTAIN GRAVE
A LETTER
HYMN
SELF-RELIANCE
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
WRITTEN AT ROME
WEBSTER
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
INDEX OF TITLES
* * * * *
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
The Emersons first appeared in the north of England, but Thomas, who
landed in Massachusetts in 1638, came from Hertfordshire. He built soon
after a house, sometimes railed the Saint's Rest, which still stands in
Ipswich on the slope of Heart-break Hill, close by Labour-in-vain Creek.
Ralph Waldo Emerson was the sixth in descent from him. He was born in
Boston, in Summer Street, May 25, 1803. He was the third son of William
Emerson, the minister of the First Church in Boston, whose father,
William Emerson, had been the patriotic minister of Concord at the
outbreak of the Revolution, and died a chaplain in the army. Ruth
Haskins, the mother of Ralph Waldo Emerson, was left a widow in 1811,
with a family of five little boys. The taste of these boys was
scholarly, and four of them went through the Latin School to Harvard
College, and graduated there. Their mother was a person of great
sweetness, dignity, and piety, bringing up her sons wisely and well in
very straitened circumstances, and loved by them. Her husband's
stepfather, Rev. Dr. Ripley of Concord, helped her, and constantly
invited the boys to the Old Manse, so that the woods and fields along
the Concord River were first a playground and then the background of the
dreams of their awakening imaginations.
Born in the city, Emerson's young mind first found delight in poems and
classic prose, to which his instincts led him as naturally as another
boy's would to go fishing, but his vacations in the country supplemented
these by giving him great and increasing love of nature. In his early
poems classic imagery is woven into pictures of New England woodlands.
Even as a little boy he had the habit of attempting flights of verse,
stimulated by Milton, Pope, or Scott, and he and his mates took pleasure
in declaiming to each other in barns and attics. He was so full of
thoughts and fancies that he sought the pen instinctively, to jot them
down.
At college Emerson did not shine as a scholar, though he won prizes for
essays and declamations, being especially unfitted for mathematical
studies, and enjoying the classics rather in a literary than grammatical
way. And yet it is doubtful whether any man in his class used his time
to better purpose with reference to his after life, for young Emerson's
instinct led him to wide reading of works, outside the curriculum, that
spoke directly to him. He had already formed the habit of writing in a
journal, not the facts but the thoughts and inspirations of the day;
often, also, good stories or poetical quotations, and scraps of his own
verse.
On graduation from Harvard in the class of 1821, following the
traditions of his family, Emerson resolved to study to be a minister,
and meantime helped his older brother William in the support of the
family by teaching in a school for young ladies in Boston, that the
former had successfully established. The principal was twenty-one and
the assistant nineteen years of age. For school-teaching on the usual
lines Emerson was not fitted, and his youth and shyness prevented him
from imparting his best gifts to his scholars. Years later, when, in his
age, his old scholars assembled to greet him, he regretted that no hint
had been brought into the school of what at that very time "I was
writing every night in my chamber, my first thoughts on morals and the
beautiful laws of compensation, and of individual genius, which to
observe and illustrate have given sweetness to many years of my life."
Yet many scholars remembered his presence and teaching with pleasure and
gratitude, not only in Boston, but in Chelmsford and Roxbury, for while
his younger brothers were in college it was necessary that he should
help. In these years, as through all his youth, he was loved, spurred on
in his intellectual life, and keenly criticised by his aunt, Mary Moody
Emerson, an eager and wide reader, inspired by religious zeal,
high-minded, but eccentric.
The health of the young teacher suffered from too ascetic a life, and
unmistakable danger-signals began to appear, fortunately heeded in time,
but disappointment and delay resulted, borne, however, with sense and
courage. His course at the Divinity School in Cambridge was much broken;
nevertheless, in October, 1826, he was "approbated to preach" by the
Middlesex Association of Ministers. A winter at the North at this time
threatened to prove fatal, so he was sent South by his helpful kinsman,
Rev. Samuel Ripley, and passed the winter in Florida with benefit,
working northward in the spring, preaching in the cities, and resumed
his studies at Cambridge.
In 1829, Emerson was called by the Second or Old North Church in Boston
to become the associate pastor with Rev. Henry Ware, and soon after,
because of his senior's delicate health, was called on to assume the
full duty. Theological dogmas, such as the Unitarian Church of
Channing's day accepted, did not appeal to Emerson, nor did the
supernatural in religion in its ordinary acceptation interest him. The
omnipresence of spirit, the dignity of man, the daily miracle of the
universe, were what he taught, and while the older members of the
congregation may have been disquieted that he did not dwell on revealed
religion, his words reached the young people, stirred thought, and
awakened aspiration. At this time he lived with his mother and his young
wife (Ellen Tucker) in Chardon Street. For three years he ministered to
his people in Boston. Then having felt the shock of being obliged to
conform to church usage, as stated prayer when the spirit did not move,
and especially the administration of the Communion, he honestly laid his
troubles before his people, and proposed to them some modification of
this rite. While they considered his proposition, Emerson went into the
White Mountains to weigh his conflicting duties to his church and
conscience. He came down, bravely to meet the refusal of the church to
change the rite, and in a sermon preached in September, 1832, explained
his objections to it, and, because he could not honestly administer it,
resigned.
He parted from his people in all kindness, but the wrench was felt. His
wife had recently died, he was ill himself, his life seemed to others
broken up. But meantime voices from far away had reached him. He sailed
for Europe, landed in Italy, saw cities, and art, and men, but would not
stay long. Of the dead, Michael Angelo appealed chiefly to him there;
Landor among the living. He soon passed northward, making little stay in
Paris, but sought out Carlyle, then hardly recognized, and living in the
lonely hills of the Scottish Border. There began a friendship which had
great influence on the lives of both men, and lasted through life. He
also visited Wordsworth. But the new life before him called him home.
He landed at Boston within the year in good health and hope, and joined
his mother and youngest brother Charles in Newton. Frequent invitations
to preach still came, and were accepted, and he even was sounded as to
succeeding Dr. Dewey in the church at New Bedford; but, as he stipulated
for freedom from ceremonial, this came to nothing.
In the autumn of 1834 he moved to Concord, living with his kinsman, Dr.
Ripley, at the Manse, but soon bought house and land on the Boston Road,
on the edge of the village towards Walden woods. Thither, in the autumn,
he brought his wife. Miss Lidian Jackson, of Plymouth, and this was
their home during the rest of their lives.
The new life to which he had been called opened pleasantly and increased
in happiness and opportunity, except for the sadness of bereavements,
for, in the first few years, his brilliant brothers Edward and Charles
died, and soon afterward Waldo, his firstborn son, and later his mother.
Emerson had left traditional religion, the city, the Old World, behind,
and now went to Nature as his teacher, his inspiration. His first book,
"Nature," which he was meditating while in Europe, was finished here,
and published in 1836. His practice during all his life in Concord was
to go alone to the woods almost daily, sometimes to wait there for
hours, and, when thus attuned, to receive the message to which he was to
give voice. Though it might be colored by him in transmission, he held
that the light was universal.
"Ever the words of the Gods resound,
But the porches of man's ear
Seldom in this low life's round
Are unsealed that he may hear."
But he resorted, also, to the books of those who had handed down the
oracles truly, and was quick to find the message destined for him. Men,
too, he studied eagerly, the humblest and the highest, regretting always
that the brand of the scholar on him often silenced the men of shop and
office where he came. He was everywhere a learner, expecting light from
the youngest and least educated visitor. The thoughts combined with the
flower of his reading were gradually grouped into lectures, and his main
occupation through life was reading these to who would hear, at first in
courses in Boston, but later all over the country, for the Lyceum sprang
up in New England in these years in every town, and spread westward to
the new settlements even beyond the Mississippi. His winters were spent
in these rough, but to him interesting journeys, for he loved to watch
the growth of the Republic in which he had faith, and his summers were
spent in study and writing. These lectures were later severely pruned
and revised, and the best of them gathered into seven volumes of essays
under different names between 1841 and 1876. The courses in Boston,
which at first were given in the Masonic Temple, were always well
attended by earnest and thoughtful people. The young, whether in years
or in spirit, were always and to the end his audience of the spoken or
written word. The freedom of the Lyceum platform pleased Emerson. He
found that people would hear on Wednesday with approval and
unsuspectingly doctrines from which on Sunday they felt officially
obliged to dissent.
Mr. Lowell, in his essays, has spoken of these early lectures and what
they were worth to him and others suffering from the generous discontent
of youth with things as they were. Emerson used to say, "My strength and
my doom is to be solitary;" but to a retired scholar a wholesome offset
to this was the travelling and lecturing in cities and in raw frontier
towns, bringing him into touch with the people, and this he knew and
valued.
In 1837 Emerson gave the Phi Beta Kappa oration in Cambridge, The
American Scholar, which increased his growing reputation, but the
following year his Address to the Senior Class at the Divinity School
brought out, even from the friendly Unitarians, severe strictures and
warnings against its dangerous doctrines. Of this heresy Emerson said:
"I deny personality to God because it is too little, not too much." He
really strove to elevate the idea of God. Yet those who were pained or
shocked by his teachings respected Emerson. His lectures were still in
demand; he was often asked to speak by literary societies at orthodox
colleges. He preached regularly at East Lexington until 1838, but
thereafter withdrew from the ministerial office. At this time the
progressive and spiritually minded young people used to meet for
discussion and help in Boston, among them George Ripley, Cyrus Bartol,
James Freeman Clarke, Alcott, Dr. Hedge, Margaret Fuller, and Elizabeth
Peabody. Perhaps from this gathering of friends, which Emerson attended,
came what is called the Transcendental Movement, two results of which
were the Brook Farm Community and the Dial magazine, in which last
Emerson took great interest, and was for the time an editor. Many of
these friends were frequent visitors in Concord. Alcott moved thither
after the breaking up of his school. Hawthorne also came to dwell there.
Henry Thoreau, a Concord youth, greatly interested Emerson; indeed,
became for a year or two a valued inmate of his home, and helped and
instructed him in the labors of the garden and little farm, which
gradually grew to ten acres, the chief interest of which for the owner
was his trees, which he loved and tended. Emerson helped introduce his
countrymen to the teachings of Carlyle, and edited his works here, where
they found more readers than at home.
In 1847 Emerson was invited to read lectures in England, and remained
abroad a year, visiting France also in her troublous times. English
Traits was a result. Just before this journey he had collected and
published his poems. A later volume, called May Day, followed in 1867.
He had written verses from childhood, and to the purified expression of
poetry he, through life, eagerly aspired. He said, "I like my poems
best because it is not I who write them." In 1866 the degree of Doctor
of Laws was conferred on him by Harvard University, and he was chosen an
Overseer. In 1867 he again gave the Phi Beta Kappa oration, and in 1870
and 1871 gave courses in Philosophy in the University Lectures at
Cambridge.
Emerson was not merely a man of letters. He recognized and did the
private and public duties of the hour. He exercised a wide hospitality
to souls as well as bodies. Eager youths came to him for rules, and went
away with light. Reformers, wise and unwise, came to him, and were
kindly received. They were often disappointed that they could not
harness him to their partial and transient scheme. He said, My reforms
include theirs: I must go my way; help people by my strength, not by my
weakness. But if a storm threatened, he felt bound to appear and show
his colors. Against the crying evils of his time he worked bravely in
his own way. He wrote to President Van Buren against the wrong done to
the Cherokees, dared speak against the idolized Webster, when he
deserted the cause of Freedom, constantly spoke of the iniquity of
slavery, aided with speech and money the Free State cause in Kansas,
was at Phillips's side at the antislavery meeting in 1861 broken up by
the Boston mob, urged emancipation during the war.
He enjoyed his Concord home and neighbors, served on the school
committee for years, did much for the Lyceum, and spoke on the town's
great occasions. He went to all town-meetings, oftener to listen and
admire than to speak, and always took pleasure and pride in the people.
In return he was respected and loved by them.
Emerson's house was destroyed by fire in 1872, and the incident exposure
and fatigue did him harm. His many friends insisted on rebuilding his
house and sending him abroad to get well. He went up the Nile, and
revisited England, finding old and new friends, and, on his return, was
welcomed and escorted home by the people of Concord. After this time he
was unable to write. His old age was quiet and happy among his family
and friends. He died in April, 1882.
EDWARD W. EMERSON.
January, 1899.
* * * * *
I
POEMS
* * * * *
GOOD-BYE
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world! I'm going home.
Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.
I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,--
secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?
EACH AND ALL
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, 'I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:'--
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky.
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;--
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
THE PROBLEM
I like a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowl鑔 churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature rolled
The burdens of the Bible old;
The litanies of nations came,
Like the volcano's tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below,--
The canticles of love and woe:
The hand that rounded Peter's dome
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome
Wrought in a sad sincerity;
Himself from God he could not free;
He builded better than he knew;--
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell?
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
As the best gem upon her zone,
And Morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,
As on its friends, with kindred eye;
For out of Thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air;
And Nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast soul that o'er him planned;
And the same power that reared the shrine
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Ever the fiery Pentecost
Girds with one flame the countless host,
Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told,
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the fathers wise,--
The Book itself before me lies,
Old _Chrysostom_, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger _Golden Lips_ or mines,
Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowl鑔 portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
TO RHEA
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes,
Not with flatteries, but truths,
Which tarnish not, but purify
To light which dims the morning's eye.
I have come from the spring-woods,
From the fragrant solitudes;--
Listen what the poplar-tree
And murmuring waters counselled me.
If with love thy heart has burned;
If thy love is unreturned;
Hide thy grief within thy breast,
Though it tear thee unexpressed;
For when love has once departed
From the eyes of the false-hearted,
And one by one has torn off quite
The bandages of purple light;
Though thou wert the loveliest
Form the soul had ever dressed,
Thou shalt seem, in each reply,
A vixen to his altered eye;
Thy softest pleadings seem too bold,
Thy praying lute will seem to scold;
Though thou kept the straightest road,
Yet thou errest far and broad.
But thou shalt do as do the gods
In their cloudless periods;
For of this lore be thou sure,--
Though thou forget, the gods, secure,
Forget never their command,
But make the statute of this land.
As they lead, so follow all,
Ever have done, ever shall.
Warning to the blind and deaf,
'T is written on the iron leaf,
_Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup_
_Loveth downward, and not up;_
He who loves, of gods or men,
Shall not by the same be loved again;
His sweetheart's idolatry
Falls, in turn, a new degree.
When a god is once beguiled
By beauty of a mortal child
And by her radiant youth delighted,
He is not fooled, but warily knoweth
His love shall never be requited.
And thus the wise Immortal doeth,--
'T is his study and delight
To bless that creature day and night;
From all evils to defend her;
In her lap to pour all splendor;
To ransack earth for riches rare,
And fetch her stars to deck her hair:
He mixes music with her thoughts,
And saddens her with heavenly doubts:
All grace, all good his great heart knows,
Profuse in love, the king bestows,
Saying, 'Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air!
This monument of my despair
Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair.
Not for a private good,
But I, from my beatitude,
Albeit scorned as none was scorned,
Adorn her as was none adorned.
I make this maiden an ensample
To Nature, through her kingdoms ample,
Whereby to model newer races,
Statelier forms and fairer faces;
To carry man to new degrees
Of power and of comeliness.
These presents be the hostages
Which I pawn for my release.
See to thyself, O Universe!
Thou art better, and not worse.'--
And the god, having given all,
Is freed forever from his thrall.
THE VISIT
Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
Devastator of the day!
Know, each substance and relation,
Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater,--
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,--
Say, what other metre is it
Than the meeting of the eyes?
Nature poureth into nature
Through the channels of that feature,
Riding on the ray of sight,
Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,
Or for service, or delight,
Hearts to hearts their meaning show,
Sum their long experience,
And import intelligence.
Single look has drained the breast;
Single moment years confessed.
The duration of a glance
Is the term of convenance,
And, though thy rede be church or state,
Frugal multiples of that.
Speeding Saturn cannot halt;
Linger,--thou shalt rue the fault:
If Love his moment overstay,
Hatred's swift repulsions play.
URIEL
It fell in the ancient periods
Which the brooding soul surveys,
Or ever the wild Time coined itself
Into calendar months and days.
This was the lapse of Uriel,
Which in Paradise befell.
Once, among the Pleiads walking,
Seyd overheard the young gods talking;
And the treason, too long pent,
To his ears was evident.
The young deities discussed
Laws of form, and metre just,
Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,
What subsisteth, and what seems.
One, with low tones that decide,
And doubt and reverend use defied,
With a look that solved the sphere,
And stirred the devils everywhere,
Gave his sentiment divine
Against the being of a line.
'Line in nature is not found;
Unit and universe are round;
In vain produced, all rays return;
Evil will bless, and ice will burn.'
As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,
A shudder ran around the sky;
The stern old war-gods shook their heads,
The seraphs frowned from myrtle-beds;
Seemed to the holy festival
The rash word boded ill to all;
The balance-beam of Fate was bent;
The bounds of good and ill were rent;
Strong Hades could not keep his own,
But all slid to confusion.
A sad self-knowledge, withering, fell
On the beauty of Uriel;
In heaven once eminent, the god
Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;
Whether doomed to long gyration
In the sea of generation,
Or by knowledge grown too bright
To hit the nerve of feebler sight.
Straightway, a forgetting wind
Stole over the celestial kind,
And their lips the secret kept,
If in ashes the fire-seed slept.
But now and then, truth-speaking things
Shamed the angels' veiling wings;
And, shrilling from the solar course,
Or from fruit of chemic force,
Procession of a soul in matter,
Or the speeding change of water,
Or out of the good of evil born,
Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,
And a blush tinged the upper sky,
And the gods shook, they knew not why.
THE WORLD-SOUL
Thanks to the morning light,
Thanks to the foaming sea,
To the uplands of New Hampshire,
To the green-haired forest free;
Thanks to each man of courage,
To the maids of holy mind,
To the boy with his games undaunted
Who never looks behind.
Cities of proud hotels,
Houses of rich and great,
Vice nestles in your chambers,
Beneath your roofs of slate.
It cannot conquer folly,--
Time-and-space-conquering steam,--
And the light-outspeeding telegraph
Bears nothing on its beam.
The politics are base;
The letters do not cheer;
And 'tis far in the deeps of history,
The voice that speaketh clear.
Trade and the streets ensnare us,
Our bodies are weak and worn;
We plot and corrupt each other,
And we despoil the unborn.
Yet there in the parlor sits
Some figure of noble guise,--
Our angel, in a stranger's form,
Or woman's pleading eyes;
Or only a flashing sunbeam
In at the window-pane;
Or Music pours on mortals
Its beautiful disdain.
The inevitable morning
Finds them who in cellars be;
And be sure the all-loving Nature
Will smile in a factory.
Yon ridge of purple landscape,
Yon sky between the walls,
Hold all the hidden wonders
In scanty intervals.
Alas! the Sprite that haunts us
Deceives our rash desire;
It whispers of the glorious gods,
And leaves us in the mire.
We cannot learn the cipher
That's writ upon our cell;
Stars taunt us by a mystery
Which we could never spell.
If but one hero knew it,
The world would blush in flame;
The sage, till he hit the secret,
Would hang his head for shame.
Our brothers have not read it,
Not one has found the key;
And henceforth we are comforted,--
We are but such as they.
Still, still the secret presses;
The nearing clouds draw down;
The crimson morning flames into
The fopperies of the town.
Within, without the idle earth,
Stars weave eternal rings;
The sun himself shines heartily,
And shares the joy he brings.
And what if Trade sow cities
Like shells along the shore,
And thatch with towns the prairie broad
With railways ironed o'er?--
They are but sailing foam-bells
Along Thought's causing stream,
And take their shape and sun-color
From him that sends the dream.
For Destiny never swerves
Nor yields to men the helm;
He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,
Throughout the solid realm.
The patient Daemon sits,
With roses and a shroud;
He has his way, and deals his gifts,--
But ours is not allowed.
He is no churl nor trifler,
And his viceroy is none,--
Love-without-weakness,--
Of Genius sire and son.
And his will is not thwarted;
The seeds of land and sea
Are the atoms of his body bright,
And his behest obey.
He serveth the servant,
The brave he loves amain;
He kills the cripple and the sick,
And straight begins again;
For gods delight in gods,
And thrust the weak aside;
To him who scorns their charities
Their arms fly open wide.
When the old world is sterile
And the ages are effete,
He will from wrecks and sediment
The fairer world complete.
He forbids to despair;
His cheeks mantle with mirth;
And the unimagined good of men
Is yeaning at the birth.
Spring still makes spring in the mind
When sixty years are told;
Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
And we are never old;
Over the winter glaciers
I see the summer glow,
And through the wild-piled snow-drift
The warm rosebuds below.
THE SPHINX
The Sphinx is drowsy,
Her wings are furled:
Her ear is heavy,
She broods on the world.
"Who'll tell me my secret,
The ages have kept?--
I awaited the seer
While they slumbered and slept:--
"The fate of the man-child,
The meaning of man;
Known fruit of the unknown;
Daedalian plan;
Out of sleeping a waking,
Out of waking a sleep;
Life death overtaking;
Deep underneath deep?
"Erect as a sunbeam,
Upspringeth the palm;
The elephant browses,
Undaunted and calm;
In beautiful motion
The thrush plies his wings;
Kind leaves of his covert,
Your silence he sings.
"The waves, unasham鑔,
In difference sweet,
Play glad with the breezes,
Old playfellows meet;
The journeying atoms,
Primordial wholes,
Firmly draw, firmly drive,
By their animate poles.
"Sea, earth, air, sound, silence.
Plant, quadruped, bird,
By one music enchanted,
One deity stirred,--
Each the other adorning,
Accompany still;
Night veileth the morning,
The vapor the hill.
"The babe by its mother
Lies bath鑔 in joy;
Glide its hours uncounted,--
The sun is its toy;
Shines the peace of all being,
Without cloud, in its eyes;
And the sum of the world
In soft miniature lies.
"But man crouches and blushes,
Absconds and conceals;
He creepeth and peepeth,
He palters and steals;
Infirm, melancholy,
Jealous glancing around,
An oaf, an accomplice,
He poisons the ground.
"Out spoke the great mother,
Beholding his fear;--
At the sound of her accents
Cold shuddered the sphere:--
'Who has drugged my boy's cup?
Who has mixed my boy's bread?
Who, with sadness and madness,
Has turned my child's head?'"
I heard a poet answer
Aloud and cheerfully,
'Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges
Are pleasant songs to me.
Deep love lieth under
These pictures of time;
They fade in the light of
Their meaning sublime.
"The fiend that man harries
Is love of the Best;
Yawns the pit of the Dragon,
Lit by rays from the Blest.
The Lethe of Nature
Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the perfect,
Which his eyes seek in vain.
"To vision profounder,
Man's spirit must dive;
His aye-rolling orb
At no goal will arrive;
The heavens that now draw him
With sweetness untold,
Once found,--for new heavens
He spurneth the old.
"Pride ruined the angels,
Their shame them restores;
Lurks the joy that is sweetest
In stings of remorse.
Have I a lover
Who is noble and free?--
I would he were nobler
Than to love me.
"Eterne alternation
Now follows, now flies;
And under pain, pleasure,--
Under pleasure, pain lies.
Love works at the centre,
Heart-heaving alway;
Forth speed the strong pulses
To the borders of day.
"Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits;
Thy sight is growing blear;
Rue, myrrh and cummin for the Sphinx,
Her muddy eyes to clear!"
The old Sphinx bit her thick lip,--
Said, "Who taught thee me to name?
I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow;
Of thine eye I am eyebeam.
"Thou art the unanswered question;
Couldst see thy proper eye,
Alway it asketh, asketh;
And each answer is a lie.
So take thy quest through nature,
It through thousand natures ply;
Ask on, thou clothed eternity;
Time is the false reply."
Uprose the merry Sphinx,
And crouched no more in stone;
She melted into purple cloud,
She silvered in the moon;
She spired into a yellow flame;
She flowered in blossoms red;
She flowed into a foaming wave:
She stood Monadnoc's head.
Thorough a thousand voices
Spoke the universal dame;
"Who telleth one of my meanings
Is master of all I am."
ALPHONSO OF CASTILE
I, Alphonso, live and learn,
Seeing Nature go astern.
Things deteriorate in kind;
Lemons run to leaves and rind;
Meagre crop of figs and limes;
Shorter days and harder times.
Flowering April cools and dies
In the insufficient skies.
Imps, at high midsummer, blot
Half the sun's disk with a spot;
'Twill not now avail to tan
Orange cheek or skin of man.
Roses bleach, the goats are dry,
Lisbon quakes, the people cry.
Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools,
Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,
Are no brothers of my blood;--
They discredit Adamhood.
Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,
O'er your ramparts as ye lean,
The general debility;
Of genius the sterility;
Mighty projects countermanded;
Rash ambition, brokenhanded;
Puny man and scentless rose
Tormenting Pan to double the dose.
Rebuild or ruin: either fill
Of vital force the wasted rill,
Or tumble all again in heap
To weltering Chaos and to sleep.
Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry,
Which fed the veins of earth and sky,
That mortals miss the loyal heats,
Which drove them erst to social feats;
Now, to a savage selfness grown,
Think nature barely serves for one;
With science poorly mask their hurt;
And vex the gods with question pert,
Immensely curious whether you
Still are rulers, or Mildew?
Masters, I'm in pain with you;
Masters, I'll be plain with you;
In my palace of Castile,
I, a king, for kings can feel.
There my thoughts the matter roll,
And solve and oft resolve the whole.
And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,
Ye shall not fail for sound advice.
Before ye want a drop of rain,
Hear the sentiment of Spain.
You have tried famine: no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty.
I have thought it thoroughly over,--
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety.
Hear you, then, celestial fellows!
Fits not to be overzealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump.
Men and gods are too extense;
Could you slacken and condense?
Your rank overgrowths reduce
Till your kinds abound with juice?
Earth, crowded, cries, 'Too many men!'
My counsel is, kill nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal.
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in one hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears.
There, growing slowly old at ease
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage.
So shall ye have a man of the sphere
Fit to grace the solar year.
MITHRIDATES
I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes;--
From all natures, sharp and slimy,
Salt and basalt, wild and tame:
Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
Bird, and reptile, be my game.
Ivy for my fillet band;
Blinding dog-wood in my hand;
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me;
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampyre-fanned, when I carouse.
Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry!
O all you virtues, methods, mights,
Means, appliances, delights,
Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,
Smug routine, and things allowed,
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye kill me!
TO J.W.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable Time
And Nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament,
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried:
Go, get them where he earned them when alive;
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
In critic peep or cynic bark,
Quarrel or reprimand:
'T will soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark!
DESTINY
That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must add the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose.
There's a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea.
Toil could never compass it;
Art its height could never hit;
It came never out of wit;
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn.
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it? What the soldier's mail,
Unless he conquer and prevail?
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another's gift?
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight:
When thou lookest on his face,
Thy heart saith, 'Brother, go thy ways!
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest,
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden;'
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten.
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad his shoulders are and strong;
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening and young.
I hold it of little matter
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,
But whether it dazzle me with light.
I care not how you are dressed,
In coarsest weeds or in the best;
Nor whether your name is base or brave:
Nor for the fashion of your behavior;
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me
And dress up Nature in your favor.
One thing is forever good;
That one thing is Success,--
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood.
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.
GUY
Mortal mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets nor rings.
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover;
In strange junctures, felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
That no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand.
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues.
Fearless Guy had never foes,
He did their weapons decompose.
Aimed at him, the blushing blade
Healed as fast the wounds it made.
If on the foeman fell his gaze,
Him it would straightway blind or craze,
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye 't was seeking found.
It seemed his Genius discreet
Worked on the Maker's own receipt,
And made each tide and element
Stewards of stipend and of rent;
So that the common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.
He had so sped his wise affairs
That he caught Nature in his snares.
Early or late, the falling rain
Arrived in time to swell his grain;
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind:
The siroc found it on its way,
To speed his sails, to dry his hay;
And the world's sun seemed to rise
To drudge all day for Guy the wise.
In his rich nurseries, timely skill
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum-trees vegetable gold;
And all the hours of the year
With their own harvest honored were.
There was no frost but welcome came,
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.
Belonged to wind and world the toil
And venture, and to Guy the oil.
HAMATREYA
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Possessed the land which rendered to their toil
Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.
Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,
Saying, ''Tis mine, my children's and my name's.
How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!
How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!
I fancy these pure waters and the flags
Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:
And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.
Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
And sighed for all that bounded their domain;
'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
The land is well,--lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'
Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
Hear what the Earth says:--
EARTH-SONG
'Mine and yours;
Mine, not yours.
Earth endures;
Stars abide--
Shine down in the old sea;
Old are the shores;
But where are old men?
I who have seen much,
Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
Forevermore.
'Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
But the heritors?--
Fled like the flood's foam.
The lawyer, and the laws,
And the kingdom,
Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone,
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
THE RHODORA:
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool.
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
THE HUMBLE-BEE
Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,--
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
BERRYING
'May be true what I had heard,--
Earth's a howling wilderness,
Truculent with fraud and force,'
Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the river-side.
Caught among the blackberry vines,
Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,
Pleasant fancies overtook me.
I said, 'What influence me preferred,
Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?'
The vines replied, 'And didst thou deem
No wisdom from our berries went?'
THE SNOW-STORM
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
WOODNOTES I
1
When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
Who speeds to the woodland walks?
To birds and trees who talks?
Caesar of his leafy Rome,
There the poet is at home.
He goes to the river-side,--
Not hook nor line hath he;
He stands in the meadows wide,--
Nor gun nor scythe to see.
Sure some god his eye enchants:
What he knows nobody wants.
In the wood he travels glad,
Without better fortune had,
Melancholy without bad.
Knowledge this man prizes best
Seems fantastic to the rest:
Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,
Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds,
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet's petal,
Why Nature loves the number five,
And why the star-form she repeats:
Lover of all things alive,
Wonderer at all he meets,
Wonderer chiefly at himself,
Who can tell him what he is?
Or how meet in human elf
Coming and past eternities?
2
And such I knew, a forest seer,
A minstrel of the natural year,
Foreteller of the vernal ides,
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,
A lover true, who knew by heart
Each joy the mountain dales impart;
It seemed that Nature could not raise
A plant in any secret place,
In quaking bog, on snowy hill,
Beneath the grass that shades the rill,
Under the snow, between the rocks,
In damp fields known to bird and fox.
But he would come in the very hour
It opened in its virgin bower,
As if a sunbeam showed the place,
And tell its long-descended race.
It seemed as if the breezes brought him,
It seemed as if the sparrows taught him;
As if by secret sight he knew
Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.
Many haps fall in the field
Seldom seen by wishful eyes,
But all her shows did Nature yield,
To please and win this pilgrim wise.
He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrushes' broods;
And the shy hawk did wait for him;
What others did at distance hear,
And guessed within the thicket's gloom,
Was shown to this philosopher,
And at his bidding seemed to come.
3
In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang
Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;
He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon
The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;
Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,
And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.
He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,
The slight Linnaea hang its twin-born heads,
And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,
Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.
He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,
With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls,--
One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,
Declares the close of its green century.
Low lies the plant to whose creation went
Sweet influence from every element;
Whose living towers the years conspired to build,
Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.
Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,
He roamed, content alike with man and beast.
Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;
There the red morning touched him with its light.
Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,
So long he roved at will the boundless shade.
The timid it concerns to ask their way,
And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray,
To make no step until the event is known,
And ills to come as evils past bemoan.
Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps
To spy what danger on his pathway creeps;
Go where he will, the wise man is at home,
His hearth the earth,--his hall the azure dome;
Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road
By God's own light illumined and foreshowed.
4
'T was one of the charm鑔 days
When the genius of God doth flow;
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow;
It may blow north, it still is warm;
Or south, it still is clear;
Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;
Or west, no thunder fear.
The musing peasant, lowly great,
Beside the forest water sate;
The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown
Composed the network of his throne;
The wide lake, edged with sand and grass,
Was burnished to a floor of glass,
Painted with shadows green and proud
Of the tree and of the cloud.
He was the heart of all the scene;
On him the sun looked more serene;
To hill and cloud his face was known,--
It seemed the likeness of their own;
They knew by secret sympathy
The public child of earth and sky.
'You ask,' he said, 'what guide
Me through trackless thickets led,
Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide.
I found the water's bed.
The watercourses were my guide;
I travelled grateful by their side,
Or through their channel dry;
They led me through the thicket damp,
Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp,
Through beds of granite cut my road,
And their resistless friendship showed.
The falling waters led me,
The foodful waters fed me,
And brought me to the lowest land,
Unerring to the ocean sand.
The moss upon the forest bark
Was pole-star when the night was dark;
The purple berries in the wood
Supplied me necessary food;
For Nature ever faithful is
To such as trust her faithfulness.
When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,
When sea and land refuse to feed me,
'T will be time enough to die;
Then will yet my mother yield
A pillow in her greenest field,
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
The clay of their departed lover.'
WOODNOTES II
_As sunbeams stream through liberal space_
_And nothing jostle or displace,_
_So waved the pine-tree through my thought_
_And fanned the dreams it never brought._
'Whether is better, the gift or the donor?
Come to me,'
Quoth the pine-tree,
'I am the giver of honor.
My garden is the cloven rock,
And my manure the snow;
And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock,
In summer's scorching glow.
He is great who can live by me:
The rough and bearded forester
Is better than the lord;
God fills the script and canister,
Sin piles the loaded board.
The lord is the peasant that was,
The peasant the lord that shall be;
The lord is hay, the peasant grass,
One dry, and one the living tree.
Who liveth by the ragged pine
Foundeth a heroic line;
Who liveth in the palace hall
Waneth fast and spendeth all.
He goes to my savage haunts,
With his chariot and his care;
My twilight realm he disenchants,
And finds his prison there.
'What prizes the town and the tower?
Only what the pine-tree yields;
Sinew that subdued the fields;
The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods
Chants his hymn to hills and floods,
Whom the city's poisoning spleen
Made not pale, or fat, or lean;
Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,
Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth,
In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,
In whose feet the lion rusheth,
Iron arms, and iron mould,
That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.
I give my rafters to his boat,
My billets to his boiler's throat,
And I will swim the ancient sea
To float my child to victory,
And grant to dwellers with the pine
Dominion o'er the palm and vine.
Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,
Unnerves his strength, invites his end.
Cut a bough from my parent stem,
And dip it in thy porcelain vase;
A little while each russet gem
Will swell and rise with wonted grace;
But when it seeks enlarged supplies,
The orphan of the forest dies.
Whoso walks in solitude
And inhabiteth the wood,
Choosing light, wave, rock and bird,
Before the money-loving herd,
Into that forester shall pass,
From these companions, power and grace.
Clean shall he be, without, within,
From the old adhering sin,
All ill dissolving in the light
Of his triumphant piercing sight:
Not vain, sour, nor frivolous;
Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;
Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,
And of all other men desired.
On him the light of star and moon
Shall fall with purer radiance down;
All constellations of the sky
Shed their virtue through his eye.
Him Nature giveth for defence
His formidable innocence;
The mounting sap, the shells, the sea,
All spheres, all stones, his helpers be;
He shall meet the speeding year,
Without wailing, without fear;
He shall be happy in his love,
Like to like shall joyful prove;
He shall be happy whilst he wooes,
Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse.
But if with gold she bind her hair,
And deck her breast with diamond,
Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear,
Though thou lie alone on the ground.
'Heed the old oracles,
Ponder my spells;
Song wakes in my pinnacles
When the wind swells.
Soundeth the prophetic wind,
The shadows shake on the rock behind,
And the countless leaves of the pine are strings
Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings.
Hearken! Hearken!
If thou wouldst know the mystic song
Chanted when the sphere was young.
Aloft, abroad, the paean swells;
O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells?
O wise man! hear'st thou the least part?
'Tis the chronicle of art.
To the open ear it sings
Sweet the genesis of things,
Of tendency through endless ages,
Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages,
Of rounded worlds, of space and time,
Of the old flood's subsiding slime,
Of chemic matter, force and form,
Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm:
The rushing metamorphosis
Dissolving all that fixture is,
Melts things that be to things that seem,
And solid nature to a dream.
O, listen to the undersong,
The ever old, the ever young;
And, far within those cadent pauses,
The chorus of the ancient Causes!
Delights the dreadful Destiny
To fling his voice into the tree,
And shock thy weak ear with a note
Breathed from the everlasting throat.
In music he repeats the pang
Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang.
O mortal! thy ears are stones;
These echoes are laden with tones
Which only the pure can hear;
Thou canst not catch what they recite
Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right,
Of man to come, of human life,
Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.'
Once again the pine-tree sung:--
'Speak not thy speech my boughs among:
Put off thy years, wash in the breeze;
My hours are peaceful centuries.
Talk no more with feeble tongue;
No more the fool of space and time,
Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.
Only thy Americans
Can read thy line, can meet thy glance,
But the runes that I rehearse
Understands the universe;
The least breath my boughs which tossed
Brings again the Pentecost;
To every soul resounding clear
In a voice of solemn cheer,--
"Am I not thine? Are not these thine?"
And they reply, "Forever mine!"
My branches speak Italian,
English, German, Basque, Castilian,
Mountain speech to Highlanders,
Ocean tongues to islanders,
To Fin and Lap and swart Malay,
To each his bosom-secret say.
'Come learn with me the fatal song
Which knits the world in music strong,
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,
Of things with things, of times with times,
Primal chimes of sun and shade,
Of sound and echo, man and maid,
The land reflected in the flood,
Body with shadow still pursued.
For Nature beats in perfect tune,
And rounds with rhyme her every rune,
Whether she work in land or sea,
Or hide underground her alchemy.
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,
Or dip thy paddle in the lake,
But it carves the bow of beauty there,
And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
The wood is wiser far than thou;
The wood and wave each other know
Not unrelated, unaffied,
But to each thought and thing allied,
Is perfect Nature's every part,
Rooted in the mighty Heart,
But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed,
Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed,
Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded?
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded?
Who thee divorced, deceived and left?
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft,
And torn the ensigns from thy brow,
And sunk the immortal eye so low?
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender,
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender
For royal man;--they thee confess
An exile from the wilderness,--
The hills where health with health agrees,
And the wise soul expels disease.
Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign
By which thy hurt thou may'st divine.
When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff,
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff,
To thee the horizon shall express
But emptiness on emptiness;
There lives no man of Nature's worth
In the circle of the earth;
And to thine eye the vast skies fall,
Dire and satirical,
On clucking hens and prating fools,
On thieves, on drudges and on dolls.
And thou shalt say to the Most High,
"Godhead! all this astronomy,
And fate and practice and invention,
Strong art and beautiful pretension,
This radiant pomp of sun and star,
Throes that were, and worlds that are,
Behold! were in vain and in vain;--
It cannot be,--I will look again.
Surely now will the curtain rise,
And earth's fit tenant me surprise;--
But the curtain doth _not_ rise,
And Nature has miscarried wholly
Into failure, into folly."
'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy,
Blessed Nature so to see.
Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,
And heal the hurts which sin has made.
I see thee in the crowd alone;
I will be thy companion.
Quit thy friends as the dead in doom,
And build to them a final tomb;
Let the starred shade that nightly falls
Still celebrate their funerals,
And the bell of beetle and of bee
Knell their melodious memory.
Behind thee leave thy merchandise,
Thy churches and thy charities;
And leave thy peacock wit behind;
Enough for thee the primal mind
That flows in streams, that breathes in wind:
Leave all thy pedant lore apart;
God hid the whole world in thy heart.
Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns,
Gives all to them who all renounce.
The rain comes when the wind calls;
The river knows the way to the sea;
Without a pilot it runs and falls,
Blessing all lands with its charity;
The sea tosses and foams to find
Its way up to the cloud and wind;
The shadow sits close to the flying ball;
The date fails not on the palm-tree tall;
And thou,--go burn thy wormy pages,--
Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages.
Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain
To find what bird had piped the strain:--
Seek not, and the little eremite
Flies gayly forth and sings in sight.
'Hearken once more!
I will tell thee the mundane lore.
Older am I than thy numbers wot,
Change I may, but I pass not.
Hitherto all things fast abide,
And anchored in the tempest ride.
Trenchant time behoves to hurry
All to yean and all to bury:
All the forms are fugitive,
But the substances survive.
Ever fresh the broad creation,
A divine improvisation,
From the heart of God proceeds,
A single will, a million deeds.
Once slept the world an egg of stone,
And pulse, and sound, and light was none;
And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion
And the vast mass became vast ocean.
Onward and on, the eternal Pan,
Who layeth the world's incessant plan,
Halteth never in one shape,
But forever doth escape,
Like wave or flame, into new forms
Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms.
I, that to-day am a pine,
Yesterday was a bundle of grass.
He is free and libertine,
Pouring of his power the wine
To every age, to every race;
Unto every race and age
He emptieth the beverage;
Unto each, and unto all,
Maker and original.
The world is the ring of his spells,
And the play of his miracles.
As he giveth to all to drink,
Thus or thus they are and think.
With one drop sheds form and feature;
With the next a special nature;
The third adds heat's indulgent spark;
The fourth gives light which eats the dark;
Into the fifth himself he flings,
And conscious Law is King of kings.
As the bee through the garden ranges,
From world to world the godhead changes;
As the sheep go feeding in the waste,
From form to form He maketh haste;
This vault which glows immense with light
Is the inn where he lodges for a night.
What recks such Traveller if the bowers
Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers
A bunch of fragrant lilies be,
Or the stars of eternity?
Alike to him the better, the worse,--
The glowing angel, the outcast corse.
Thou metest him by centuries,
And lo! he passes like the breeze;
Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy,
He hides in pure transparency;
Thou askest in fountains and in fires,
He is the essence that inquires.
He is the axis of the star;
He is the sparkle of the spar;
He is the heart of every creature;
He is the meaning of each feature;
And his mind is the sky.
Than all it holds more deep, more high.'
MONADNOC
Thousand minstrels woke within me,
'Our music's in the hills;'--
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
'Up!--If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beech and pine,
High over the river intervals,
Above the ploughman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls!
Up! where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!
Let not unto the stones the Day
Her lily and rose, her sea and land display.
Read the celestial sign!
Lo! the south answers to the north;
Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;
A greater spirit bids thee forth
Than the gray dreams which thee detain.
Mark how the climbing Oreads
Beckon thee to their arcades;
Youth, for a moment free as they,
Teach thy feet to feel the ground,
Ere yet arrives the wintry day
When Time thy feet has bound.
Take the bounty of thy birth,
Taste the lordship of the earth.'
I heard, and I obeyed,--
Assured that he who made the claim,
Well known, but loving not a name,
Was not to be gainsaid.
Ere yet the summoning voice was still,
I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.
From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed
Like ample banner flung abroad
To all the dwellers in the plains
Round about, a hundred miles,
With salutation to the sea and to the bordering isles.
In his own loom's garment dressed,
By his proper bounty blessed,
Fast abides this constant giver,
Pouring many a cheerful river;
To far eyes, an aerial isle
Unploughed, which finer spirits pile,
Which morn and crimson evening paint
For bard, for lover and for saint;
An eyemark and the country's core,
Inspirer, prophet evermore;
Pillar which God aloft had set
So that men might it not forget;
It should be their life's ornament,
And mix itself with each event;
Gauge and calendar and dial,
Weatherglass and chemic phial,
Garden of berries, perch of birds,
Pasture of pool-haunting herds,
Graced by each change of sum untold,
Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.
The Titan heeds his sky-affairs,
Rich rents and wide alliance shares;
Mysteries of color daily laid
By morn and eve in light and shade;
And sweet varieties of chance,
And the mystic seasons' dance;
And thief-like step of liberal hours
Thawing snow-drift into flowers.
O, wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science wrought and shown!
'Happy,' I said, 'whose home is here!
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!
Boon Nature to his poorest shed
Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.'
Intent, I searched the region round,
And in low hut the dweller found:
Woe is me for my hope's downfall!
Is yonder squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed
For God's vicegerency and stead?
Time out of mind, this forge of ores;
Quarry of spars in mountain pores;
Old cradle, hunting-ground and bier
Of wolf and otter, bear and deer;
Well-built abode of many a race;
Tower of observance searching space;
Factory of river and of rain;
Link in the Alps' globe-girding chain;
By million changes skilled to tell
What in the Eternal standeth well,
And what obedient Nature can;--
Is this colossal talisman
Kindly to plant and blood and kind,
But speechless to the master's mind?
I thought to find the patriots
In whom the stock of freedom roots;
To myself I oft recount
Tales of many a famous mount,--
Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells:
Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs and Tells;
And think how Nature in these towers
Uplifted shall condense her powers,
And lifting man to the blue deep
Where stars their perfect courses keep,
Like wise preceptor, lure his eye
To sound the science of the sky,
And carry learning to its height
Of untried power and sane delight:
The Indian cheer, the frosty skies,
Rear purer wits, inventive eyes,--
Eyes that frame cities where none be,
And hands that stablish what these see:
And by the moral of his place
Hint summits of heroic grace;
Man in these crags a fastness find
To fight pollution of the mind;
In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,
Adhere like this foundation strong,
The insanity of towns to stem
With simpleness for stratagem.
But if the brave old mould is broke,
And end in churls the mountain folk
In tavern cheer and tavern joke,
Sink, O mountain, in the swamp!
Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp!
Perish like leaves, the highland breed
No sire survive, no son succeed!
Soft! let not the offended muse
Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.
Many hamlets sought I then,
Many farms of mountain men.
Rallying round a parish steeple
Nestle warm the highland people,
Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,
Strong as giant, slow as child.
Sweat and season are their arts,
Their talismans are ploughs and carts;
And well the youngest can command
Honey from the frozen land;
With cloverheads the swamp adorn,
Change the running sand to corn;
For wolf and fox, bring lowing herds,
And for cold mosses, cream and curds:
Weave wood to canisters and mats;
Drain sweet maple juice in vats.
No bird is safe that cuts the air
From their rifle or their snare;
No fish, in river or in lake,
But their long hands it thence will take;
Whilst the country's flinty face,
Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays,
To fill the hollows, sink the hills,
Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,
And fit the bleak and howling waste
For homes of virtue, sense and taste.
The World-soul knows his own affair,
Forelooking, when he would prepare
For the next ages, men of mould
Well embodied, well ensouled,
He cools the present's fiery glow,
Sets the life-pulse strong but slow:
Bitter winds and fasts austere
His quarantines and grottoes, where
He slowly cures decrepit flesh,
And brings it infantile and fresh.
Toil and tempest are the toys
And games to breathe his stalwart boys:
They bide their time, and well can prove,
If need were, their line from Jove;
Of the same stuff, and so allayed,
As that whereof the sun is made,
And of the fibre, quick and strong,
Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.
Now in sordid weeds they sleep,
In dulness now their secret keep;
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,
These the masters who can teach.
Fourscore or a hundred words
All their vocal muse affords;
But they turn them in a fashion
Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passion.
I can spare the college bell,
And the learned lecture, well;
Spare the clergy and libraries,
Institutes and dictionaries,
For that hardy English root
Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot.
Rude poets of the tavern hearth,
Squandering your unquoted mirth,
Which keeps the ground and never soars,
While Jake retorts and Reuben roars;
Scoff of yeoman strong and stark,
Goes like bullet to its mark;
While the solid curse and jeer
Never balk the waiting ear.
On the summit as I stood,
O'er the floor of plain and flood
Seemed to me, the towering hill
Was not altogether still,
But a quiet sense conveyed:
If I err not, thus it said:--
'Many feet in summer seek,
Oft, my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter time,
None save dappling shadows climb,
Under clouds, my lonely head,
Old as the sun, old almost as the shade;
And comest thou
To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?
And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand?
And wouldst be my companion
Where I gaze, and still shall gaze,
Through tempering nights and flashing days,
When forests fall, and man is gone,
Over tribes and over times,
At the burning Lyre,
Nearing me,
With its stars of northern fire,
In many a thousand years?
'Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Let him heed who can and will;
Enchantment fixed me here
To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.
If thou trowest
How the chemic eddies play,
Pole to pole, and what they say;
And that these gray crags
Not on crags are hung,
But beads are of a rosary
On prayer and music strung;
And, credulous, through the granite seeming,
Seest the smile of Reason beaming;--
Can thy style-discerning eye
The hidden-working Builder spy,
Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snowflake's flight;--
Knowest thou this?
O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!
Already my rocks lie light,
And soon my cone will spin.
'For the world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune;
Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder,
The sun obeys them and the moon.
Orb and atom forth they prance,
When they hear from far the rune;
None so backward in the troop,
When the music and the dance
Reach his place and circumstance,
But knows the sun-creating sound,
And, though a pyramid, will bound.
'Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among;
But well I know, no mountain can,
Zion or Meru, measure with man.
For it is on zodiacs writ,
Adamant is soft to wit:
And when the greater comes again
With my secret in his brain,
I shall pass, as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.
'Through all time, in light, in gloom
Well I hear the approaching feet
On the flinty pathway beat
Of him that cometh, and shall come;
Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As doth this round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams;
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.
'Every morn I lift my head,
See New England underspread,
South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katskill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,
I await the bard and sage,
Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour,
This mound shall throb his face before,
As when, with inward fires and pain,
It rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed,
From this wellspring in my head,
Fountain-drop of spicier worth
Than all vintage of the earth.
There's fruit upon my barren soil
Costlier far than wine or oil.
There's a berry blue and gold,--
Autumn-ripe, its juices hold
Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,
Asia's rancor, Athens' art,
Slowsure Britain's secular might,
And the German's inward sight.
I will give my son to eat
Best of Pan's immortal meat,
Bread to eat, and juice to drain;
So the coinage of his brain
Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,
Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars,
He comes, but not of that race bred
Who daily climb my specular head.
Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the Dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South Cove and City Wharf.
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,--
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow:
Open the daunting map beneath,--
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;
His day's ride is a furlong space,
His city-tops a glimmering haze.
I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;
"See there the grim gray rounding
Of the bullet of the earth
Whereon ye sail,
Tumbling steep
In the uncontinented deep."
He looks on that, and he turns pale.
'T is even so, this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on forever;
And he, poor parasite,
Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,--
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not,--
Risk or ruin he must share.
I scowl on him with my cloud,
With my north wind chill his blood;
I lame him, clattering down the rocks;
And to live he is in fear.
Then, at last, I let him down
Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter, frightened, to his clan
And forget me if he can.'
As in the old poetic fame
The gods are blind and lame,
And the simular despite
Betrays the more abounding might,
So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve:
It is pure use;--
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind
Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse?
Ages are thy days,
Thou grand affirmer of the present tense,
And type of permanence!
Firm ensign of the fatal Being,
Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief,
That will not bide the seeing!
Hither we bring
Our insect miseries to thy rocks;
And the whole flight, with folded wing,
Vanish, and end their murmuring,--
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which who can tell what mason laid?
Spoils of a front none need restore,
Replacing frieze and architrave;--
Where flowers each stone rosette and metope brave;
Still is the haughty pile erect
Of the old building Intellect.
Complement of human kind,
Holding us at vantage still,
Our sumptuous indigence,
O barren mound, thy plenties fill!
We fool and prate;
Thou art silent and sedate.
To myriad kinds and times one sense
The constant mountain doth dispense;
Shedding on all its snows and leaves,
One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.
Thou seest, O watchman tall,
Our towns and races grow and fall,
And imagest the stable good
For which we all our lifetime grope,
In shifting form the formless mind,
And though the substance us elude,
We in thee the shadow find.
Thou, in our astronomy
An opaker star,
Seen haply from afar,
Above the horizon's hoop,
A moment, by the railway troop,
As o'er some bolder height they speed,--
By circumspect ambition,
By errant gain,
By feasters and the frivolous,--
Recallest us,
And makest sane.
Mute orator! well skilled to plead,
And send conviction without phrase,
Thou dost succor and remede
The shortness of our days,
And promise, on thy Founder's truth,
Long morrow to this mortal youth.
FABLE
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter 'Little Prig;
Bun replied,
'You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.'
ODE
INSCRIBED TO W.H. CHANNING
Though loath to grieve
The evil time's sole patriot,
I cannot leave
My honied thought
For the priest's cant,
Or statesman's rant.
If I refuse
My study for their politique,
Which at the best is trick,
The angry Muse
Puts confusion in my brain.
But who is he that prates
Of the culture of mankind,
Of better arts and life?
Go, blindworm, go,
Behold the famous States
Harrying Mexico
With rifle and with knife!
Or who, with accent bolder,
Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer?
I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!
And in thy valleys, Agiochook!
The jackals of the negro-holder.
The God who made New Hampshire
Taunted the lofty land
With little men;--
Small bat and wren
House in the oak:--
If earth-fire cleave
The upheaved land, and bury the folk,
The southern crocodile would grieve.
Virtue palters; Right is hence;
Freedom praised, but hid;
Funeral eloquence
Rattles the coffin-lid.
What boots thy zeal,
O glowing friend,
That would indignant rend
The northland from the south?
Wherefore? to what good end?
Boston Bay and Bunker Hill
Would serve things still;--
Things are of the snake.
The horseman serves the horse,
The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'T is the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind;
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.
There are two laws discrete,
Not reconciled,--
Law for man, and law for thing;
The last builds town and fleet,
But it runs wild,
And doth the man unking.
'T is fit the forest fall,
The steep be graded,
The mountain tunnelled,
The sand shaded,
The orchard planted,
The glebe tilled,
The prairie granted,
The steamer built.
Let man serve law for man;
Live for friendship, live for love,
For truth's and harmony's behoof;
The state may follow how it can,
As Olympus follows Jove.
Yet do not I implore
The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,
Nor bid the unwilling senator
Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.
Every one to his chosen work;--
Foolish hands may mix and mar;
Wise and sure the issues are.
Round they roll till dark is light,
Sex to sex, and even to odd;--
The over-god
Who marries Right to Might,
Who peoples, unpeoples,--
He who exterminates
Races by stronger races,
Black by white faces,--
Knows to bring honey
Out of the lion;
Grafts gentlest scion
On pirate and Turk.
The Cossack eats Poland,
Like stolen fruit;
Her last noble is ruined,
Her last poet mute:
Straight, into double band
The victors divide;
Half for freedom strike and stand;--
The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side.
ASTRAEA
Each the herald is who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down,
In the country and the town,
With this tablet on their neck,
'Judgment and a judge we seek.'
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair;
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears;
Louder than with speech they pray,--
'What am I? companion, say.'
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates;
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;
Each to each a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared repeats,
What himself confessed records,
Sentences him in his words;
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine forever virgin minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state;
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge.
To those who gaze from the sea's edge
It is there for benefit;
It is there for purging light;
There for purifying storms;
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,--
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot,
But Justice, journeying in the sphere,
Daily stoops to harbor there.
蒚IENNE DE LA BO蒀E
I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;
And bend my fancy to your leading,
All too nimble for my treading.
When the pilgrimage is done,
And we've the landscape overrun,
I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,
And your heart is unsupported.
Vainly valiant, you have missed
The manhood that should yours resist,--
Its complement; but if I could,
In severe or cordial mood,
Lead you rightly to my altar,
Where the wisest Muses falter,
And worship that world-warming spark
Which dazzles me in midnight dark,
Equalizing small and large,
While the soul it doth surcharge,
Till the poor is wealthy grown,
And the hermit never alone,--
The traveller and the road seem one
With the errand to be done,--
That were a man's and lover's part,
That were Freedom's whitest chart.
COMPENSATION
Why should I keep holiday
When other men have none?
Why but because, when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone?
And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.
FORBEARANCE
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
THE PARK
The prosperous and beautiful
To me seem not to wear
The yoke of conscience masterful,
Which galls me everywhere.
I cannot shake off the god;
On my neck he makes his seat;
I look at my face in the glass,--
My eyes his eyeballs meet.
Enchanters! Enchantresses!
Your gold makes you seem wise;
The morning mist within your grounds
More proudly rolls, more softly lies.
Yet spake yon purple mountain,
Yet said yon ancient wood,
That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,
Leads all souls to the Good.
FORERUNNERS
Long I followed happy guides,
I could never reach their sides;
Their step is forth, and, ere the day
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right good-will my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet;
Flowers they strew,--I catch the scent;
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace;
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes,
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I met many travellers
Who the road had surely kept;
They saw not my fine revellers,--
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report,
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken;
In sleep their jubilant troop is near,--
I tuneful voices overhear;
It may be in wood or waste,--
At unawares 't is come and past.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harp-like laughter,
And carry in my heart, for days,
Peace that hallows rudest ways.
SURSUM CORDA
Seek not the spirit, if it hide
Inexorable to thy zeal:
Trembler, do not whine and chide:
Art thou not also real?
Stoop not then to poor excuse;
Turn on the accuser roundly; say,
'Here am I, here will I abide
Forever to myself soothfast;
Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay!'
Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast,
For only it can absolutely deal.
ODE TO BEAUTY
Who gave thee, O Beauty,
The keys of this breast,--
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say, when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old?
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born, we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err!
Guest of million painted forms,
Which in turn thy glory warms!
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,
The swinging spider's silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond,
In thy momentary play,
Would bankrupt nature to repay.
Ah, what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep's lover;
The sun and sea,
Informed by thee,
Before me run
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses.
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole;
Sea-valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies;
And the sands whereof I'm made
Draw me to them, self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolio
Which holds the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi's lines.
I hear the lofty paeans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music
And recount the numbers well;
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young
And always keep us so.
Oft, in streets or humblest places,
I detect far-wandered graces,
Which, from Eden wide astray,
In lowly homes have lost their way.
Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive,
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet, extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily-bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.
All that's good and great with thee
Works in close conspiracy;
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning;
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art;
E'en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair;
And, if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being's deeps past ear and eye;
Lest there I find the same deceiver
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,--
Nothing refuse.
'T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope:
High and more high
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean;
It requireth courage stout.
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending,
It will reward,--
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,--
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise
Flits across her bosom young,
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture's hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go.
The gods arrive.
TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH
The green grass is bowing,
The morning wind is in it;
'T is a tune worth thy knowing,
Though it change every minute.
'T is a tune of the Spring;
Every year plays it over
To the robin on the wing,
And to the pausing lover.
O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,
Goes light the nimble zephyr;
The Flowers--tiny sect of Shakers--
Worship him ever.
Hark to the winning sound!
They summon thee, dearest,--
Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground,
Nor yet thou appearest.
'O hasten;' 't is our time,
Ere yet the red Summer
Scorch our delicate prime,
Loved of bee,--the tawny hummer.
'O pride of thy race!
Sad, in sooth, it were to ours,
If our brief tribe miss thy face,
We poor New England flowers.
'Fairest, choose the fairest members
Of our lithe society;
June's glories and September's
Show our love and piety.
'Thou shalt command us all,--
April's cowslip, summer's clover,
To the gentian in the fall,
Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.
'O come, then, quickly come!
We are budding, we are blowing;
And the wind that we perfume
Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.'
TO ELLEN
And Ellen, when the graybeard years
Have brought us to life's evening hour,
And all the crowded Past appears
A tiny scene of sun and shower,
Then, if I read the page aright
Where Hope, the soothsayer, reads our lot,
Thyself shalt own the page was bright,
Well that we loved, woe had we not,
When Mirth is dumb and Flattery's fled,
And mute thy music's dearest tone,
When all but Love itself is dead
And all but deathless Reason gone.
TO EVA
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes
Were kindled in the upper skies
At the same torch that lighted mine;
For so I must interpret still
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will,
A sympathy divine.
Ah! let me blameless gaze upon
Features that seem at heart my own;
Nor fear those watchful sentinels,
Who charm the more their glance forbids,
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids,
With fire that draws while it repels.
LINES
WRITTEN BY ELLEN LOUISA TUCKER SHORTLY BEFORE
HER MARRIAGE TO MR. EMERSON
Love scatters oil
On Life's dark sea,
Sweetens its toil--
Our helmsman he.
Around him hover
Odorous clouds;
Under this cover
His arrows he shrouds.
The cloud was around me,
I knew not why
Such sweetness crowned me.
While Time shot by.
No pain was within,
But calm delight,
Like a world without sin,
Or a day without night.
The shafts of the god
Were tipped with down,
For they drew no blood,
And they knit no frown.
I knew of them not
Until Cupid laughed loud,
And saying "You're caught!"
Flew off in the cloud.
O then I awoke,
And I lived but to sigh,
Till a clear voice spoke,--
And my tears are dry.
THE VIOLET
BY ELLEN LOUISA TUCKER
Why lingerest thou, pale violet, to see the dying year;
Are Autumn's blasts fit music for thee, fragile one, to hear;
Will thy clear blue eye, upward bent, still keep its chastened glow,
Still tearless lift its slender form above the wintry snow?
Why wilt thou live when none around reflects thy pensive ray?
Thou bloomest here a lonely thing in the clear autumn day.
The tall green trees, that shelter thee, their last gay dress put on;
There will be nought to shelter thee when their sweet leaves are gone.
O Violet, like thee, how blest could I lie down and die,
When summer light is fading, and autumn breezes sigh;
When Winter reigned I'd close my eye, but wake with bursting Spring,
And live with living nature, a pure rejoicing thing.
I had a sister once who seemed just like a violet;
Her morning sun shone bright and calmly purely set;
When the violets were in their shrouds, and Summer in its pride,
She laid her hopes at rest, and in the year's rich beauty died.
THE AMULET
Your picture smiles as first it smiled;
The ring you gave is still the same;
Your letter tells, O changing child!
No tidings _since_ it came.
Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you,--
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not, pale and blue.
Alas! that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.
THINE EYES STILL SHINED
Thine eyes still shined for me, though far
I lonely roved the land or sea:
As I behold yon evening star,
Which yet beholds not me.
This morn I climbed the misty hill
And roamed the pastures through;
How danced thy form before my path
Amidst the deep-eyed dew!
When the redbird spread his sable wing,
And showed his side of flame;
When the rosebud ripened to the rose,
In both I read thy name.
EROS
The sense of the world is short,--
Long and various the report,--
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,
Not to be improved.
HERMIONE
On a mound an Arab lay,
And sung his sweet regrets
And told his amulets:
The summer bird
His sorrow heard,
And, when he heaved a sigh profound,
The sympathetic swallow swept the ground.
'If it be, as they said, she was not fair,
Beauty's not beautiful to me,
But sceptred genius, aye inorbed,
Culminating in her sphere.
This Hermione absorbed
The lustre of the land and ocean,
Hills and islands, cloud and tree,
In her form and motion.
'I ask no bauble miniature,
Nor ringlets dead
Shorn from her comely head,
Now that morning not disdains
Mountains and the misty plains
Her colossal portraiture;
They her heralds be,
Steeped in her quality,
And singers of her fame
Who is their Muse and dame.
'Higher, dear swallows! mind not what I say.
Ah! heedless how the weak are strong,
Say, was it just,
In thee to frame, in me to trust,
Thou to the Syrian couldst belong?
'I am of a lineage
That each for each doth fast engage;
In old Bassora's schools, I seemed
Hermit vowed to books and gloom,--
Ill-bestead for gay bridegroom.
I was by thy touch redeemed;
When thy meteor glances came,
We talked at large of worldly fate,
And drew truly every trait.
'Once I dwelt apart,
Now I live with all;
As shepherd's lamp on far hill-side
Seems, by the traveller espied,
A door into the mountain heart,
So didst thou quarry and unlock
Highways for me through the rock.
'Now, deceived, thou wanderest
In strange lands unblest;
And my kindred come to soothe me.
Southwind is my next of blood;
He is come through fragrant wood,
Drugged with spice from climates warm,
And in every twinkling glade,
And twilight nook,
Unveils thy form.
Out of the forest way
Forth paced it yesterday;
And when I sat by the watercourse,
Watching the daylight fade,
It throbbed up from the brook.
'River and rose and crag and bird,
Frost and sun and eldest night,
To me their aid preferred,
To me their comfort plight;--
"Courage! we are thine allies,
And with this hint be wise,--
The chains of kind
The distant bind;
Deed thou doest she must do,
Above her will, be true;
And, in her strict resort
To winds and waterfalls
And autumn's sunlit festivals,
To music, and to music's thought,
Inextricably bound,
She shall find thee, and be found.
Follow not her flying feet;
Come to us herself to meet."'
INITIAL, DAEMONIC AND CELESTIAL LOVE
I. THE INITIAL LOVE
Venus, when her son was lost,
Cried him up and down the coast,
In hamlets, palaces and parks,
And told the truant by his marks,--
Golden curls, and quiver and bow.
This befell how long ago!
Time and tide are strangely changed,
Men and manners much deranged:
None will now find Cupid latent
By this foolish antique patent.
He came late along the waste,
Shod like a traveller for haste;
With malice dared me to proclaim him,
That the maids and boys might name him.
Boy no more, he wears all coats,
Frocks and blouses, capes, capotes;
He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,
Nor chaplet on his head or hand.
Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,--
All the rest he can disguise.
In the pit of his eye's a spark
Would bring back day if it were dark;
And, if I tell you all my thought,
Though I comprehend it not,
In those unfathomable orbs
Every function he absorbs;
Doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,
And write, and reason, and compute,
And ride, and run, and have, and hold,
And whine, and flatter, and regret,
And kiss, and couple, and beget,
By those roving eyeballs bold.
Undaunted are their courages,
Right Cossacks in their forages;
Fleeter they than any creature,--
They are his steeds, and not his feature;
Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,
Restless, predatory, hasting;
And they pounce on other eyes
As lions on their prey;
And round their circles is writ,
Plainer than the day,
Underneath, within, above,--
Love--love--love--love.
He lives in his eyes;
There doth digest, and work, and spin,
And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;
He rolls them with delighted motion,
Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.
Yet holds he them with tautest rein,
That they may seize and entertain
The glance that to their glance opposes,
Like fiery honey sucked from roses.
He palmistry can understand,
Imbibing virtue by his hand
As if it were a living root;
The pulse of hands will make him mute;
With all his force he gathers balms
Into those wise, thrilling palms.
Cupid is a casuist,
A mystic and a cabalist,--
Can your lurking thought surprise,
And interpret your device.
He is versed in occult science,
In magic and in clairvoyance,
Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,
And Reason on her tiptoe pained
For a雛y intelligence,
And for strange coincidence.
But it touches his quick heart
When Fate by omens takes his part,
And chance-dropped hints from Nature's sphere
Deeply soothe his anxious ear.
Heralds high before him run;
He has ushers many a one;
He spreads his welcome where he goes,
And touches all things with his rose.
All things wait for and divine him,--
How shall I dare to malign him,
Or accuse the god of sport?
I must end my true report,
Painting him from head to foot,
In as far as I took note,
Trusting well the matchless power
Of this young-eyed emperor
Will clear his fame from every cloud
With the bards and with the crowd.
He is wilful, mutable,
Shy, untamed, inscrutable,
Swifter-fashioned than the fairies.
Substance mixed of pure contraries;
His vice some elder virtue's token,
And his good is evil-spoken.
Failing sometimes of his own,
He is headstrong and alone;
He affects the wood and wild,
Like a flower-hunting child;
Buries himself in summer waves,
In trees, with beasts, in mines and caves,
Loves nature like a horn鑔 cow,
Bird, or deer, or caribou.
Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!
He has a total world of wit;
O how wise are his discourses!
But he is the arch-hypocrite,
And, through all science and all art,
Seeks alone his counterpart.
He is a Pundit of the East,
He is an augur and a priest,
And his soul will melt in prayer,
But word and wisdom is a snare;
Corrupted by the present toy
He follows joy, and only joy.
There is no mask but he will wear;
He invented oaths to swear;
He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,
And holds all stars in his embrace.
He takes a sovran privilege
Not allowed to any liege;
For Cupid goes behind all law,
And right into himself does draw;
For he is sovereignly allied,--
Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side,--
And interchangeably at one
With every king on every throne,
That no god dare say him nay,
Or see the fault, or seen betray;
He has the Muses by the heart,
And the stern Parcae on his part.
His many signs cannot be told;
He has not one mode, but manifold,
Many fashions and addresses,
Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses.
He will preach like a friar,
And jump like Harlequin;
He will read like a crier,
And fight like a Paladin.
Boundless is his memory;
Plans immense his term prolong;
He is not of counted age,
Meaning always to be young.
And his wish is intimacy,
Intimater intimacy,
And a stricter privacy;
The impossible shall yet be done,
And, being two, shall still be one.
As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,
Then runs into a wave again,
So lovers melt their sundered selves,
Yet melted would be twain.
II. THE DAEMONIC LOVE
Man was made of social earth,
Child and brother from his birth,
Tethered by a liquid cord
Of blood through veins of kindred poured.
Next his heart the fireside band
Of mother, father, sister, stand;
Names from awful childhood heard
Throbs of a wild religion stirred;--
Virtue, to love, to hate them, vice;
Till dangerous Beauty came, at last,
Till Beauty came to snap all ties;
The maid, abolishing the past,
With lotus wine obliterates
Dear memory's stone-incarved traits,
And, by herself, supplants alone
Friends year by year more inly known.
When her calm eyes opened bright,
All else grew foreign in their light.
It was ever the self-same tale,
The first experience will not fail;
Only two in the garden walked,
And with snake and seraph talked.
Close, close to men,
Like undulating layer of air,
Right above their heads,
The potent plain of Daemons spreads.
Stands to each human soul its own,
For watch and ward and furtherance,
In the snares of Nature's dance;
And the lustre and the grace
To fascinate each youthful heart,
Beaming from its counterpart,
Translucent through the mortal covers,
Is the Daemon's form and face.
To and fro the Genius hies,--
A gleam which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head,
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.
Unknown, albeit lying near,
To men, the path to the Daemon sphere;
And they that swiftly come and go
Leave no track on the heavenly snow.
Sometimes the airy synod bends,
And the mighty choir descends,
And the brains of men thenceforth,
In crowded and in still resorts,
Teem with unwonted thoughts:
As, when a shower of meteors
Cross the orbit of the earth,
And, lit by fringent air,
Blaze near and far,
Mortals deem the planets bright
Have slipped their sacred bars,
And the lone seaman all the night
Sails, astonished, amid stars.
Beauty of a richer vein,
Graces of a subtler strain,
Unto men these moonmen lend,
And our shrinking sky extend.
So is man's narrow path
By strength and terror skirted;
Also (from the song the wrath
Of the Genii be averted!
The Muse the truth uncolored speaking)
The Daemons are self-seeking:
Their fierce and limitary will
Draws men to their likeness still.
The erring painter made Love blind,--
Highest Love who shines on all;
Him, radiant, sharpest-sighted god,
None can bewilder;
Whose eyes pierce
The universe,
Path-finder, road-builder,
Mediator, royal giver;
Rightly seeing, rightly seen,
Of joyful and transparent mien.
'T is a sparkle passing
From each to each, from thee to me,
To and fro perpetually;
Sharing all, daring all,
Levelling, displacing
Each obstruction, it unites
Equals remote, and seeming opposites.
And ever and forever Love
Delights to build a road:
Unheeded Danger near him strides,
Love laughs, and on a lion rides.
But Cupid wears another face,
Born into Daemons less divine:
His roses bleach apace,
His nectar smacks of wine.
The Daemon ever builds a wall,
Himself encloses and includes,
Solitude in solitudes:
In like sort his love doth fall.
He doth elect
The beautiful and fortunate,
And the sons of intellect,
And the souls of ample fate,
Who the Future's gates unbar,--
Minions of the Morning Star.
In his prowess he exults,
And the multitude insults.
His impatient looks devour
Oft the humble and the poor;
And, seeing his eye glare,
They drop their few pale flowers,
Gathered with hope to please,
Along the mountain towers,--
Lose courage, and despair.
He will never be gainsaid,--
Pitiless, will not be stayed;
His hot tyranny
Burns up every other tie.
Therefore comes an hour from Jove
Which his ruthless will defies,
And the dogs of Fate unties.
Shiver the palaces of glass;
Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls,
Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt
Secure as in the zodiac's belt;
And the galleries and halls,
Wherein every siren sung,
Like a meteor pass.
For this fortune wanted root
In the core of God's abysm,--
Was a weed of self and schism;
And ever the Daemonic Love
Is the ancestor of wars
And the parent of remorse.
III. THE CELESTIAL LOVE
But God said,
'I will have a purer gift;
There is smoke in the flame;
New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,
And love without a name.
Fond children, ye desire
To please each other well;
Another round, a higher,
Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,
And selfish preference forbear;
And in right deserving,
And without a swerving
Each from your proper state,
Weave roses for your mate.
'Deep, deep are loving eyes,
Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet;
And the point is paradise,
Where their glances meet:
Their reach shall yet be more profound,
And a vision without bound:
The axis of those eyes sun-clear
Be the axis of the sphere:
So shall the lights ye pour amain
Go, without check or intervals,
Through from the empyrean walls
Unto the same again.'
Higher far into the pure realm,
Over sun and star,
Over the flickering Daemon film,
Thou must mount for love;
Into vision where all form
In one only form dissolves;
In a region where the wheel
On which all beings ride
Visibly revolves;
Where the starred, eternal worm
Girds the world with bound and term;
Where unlike things are like;
Where good and ill,
And joy and moan,
Melt into one.
There Past, Present, Future, shoot
Triple blossoms from one root;
Substances at base divided,
In their summits are united;
There the holy essence rolls,
One through separated souls;
And the sunny Aeon sleeps
Folding Nature in its deeps,
And every fair and every good,
Known in part, or known impure,
To men below,
In their archetypes endure.
The race of gods,
Or those we erring own,
Are shadows flitting up and down
In the still abodes.
The circles of that sea are laws
Which publish and which hide the cause.
Pray for a beam
Out of that sphere,
Thee to guide and to redeem.
O, what a load
Of care and toil,
By lying use bestowed,
From his shoulders falls who sees
The true astronomy,
The period of peace.
Counsel which the ages kept
Shall the well-born soul accept.
As the overhanging trees
Fill the lake with images,--
As garment draws the garment's hem,
Men their fortunes bring with them.
By right or wrong,
Lands and goods go to the strong.
Property will brutely draw
Still to the proprietor;
Silver to silver creep and wind,
And kind to kind.
Nor less the eternal poles
Of tendency distribute souls.
There need no vows to bind
Whom not each other seek, but find.
They give and take no pledge or oath,--
Nature is the bond of both:
No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns,--
Their noble meanings are their pawns.
Plain and cold is their address,
Power have they for tenderness;
And, so thoroughly is known
Each other's counsel by his own,
They can parley without meeting;
Need is none of forms of greeting;
They can well communicate
In their innermost estate;
When each the other shall avoid,
Shall each by each be most enjoyed.
Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves
Do these celebrate their loves:
Not by jewels, feasts and savors,
Not by ribbons or by favors,
But by the sun-spark on the sea,
And the cloud-shadow on the lea,
The soothing lapse of morn to mirk,
And the cheerful round of work.
Their cords of love so public are,
They intertwine the farthest star:
The throbbing sea, the quaking earth,
Yield sympathy and signs of mirth;
Is none so high, so mean is none,
But feels and seals this union;
Even the fell Furies are appeased,
The good applaud, the lost are eased.
Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond,
Bound for the just, but not beyond;
Not glad, as the low-loving herd,
Of self in other still preferred,
But they have heartily designed
The benefit of broad mankind.
And they serve men austerely,
After their own genius, clearly,
Without a false humility;
For this is Love's nobility,--
Not to scatter bread and gold,
Goods and raiment bought and sold;
But to hold fast his simple sense,
And speak the speech of innocence,
And with hand and body and blood,
To make his bosom-counsel good.
He that feeds men serveth few;
He serves all who dares be true.
THE APOLOGY
Think me not unkind and rude
That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood
To fetch his word to men.
Tax not my sloth that I
Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky
Writes a letter in my book.
Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.
There was never mystery
But 'tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history
But birds tell it in the bowers.
One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.
MERLIN I
Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor tinkle of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smite the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned flood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
'Pass in, pass in,' the angels say,
'In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise.'
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,--
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mould the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall not seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,--
The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 't is inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;--
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors.
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.
MERLIN II
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs;
Balance-loving Nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode;
Each color with its counter glowed;
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting balls and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand;
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated;
Adding by their mutual gage,
One to other, health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The self-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife,
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay.
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
BACCHUS
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through,
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,--
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mould of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,--
Music and wine are one,--
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;--
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of me and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,--
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
Let wine repair what this undid;
And where the infection slid,
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
MEROPS
What care I, so they stand the same,--
Things of the heavenly mind,--
How long the power to give them name
Tarries yet behind?
Thus far to-day your favors reach,
O fair, appeasing presences!
Ye taught my lips a single speech,
And a thousand silences.
Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day;
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say.
THE HOUSE
There is no architect
Can build as the Muse can;
She is skilful to _select_
Materials for her plan;
Slow and warily to choose
Rafters of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,
Worthy her design,
She threads dark Alpine forests
Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,
Ere she can find a tree.
She ransacks mines and ledges
And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant
For each eternal block--
She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun--
That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.
SAADI
Trees in groves,
Kine in droves,
In ocean sport the scaly herds,
Wedge-like cleave the air the birds,
To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks,
Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,
Men consort in camp and town,
But the poet dwells alone.
God, who gave to him the lyre,
Of all mortals the desire,
For all breathing men's behoof,
Straitly charged him, 'Sit aloof;'
Annexed a warning, poets say,
To the bright premium,--
Ever, when twain together play,
Shall the harp be dumb.
Many may come,
But one shall sing;
Two touch the string,
The harp is dumb.
Though there come a million,
Wise Saadi dwells alone.
Yet Saadi loved the race of men,--
No churl, immured in cave or den;
In bower and hall
He wants them all,
Nor can dispense
With Persia for his audience;
They must give ear,
Grow red with joy and white with fear;
But he has no companion;
Come ten, or come a million,
Good Saadi dwells alone.
Be thou ware where Saadi dwells;
Wisdom of the gods is he,--
Entertain it reverently.
Gladly round that golden lamp
Sylvan deities encamp,
And simple maids and noble youth
Are welcome to the man of truth.
Most welcome they who need him most,
They feed the spring which they exhaust;
For greater need
Draws better deed:
But, critic, spare thy vanity,
Nor show thy pompous parts,
To vex with odious subtlety
The cheerer of men's hearts.
Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say
Endless dirges to decay,
Never in the blaze of light
Lose the shudder of midnight;
Pale at overflowing noon
Hear wolves barking at the moon;
In the bower of dalliance sweet
Hear the far Avenger's feet:
And shake before those awful Powers,
Who in their pride forgive not ours.
Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach:
'Bard, when thee would Allah teach,
And lift thee to his holy mount,
He sends thee from his bitter fount
Wormwood,--saying, "Go thy ways;
Drink not the Malaga of praise,
But do the deed thy fellows hate,
And compromise thy peaceful state;
Smite the white breasts which thee fed.
Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head
Of them thou shouldst have comforted;
For out of woe and out of crime
Draws the heart a lore sublime."'
And yet it seemeth not to me
That the high gods love tragedy;
For Saadi sat in the sun,
And thanks was his contrition;
For haircloth and for bloody whips,
Had active hands and smiling lips;
And yet his runes he rightly read,
And to his folk his message sped.
Sunshine in his heart transferred
Lighted each transparent word,
And well could honoring Persia learn
What Saadi wished to say;
For Saadi's nightly stars did burn
Brighter than Jami's day.
Whispered the Muse in Saadi's cot:
'O gentle Saadi, listen not,
Tempted by thy praise of wit,
Or by thirst and appetite
For the talents not thine own,
To sons of contradiction.
Never, son of eastern morning,
Follow falsehood, follow scorning.
Denounce who will, who will deny,
And pile the hills to scale the sky;
Let theist, atheist, pantheist,
Define and wrangle how they list,
Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer,--
But thou, joy-giver and enjoyer,
Unknowing war, unknowing crime,
Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme;
Heed not what the brawlers say,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
'Let the great world bustle on
With war and trade, with camp and town;
A thousand men shall dig and eat;
At forge and furnace thousands sweat;
And thousands sail the purple sea,
And give or take the stroke of war,
Or crowd the market and bazaar;
Oft shall war end, and peace return,
And cities rise where cities burn,
Ere one man my hill shall climb,
Who can turn the golden rhyme.
Let them manage how they may,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Seek the living among the dead,--
Man in man is imprison鑔;
Barefooted Dervish is not poor,
If fate unlock his bosom's door,
So that what his eye hath seen
His tongue can paint as bright, as keen;
And what his tender heart hath felt
With equal fire thy heart shalt melt.
For, whom the Muses smile upon,
And touch with soft persuasion,
His words like a storm-wind can bring
Terror and beauty on their wing;
In his every syllable
Lurketh Nature veritable;
And though he speak in midnight dark,--
In heaven no star, on earth no spark,--
Yet before the listener's eye
Swims the world in ecstasy,
The forest waves, the morning breaks,
The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,
Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,
And life pulsates in rock or tree.
Saadi, so far thy words shall reach:
Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech!'
And thus to Saadi said the Muse:
'Eat thou the bread which men refuse;
Flee from the goods which from thee flee;
Seek nothing,--Fortune seeketh thee.
Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep
The midway of the eternal deep.
Wish not to fill the isles with eyes
To fetch thee birds of paradise:
On thine orchard's edge belong
All the brags of plume and song;
Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass
For proverbs in the market-place:
Through mountains bored by regal art,
Toil whistles as he drives his cart.
Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,
A poet or a friend to find:
Behold, he watches at the door!
Behold his shadow on the floor!
Open innumerable doors
The heaven where unveiled Allah pours
The flood of truth, the flood of good,
The Seraph's and the Cherub's food.
Those doors are men: the Pariah hind
Admits thee to the perfect Mind.
Seek not beyond thy cottage wall
Redeemers that can yield thee all:
While thou sittest at thy door
On the desert's yellow floor,
Listening to the gray-haired crones,
Foolish gossips, ancient drones,
Saadi, see! they rise in stature
To the height of mighty Nature,
And the secret stands revealed
Fraudulent Time in vain concealed,--
That blessed gods in servile masks
Plied for thee thy household tasks.'
HOLIDAYS
From fall to spring, the russet acorn,
Fruit beloved of maid and boy,
Lent itself beneath the forest,
To be the children's toy.
Pluck it now! In vain,--thou canst not;
Its root has pierced yon shady mound;
Toy no longer--it has duties;
It is anchored in the ground.
Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,
Playfellow of young and old,
Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,
More dear to one than mines of gold.
Whither went the lovely hoyden?
Disappeared in blessed wife;
Servant to a wooden cradle,
Living in a baby's life.
Still thou playest;--short vacation
Fate grants each to stand aside;
Now must thou be man and artist,--
'T is the turning of the tide.
XENOPHANES
By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,
One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,
One aspect to the desert and the lake.
It was her stern necessity: all things
Are of one pattern made; bird, beast and flower,
Song, picture, form, space, thought and character
Deceive us, seeming to be many things,
And are but one. Beheld far off, they part
As God and devil; bring them to the mind,
They dull its edge with their monotony.
To know one element, explore another,
And in the second reappears the first.
The specious panorama of a year
But multiplies the image of a day,--
A belt of mirrors round a taper's flame;
And universal Nature, through her vast
And crowded whole, an infinite paroquet,
Repeats one note.
THE DAY'S RATION
When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, 'This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries,--nor less, nor more.'
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,--
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty and disgust.
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new Muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into its heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book, or starbright scroll of genius,
The little cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste;
Nor gives the jealous lord one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why seek Italy,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters for a thousand days?
BLIGHT
Give me truths;
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain and agrimony,
Blue-vetch and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,--
O, that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars, who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flowers,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine.
The injured elements say, 'Not in us;'
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant and mineral say, 'Not in us;'
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain;
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe;
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal, like a beggar's child;
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.
MUSKETAQUID
Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear, dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And through my rock-like, solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.
For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the Spring
Visits the valley;--break away the clouds,--
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,
Blue-coated,--flying before from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;
And wide around, the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.
Beneath low hills, in the broad interval
Through which at will our Indian rivulet
Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,
Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,
Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,
Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.
Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road,
Or, it may be, a picture; to these men,
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.
They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use
To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,
They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,
Transmuted in these men to rule their like),
And by the order in the field disclose
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.
What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre;
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle deities
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds,
The innumerable tenements of beauty.
The miracle of generative force,
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Better, the linked purpose of the whole,
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty
In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave.
The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush,
A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:
'Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like Nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less?
As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.'
DIRGE
CONCORD, 1838
I reached the middle of the mount
Up which the incarnate soul must climb,
And paused for them, and looked around,
With me who walked through space and time.
Five rosy boys with morning light
Had leaped from one fair mother's arms,
Fronted the sun with hope as bright,
And greeted God with childhood's psalms.
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon
The plain was full of ghosts;
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers, long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,--the holy ones
Who trod with me this lovely vale;
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place!
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood;
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,--
They treated Nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round;
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,--
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf,
Which once our childhood knew;
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine-warbler
Singing aloft in the tree!
Hearest thou, O traveller,
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay could'st thou
Its heavy tale divine.
'Go, lonely man,' it saith;
'They loved thee from their birth;
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,--
There are no such hearts on earth.
'Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
'You cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem.'
THRENODY
The South-wind brings
Life, sunshine and desire,
And on every mount and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire;
But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;
And, looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.
I see my empty house,
I see my trees repair their boughs;
And he, the wondrous child,
Whose silver warble wild
Outvalued every pulsing sound
Within the air's cerulean round,--
The hyacinthine boy, for whom
Morn well might break and April bloom,
The gracious boy, who did adorn
The world whereinto he was born,
And by his countenance repay
The favor of the loving Day,--
Has disappeared from the Day's eye;
Far and wide she cannot find him;
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.
Returned this day, the South-wind searches,
And finds young pines and budding birches;
But finds not the budding man;
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him;
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.
And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,
O, whither tend thy feet?
I had the right, few days ago,
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know:
How have I forfeited the right?
Hast thou forgot me in a new delight?
I hearken for thy household cheer,
O eloquent child!
Whose voice, an equal messenger,
Conveyed thy meaning mild.
What though the pains and joys
Whereof it spoke were toys
Fitting his age and ken,
Yet fairest dames and bearded men,
Who heard the sweet request,
So gentle, wise and grave,
Bended with joy to his behest
And let the world's affairs go by,
A while to share his cordial game,
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame,
Still plotting how their hungry fear
That winsome voice again might hear;
For his lips could well pronounce
Words that were persuasions.
Gentlest guardians marked serene
His early hope, his liberal mien;
Took counsel from his guiding eyes
To make this wisdom earthly wise.
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall
The school-march, each day's festival,
When every morn my bosom glowed
To watch the convoy on the road;
The babe in willow wagon closed,
With rolling eyes and face composed;
With children forward and behind,
Like Cupids studiously inclined;
And he the chieftain paced beside,
The centre of the troop allied,
With sunny face of sweet repose,
To guard the babe from fancied foes.
The little captain innocent
Took the eye with him as he went;
Each village senior paused to scan
And speak the lovely caravan.
From the window I look out
To mark thy beautiful parade,
Stately marching in cap and coat
To some tune by fairies played;--
A music heard by thee alone
To works as noble led thee on.
Now Love and Pride, alas! in vain,
Up and down their glances strain.
The painted sled stands where it stood;
The kennel by the corded wood;
His gathered sticks to stanch the wall
Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall;
The ominous hole he dug in the sand,
And childhood's castles built or planned;
His daily haunts I well discern,--
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn,--
And every inch of garden ground
Paced by the blessed feet around,
From the roadside to the brook
Whereinto he loved to look.
Step the meek fowls where erst they ranged;
The wintry garden lies unchanged;
The brook into the stream runs on;
But the deep-eyed boy is gone.
On that shaded day,
Dark with more clouds than tempests are,
When thou didst yield thy innocent breath
In birdlike heavings unto death,
Night came, and Nature had not thee;
I said, 'We are mates in misery.'
The morrow dawned with needless glow;
Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow;
Each tramper started; but the feet
Of the most beautiful and sweet
Of human youth had left the hill
And garden,--they were bound and still.
There's not a sparrow or a wren,
There's not a blade of autumn grain,
Which the four seasons do not tend
And tides of life and increase lend;
And every chick of every bird,
And weed and rock-moss is preferred.
O ostrich-like forgetfulness!
O loss of larger in the less!
Was there no star that could be sent,
No watcher in the firmament,
No angel from the countless host
That loiters round the crystal coast,
Could stoop to heal that only child,
Nature's sweet marvel undefiled,
And keep the blossom of the earth,
Which all her harvests were not worth?
Not mine,--I never called thee mine,
But Nature's heir,--if I repine,
And seeing rashly torn and moved
Not what I made, but what I loved,
Grow early old with grief that thou
Must to the wastes of Nature go,--
'T is because a general hope
Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope.
For flattering planets seemed to say
This child should ills of ages stay,
By wondrous tongue, and guided pen,
Bring the flown Muses back to men.
Perchance not he but Nature ailed,
The world and not the infant failed.
It was not ripe yet to sustain
A genius of so fine a strain,
Who gazed upon the sun and moon
As if he came unto his own,
And, pregnant with his grander thought,
Brought the old order into doubt.
His beauty once their beauty tried;
They could not feed him, and he died,
And wandered backward as in scorn,
To wait an aeon to be born.
Ill day which made this beauty waste,
Plight broken, this high face defaced!
Some went and came about the dead;
And some in books of solace read;
Some to their friends the tidings say;
Some went to write, some went to pray;
One tarried here, there hurried one;
But their heart abode with none.
Covetous death bereaved us all,
To aggrandize one funeral.
The eager fate which carried thee
Took the largest part of me:
For this losing is true dying;
This is lordly man's down-lying,
This his slow but sure reclining,
Star by star his world resigning.
O child of paradise,
Boy who made dear his father's home,
In whose deep eyes
Men read the welfare of the times to come,
I am too much bereft.
The world dishonored thou hast left.
O truth's and nature's costly lie!
O trusted broken prophecy!
O richest fortune sourly crossed!
Born for the future, to the future lost!
The deep Heart answered, 'Weepest thou?
Worthier cause for passion wild
If I had not taken the child.
And deemest thou as those who pore,
With aged eyes, short way before,--
Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast
Of matter, and thy darling lost?
Taught he not thee--the man of eld,
Whose eyes within his eyes beheld
Heaven's numerous hierarchy span
The mystic gulf from God to man?
To be alone wilt thou begin
When worlds of lovers hem thee in?
To-morrow, when the masks shall fall
That dizen Nature's carnival,
The pure shall see by their own will,
Which overflowing Love shall fill,
'T is not within the force of fate
The fate-conjoined to separate.
But thou, my votary, weepest thou?
I gave thee sight--where is it now?
I taught thy heart beyond the reach
Of ritual, bible, or of speech;
Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,
As far as the incommunicable;
Taught thee each private sign to raise
Lit by the supersolar blaze.
Past utterance, and past belief,
And past the blasphemy of grief,
The mysteries of Nature's heart;
And though no Muse can these impart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
'I came to thee as to a friend;
Dearest, to thee I did not send
Tutors, but a joyful eye,
Innocence that matched the sky,
Lovely locks, a form of wonder,
Laughter rich as woodland thunder,
That thou might'st entertain apart
The richest flowering of all art:
And, as the great all-loving Day
Through smallest chambers takes its way,
That thou might'st break thy daily bread
With prophet, savior and head;
That thou might'st cherish for thine own
The riches of sweet Mary's Son,
Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.
And thoughtest thou such guest
Would in thy hall take up his rest?
Would rushing life forget her laws,
Fate's glowing revolution pause?
High omens ask diviner guess;
Not to be conned to tediousness
And know my higher gifts unbind
The zone that girds the incarnate mind.
When the scanty shores are full
With Thought's perilous, whirling pool;
When frail Nature can no more,
Then the Spirit strikes the hour:
My servant Death, with solving rite,
Pours finite into infinite.
Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,
Whose streams through Nature circling go?
Nail the wild star to its track
On the half-climbed zodiac?
Light is light which radiates,
Blood is blood which circulates,
Life is life which generates,
And many-seeming life is one,--
Wilt thou transfix and make it none?
Its onward force too starkly pent
In figure, bone and lineament?
Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,
Talker! the unreplying Fate?
Nor see the genius of the whole
Ascendant in the private soul,
Beckon it when to go and come,
Self-announced its hour of doom?
Fair the soul's recess and shrine,
Magic-built to last a season;
Masterpiece of love benign,
Fairer that expansive reason
Whose omen 'tis, and sign.
Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know
What rainbows teach, and sunsets show?
Verdict which accumulates
From lengthening scroll of human fates,
Voice of earth to earth returned,
Prayers of saints that inly burned,--
Saying, _What is excellent,_
_As God lives, is permanent;_
_Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;_
_Heart's love will meet thee again._
Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye
Up to his style, and manners of the sky.
Not of adamant and gold
Built he heaven stark and cold;
No, but a nest of bending reeds,
Flowering grass and scented weeds;
Or like a traveller's fleeing tent,
Or bow above the tempest bent;
Built of tears and sacred flames,
And virtue reaching to its aims;
Built of furtherance and pursuing,
Not of spent deeds, but of doing.
Silent rushes the swift Lord
Through ruined systems still restored,
Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless,
Plants with worlds the wilderness;
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow.
House and tenant go to ground,
Lost in God, in Godhead found.'
CONCORD HYMN
SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE
MONUMENT, JULY 4, 1837
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
* * * * *
II
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
* * * * *
MAY-DAY
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Teaching Barren moors to smile,
Painting pictures mile on mile,
Holds a cup with cowslip-wreaths,
Whence a smokeless incense breathes.
The air is full of whistlings bland;
What was that I heard
Out of the hazy land?
Harp of the wind, or song of bird,
Or vagrant booming of the air,
Voice of a meteor lost in day?
Such tidings of the starry sphere
Can this elastic air convey.
Or haply 'twas the cannonade
Of the pent and darkened lake,
Cooled by the pendent mountain's shade,
Whose deeps, till beams of noonday break,
Afflicted moan, and latest hold
Even into May the iceberg cold.
Was it a squirrel's pettish bark,
Or clarionet of jay? or hark
Where yon wedged line the Nestor leads,
Steering north with raucous cry
Through tracts and provinces of sky,
Every night alighting down
In new landscapes of romance,
Where darkling feed the clamorous clans
By lonely lakes to men unknown.
Come the tumult whence it will,
Voice of sport, or rush of wings,
It is a sound, it is a token
That the marble sleep is broken,
And a change has passed on things.
When late I walked, in earlier days,
All was stiff and stark;
Knee-deep snows choked all the ways,
In the sky no spark;
Firm-braced I sought my ancient woods,
Struggling through the drifted roads;
The whited desert knew me not,
Snow-ridges masked each darling spot;
The summer dells, by genius haunted,
One arctic moon had disenchanted.
All the sweet secrets therein hid
By Fancy, ghastly spells undid.
Eldest mason, Frost, had piled
Swift cathedrals in the wild;
The piny hosts were sheeted ghosts
In the star-lit minster aisled.
I found no joy: the icy wind
Might rule the forest to his mind.
Who would freeze on frozen lakes?
Back to books and sheltered home,
And wood-fire flickering on the walls,
To hear, when, 'mid our talk and games,
Without the baffled North-wind calls.
But soft! a sultry morning breaks;
The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
The maple-tops their crimson tint,
On the soft path each track is seen,
The girl's foot leaves its neater print.
The pebble loosened from the frost
Asks of the urchin to be tost.
In flint and marble beats a heart,
The kind Earth takes her children's part,
The green lane is the school-boy's friend,
Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,
The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
The air rings jocund to his call,
The brimming brook invites a leap,
He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.
The youth sees omens where he goes,
And speaks all languages the rose,
The wood-fly mocks with tiny voice
The far halloo of human voice;
The perfumed berry on the spray
Smacks of faint memories far away.
A subtle chain of countless rings
The next into the farthest brings,
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.
The caged linnet in the Spring
Hearkens for the choral glee,
When his fellows on the wing
Migrate from the Southern Sea;
When trellised grapes their flowers unmask,
And the new-born tendrils twine,
The old wine darkling in the cask
Feels the bloom on the living vine,
And bursts the hoops at hint of Spring:
And so, perchance, in Adam's race,
Of Eden's bower some dream-like trace
Survived the Flight and swam the Flood,
And wakes the wish in youngest blood
To tread the forfeit Paradise,
And feed once more the exile's eyes;
And ever when the happy child
In May beholds the blooming wild,
And hears in heaven the bluebird sing,
'Onward,' he cries, 'your baskets bring,--
In the next field is air more mild,
And o'er yon hazy crest is Eden's balmier spring.'
Not for a regiment's parade,
Nor evil laws or rulers made,
Blue Walden rolls its cannonade,
But for a lofty sign
Which the Zodiac threw,
That the bondage-days are told.
And waters free as winds shall flow.
Lo! how all the tribes combine
To rout the flying foe.
See, every patriot oak-leaf throws
His elfin length upon the snows,
Not idle, since the leaf all day
Draws to the spot the solar ray,
Ere sunset quarrying inches down,
And halfway to the mosses brown;
While the grass beneath the rime
Has hints of the propitious time,
And upward pries and perforates
Through the cold slab a thousand gates,
Till green lances peering through
Bend happy in the welkin blue.
As we thaw frozen flesh with snow,
So Spring will not her time forerun,
Mix polar night with tropic glow,
Nor cloy us with unshaded sun,
Nor wanton skip with bacchic dance,
But she has the temperance
Of the gods, whereof she is one,--
Masks her treasury of heat
Under east winds crossed with sleet.
Plants and birds and humble creatures
Well accept her rule austere;
Titan-born, to hardy natures
Cold is genial and dear.
As Southern wrath to Northern right
Is but straw to anthracite;
As in the day of sacrifice,
When heroes piled the pyre,
The dismal Massachusetts ice
Burned more than others' fire,
So Spring guards with surface cold
The garnered heat of ages old.
Hers to sow the seed of bread,
That man and all the kinds be fed;
And, when the sunlight fills the hours,
Dissolves the crust, displays the flowers.
Beneath the calm, within the light,
A hid unruly appetite
Of swifter life, a surer hope,
Strains every sense to larger scope,
Impatient to anticipate
The halting steps of aged Fate.
Slow grows the palm, too slow the pearl:
When Nature falters, fain would zeal
Grasp the felloes of her wheel,
And grasping give the orbs another whirl.
Turn swiftlier round, O tardy ball!
And sun this frozen side.
Bring hither back the robin's call,
Bring back the tulip's pride.
Why chidest thou the tardy Spring?
The hardy bunting does not chide;
The blackbirds make the maples ring
With social cheer and jubilee;
The redwing flutes his _o-ka-lee_,
The robins know the melting snow;
The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed,
Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves,
Secure the osier yet will hide
Her callow brood in mantling leaves,--
And thou, by science all undone,
Why only must thy reason fail
To see the southing of the sun?
The world rolls round,--mistrust it not,--
Befalls again what once befell;
All things return, both sphere and mote,
And I shall hear my bluebird's note,
And dream the dream of Auburn dell.
April cold with dropping rain
Willows and lilacs brings again,
The whistle of returning birds,
And trumpet-lowing of the herds.
The scarlet maple-keys betray
What potent blood hath modest May,
What fiery force the earth renews,
The wealth of forms, the flush of hues;
What joy in rosy waves outpoured
Flows from the heart of Love, the Lord.
Hither rolls the storm of heat;
I feel its finer billows beat
Like a sea which me infolds;
Heat with viewless fingers moulds,
Swells, and mellows, and matures,
Paints, and flavors, and allures,
Bird and brier inly warms,
Still enriches and transforms,
Gives the reed and lily length,
Adds to oak and oxen strength,
Transforming what it doth infold,
Life out of death, new out of old,
Painting fawns' and leopards' fells,
Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells,
Fires gardens with a joyful blaze
Of tulips, in the morning's rays.
The dead log touched bursts into leaf,
The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf.
What god is this imperial Heat,
Earth's prime secret, sculpture's seat?
Doth it bear hidden in its heart
Water-line patterns of all art?
Is it Daedalus? is it Love?
Or walks in mask almighty Jove,
And drops from Power's redundant horn
All seeds of beauty to be born?
Where shall we keep the holiday,
And duly greet the entering May?
Too strait and low our cottage doors,
And all unmeet our carpet floors;
Nor spacious court, nor monarch's hall,
Suffice to hold the festival.
Up and away! where haughty woods
Front the liberated floods:
We will climb the broad-backed hills,
Hear the uproar of their joy;
We will mark the leaps and gleams
Of the new-delivered streams,
And the murmuring rivers of sap
Mount in the pipes of the trees,
Giddy with day, to the topmost spire,
Which for a spike of tender green
Bartered its powdery cap;
And the colors of joy in the bird,
And the love in its carol heard,
Frog and lizard in holiday coats,
And turtle brave in his golden spots;
While cheerful cries of crag and plain
Reply to the thunder of river and main.
As poured the flood of the ancient sea
Spilling over mountain chains,
Bending forests as bends the sedge,
Faster flowing o'er the plains,--
A world-wide wave with a foaming edge
That rims the running silver sheet,--
So pours the deluge of the heat
Broad northward o'er the land,
Painting artless paradises,
Drugging herbs with Syrian spices,
Fanning secret fires which glow
In columbine and clover-blow,
Climbing the northern zones,
Where a thousand pallid towns
Lie like cockles by the main,
Or tented armies on a plain.
The million-handed sculptor moulds
Quaintest bud and blossom folds,
The million-handed painter pours
Opal hues and purple dye;
Azaleas flush the island floors,
And the tints of heaven reply.
Wreaths for the May! for happy Spring
To-day shall all her dowry bring,
The love of kind, the joy, the grace,
Hymen of element and race,
Knowing well to celebrate
With song and hue and star and state,
With tender light and youthful cheer,
The spousals of the new-born year.
Spring is strong and virtuous,
Broad-sowing, cheerful, plenteous,
Quickening underneath the mould
Grains beyond the price of gold.
So deep and large her bounties are,
That one broad, long midsummer day
Shall to the planet overpay
The ravage of a year of war.
Drug the cup, thou butler sweet,
And send the nectar round;
The feet that slid so long on sleet
Are glad to feel the ground.
Fill and saturate each kind
With good according to its mind,
Fill each kind and saturate
With good agreeing with its fate,
And soft perfection of its plan--
Willow and violet, maiden and man.
The bitter-sweet, the haunting air
Creepeth, bloweth everywhere;
It preys on all, all prey on it.
Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,
Stings the strong with enterprise,
Makes travellers long for Indian skies,
And where it comes this courier fleet
Fans in all hearts expectance sweet,
As if to-morrow should redeem
The vanished rose of evening's dream.
By houses lies a fresher green,
On men and maids a ruddier mien,
As if Time brought a new relay
Of shining virgins every May,
And Summer came to ripen maids
To a beauty that not fades.
I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,
Stepping daily onward north
To greet staid ancient cavaliers
Filing single in stately train.
And who, and who are the travellers?
They were Night and Day, and Day and Night,
Pilgrims wight with step forthright.
I saw the Days deformed and low,
Short and bent by cold and snow;
The merry Spring threw wreaths on them,
Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell;
Many a flower and many a gem,
They were refreshed by the smell,
They shook the snow from hats and shoon,
They put their April raiment on;
And those eternal forms,
Unhurt by a thousand storms,
Shot up to the height of the sky again,
And danced as merrily as young men.
I saw them mask their awful glance
Sidewise meek in gossamer lids;
And to speak my thought if none forbids
It was as if the eternal gods,
Tired of their starry periods,
Hid their majesty in cloth
Woven of tulips and painted moth.
On carpets green the maskers march
Below May's well-appointed arch,
Each star, each god; each grace amain,
Every joy and virtue speed,
Marching duly in her train,
And fainting Nature at her need
Is made whole again.
'Twas the vintage-day of field and wood,
When magic wine for bards is brewed;
Every tree and stem and chink
Gushed with syrup to the brink.
The air stole into the streets of towns,
Refreshed the wise, reformed the clowns,
And betrayed the fund of joy
To the high-school and medalled boy:
On from hall to chamber ran,
From youth to maid, from boy to man,
To babes, and to old eyes as well.
'Once more,' the old man cried, 'ye clouds,
Airy turrets purple-piled,
Which once my infancy beguiled,
Beguile me with the wonted spell.
I know ye skilful to convoy
The total freight of hope and joy
Into rude and homely nooks,
Shed mocking lustres on shelf of books,
On farmer's byre, on pasture rude,
And stony pathway to the wood.
I care not if the pomps you show
Be what they soothfast appear,
Or if yon realms in sunset glow
Be bubbles of the atmosphere.
And if it be to you allowed
To fool me with a shining cloud,
So only new griefs are consoled
By new delights, as old by old,
Frankly I will be your guest,
Count your change and cheer the best.
The world hath overmuch of pain,--
If Nature give me joy again,
Of such deceit I'll not complain.'
Ah! well I mind the calendar,
Faithful through a thousand years,
Of the painted race of flowers,
Exact to days, exact to hours,
Counted on the spacious dial
Yon broidered zodiac girds.
I know the trusty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back,
On their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting
Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march,--
Belike the one they used in parting
Last year from yon oak or larch;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd,
Diving, darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,
Or to his niche in the apple-tree.
I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet,
Beloved of children, bards and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring,
Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,
Your manners for the heart's delight,
Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,
Here weave your chamber weather-proof,
Forgive our harms, and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race
Courage and probity and grace!
Poets praise that hidden wine
Hid in milk we drew
At the barrier of Time,
When our life was new.
We had eaten fairy fruit,
We were quick from head to foot,
All the forms we looked on shone
As with diamond dews thereon.
What cared we for costly joys,
The Museum's far-fetched toys?
Gleam of sunshine on the wall
Poured a deeper cheer than all
The revels of the Carnival.
We a pine-grove did prefer
To a marble theatre,
Could with gods on mallows dine,
Nor cared for spices or for wine.
Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned.
Arch on arch, the grimmest land;
Whittle of a woodland bird
Made the pulses dance,
Note of horn in valleys heard
Filled the region with romance.
None can tell how sweet,
How virtuous, the morning air;
Every accent vibrates well;
Not alone the wood-bird's call,
Or shouting boys that chase their ball,
Pass the height of minstrel skill,
But the ploughman's thoughtless cry,
Lowing oxen, sheep that bleat,
And the joiner's hammer-beat,
Softened are above their will,
Take tones from groves they wandered through
Or flutes which passing angels blew.
All grating discords melt,
No dissonant note is dealt,
And though thy voice be shrill
Like rasping file on steel,
Such is the temper of the air,
Echo waits with art and care,
And will the faults of song repair.
So by remote Superior Lake,
And by resounding Mackinac,
When northern storms the forest shake,
And billows on the long beach break,
The artful Air will separate
Note by note all sounds that grate,
Smothering in her ample breast
All but godlike words,
Reporting to the happy ear
Only purified accords.
Strangely wrought from barking waves,
Soft music daunts the Indian braves,--
Convent-chanting which the child
Hears pealing from the panther's cave
And the impenetrable wild.
Soft on the South-wind sleeps the haze:
So on thy broad mystic van
Lie the opal-colored days,
And waft the miracle to man.
Soothsayer of the eldest gods,
Repairer of what harms betide,
Revealer of the inmost powers
Prometheus proffered, Jove denied;
Disclosing treasures more than true,
Or in what far to-morrow due;
Speaking by the tongues of flowers,
By the ten-tongued laurel speaking,
Singing by the oriole songs,
Heart of bird the man's heart seeking;
Whispering hints of treasure hid
Under Morn's unlifted lid,
Islands looming just beyond
The dim horizon's utmost bound;--
Who can, like thee, our rags upbraid,
Or taunt us with our hope decayed?
Or who like thee persuade,
Making the splendor of the air,
The morn and sparkling dew, a snare?
Or who resent
Thy genius, wiles and blandishment?
There is no orator prevails
To beckon or persuade
Like thee the youth or maid:
Thy birds, thy songs, thy brooks, thy gales,
Thy blooms, thy kinds,
Thy echoes in the wilderness,
Soothe pain, and age, and love's distress,
Fire fainting will, and build heroic minds.
For thou, O Spring! canst renovate
All that high God did first create.
Be still his arm and architect,
Rebuild the ruin, mend defect;
Chemist to vamp old worlds with new,
Coat sea and sky with heavenlier blue,
New tint the plumage of the birds,
And slough decay from grazing herds,
Sweep ruins from the scarped mountain,
Cleanse the torrent at the fountain,
Purge alpine air by towns defiled,
Bring to fair mother fairer child,
Not less renew the heart and brain,
Scatter the sloth, wash out the stain,
Make the aged eye sun-clear,
To parting soul bring grandeur near.
Under gentle types, my Spring
Masks the might of Nature's king,
An energy that searches thorough
From Chaos to the dawning morrow;
Into all our human plight,
The soul's pilgrimage and flight;
In city or in solitude,
Step by step, lifts bad to good,
Without halting, without rest,
Lifting Better up to Best;
Planting seeds of knowledge pure,
Through earth to ripen, through heaven endure.
THE ADIRONDACS
A JOURNAL
DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW TRAVELLERS IN AUGUST, 1858
Wise and polite,--and if I drew
Their several portraits, you would own
Chaucer had no such worthy crew,
Nor Boccace in Decameron.
We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends,
Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks
Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach
The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach
We chose our boats; each man a boat and guide,--
Ten men, ten guides, our company all told.
Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac,
With skies of benediction, to Round Lake,
Where all the sacred mountains drew around us,
Tah醱us, Seaward, MacIntyre, Baldhead,
And other Titans without muse or name.
Pleased with these grand companions, we glide on,
Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of hills.
We made our distance wider, boat from boat,
As each would hear the oracle alone.
By the bright morn the gay flotilla slid
Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets,
Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel-flower,
Through scented banks of lilies white and gold,
Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day,
On through the Upper Saranac, and up
P鑢e Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass
Winding through grassy shallows in and out,
Two creeping miles of rushes, pads and sponge,
To Follansbee Water and the Lake of Loons.
Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed,
Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge
Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore.
A pause and council: then, where near the head
Due east a bay makes inward to the land
Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank,
And in the twilight of the forest noon
Wield the first axe these echoes ever heard.
We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts,
Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof,
Then struck a light and kindled the camp-fire.
The wood was sovran with centennial trees,--
Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir,
Linden and spruce. In strict society
Three conifers, white, pitch and Norway pine,
Five-leaved, three-leaved and two-leaved, grew thereby,
Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth,
The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower.
'Welcome!' the wood-god murmured through the leaves,--
'Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known to me.'
Evening drew on; stars peeped through maple-boughs,
Which o'erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire.
Decayed millennial trunks, like moonlight flecks,
Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor.
Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft
In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed,
Lie here on hemlock-boughs, like Sacs and Sioux,
And greet unanimous the joyful change.
So fast will Nature acclimate her sons,
Though late returning to her pristine ways.
Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold;
And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush, as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress
Made them to boys again. Happier that they
Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind,
At the first mounting of the giant stairs.
No placard on these rocks warned to the polls,
No door-bell heralded a visitor,
No courier waits, no letter came or went,
Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or sold;
The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop,
The falling rain will spoil no holiday.
We were made freemen of the forest laws,
All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends,
Essaying nothing she cannot perform.
In Adirondac lakes
At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded:
Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make
His brief toilette: at night, or in the rain,
He dons a surcoat which he doffs at morn:
A paddle in the right hand, or an oar,
And in the left, a gun, his needful arms.
By turns we praised the stature of our guides,
Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill
To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp,
To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs
Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down:
Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount,
And wit to trap or take him in his lair.
Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent,
In winter, lumberers; in summer, guides;
Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired
Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to eve.
Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!
No city airs or arts pass current here.
Your rank is all reversed; let men or cloth
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls:
_They_ are the doctors of the wilderness,
And we the low-prized laymen.
In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test
Which few can put on with impunity.
What make you, master, fumbling at the oar?
Will you catch crabs? Truth tries pretension here.
The sallow knows the basket-maker's thumb;
The oar, the guide's. Dare you accept the tasks
He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes,
Tell the sun's time, determine the true north,
Or stumbling on through vast self-similar woods
To thread by night the nearest way to camp?
Ask you, how went the hours?
All day we swept the lake, searched every cove,
North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay,
Watching when the loud dogs should drive in deer,
Or whipping its rough surface for a trout;
Or, bathers, diving from the rock at noon;
Challenging Echo by our guns and cries;
Or listening to the laughter of the loon;
Or, in the evening twilight's latest red,
Beholding the procession of the pines;
Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack,
In the boat's bows, a silent night-hunter
Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds
Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist.
Hark to that muffled roar! a tree in the woods
Is fallen: but hush! it has not scared the buck
Who stands astonished at the meteor light,
Then turns to bound away,--is it too late?
Our heroes tried their rifles at a mark,
Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five;
Sometimes their wits at sally and retort,
With laughter sudden as the crack of rifle;
Or parties scaled the near acclivities
Competing seekers of a rumored lake,
Whose unauthenticated waves we named
Lake Probability,--our carbuncle,
Long sought, not found.
Two Doctors in the camp
Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout's brain,
Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew,
Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow and moth;
Insatiate skill in water or in air
Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss;
The while, one leaden got of alcohol
Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds.
Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants,
Orchis and gentian, fern and long whip-scirpus,
Rosy polygonum, lake-margin's pride,
Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge and moss,
Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls.
Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed,
The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker
Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp.
As water poured through hollows of the hills
To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets,
So Nature shed all beauty lavishly
From her redundant horn.
Lords of this realm,
Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day
Rounded by hours where each outdid the last
In miracles of pomp, we must be proud,
As if associates of the sylvan gods.
We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac,
So pure the Alpine element we breathed,
So light, so lofty pictures came and went.
We trode on air, contemned the distant town,
Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned
That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge
And how we should come hither with our sons,
Hereafter,--willing they, and more adroit.
Hard fare, hard bed and comic misery,--
The midge, the blue-fly and the mosquito
Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands:
But, on the second day, we heed them not,
Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries,
Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names.
For who defends our leafy tabernacle
From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd,--
Who but the midge, mosquito and the fly,
Which past endurance sting the tender cit,
But which we learn to scatter with a smudge,
Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn?
Our foaming ale we drank from hunters' pans,
Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave
Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread;
All ate like abbots, and, if any missed
Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss
With hunters' appetite and peals of mirth.
And Stillman, our guides' guide, and Commodore,
Crusoe, Crusader, Pius Aeneas, said aloud,
"Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating
Food indigestible":--then murmured some,
Others applauded him who spoke the truth.
Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought
Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday
'Mid all the hints and glories of the home.
For who can tell what sudden privacies
Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry
Of scholars furloughed from their tasks and let
Into this Oreads' fended Paradise,
As chapels in the city's thoroughfares,
Whither gaunt Labor slips to wipe his brow
And meditate a moment on Heaven's rest.
Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke
To each apart, lifting her lovely shows
To spiritual lessons pointed home,
And as through dreams in watches of the night,
So through all creatures in their form and ways
Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant,
Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense
Inviting to new knowledge, one with old.
Hark to that petulant chirp! what ails the warbler?
Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye.
Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird,
Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light,
Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky?
And presently the sky is changed; O world!
What pictures and what harmonies are thine!
The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene,
So like the soul of me, what if 't were me?
A melancholy better than all mirth.
Comes the sweet sadness at the retrospect,
Or at the foresight of obscurer years?
Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory
Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty
Superior to all its gaudy skirts.
And, that no day of life may lack romance,
The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down
A private beam into each several heart.
Daily the bending skies solicit man,
The seasons chariot him from this exile,
The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair,
The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along,
Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights
Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home.
With a vermilion pencil mark the day
When of our little fleet three cruising skiffs
Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls
Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront
Two of our mates returning with swift oars.
One held a printed journal waving high
Caught from a late-arriving traveller,
Big with great news, and shouted the report
For which the world had waited, now firm fact,
Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea,
And landed on our coast, and pulsating
With ductile fire. Loud, exulting cries
From boat to boat, and to the echoes round,
Greet the glad miracle. Thought's new-found path
Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways,
Match God's equator with a zone of art,
And lift man's public action to a height
Worthy the enormous cloud of witnesses,
When link鑔 hemispheres attest his deed.
We have few moments in the longest life
Of such delight and wonder as there grew,--
Nor yet unsuited to that solitude:
A burst of joy, as if we told the fact
To ears intelligent; as if gray rock
And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know
This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind;
As if we men were talking in a vein
Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs,
And a prime end of the most subtle element
Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing caves!
Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops,
Let them hear well! 'tis theirs as much as ours.
A spasm throbbing through the pedestals
Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent,
Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill
To be a brain, or serve the brain of man.
The lightning has run masterless too long;
He must to school and learn his verb and noun
And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage,
Spelling with guided tongue man's messages
Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea.
And yet I marked, even in the manly joy
Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat
(Perchance I erred), a shade of discontent;
Or was it for mankind a generous shame,
As of a luck not quite legitimate,
Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part?
Was it a college pique of town and gown,
As one within whose memory it burned
That not academicians, but some lout,
Found ten years since the Californian gold?
And now, again, a hungry company
Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade,
Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools
Of science, not from the philosophers,
Had won the brightest laurel of all time.
'Twas always thus, and will be; hand and head
Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift,
The other slow,--this the Prometheus,
And that the Jove,--yet, howsoever hid,
It was from Jove the other stole his fire,
And, without Jove, the good had never been.
It is not Iroquois or cannibals,
But ever the free race with front sublime,
And these instructed by their wisest too,
Who do the feat, and lift humanity.
Let not him mourn who best entitled was,
Nay, mourn not one: let him exult,
Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant,
And water it with wine, nor watch askance
Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit:
Enough that mankind eat and are refreshed.
We flee away from cities, but we bring
The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers,
Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of experts.
We praise the guide, we praise the forest life:
But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore
Of books and arts and trained experiment,
Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz?
O no, not we! Witness the shout that shook
Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail
The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge
Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears
From a log cabin stream Beethoven's notes
On the piano, played with master's hand.
'Well done!' he cries; 'the bear is kept at bay,
The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire;
All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold,
This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall,
This wild plantation will suffice to chase.
Now speed the gay celerities of art,
What in the desert was impossible
Within four walls is possible again,--
Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill,
Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife
Of keen competing youths, joined or alone
To outdo each other and extort applause.
Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep.
Twirl the old wheels! Time takes fresh start again,
On for a thousand years of genius more.'
The holidays were fruitful, but must end;
One August evening had a cooler breath;
Into each mind intruding duties crept;
Under the cinders burned the fires of home;
Nay, letters found us in our paradise:
So in the gladness of the new event
We struck our camp and left the happy hills.
The fortunate star that rose on us sank not;
The prodigal sunshine rested on the land,
The rivers gambolled onward to the sea,
And Nature, the inscrutable and mute,
Permitted on her infinite repose
Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons,
As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed.
BRAHMA
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
NEMESIS
Already blushes on thy cheek
The bosom thought which thou must speak;
The bird, how far it haply roam
By cloud or isle, is flying home;
The maiden fears, and fearing runs
Into the charmed snare she shuns;
And every man, in love or pride,
Of his fate is never wide.
Will a woman's fan the ocean smooth?
Or prayers the stony Parcae soothe,
Or coax the thunder from its mark?
Or tapers light the chaos dark?
In spite of Virtue and the Muse,
Nemesis will have her dues,
And all our struggles and our toils
Tighter wind the giant coils.
FATE
Deep in the man sits fast his fate
To mould his fortunes, mean or great:
Unknown to Cromwell as to me
Was Cromwell's measure or degree;
Unknown to him as to his horse,
If he than his groom be better or worse.
He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,
With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
Broad England harbored not his peer:
Obeying time, the last to own
The Genius from its cloudy throne.
For the prevision is allied
Unto the thing so signified;
Or say, the foresight that awaits
Is the same Genius that creates.
FREEDOM
Once I wished I might rehearse
Freedom's paean in my verse,
That the slave who caught the strain
Should throb until he snapped his chain,
But the Spirit said, 'Not so;
Speak it not, or speak it low;
Name not lightly to be said,
Gift too precious to be prayed,
Passion not to be expressed
But by heaving of the breast:
Yet,--wouldst thou the mountain find
Where this deity is shrined,
Who gives to seas and sunset skies
Their unspent beauty of surprise,
And, when it lists him, waken can
Brute or savage into man;
Or, if in thy heart he shine,
Blends the starry fates with thine,
Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee,
And makes thy thoughts archangels be;
Freedom's secret wilt thou know?--
Counsel not with flesh and blood;
Loiter not for cloak or food;
Right thou feelest, rush to do.'
ODE
SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, JULY 4, 1857
O tenderly the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;
One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.
The cannon booms from town to town,
Our pulses beat not less,
The joy-bells chime their tidings down,
Which children's voices bless.
For He that flung the broad blue fold
O'er-mantling land and sea,
One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.
The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,--
To take the statute from the mind
And make of duty fate.
United States! the ages plead,--
Present and Past in under-song,--
Go put your creed into your deed,
Nor speak with double tongue.
For sea and land don't understand,
Nor skies without a frown
See rights for which the one hand fights
By the other cloven down.
Be just at home; then write your scroll
Of honor o'er the sea,
And bid the broad Atlantic roll,
A ferry of the free.
And henceforth there shall be no chain,
Save underneath the sea
The wires shall murmur through the main
Sweet songs of liberty.
The conscious stars accord above,
The waters wild below,
And under, through the cable wove,
Her fiery errands go.
For He that worketh high and wise.
Nor pauses in his plan,
Will take the sun out of the skies
Ere freedom out of man.
BOSTON HYMN
READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863
The word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.
God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.
Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?
My angel,--his name is Freedom,--
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west
And fend you with his wing.
Lo! I uncover the land
Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers the statue
When he has wrought his best;
I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds and the boreal fleece.
I will divide my goods;
Call in the wretch and slave:
None shall rule but the humble.
And none but Toil shall have.
I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great;
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a state.
Go, cut down trees in the forest
And trim the straightest boughs;
Cut down trees in the forest
And build me a wooden house.
Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling and him that hires;
And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule
In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.
Lo, now! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.
And ye shall succor men;
'Tis nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again:
Beware from right to swerve.
I break your bonds and masterships,
And I unchain the slave:
Free be his heart and hand henceforth
As wind and wandering wave.
I cause from every creature
His proper good to flow:
As much as he is and doeth,
So much he shall bestow.
But, laying hands on another
To coin his labor and sweat,
He goes in pawn to his victim
For eternal years in debt.
To-day unbind the captive,
So only are ye unbound;
Lift up a people from the dust,
Trump of their rescue, sound!
Pay ransom to the owner
And fill the bag to the brim.
Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
And ever was. Pay him.
O North! give him beauty for rags,
And honor, O South! for his shame;
Nevada! coin thy golden crags
With Freedom's image and name.
Up! and the dusky race
That sat in darkness long,--
Be swift their feet as antelopes.
And as behemoth strong.
Come, East and West and North,
By races, as snow-flakes,
And carry my purpose forth,
Which neither halts nor shakes.
My will fulfilled shall be,
For, in daylight or in dark,
My thunderbolt has eyes to see
His way home to the mark.
VOLUNTARIES
I
Low and mournful be the strain,
Haughty thought be far from me;
Tones of penitence and pain,
Meanings of the tropic sea;
Low and tender in the cell
Where a captive sits in chains.
Crooning ditties treasured well
From his Afric's torrid plains.
Sole estate his sire bequeathed,--
Hapless sire to hapless son,--
Was the wailing song he breathed,
And his chain when life was done.
What his fault, or what his crime?
Or what ill planet crossed his prime?
Heart too soft and will too weak
To front the fate that crouches near,--
Dove beneath the vulture's beak;--
Will song dissuade the thirsty spear?
Dragged from his mother's arms and breast,
Displaced, disfurnished here,
His wistful toil to do his best
Chilled by a ribald jeer.
Great men in the Senate sate,
Sage and hero, side by side,
Building for their sons the State,
Which they shall rule with pride.
They forbore to break the chain
Which bound the dusky tribe,
Checked by the owners' fierce disdain,
Lured by 'Union' as the bribe.
Destiny sat by, and said,
'Pang for pang your seed shall pay,
Hide in false peace your coward head,
I bring round the harvest day.'
II
Freedom all winged expands,
Nor perches in a narrow place;
Her broad van seeks unplanted lands;
She loves a poor and virtuous race.
Clinging to a colder zone
Whose dark sky sheds the snowflake down,
The snowflake is her banner's star,
Her stripes the boreal streamers are.
Long she loved the Northman well;
Now the iron age is done,
She will not refuse to dwell
With the offspring of the Sun;
Foundling of the desert far,
Where palms plume, siroccos blaze,
He roves unhurt the burning ways
In climates of the summer star.
He has avenues to God
Hid from men of Northern brain,
Far beholding, without cloud,
What these with slowest steps attain.
If once the generous chief arrive
To lead him willing to be led,
For freedom he will strike and strive,
And drain his heart till he be dead.
III
In an age of fops and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys
To hazard all in Freedom's fight,--
Break sharply off their jolly games,
Forsake their comrades gay
And quit proud homes and youthful dames
For famine, toil and fray?
Yet on the nimble air benign
Speed nimbler messages,
That waft the breath of grace divine
To hearts in sloth and ease.
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, _Thou must_,
The youth replies, _I can_.
IV
O, well for the fortunate soul
Which Music's wings infold,
Stealing away the memory
Of sorrows new and old!
Yet happier he whose inward sight,
Stayed on his subtile thought,
Shuts his sense on toys of time,
To vacant bosoms brought.
But best befriended of the God
He who, in evil times,
Warned by an inward voice,
Heeds not the darkness and the dread,
Biding by his rule and choice,
Feeling only the fiery thread
Leading over heroic ground,
Walled with mortal terror round,
To the aim which him allures,
And the sweet heaven his deed secures.
Peril around, all else appalling,
Cannon in front and leaden rain
Him duty through the clarion calling
To the van called not in vain.
Stainless soldier on the walls,
Knowing this,--and knows no more,--
Whoever fights, whoever falls,
Justice conquers evermore,
Justice after as before,--
And he who battles on her side,
God, though he were ten times slain,
Crowns him victor glorified,
Victor over death and pain.
V
Blooms the laurel which belongs
To the valiant chief who fights;
I see the wreath, I hear the songs
Lauding the Eternal Rights,
Victors over daily wrongs:
Awful victors, they misguide
Whom they will destroy,
And their coming triumph hide
In our downfall, or our joy:
They reach no term, they never sleep,
In equal strength through space abide;
Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep,
The strong they slay, the swift outstride:
Fate's grass grows rank in valley clods,
And rankly on the castled steep,--
Speak it firmly, these are gods,
All are ghosts beside.
LOVE AND THOUGHT
Two well-assorted travellers use
The highway, Eros and the Muse.
From the twins is nothing hidden,
To the pair is nought forbidden;
Hand in hand the comrades go
Every nook of Nature through:
Each for other they were born,
Each can other best adorn;
They know one only mortal grief
Past all balsam or relief;
When, by false companions crossed,
The pilgrims have each other lost.
UNA
Roving, roving, as it seems,
Una lights my clouded dreams;
Still for journeys she is dressed;
We wander far by east and west.
In the homestead, homely thought,
At my work I ramble not;
If from home chance draw me wide,
Half-seen Una sits beside.
In my house and garden-plot,
Though beloved, I miss her not;
But one I seek in foreign places,
One face explore in foreign faces.
At home a deeper thought may light
The inward sky with chrysolite,
And I greet from far the ray,
Aurora of a dearer day.
But if upon the seas I sail,
Or trundle on the glowing rail,
I am but a thought of hers,
Loveliest of travellers.
So the gentle poet's name
To foreign parts is blown by fame,
Seek him in his native town,
He is hidden and unknown.
BOSTON
SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS
The rocky nook with hilltops three
Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.
And where they went on trade intent
They did what freemen can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
'Like us be free and bold!'
The honest waves refused to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.
Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;--
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;--
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights, and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall,
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsman we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union never more again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride,
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast,
Penn's town, New York and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said, 'Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay!'
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
'For you,' they said, 'no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the west.'
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne;
'You are thriving well,' said he;
'Now by these presents be it known
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'Tis very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call.
'Not so,' said Boston, 'good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your Highness knows our homely word)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent.'
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same,
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wits of all her wisest,
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
GOD WITH THE FATHERS, SO WITH US,
Thou darling town of ours!
LETTERS
Every day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear.
Looking seaward, well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.
RUBIES
They brought me rubies from the mine,
And held them to the sun;
I said, they are drops of frozen wine
From Eden's vats that run.
I looked again,--I thought them hearts
Of friends to friends unknown;
Tides that should warm each neighboring life
Are locked in sparkling stone.
But fire to thaw that ruddy snow,
To break enchanted ice,
And give love's scarlet tides to flow,--
When shall that sun arise?
MERLIN'S SONG
I
Of Merlin wise I learned a song,--
Sing it low or sing it loud,
It is mightier than the strong,
And punishes the proud.
I sing it to the surging crowd,--
Good men it will calm and cheer,
Bad men it will chain and cage--
In the heart of the music peals a strain
Which only angels hear;
Whether it waken joy or rage
Hushed myriads hark in vain,
Yet they who hear it shed their age,
And take their youth again.
II
Hear what British Merlin sung,
Of keenest eye and truest tongue.
Say not, the chiefs who first arrive
Usurp the seats for which all strive;
The forefathers this land who found
Failed to plant the vantage-ground;
Ever from one who comes to-morrow
Men wait their good and truth to borrow.
But wilt thou measure all thy road,
See thou lift the lightest load.
Who has little, to him who has less, can spare,
And thou, Cyndyllan's son! beware
Ponderous gold and stuffs to bear,
To falter ere thou thy task fulfil,--
Only the light-armed climb the hill.
The richest of all lords is Use,
And ruddy Health the loftiest Muse.
Live in the sunshine, swim the sea,
Drink the wild air's salubrity:
When the star Canope shines in May,
Shepherds are thankful and nations gay.
The music that can deepest reach,
And cure all ill, is cordial speech:
Mask thy wisdom with delight,
Toy with the bow, yet hit the white.
Of all wit's uses, the main one
Is to live well with who has none.
THE TEST
(Musa loquitur.)
I hung my verses in the wind,
Time and tide their faults may find.
All were winnowed through and through,
Five lines lasted sound and true;
Five were smelted in a pot
Than the South more fierce and hot;
These the siroc could not melt,
Fire their fiercer flaming felt,
And the meaning was more white
Than July's meridian light.
Sunshine cannot bleach the snow,
Nor time unmake what poets know.
Have you eyes to find the five
Which five hundred did survive?
SOLUTION
I am the Muse who sung alway
By Jove, at dawn of the first day.
Star-crowned, sole-sitting, long I wrought
To fire the stagnant earth with thought:
On spawning slime my song prevails,
Wolves shed their fangs, and dragons scales;
Flushed in the sky the sweet May-morn,
Earth smiled with flowers, and man was born.
Then Asia yeaned her shepherd race,
And Nile substructs her granite base,--
Tented Tartary, columned Nile,--
And, under vines, on rocky isle,
Or on wind-blown sea-marge bleak,
Forward stepped the perfect Greek:
That wit and joy might find a tongue,
And earth grow civil, HOMER sung.
Flown to Italy from Greece,
I brooded long and held my peace,
For I am wont to sing uncalled,
And in days of evil plight
Unlock doors of new delight;
And sometimes mankind I appalled
With a bitter horoscope,
With spasms of terror for balm of hope.
Then by better thought I lead
Bards to speak what nations need;
So I folded me in fears,
And DANTE searched the triple spheres,
Moulding Nature at his will,
So shaped, so colored, swift or still,
And, sculptor-like, his large design
Etched on Alp and Apennine.
Seethed in mists of Penmanmaur,
Taught by Plinlimmon's Druid power,
England's genius filled all measure
Of heart and soul, of strength and pleasure,
Gave to the mind its emperor,
And life was larger than before:
Nor sequent centuries could hit
Orbit and sum of SHAKSPEARE'S wit.
The men who lived with him became
Poets, for the air was fame.
Far in the North, where polar night
Holds in check the frolic light,
In trance upborne past mortal goal
The Swede EMANUEL leads the soul.
Through snows above, mines underground,
The inks of Erebus he found;
Rehearsed to men the damned wails
On which the seraph music sails.
In spirit-worlds he trod alone,
But walked the earth unmarked, unknown,
The near bystander caught no sound,--
Yet they who listened far aloof
Heard rendings of the skyey roof,
And felt, beneath, the quaking ground;
And his air-sown, unheeded words,
In the next age, are flaming swords.
In newer days of war and trade,
Romance forgot, and faith decayed,
When Science armed and guided war,
And clerks the Janus-gates unbar,
When France, where poet never grew,
Halved and dealt the globe anew,
GOETHE, raised o'er joy and strife,
Drew the firm lines of Fate and Life
And brought Olympian wisdom down
To court and mart, to gown and town.
Stooping, his finger wrote in clay
The open secret of to-day.
So bloom the unfading petals five,
And verses that all verse outlive.
HYMN
SUNG AT THE SECOND CHURCH, AT THE ORDINATION
OF REV. CHANDLER ROBBINS
We love the venerable house
Our fathers built to God;--
In heaven are kept their grateful vows,
Their dust endears the sod.
Here holy thoughts a light have shed
From many a radiant face,
And prayers of humble virtue made
The perfume of the place.
And anxious hearts have pondered here
The mystery of life,
And prayed the eternal Light to clear
Their doubts, and aid their strife.
From humble tenements around
Came up the pensive train,
And in the church a blessing found
That filled their homes again;
For faith and peace and mighty love
That from the Godhead flow,
Showed them the life of Heaven above
Springs from the life below.
They live with God; their homes are dust;
Yet here their children pray,
And in this fleeting lifetime trust
To find the narrow way.
On him who by the altar stands,
On him thy blessing fall,
Speak through his lips thy pure commands,
Thou heart that lovest all.
NATURE I
Winters know
Easily to shed the snow,
And the untaught Spring is wise
In cowslips and anemonies.
Nature, hating art and pains,
Baulks and baffles plotting brains;
Casualty and Surprise
Are the apples of her eyes;
But she dearly loves the poor,
And, by marvel of her own,
Strikes the loud pretender down.
For Nature listens in the rose
And hearkens in the berry's bell
To help her friends, to plague her foes,
And like wise God she judges well.
Yet doth much her love excel
To the souls that never fell,
To swains that live in happiness
And do well because they please,
Who walk in ways that are unfamed,
And feats achieve before they're named.
NATURE II
She is gamesome and good,
But of mutable mood,--
No dreary repeater now and again,
She will be all things to all men.
She who is old, but nowise feeble,
Pours her power into the people,
Merry and manifold without bar,
Makes and moulds them what they are,
And what they call their city way
Is not their way, but hers,
And what they say they made to-day,
They learned of the oaks and firs.
She spawneth men as mallows fresh,
Hero and maiden, flesh of her flesh;
She drugs her water and her wheat
With the flavors she finds meet,
And gives them what to drink and eat;
And having thus their bread and growth,
They do her bidding, nothing loath.
What's most theirs is not their own,
But borrowed in atoms from iron and stone,
And in their vaunted works of Art
The master-stroke is still her part.
THE ROMANY GIRL
The sun goes down, and with him takes
The coarseness of my poor attire;
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.
Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race;
You captives of your air-tight halls,
Wear out indoors your sickly days,
But leave us the horizon walls.
And if I take you, dames, to task,
And say it frankly without guile,
Then you are Gypsies in a mask,
And I the lady all the while.
If on the heath, below the moon,
I court and play with paler blood,
Me false to mine dare whisper none,--
One sallow horseman knows me good.
Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain,
For teeth and hair with shopmen deal;
My swarthy tint is in the grain,
The rocks and forest know it real.
The wild air bloweth in our lungs,
The keen stars twinkle in our eyes,
The birds gave us our wily tongues,
The panther in our dances flies.
You doubt we read the stars on high,
Nathless we read your fortunes true;
The stars may hide in the upper sky,
But without glass we fathom you.
DAYS
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
MY GARDEN
If I could put my woods in song
And tell what's there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.
In my plot no tulips blow,--
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
And rank the savage maples grow
From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red.
My garden is a forest ledge
Which older forests bound;
The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
Then plunge to depths profound.
Here once the Deluge ploughed,
Laid the terraces, one by one;
Ebbing later whence it flowed,
They bleach and dry in the sun.
The sowers made haste to depart,--
The wind and the birds which sowed it;
Not for fame, nor by rules of art,
Planted these, and tempests flowed it.
Waters that wash my garden-side
Play not in Nature's lawful web,
They heed not moon or solar tide,--
Five years elapse from flood to ebb.
Hither hasted, in old time, Jove,
And every god,--none did refuse;
And be sure at last came Love,
And after Love, the Muse.
Keen ears can catch a syllable,
As if one spake to another,
In the hemlocks tall, untamable,
And what the whispering grasses smother.
Aeolian harps in the pine
Ring with the song of the Fates;
Infant Bacchus in the vine,--
Far distant yet his chorus waits.
Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,
Write in a book the morning's prime,
Or match with words that tender sky?
Wonderful verse of the gods,
Of one import, of varied tone;
They chant the bliss of their abodes
To man imprisoned in his own.
Ever the words of the gods resound;
But the porches of man's ear
Seldom in this low life's round
Are unsealed that he may hear.
Wandering voices in the air
And murmurs in the wold
Speak what I cannot declare,
Yet cannot all withhold.
When the shadow fell on the lake,
The whirlwind in ripples wrote
Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
And omens above thought.
But the meanings cleave to the lake,
Cannot be carried in book or urn;
Go thy ways now, come later back,
On waves and hedges still they burn.
These the fates of men forecast,
Of better men than live to-day;
If who can read them comes at last
He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'
THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT
Day! hast thou two faces,
Making one place two places?
One, by humble farmer seen,
Chill and wet, unlighted, mean,
Useful only, triste and damp,
Serving for a laborer's lamp?
Have the same mists another side,
To be the appanage of pride,
Gracing the rich man's wood and lake,
His park where amber mornings break,
And treacherously bright to show
His planted isle where roses glow?
O Day! and is your mightiness
A sycophant to smug success?
Will the sweet sky and ocean broad
Be fine accomplices to fraud?
O Sun! I curse thy cruel ray:
Back, back to chaos, harlot Day!
THE TITMOUSE
You shall not be overbold
When you deal with arctic cold,
As late I found my lukewarm blood
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.
How should I fight? my foeman fine
Has million arms to one of mine:
East, west, for aid I looked in vain,
East, west, north, south, are his domain.
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;
Must borrow his winds who there would come.
Up and away for life! be fleet!--
The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,
Curdles the blood to the marble bones,
Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,
And hems in life with narrowing fence.
Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,--
The punctual stars will vigil keep,--
Embalmed by purifying cold;
The winds shall sing their dead-march old,
The snow is no ignoble shroud,
The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.
Softly,--but this way fate was pointing,
'T was coming fast to such anointing,
When piped a tiny voice hard by,
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,
_Chic-chic-a-dee-de!_ saucy note
Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, 'Good day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces.'
This poet, though he live apart,
Moved by his hospitable heart,
Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
To do the honors of his court,
As fits a feathered lord of land;
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
Prints his small impress on the snow,
Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
Head downward, clinging to the spray.
Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death;
This scrap of valor just for play
Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,
As if to shame my weak behavior;
I greeted loud my little savior,
'You pet! what dost here? and what for?
In these woods, thy small Labrador,
At this pinch, wee San Salvador!
What fire burns in that little chest
So frolic, stout and self-possest?
Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;
Ashes and jet all hues outshine.
Why are not diamonds black and gray,
To ape thy dare-devil array?
And I affirm, the spacious North
Exists to draw thy virtue forth.
I think no virtue goes with size;
The reason of all cowardice
Is, that men are overgrown,
And, to be valiant, must come down
To the titmouse dimension.'
'T is good will makes intelligence,
And I began to catch the sense
Of my bird's song: 'Live out of doors
In the great woods, on prairie floors.
I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,
I too have a hole in a hollow tree;
And I like less when Summer beats
With stifling beams on these retreats,
Than noontide twilights which snow makes
With tempest of the blinding flakes.
For well the soul, if stout within,
Can arm impregnably the skin;
And polar frost my frame defied,
Made of the air that blows outside.'
With glad remembrance of my debt,
I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!
When here again thy pilgrim comes,
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed;
The Providence that is most large
Takes hearts like thine in special charge,
Helps who for their own need are strong,
And the sky doats on cheerful song.
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant
O'er all that mass and minster vaunt;
For men mis-hear thy call in Spring,
As 't would accost some frivolous wing,
Crying out of the hazel copse, _Phe-be!_
And, in winter, _Chic-a-dee-dee!_
I think old Caesar must have heard
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
And, echoed in some frosty wold,
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.
And I will write our annals new,
And thank thee for a better clew,
I, who dreamed not when I came here
To find the antidote of fear,
Now hear thee say in Roman key,
_Paean! Veni, vidi, vici._
THE HARP
One musician is sure,
His wisdom will not fail,
He has not tasted wine impure,
Nor bent to passion frail.
Age cannot cloud his memory,
Nor grief untune his voice,
Ranging down the ruled scale
From tone of joy to inward wail,
Tempering the pitch of all
In his windy cave.
He all the fables knows,
And in their causes tells,--
Knows Nature's rarest moods,
Ever on her secret broods.
The Muse of men is coy,
Oft courted will not come;
In palaces and market squares
Entreated, she is dumb;
But my minstrel knows and tells
The counsel of the gods,
Knows of Holy Book the spells,
Knows the law of Night and Day,
And the heart of girl and boy,
The tragic and the gay,
And what is writ on Table Round
Of Arthur and his peers;
What sea and land discoursing say
In sidereal years.
He renders all his lore
In numbers wild as dreams,
Modulating all extremes,--
What the spangled meadow saith
To the children who have faith;
Only to children children sing,
Only to youth will spring be spring.
Who is the Bard thus magnified?
When did he sing? and where abide?
Chief of song where poets feast
Is the wind-harp which thou seest
In the casement at my side.
Aeolian harp,
How strangely wise thy strain!
Gay for youth, gay for youth,
(Sweet is art, but sweeter truth,)
In the hall at summer eve
Fate and Beauty skilled to weave.
From the eager opening strings
Rung loud and bold the song.
Who but loved the wind-harp's note?
How should not the poet doat
On its mystic tongue,
With its primeval memory,
Reporting what old minstrels told
Of Merlin locked the harp within,--
Merlin paying the pain of sin,
Pent in a dungeon made of air,--
And some attain his voice to hear,
Words of pain and cries of fear,
But pillowed all on melody,
As fits the griefs of bards to be.
And what if that all-echoing shell,
Which thus the buried Past can tell,
Should rive the Future, and reveal
What his dread folds would fain conceal?
It shares the secret of the earth,
And of the kinds that owe her birth.
Speaks not of self that mystic tone,
But of the Overgods alone:
It trembles to the cosmic breath,--
As it heareth, so it saith;
Obeying meek the primal Cause,
It is the tongue of mundane laws.
And this, at least, I dare affirm,
Since genius too has bound and term,
There is no bard in all the choir,
Not Homer's self, the poet sire,
Wise Milton's odes of pensive pleasure,
Or Shakspeare, whom no mind can measure,
Nor Collins' verse of tender pain,
Nor Byron's clarion of disdain,
Scott, the delight of generous boys,
Or Wordsworth, Pan's recording voice,--
Not one of all can put in verse,
Or to this presence could rehearse
The sights and voices ravishing
The boy knew on the hills in spring,
When pacing through the oaks he heard
Sharp queries of the sentry-bird,
The heavy grouse's sudden whir,
The rattle of the kingfisher;
Saw bonfires of the harlot flies
In the lowland, when day dies;
Or marked, benighted and forlorn,
The first far signal-fire of morn.
These syllables that Nature spoke,
And the thoughts that in him woke,
Can adequately utter none
Save to his ear the wind-harp lone.
Therein I hear the Parcae reel
The threads of man at their humming wheel,
The threads of life and power and pain,
So sweet and mournful falls the strain.
And best can teach its Delphian chord
How Nature to the soul is moored,
If once again that silent string,
As erst it wont, would thrill and ring.
Not long ago at eventide,
It seemed, so listening, at my side
A window rose, and, to say sooth,
I looked forth on the fields of youth:
I saw fair boys bestriding steeds,
I knew their forms in fancy weeds,
Long, long concealed by sundering fates,
Mates of my youth,--yet not my mates,
Stronger and bolder far than I,
With grace, with genius, well attired,
And then as now from far admired,
Followed with love
They knew not of,
With passion cold and shy.
O joy, for what recoveries rare!
Renewed, I breathe Elysian air,
See youth's glad mates in earliest bloom,--
Break not my dream, obtrusive tomb!
Or teach thou, Spring! the grand recoil
Of life resurgent from the soil
Wherein was dropped the mortal spoil.
SEASHORE
I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea
Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come?
Am I not always here, thy summer home?
Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve?
My breath thy healthful climate in the heats,
My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath?
Was ever building like my terraces?
Was ever couch magnificent as mine?
Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there learn
A little hut suffices like a town.
I make your sculptured architecture vain,
Vain beside mine. I drive my wedges home,
And carve the coastwise mountain into caves.
Lo! here is Rome and Nineveh and Thebes,
Karnak and Pyramid and Giant's Stairs
Half piled or prostrate; and my newest slab
Older than all thy race.
Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.
Rich are the sea-gods:--who gives gifts but they?
They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls:
They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise.
For every wave is wealth to Daedalus,
Wealth to the cunning artist who can work
This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O waves!
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?
I with my hammer pounding evermore
The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust,
Strewing my bed, and, in another age,
Rebuild a continent of better men.
Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out
The exodus of nations: I disperse
Men to all shores that front the hoary main.
I too have arts and sorceries;
Illusion dwells forever with the wave.
I know what spells are laid. Leave me to deal
With credulous and imaginative man;
For, though he scoop my water in his palm,
A few rods off he deems it gems and clouds.
Planting strange fruits and sunshine on the shore,
I make some coast alluring, some lone isle,
To distant men, who must go there, or die.
SONG OF NATURE
Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.
I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.
No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;
And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.
And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.
I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;
What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.
Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.
But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.
My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.
Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?
Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;
I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?
I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.
Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.
One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.
I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.
Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.
TWO RIVERS
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain;
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain.
Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes
Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows.
I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the stream
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.
Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.
So forth and brighter fares my stream,--
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness stains its equal gleam.
And ages drop in it like rain.
WALDEINSAMKEIT
I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
Like God it useth me.
In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,
Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky;
Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.
Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic care derides,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.
There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.
Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns.
The black ducks mounting from the lake,
The pigeon in the pines,
The bittern's boom, a desert make
Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook,
Where bearded mists divide,
The gray old gods whom Chaos knew,
The sires of Nature, hide.
Aloft, in secret veins of air,
Blows the sweet breath of song,
O, few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong!
See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.
Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.
TERMINUS
It is time to be old,
To take in sail:--
The god of bounds,
Who sets to seas a shore,
Came to me in his fatal rounds,
And said: 'No more!
No farther shoot
Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root.
Fancy departs: no more invent;
Contract thy firmament
To compass of a tent.
There's not enough for this and that,
Make thy option which of two;
Economize the failing river,
Not the less revere the Giver,
Leave the many and hold the few.
Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary foot;
A little while
Still plan and smile,
And,--fault of novel germs,--
Mature the unfallen fruit.
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath
The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,--
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.'
As the bird trims her to the gale,
I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:
'Lowly faithful, banish fear,
Right onward drive unharmed;
The port, well worth the cruise, is near,
And every wave is charmed.'
THE NUN'S ASPIRATION
The yesterday doth never smile,
The day goes drudging through the while,
Yet, in the name of Godhead, I
The morrow front, and can defy;
Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed,
Cannot withhold his conquering aid.
Ah me! it was my childhood's thought,
If He should make my web a blot
On life's fair picture of delight,
My heart's content would find it right.
But O, these waves and leaves,--
When happy stoic Nature grieves,
No human speech so beautiful
As their murmurs mine to lull.
On this altar God hath built
I lay my vanity and guilt;
Nor me can Hope or Passion urge
Hearing as now the lofty dirge
Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn,
Nature's funeral high and dim,--
Sable pageantry of clouds,
Mourning summer laid in shrouds.
Many a day shall dawn and die,
Many an angel wander by,
And passing, light my sunken turf
Moist perhaps by ocean surf,
Forgotten amid splendid tombs,
Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms.
On earth I dream;--I die to be:
Time, shake not thy bald head at me.
I challenge thee to hurry past
Or for my turn to fly too fast.
Think me not numbed or halt with age,
Or cares that earth to earth engage,
Caught with love's cord of twisted beams,
Or mired by climate's gross extremes.
I tire of shams, I rush to be:
I pass with yonder comet free,--
Pass with the comet into space
Which mocks thy aeons to embrace;
Aeons which tardily unfold
Realm beyond realm,--extent untold;
No early morn, no evening late,--
Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate,
Whose shining sons, too great for fame,
Never heard thy weary name;
Nor lives the tragic bard to say
How drear the part I held in one,
How lame the other limped away.
APRIL
The April winds are magical
And thrill our tuneful frames;
The garden walks are passional
To bachelors and dames.
The hedge is gemmed with diamonds,
The air with Cupids full,
The cobweb clues of Rosamond
Guide lovers to the pool.
Each dimple in the water,
Each leaf that shades the rock
Can cozen, pique and flatter,
Can parley and provoke.
Goodfellow, Puck and goblins,
Know more than any book.
Down with your doleful problems,
And court the sunny brook.
The south-winds are quick-witted,
The schools are sad and slow,
The masters quite omitted
The lore we care to know.
MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP
Soft and softlier hold me, friends!
Thanks if your genial care
Unbind and give me to the air.
Keep your lips or finger-tips
For flute or spinet's dancing chips;
I await a tenderer touch,
I ask more or not so much:
Give me to the atmosphere,--
Where is the wind, my brother,--where?
Lift the sash, lay me within,
Lend me your ears, and I begin.
For gentle harp to gentle hearts
The secret of the world imparts;
And not to-day and not to-morrow
Can drain its wealth of hope and sorrow;
But day by day, to loving ear
Unlocks new sense and loftier cheer.
I've come to live with you, sweet friends,
This home my minstrel-journeyings ends.
Many and subtle are my lays,
The latest better than the first,
For I can mend the happiest days
And charm the anguish of the worst.
CUPIDO
The solid, solid universe
Is pervious to Love;
With bandaged eyes he never errs,
Around, below, above.
His blinding light
He flingeth white
On God's and Satan's brood,
And reconciles
By mystic wiles
The evil and the good.
THE PAST
The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed.
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can re雗ter there,--
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink, or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked,
_Insert_ a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend eternal Fact.
THE LAST FAREWELL
LINES WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR'S BROTHER,
EDWARD BLISS EMERSON, WHILST SAILING OUT
OF BOSTON HARBOR, BOUND FOR THE ISLAND OF
PORTO RICO, IN 1832
Farewell, ye lofty spires
That cheered the holy light!
Farewell, domestic fires
That broke the gloom of night!
Too soon those spires are lost,
Too fast we leave the bay,
Too soon by ocean tost
From hearth and home away,
Far away, far away.
Farewell the busy town,
The wealthy and the wise,
Kind smile and honest frown
From bright, familiar eyes.
All these are fading now;
Our brig hastes on her way,
Her unremembering prow
Is leaping o'er the sea,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, my mother fond,
Too kind, too good to me;
Nor pearl nor diamond
Would pay my debt to thee.
But even thy kiss denies
Upon my cheek to stay;
The winged vessel flies,
And billows round her play,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, my brothers true,
My betters, yet my peers;
How desert without you
My few and evil years!
But though aye one in heart,
Together sad or gay,
Rude ocean doth us part;
We separate to-day,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, thou fairest one,
Unplighted yet to me,
Uncertain of thine own
I gave my heart to thee.
That untold early love
I leave untold to-day,
My lips in whisper move
Farewell to ...!
Far away, far away.
Farewell I breathe again
To dim New England's shore,
My heart shall beat not when
I pant for thee no more.
In yon green palmy isle,
Beneath the tropic ray,
I murmur never while
For thee and thine I pray;
Far away, far away.
IN MEMORIAM E.B.E.
I mourn upon this battle-field,
But not for those who perished here.
Behold the river-bank
Whither the angry farmers came,
In sloven dress and broken rank,
Nor thought of fame.
Their deed of blood
All mankind praise;
Even the serene Reason says,
It was well done.
The wise and simple have one glance
To greet yon stern head-stone,
Which more of pride than pity gave
To mark the Briton's friendless grave.
Yet it is a stately tomb;
The grand return
Of eve and morn,
The year's fresh bloom,
The silver cloud,
Might grace the dust that is most proud.
Yet not of these I muse
In this ancestral place,
But of a kindred face
That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.
Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star!
What hast thou to do with these
Haunting this bank's historic trees?
Thou born for noblest life,
For action's field, for victor's car,
Thou living champion of the right?
To these their penalty belonged:
I grudge not these their bed of death,
But thine to thee, who never wronged
The poorest that drew breath.
All inborn power that could
Consist with homage to the good
Flamed from his martial eye;
He who seemed a soldier born,
He should have the helmet worn,
All friends to fend, all foes defy,
Fronting foes of God and man,
Frowning down the evil-doer,
Battling for the weak and poor.
His from youth the leader's look
Gave the law which others took,
And never poor beseeching glance
Shamed that sculptured countenance.
There is no record left on earth,
Save in tablets of the heart,
Of the rich inherent worth,
Of the grace that on him shone,
Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit:
He could not frame a word unfit,
An act unworthy to be done;
Honor prompted every glance,
Honor came and sat beside him,
In lowly cot or painful road,
And evermore the cruel god
Cried "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed,
Born for success he seemed,
With grace to win, with heart to hold,
With shining gifts that took all eyes,
With budding power in college-halls,
As pledged in coming days to forge
Weapons to guard the State, or scourge
Tyrants despite their guards or walls.
On his young promise Beauty smiled,
Drew his free homage unbeguiled,
And prosperous Age held out his hand,
And richly his large future planned,
And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,--
All, all was given, and only health denied.
I see him with superior smile
Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train
In lands remote, in toil and pain,
With angel patience labor on,
With the high port he wore erewhile,
When, foremost of the youthful band,
The prizes in all lists he won;
Nor bate one jot of heart or hope,
And, least of all, the loyal tie
Which holds to home 'neath every sky,
The joy and pride the pilgrim feels
In hearts which round the hearth at home
Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.
What generous beliefs console
The brave whom Fate denies the goal!
If others reach it, is content;
To Heaven's high will his will is bent.
Firm on his heart relied,
What lot soe'er betide,
Work of his hand
He nor repents nor grieves,
Pleads for itself the fact,
As unrepenting Nature leaves
Her every act.
Fell the bolt on the branching oak;
The rainbow of his hope was broke;
No craven cry, no secret tear,--
He told no pang, he knew no fear;
Its peace sublime his aspect kept,
His purpose woke, his features slept;
And yet between the spasms of pain
His genius beamed with joy again.
O'er thy rich dust the endless smile
Of Nature in thy Spanish isle
Hints never loss or cruel break
And sacrifice for love's dear sake,
Nor mourn the unalterable Days
That Genius goes and Folly stays.
What matters how, or from what ground,
The freed soul its Creator found?
Alike thy memory embalms
That orange-grove, that isle of palms,
And these loved banks, whose oak-bough bold
Root in the blood of heroes old.
* * * * *
III
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
* * * * *
EXPERIENCE
The lords of life, the lords of life,--
I saw them pass
In their own guise,
Like and unlike,
Portly and grim,--
Use and Surprise,
Surface and Dream,
Succession swift and spectral Wrong,
Temperament without a tongue,
And the inventor of the game
Omnipresent without name;--
Some to see, some to be guessed,
They marched from east to west:
Little man, least of all,
Among the legs of his guardians tall,
Walked about with puzzled look.
Him by the hand dear Nature took,
Dearest Nature, strong and kind,
Whispered, 'Darling, never mind!
To-morrow they will wear another face,
The founder thou; these are thy race!'
COMPENSATION
The wings of Time are black and white,
Pied with morning and with night.
Mountain tall and ocean deep
Trembling balance duly keep.
In changing moon and tidal wave
Glows the feud of Want and Have.
Gauge of more and less through space,
Electric star or pencil plays,
The lonely Earth amid the balls
That hurry through the eternal halls,
A makeweight flying to the void,
Supplemental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoots across the neutral Dark.
Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm;
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts.
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.
POLITICS
Gold and iron are good
To buy iron and gold;
All earth's fleece and food
For their like are sold.
Boded Merlin wise,
Proved Napoleon great,
Nor kind nor coinage buys
Aught above its rate.
Fear, Craft and Avarice
Cannot rear a State.
Out of dust to build
What is more than dust,
Walls Amphion piled
Phoebus stablish must.
When the Muses nine
With the Virtues meet,
Find to their design
An Atlantic seat,
By green orchard boughs
Fended from the heat,
here the statesman ploughs
Furrow for the wheat,--
When the Church is social worth,
When the state-house is the hearth,
Then the perfect State is come,
The republican at home.
HEROISM
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,
Sugar spends to fatten slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons;
Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons,
Drooping oft in wreaths of dread,
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.
CHARACTER
The sun set, but set not his hope:
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye;
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again:
His action won such reverence sweet
As hid all measure of the feat.
CULTURE
Can rules or tutors educate
The semigod whom we await?
He must be musical,
Tremulous, impressional,
Alive to gentle influence
Of landscape and of sky,
And tender to the spirit-touch
Of man's or maiden's eye:
But, to his native centre fast,
Shall into Future fuse the Past,
And the world's flowing fates in his own mould recast.
FRIENDSHIP
A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes;
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,--
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness,
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red;
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.
SPIRITUAL LAWS
The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Quarrying man's rejected hours,
Builds therewith eternal towers;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks
In reaction and recoil,
Makes flame to freeze and ice to boil;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silver seat of Innocence.
BEAUTY
Was never form and never face
So sweet to SEYD as only grace
Which did not slumber like a stone,
But hovered gleaming and was gone.
Beauty chased he everywhere,
In flame, in storm, in clouds of air.
He smote the lake to feed his eye
With the beryl beam of the broken wave;
He flung in pebbles well to hear
The moment's music which they gave.
Oft pealed for him a lofty tone
From nodding pole and belting zone.
He heard a voice none else could hear
From centred and from errant sphere.
The quaking earth did quake in rhyme,
Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime.
In dens of passion, and pits of woe,
He saw strong Eros struggling through,
To sun the dark and solve the curse,
And beam to the bounds of the universe.
While thus to love he gave his days
In loyal worship, scorning praise,
How spread their lures for him in vain
Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!
He thought it happier to be dead,
To die for Beauty, than live for bread.
MANNERS
Grace, Beauty and Caprice
Build this golden portal;
Graceful women, chosen men,
Dazzle every mortal.
Their sweet and lofty countenance
His enchanted food;
He need not go to them, their forms
Beset his solitude.
He looketh seldom in their face,
His eyes explore the ground,--
The green grass is a looking-glass
Whereon their traits are found.
Little and less he says to them,
So dances his heart in his breast;
Their tranquil mien bereaveth him
Of wit, of words, of rest.
Too weak to win, too fond to shun
The tyrants of his doom,
The much deceived Endymion
Slips behind a tomb.
ART
Give to barrows, trays and pans
Grace and glimmer of romance;
Bring the moonlight into noon
Hid in gleaming piles of stone;
On the city's paved street
Plant gardens lined with lilacs sweet;
Let spouting fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked square;
Let statue, picture, park and hall,
Ballad, flag and festival,
The past restore, the day adorn,
And make to-morrow a new morn.
So shall the drudge in dusty frock
Spy behind the city clock
Retinues of airy kings,
Skirts of angels, starry wings,
His fathers shining in bright fables,
His children fed at heavenly tables.
'T is the privilege of Art
Thus to play its cheerful part,
Man on earth to acclimate
And bend the exile to his fate,
And, moulded of one element
With the days and firmament,
Teach him on these as stairs to climb,
And live on even terms with Time;
Whilst upper life the slender rill
Of human sense doth overfill.
UNITY
Space is ample, east and west,
But two cannot go abreast,
Cannot travel in it two:
Yonder masterful cuckoo
Crowds every egg out of the nest,
Quick or dead, except its own;
A spell is laid on sod and stone,
Night and Day were tampered with,
Every quality and pith
Surcharged and sultry with a power
That works its will on age and hour.
WORSHIP
This is he, who, felled by foes,
Sprung harmless up, refreshed by blows:
He to captivity was sold,
But him no prison-bars would hold:
Though they sealed him in a rock,
Mountain chains he can unlock:
Thrown to lions for their meat,
The crouching lion kissed his feet;
Bound to the stake, no flames appalled,
But arched o'er him an honoring vault.
This is he men miscall Fate,
Threading dark ways, arriving late,
But ever coming in time to crown
The truth, and hurl wrong-doers down.
He is the oldest, and best known,
More near than aught thou call'st thy own,
Yet, greeted in another's eyes,
Disconcerts with glad surprise.
This is Jove, who, deaf to prayers,
Floods with blessings unawares.
Draw, if thou canst, the mystic line
Severing rightly his from thine,
Which is human, which divine.
PRUDENCE
Theme no poet gladly sung,
Fair to old and foul to young;
Scorn not thou the love of parts,
And the articles of arts.
Grandeur of the perfect sphere
Thanks the atoms that cohere.
NATURE
I
A subtle chain of countless rings
The next unto the farthest brings;
The eye reads omens where it goes,
And speaks all languages the rose;
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.
II
The rounded world is fair to see,
Nine times folded in mystery:
Though baffled seers cannot impart
The secret of its laboring heart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin;
Self-kindled every atom glows
And hints the future which it owes.
THE INFORMING SPIRIT
I
There is no great and no small
To the Soul that maketh all:
And where it cometh, all things are;
And it cometh everywhere.
II
I am owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Caesar's hand, and Plato's brain,
Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakspeare's strain.
CIRCLES
Nature centres into balls,
And her proud ephemerals,
Fast to surface and outside,
Scan the profile of the sphere;
Knew they what that signified,
A new genesis were here.
INTELLECT
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals;--
The sower scatters broad his seed;
The wheat thou strew'st be souls.
GIFTS
Gifts of one who loved me,--
'T was high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.
PROMISE
In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.
CARITAS
In the suburb, in the town,
On the railway, in the square,
Came a beam of goodness down
Doubling daylight everywhere:
Peace now each for malice takes,
Beauty for his sinful weeds,
For the angel Hope aye makes
Him an angel whom she leads.
POWER
His tongue was framed to music,
And his hand was armed with skill;
His face was the mould of beauty,
And his heart the throne of will.
WEALTH
Who shall tell what did befall,
Far away in time, when once,
Over the lifeless ball,
Hung idle stars and suns?
What god the element obeyed?
Wings of what wind the lichen bore,
Wafting the puny seeds of power,
Which, lodged in rock, the rock abrade?
And well the primal pioneer
Knew the strong task to it assigned,
Patient through Heaven's enormous year
To build in matter home for mind.
From air the creeping centuries drew
The matted thicket low and wide,
This must the leaves of ages strew
The granite slab to clothe and hide,
Ere wheat can wave its golden pride.
What smiths, and in what furnace, rolled
(In dizzy aeons dim and mute
The reeling brain can ill compute)
Copper and iron, lead and gold?
What oldest star the fame can save
Of races perishing to pave
The planet with a floor of lime?
Dust is their pyramid and mole:
Who saw what ferns and palms were pressed
Under the tumbling mountain's breast,
In the safe herbal of the coal?
But when the quarried means were piled,
All is waste and worthless, till
Arrives the wise _select_ing will,
And, out of slime and chaos, Wit
Draws the threads of fair and fit.
Then temples rose, and towns, and marts,
The shop of toil, the hall of arts;
Then flew the sail across the seas
To feed the North from tropic trees;
The storm-wind wove, the torrent span,
Where they were bid, the rivers ran;
New slaves fulfilled the poet's dream,
Galvanic wire, strong-shouldered steam.
Then docks were built, and crops were stored,
And ingots added to the hoard.
But though light-headed man forget,
Remembering Matter pays her debt:
Still, through her motes and masses, draw
Electric thrills and ties of law,
Which bind the strengths of Nature wild
To the conscience of a child.
ILLUSIONS
Flow, flow the waves hated,
Accursed, adored,
The waves of mutation;
No anchorage is.
Sleep is not, death is not;
Who seem to die live.
House you were born in,
Friends of your spring-time,
Old man and young maid,
Day's toil and its guerdon,
They are all vanishing,
Fleeing to fables,
Cannot be moored.
See the stars through them,
Through treacherous marbles.
Know the stars yonder,
The stars everlasting,
Are fugitive also,
And emulate, vaulted,
The lambent heat lightning
And fire-fly's flight.
When thou dost return
On the wave's circulation,
Behold the shimmer,
The wild dissipation,
And, out of endeavor
To change and to flow,
The gas become solid,
And phantoms and nothings
Return to be things,
And endless imbroglio
Is law and the world,--
Then first shalt thou know,
That in the wild turmoil,
Horsed on the Proteus,
Thou ridest to power,
And to endurance.
* * * * *
IV
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
* * * * *
QUATRAINS
A.H.
High was her heart, and yet was well inclined,
Her manners made of bounty well refined;
Far capitals and marble courts, her eye still seemed to see,
Minstrels and kings and high-born dames, and of the best that be.
HUSH!
Every thought is public,
Every nook is wide;
Thy gossips spread each whisper,
And the gods from side to side.
ORATOR
He who has no hands
Perforce must use his tongue;
Foxes are so cunning
Because they are not strong.
ARTIST
Quit the hut, frequent the palace,
Reck not what the people say;
For still, where'er the trees grow biggest,
Huntsmen find the easiest way.
POET
Ever the Poet _from_ the land
Steers his bark and trims his sail;
Right out to sea his courses stand,
New worlds to find in pinnace frail.
POET
To clothe the fiery thought
In simple words succeeds,
For still the craft of genius is
To mask a king in weeds.
BOTANIST
Go thou to thy learned task,
I stay with the flowers of Spring:
Do thou of the Ages ask
What me the Hours will bring.
GARDENER
True Brahmin, in the morning meadows wet,
Expound the Vedas of the violet,
Or, hid in vines, peeping through many a loop,
See the plum redden, and the beurr?stoop.
FORESTER
He took the color of his vest
From rabbit's coat or grouse's breast;
For, as the wood-kinds lurk and hide,
So walks the woodman, unespied.
NORTHMAN
The gale that wrecked you on the sand,
It helped my rowers to row;
The storm is my best galley hand
And drives me where I go.
FROM ALCUIN
The sea is the road of the bold,
Frontier of the wheat-sown plains,
The pit wherein the streams are rolled
And fountain of the rains.
EXCELSIOR
Over his head were the maple buds,
And over the tree was the moon,
And over the moon were the starry studs
That drop from the angels' shoon.
S.H.
With beams December planets dart
His cold eye truth and conduct scanned,
July was in his sunny heart,
October in his liberal hand.
BORROWING
FROM THE FRENCH
Some of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From evils which never arrived!
NATURE
Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold,
And trains us on to slight the new, as if it were the old:
But blest is he, who, playing deep, yet haply asks not why,
Too busied with the crowded hour to fear to live or die.
FATE
Her planted eye to-day controls,
Is in the morrow most at home,
And sternly calls to being souls
That curse her when they come.
HOROSCOPE
Ere he was born, the stars of fate
Plotted to make him rich and great:
When from the womb the babe was loosed,
The gate of gifts behind him closed.
POWER
Cast the bantling on the rocks,
Suckle him with the she-wolf's teat,
Wintered with the hawk and fox,
Power and speed be hands and feet.
CLIMACTERIC
I am not wiser for my age,
Nor skilful by my grief;
Life loiters at the book's first page,--
Ah! could we turn the leaf.
HERI, CRAS, HODIE
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen,
To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between:
Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.
MEMORY
Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall
Shadows of the thoughts of day,
And thy fortunes, as they fall,
The bias of the will betray.
LOVE
Love on his errand bound to go
Can swim the flood and wade through snow,
Where way is none, 't will creep and wind
And eat through Alps its home to find.
SACRIFICE
Though love repine, and reason chafe,
There came a voice without reply,--
''T is man's perdition to be safe,
When for the truth he ought to die.'
PERICLES
Well and wisely said the Greek,
Be thou faithful, but not fond;
To the altar's foot thy fellow seek,--
The Furies wait beyond.
CASELLA
Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove;
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore.
SHAKSPEARE
I see all human wits
Are measured but a few;
Unmeasured still my Shakspeare sits,
Lone as the blessed Jew.
HAFIZ
Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides;
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.
NATURE IN LEASTS
As sings the pine-tree in the wind,
So sings in the wind a sprig of the pine;
Her strength and soul has laughing France
Shed in each drop of wine.
[Greek: ADAKRYN NEMONTAI AIONA]
'A New commandment,' said the smiling Muse,
'I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach';--
Luther, Fox, Behmen, Swedenborg, grew pale,
And, on the instant, rosier clouds upbore
Hafiz and Shakspeare with their shining choirs.
TRANSLATIONS
SONNET OF MICHEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI
Never did sculptor's dream unfold
A form which marble doth not hold
In its white block; yet it therein shall find
Only the hand secure and bold
Which still obeys the mind.
So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
The ill I shun, the good I claim;
I alas! not well alive,
Miss the aim whereto I strive.
Not love, nor beauty's pride,
Nor Fortune, nor thy coldness, can I chide,
If, whilst within thy heart abide
Both death and pity, my unequal skill
Fails of the life, but draws the death and ill.
THE EXILE
FROM THE PERSIAN OF KERMANI
In Farsistan the violet spreads
Its leaves to the rival sky;
I ask how far is the Tigris flood,
And the vine that grows thereby?
Except the amber morning wind,
Not one salutes me here;
There is no lover in all Bagdat
To offer the exile cheer.
I know that thou, O morning wind!
O'er Kernan's meadow blowest,
And thou, heart-warming nightingale!
My father's orchard knowest.
The merchant hath stuffs of price,
And gems from the sea-washed strand,
And princes offer me grace
To stay in the Syrian land;
But what is gold _for_, but for gifts?
And dark, without love, is the day;
And all that I see in Bagdat
Is the Tigris to float me away.
FROM HAFIZ
I said to heaven that glowed above,
O hide yon sun-filled zone,
Hide all the stars you boast;
For, in the world of love
And estimation true,
The heaped-up harvest of the moon
Is worth one barley-corn at most,
The Pleiads' sheaf but two.
If my darling should depart,
And search the skies for prouder friends,
God forbid my angry heart
In other love should seek amends.
When the blue horizon's hoop
Me a little pinches here,
Instant to my grave I stoop,
And go find thee in the sphere.
EPITAPH
Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Mad Destiny this tender stripling played;
For a warm breast of maiden to his breast,
She laid a slab of marble on his head.
They say, through patience, chalk
Becomes a ruby stone;
Ah, yes! but by the true heart's blood
The chalk is crimson grown.
FRIENDSHIP
Thou foolish Hafiz! Say, do churls
Know the worth of Oman's pearls?
Give the gem which dims the moon
To the noblest, or to none.
Dearest, where thy shadow falls,
Beauty sits and Music calls;
Where thy form and favor come,
All good creatures have their home.
On prince or bride no diamond stone
Half so gracious ever shone,
As the light of enterprise
Beaming from a young man's eyes.
FROM OMAR KHAYYAM
Each spot where tulips prank their state
Has drunk the life-blood of the great;
The violets yon field which stain
Are moles of beauties Time hath slain.
Unbar the door, since thou the Opener art,
Show me the forward way, since thou art guide,
I put no faith in pilot or in chart,
Since they are transient, and thou dost abide.
FROM ALI BEN ABU TALEB
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.
On two days it steads not to run from thy grave,
The appointed, and the unappointed day;
On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,
Nor thee, on the second, the Universe slay.
FROM IBN JEMIN
Two things thou shalt not long for, if thou love a mind serene;--
A woman to thy wife, though she were a crowned queen;
And the second, borrowed money,--though the smiling lender say
That he will not demand the debt until the Judgment Day.
THE FLUTE
FROM HILALI
Hark, what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains,
Without tongue, yellow-cheeked, full of winds that wail and sigh;
Saying, Sweetheart! the old mystery remains,--
If I am I; thou, thou; or thou art I?
TO THE SHAH
FROM HAFIZ
Thy foes to hunt, thy enviers to strike down,
Poises Arcturus aloft morning and evening his spear.
TO THE SHAH
FROM ENWERI
Not in their houses stand the stars,
But o'er the pinnacles of thine!
TO THE SHAH
FROM ENWERI
From thy worth and weight the stars gravitate,
And the equipoise of heaven is thy house's equipoise.
SONG OF SEYD NIMETOLLAH OF KUHISTAN
[Among the religious customs of the dervishes is an astronomical
dance, in which the dervish imitates the movements of the heavenly
bodies, by spinning on his own axis, whilst at the same time he
revolves round the Sheikh in the centre, representing the sun; and,
as he spins, he sings the Song of Seyd Nimetollah of Kuhistan.]
Spin the ball! I reel, I burn,
Nor head from foot can I discern,
Nor my heart from love of mine,
Nor the wine-cup from the wine.
All my doing, all my leaving,
Reaches not to my perceiving;
Lost in whirling spheres I rove,
And know only that I love.
I am seeker of the stone,
Living gem of Solomon;
From the shore of souls arrived,
In the sea of sense I dived;
But what is land, or what is wave,
To me who only jewels crave?
Love is the air-fed fire intense,
And my heart the frankincense;
As the rich aloes flames, I glow,
Yet the censer cannot know.
I'm all-knowing, yet unknowing;
Stand not, pause not, in my going.
Ask not me, as Muftis can,
To recite the Alcoran;
Well I love the meaning sweet,--
I tread the book beneath my feet.
Lo! the God's love blazes higher,
Till all difference expire.
What are Moslems? what are Giaours?
All are Love's, and all are ours.
I embrace the true believers,
But I reck not of deceivers.
Firm to Heaven my bosom clings,
Heedless of inferior things;
Down on earth there, underfoot,
What men chatter know I not.
* * * * *
V
APPENDIX
* * * * *
THE POET
I
Right upward on the road of fame
With sounding steps the poet came;
Born and nourished in miracles,
His feet were shod with golden bells,
Or where he stepped the soil did peal
As if the dust were glass and steel.
The gallant child where'er he came
Threw to each fact a tuneful name.
The things whereon he cast his eyes
Could not the nations rebaptize,
Nor Time's snows hide the names he set,
Nor last posterity forget.
Yet every scroll whereon he wrote
In latent fire his secret thought,
Fell unregarded to the ground,
Unseen by such as stood around.
The pious wind took it away,
The reverent darkness hid the lay.
Methought like water-haunting birds
Divers or dippers were his words,
And idle clowns beside the mere
At the new vision gape and jeer.
But when the noisy scorn was past,
Emerge the wing鑔 words in haste.
New-bathed, new-trimmed, on healthy wing,
Right to the heaven they steer and sing.
A Brother of the world, his song
Sounded like a tempest strong
Which tore from oaks their branches broad,
And stars from the ecliptic road.
Times wore he as his clothing-weeds,
He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.
As melts the iceberg in the seas,
As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze,
As snow-banks thaw in April's beam,
The solid kingdoms like a dream
Resist in vain his motive strain,
They totter now and float amain.
For the Muse gave special charge
His learning should be deep and large,
And his training should not scant
The deepest lore of wealth or want:
His flesh should feel, his eyes should read
Every maxim of dreadful Need;
In its fulness he should taste
Life's honeycomb, but not too fast;
Full fed, but not intoxicated;
He should be loved; he should be hated;
A blooming child to children dear,
His heart should palpitate with fear.
And well he loved to quit his home
And, Calmuck, in his wagon roam
To read new landscapes and old skies;--
But oh, to see his solar eyes
Like meteors which chose their way
And rived the dark like a new day!
Not lazy grazing on all they saw,
Each chimney-pot and cottage door,
Farm-gear and village picket-fence,
But, feeding on magnificence,
They bounded to the horizon's edge
And searched with the sun's privilege.
Landward they reached the mountains old
Where pastoral tribes their flocks infold,
Saw rivers run seaward by cities high
And the seas wash the low-hung sky;
Saw the endless rack of the firmament
And the sailing moon where the cloud was rent,
And through man and woman and sea and star
Saw the dance of Nature forward and far,
Through worlds and races and terms and times
Saw musical order and pairing rhymes.
II
The gods talk in the breath of the woods,
They talk in the shaken pine,
And fill the long reach of the old seashore
With dialogue divine;
And the poet who overhears
Some random word they say
Is the fated man of men
Whom the ages must obey:
One who having nectar drank
Into blissful orgies sank;
He takes no mark of night or day,
He cannot go, he cannot stay,
He would, yet would not, counsel keep,
But, like a walker in his sleep
With staring eye that seeth none,
Ridiculously up and down
Seeks how he may fitly tell
The heart-o'erlading miracle.
Not yet, not yet,
Impatient friend,--
A little while attend;
Not yet I sing: but I must wait,
My hand upon the silent string,
Fully until the end.
I see the coming light,
I see the scattered gleams,
Aloft, beneath, on left and right
The stars' own ether beams;
These are but seeds of days,
Not yet a steadfast morn,
An intermittent blaze,
An embryo god unborn.
How all things sparkle,
The dust is alive,
To the birth they arrive:
I snuff the breath of my morning afar,
I see the pale lustres condense to a star:
The fading colors fix,
The vanishing are seen,
And the world that shall be
Twins the world that has been.
I know the appointed hour,
I greet my office well,
Never faster, never slower
Revolves the fatal wheel!
The Fairest enchants me,
The Mighty commands me,
Saying, 'Stand in thy place;
Up and eastward turn thy face;
As mountains for the morning wait,
Coming early, coming late,
So thou attend the enriching Fate
Which none can stay, and none accelerate.
I am neither faint nor weary,
Fill thy will, O faultless heart!
Here from youth to age I tarry,--
Count it flight of bird or dart.
My heart at the heart of things
Heeds no longer lapse of time,
Rushing ages moult their wings,
Bathing in thy day sublime.
The sun set, but set not his hope:--
Stars rose, his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye,
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of Time.
Beside his hut and shading oak,
Thus to himself the poet spoke,
'I have supped to-night with gods,
I will not go under a wooden roof:
As I walked among the hills
In the love which Nature fills,
The great stars did not shine aloof,
They hurried down from their deep abodes
And hemmed me in their glittering troop.
'Divine Inviters! I accept
The courtesy ye have shown and kept
From ancient ages for the bard,
To modulate
With finer fate
A fortune harsh and hard.
With aim like yours
I watch your course,
Who never break your lawful dance
By error or intemperance.
O birds of ether without wings!
O heavenly ships without a sail!
O fire of fire! O best of things!
O mariners who never fail!
Sail swiftly through your amber vault,
An animated law, a presence to exalt.'
Ah, happy if a sun or star
Could chain the wheel of Fortune's car,
And give to hold an even state,
Neither dejected nor elate,
That haply man upraised might keep
The height of Fancy's far-eyed steep.
In vain: the stars are glowing wheels,
Giddy with motion Nature reels,
Sun, moon, man, undulate and stream,
The mountains flow, the solids seem,
Change acts, reacts; back, forward hurled,
And pause were palsy to the world.--
The morn is come: the starry crowds
Are hid behind the thrice-piled clouds;
The new day lowers, and equal odds
Have changed not less the guest of gods;
Discrowned and timid, thoughtless, worn,
The child of genius sits forlorn:
Between two sleeps a short day's stealth,
'Mid many ails a brittle health,
A cripple of God, half true, half formed,
And by great sparks Promethean warmed,
Constrained by impotence to adjourn
To infinite time his eager turn,
His lot of action at the urn.
He by false usage pinned about
No breath therein, no passage out,
Cast wishful glances at the stars
And wishful saw the Ocean stream:--
'Merge me in the brute universe,
Or lift to a diviner dream!'
Beside him sat enduring love,
Upon him noble eyes did rest,
Which, for the Genius that there strove.
The follies bore that it invest.
They spoke not, for their earnest sense
Outran the craft of eloquence.
He whom God had thus preferred,--
To whom sweet angels ministered,
Saluted him each morn as brother,
And bragged his virtues to each other,--
Alas! how were they so beguiled,
And they so pure? He, foolish child,
A facile, reckless, wandering will,
Eager for good, not hating ill,
Thanked Nature for each stroke she dealt;
On his tense chords all strokes were felt,
The good, the bad with equal zeal,
He asked, he only asked, to feel.
Timid, self-pleasing, sensitive,
With Gods, with fools, content to live;
Bended to fops who bent to him;
Surface with surfaces did swim.
'Sorrow, sorrow!' the angels cried,
'Is this dear Nature's manly pride?
Call hither thy mortal enemy,
Make him glad thy fall to see!
Yon waterflag, yon sighing osier,
A drop can shake, a breath can fan;
Maidens laugh and weep; Composure
Is the pudency of man,'
Again by night the poet went
From the lighted halls
Beneath the darkling firmament
To the seashore, to the old seawalls,
Out shone a star beneath the cloud,
The constellation glittered soon,--
You have no lapse; so have ye glowed
But once in your dominion.
And yet, dear stars, I know ye shine
Only by needs and loves of mine;
Light-loving, light-asking life in me
Feeds those eternal lamps I see.
And I to whom your light has spoken,
I, pining to be one of you,
I fall, my faith is broken,
Ye scorn me from your deeps of blue.
Or if perchance, ye orbs of Fate,
Your ne'er averted glance
Beams with a will compassionate
On sons of time and chance,
Then clothe these hands with power
In just proportion,
Nor plant immense designs
Where equal means are none.'
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Means, dear brother, ask them not;
Soul's desire is means enow,
Pure content is angel's lot,
Thine own theatre art thou.
Gentler far than falls the snow
In the woodwalks still and low
Fell the lesson on his heart
And woke the fear lest angels part.
POET
I see your forms with deep content,
I know that ye are excellent,
But will ye stay?
I hear the rustle of wings,
Ye meditate what to say
Ere ye go to quit me for ever and aye.
SPIRITS
Brother, we are no phantom band;
Brother, accept this fatal hand.
Aches thine unbelieving heart
With the fear that we must part?
See, all we are rooted here
By one thought to one same sphere;
From thyself thou canst not flee,--
From thyself no more can we.
POET
Suns and stars their courses keep,
But not angels of the deep:
Day and night their turn observe,
But the day of day may swerve.
Is there warrant that the waves
Of thought in their mysterious caves
Will heap in me their highest tide,
In me therewith beatified?
Unsure the ebb and flood of thought,
The moon comes back,--the Spirit not.
SPIRITS
Brother, sweeter is the Law
Than all the grace Love ever saw;
We are its suppliants. By it, we
Draw the breath of Eternity;
Serve thou it not for daily bread,--
Serve it for pain and fear and need.
Love it, though it hide its light;
By love behold the sun at night.
If the Law should thee forget,
More enamoured serve it yet;
Though it hate thee, suffer long;
Put the Spirit in the wrong;
Brother, no decrepitude
Chills the limbs of Time;
As fleet his feet, his hands as good,
His vision as sublime:
On Nature's wheels there is no rust;
Nor less on man's enchanted dust
Beauty and Force alight.
FRAGMENTS ON THE POET AND THE POETIC GIFT
I
There are beggars in Iran and Araby,
SAID was hungrier than all;
Hafiz said he was a fly
That came to every festival.
He came a pilgrim to the Mosque
On trail of camel and caravan,
Knew every temple and kiosk
Out from Mecca to Ispahan;
Northward he went to the snowy hills,
At court he sat in the grave Divan.
His music was the south-wind's sigh,
His lamp, the maiden's downcast eye,
And ever the spell of beauty came
And turned the drowsy world to flame.
By lake and stream and gleaming hall
And modest copse and the forest tall,
Where'er he went, the magic guide
Kept its place by the poet's side.
Said melted the days like cups of pearl,
Served high and low, the lord and the churl,
Loved harebells nodding on a rock,
A cabin hung with curling smoke,
Ring of axe or hum of wheel
Or gleam which use can paint on steel,
And huts and tents; nor loved he less
Stately lords in palaces,
Princely women hard to please,
Fenced by form and ceremony,
Decked by courtly rites and dress
And etiquette of gentilesse.
But when the mate of the snow and wind,
He left each civil scale behind:
Him wood-gods fed with honey wild
And of his memory beguiled.
He loved to watch and wake
When the wing of the south-wind whipt the lake
And the glassy surface in ripples brake
And fled in pretty frowns away
Like the flitting boreal lights,
Rippling roses in northern nights,
Or like the thrill of Aeolian strings
In which the sudden wind-god rings.
In caves and hollow trees he crept
And near the wolf and panther slept.
He came to the green ocean's brim
And saw the wheeling sea-birds skim,
Summer and winter, o'er the wave,
Like creatures of a skiey mould,
Impassible to heat or cold.
He stood before the tumbling main
With joy too tense for sober brain;
He shared the life of the element,
The tie of blood and home was rent:
As if in him the welkin walked,
The winds took flesh, the mountains talked,
And he the bard, a crystal soul
Sphered and concentric with the whole.
II
The Dervish whined to Said,
"Thou didst not tarry while I prayed.
Beware the fire that Eblis burned,"
But Saadi coldly thus returned,
"Once with manlike love and fear
I gave thee for an hour my ear,
I kept the sun and stars at bay,
And love, for words thy tongue could say.
I cannot sell my heaven again
For all that rattles in thy brain."
III
Said Saadi, "When I stood before
Hassan the camel-driver's door,
I scorned the fame of Timour brave;
Timour, to Hassan, was a slave.
In every glance of Hassan's eye
I read great years of victory,
And I, who cower mean and small
In the frequent interval
When wisdom not with me resides,
Worship Toil's wisdom that abides.
I shunned his eyes, that faithful man's,
I shunned the toiling Hassan's glance."
IV
The civil world will much forgive
To bards who from its maxims live,
But if, grown bold, the poet dare
Bend his practice to his prayer
And following his mighty heart
Shame the times and live apart,--
_Vae solis!_ I found this,
That of goods I could not miss
If I fell within the line,
Once a member, all was mine,
Houses, banquets, gardens, fountains,
Fortune's delectable mountains;
But if I would walk alone,
Was neither cloak nor crumb my own.
And thus the high Muse treated me,
Directly never greeted me,
But when she spread her dearest spells,
Feigned to speak to some one else.
I was free to overhear,
Or I might at will forbear;
Yet mark me well, that idle word
Thus at random overheard
Was the symphony of spheres,
And proverb of a thousand years,
The light wherewith all planets shone,
The livery all events put on,
It fell in rain, it grew in grain,
It put on flesh in friendly form,
Frowned in my foe and growled in storm,
It spoke in Tullius Cicero,
In Milton and in Angelo:
I travelled and found it at Rome;
Eastward it filled all Heathendom
And it lay on my hearth when I came home.
V
Mask thy wisdom with delight,
Toy with the bow, yet hit the white,
As Jelaleddin old and gray;
He seemed to bask, to dream and play
Without remoter hope or fear
Than still to entertain his ear
And pass the burning summer-time
In the palm-grove with a rhyme;
Heedless that each cunning word
Tribes and ages overheard:
Those idle catches told the laws
Holding Nature to her cause.
God only knew how Saadi dined;
Roses he ate, and drank the wind;
He freelier breathed beside the pine,
In cities he was low and mean;
The mountain waters washed him clean
And by the sea-waves he was strong;
He heard their medicinal song,
Asked no physician but the wave,
No palace but his sea-beat cave.
Saadi held the Muse in awe,
She was his mistress and his law;
A twelvemonth he could silence hold,
Nor ran to speak till she him told;
He felt the flame, the fanning wings,
Nor offered words till they were things,
Glad when the solid mountain swims
In music and uplifting hymns.
Charmed from fagot and from steel,
Harvests grew upon his tongue,
Past and future must reveal
All their heart when Saadi sung;
Sun and moon must fall amain
Like sower's seeds into his brain,
There quickened to be born again.
The free winds told him what they knew,
Discoursed of fortune as they blew;
Omens and signs that filled the air
To him authentic witness bare;
The birds brought auguries on their wings,
And carolled undeceiving things
Him to beckon, him to warn;
Well might then the poet scorn
To learn of scribe or courier
Things writ in vaster character;
And on his mind at dawn of day
Soft shadows of the evening lay.
* * *
Pale genius roves alone,
No scout can track his way,
None credits him till he have shown
His diamonds to the day.
Not his the feaster's wine,
Nor land, nor gold, nor power,
By want and pain God screeneth him
Till his elected hour.
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals:--
The sower scatters broad his seed,
The wheat thou strew'st be souls.
I grieve that better souls than mine
Docile read my measured line:
High destined youths and holy maids
Hallow these my orchard shades;
Environ me and me baptize
With light that streams from gracious eyes.
I dare not be beloved and known,
I ungrateful, I alone.
Ever find me dim regards,
Love of ladies, love of bards,
Marked forbearance, compliments,
Tokens of benevolence.
What then, can I love myself?
Fame is profitless as pelf,
A good in Nature not allowed
They love me, as I love a cloud
Sailing falsely in the sphere,
Hated mist if it come near.
For thought, and not praise;
Thought is the wages
For which I sell days,
Will gladly sell ages
And willing grow old
Deaf, and dumb, and blind, and cold,
Melting matter into dreams,
Panoramas which I saw
And whatever glows or seems
Into substance, into Law.
For Fancy's gift
Can mountains lift;
The Muse can knit
What is past, what is done,
With the web that's just begun;
Making free with time and size,
Dwindles here, there magnifies,
Swells a rain-drop to a tun;
So to repeat
No word or feat
Crowds in a day the sum of ages,
And blushing Love outwits the sages.
Try the might the Muse affords
And the balm of thoughtful words;
Bring music to the desolate;
Hang roses on the stony fate.
But over all his crowning grace,
Wherefor thanks God his daily praise,
Is the purging of his eye
To see the people of the sky:
From blue mount and headland dim
Friendly hands stretch forth to him,
Him they beckon, him advise
Of heavenlier prosperities
And a more excelling grace
And a truer bosom-glow
Than the wine-fed feasters know.
They turn his heart from lovely maids,
And make the darlings of the earth
Swainish, coarse and nothing worth:
Teach him gladly to postpone
Pleasures to another stage
Beyond the scope of human age,
Freely as task at eve undone
Waits unblamed to-morrow's sun.
By thoughts I lead
Bards to say what nations need;
What imports, what irks and what behooves,
Framed afar as Fates and Loves.
And as the light divides the dark
Through with living swords,
So shall thou pierce the distant age
With adamantine words.
I framed his tongue to music,
I armed his hand with skill,
I moulded his face to beauty
And his heart the throne of Will.
For every God
Obeys the hymn, obeys the ode.
For art, for music over-thrilled,
The wine-cup shakes, the wine is spilled.
Hold of the Maker, not the Made;
Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad.
That book is good
Which puts me in a working mood.
Unless to Thought is added Will,
Apollo is an imbecile.
What parts, what gems, what colors shine,--
Ah, but I miss the grand design.
Like vaulters in a circus round
Who leap from horse to horse, but never touch the ground.
For Genius made his cabin wide,
And Love led Gods therein to bide.
The atom displaces all atoms beside,
And Genius unspheres all souls that abide.
To transmute crime to wisdom, so to stem
The vice of Japhet by the thought of Shem.
He could condense cerulean ether
Into the very best sole-leather.
Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread,
In mercy, on one little head.
I have no brothers and no peers,
And the dearest interferes:
When I would spend a lonely day,
Sun and moon are in my way.
The brook sings on, but sings in vain
Wanting the echo in my brain.
He planted where the deluge ploughed.
His hired hands were wind and cloud;
His eyes detect the Gods concealed
In the hummock of the field.
For what need I of book or priest,
Or sibyl from the mummied East,
When every star is Bethlehem star?
I count as many as there are
Cinquefoils or violets in the grass,
So many saints and saviors,
So many high behaviors
Salute the bard who is alive
And only sees what he doth give.
Coin the day-dawn into lines
In which its proper splendor shines;
Coin the moonlight into verse
Which all its marvel shall rehearse,
Chasing with words fast-flowing things; nor try
To plant thy shrivelled pedantry
On the shoulders of the sky.
Ah, not to me those dreams belong!
A better voice peals through my song.
The Muse's hill by Fear is guarded,
A bolder foot is still rewarded.
His instant thought a poet spoke,
And filled the age his fame;
An inch of ground the lightning strook
But lit the sky with flame.
If bright the sun, he tarries,
All day his song is heard;
And when he goes he carries
No more baggage than a bird.
The Asmodean feat is mine,
To spin my sand-heap into twine.
Slighted Minerva's learn鑔 tongue,
But leaped with joy when on the wind
The shell of Clio rung.
FRAGMENTS ON NATURE AND LIFE
NATURE
The patient Pan,
Drunken with nectar,
Sleeps or feigns slumber,
Drowsily humming
Music to the march of time.
This poor tooting, creaking cricket,
Pan, half asleep, rolling over
His great body in the grass,
Tooting, creaking,
Feigns to sleep, sleeping never;
'T is his manner,
Well he knows his own affair,
Piling mountain chains of phlegm
On the nervous brain of man,
As he holds down central fires
Under Alps and Andes cold;
Haply else we could not live,
Life would be too wild an ode.
Come search the wood for flowers,--
Wild tea and wild pea,
Grapevine and succory,
Coreopsis
And liatris,
Flaunting in their bowers;
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern and agrimony;
Forest full of essences
Fit for fairy presences,
Peppermint and sassafras,
Sweet fern, mint and vernal grass,
Panax, black birch, sugar maple,
Sweet and scent for Dian's table,
Elder-blow, sarsaparilla,
Wild rose, lily, dry vanilla,--
Spices in the plants that run
To bring their first fruits to the sun.
Earliest heats that follow frore
Nerv鑔 leaf of hellebore,
Sweet willow, checkerberry red,
With its savory leaf for bread.
Silver birch and black
With the selfsame spice
Found in polygala root and rind,
Sassafras, fern, benz鰅ne,
Mouse-ear, cowslip, wintergreen,
Which by aroma may compel
The frost to spare, what scents so well.
Where the fungus broad and red
Lifts its head,
Like poisoned loaf of elfin bread,
Where the aster grew
With the social goldenrod,
In a chapel, which the dew
Made beautiful for God:--
O what would Nature say?
She spared no speech to-day:
The fungus and the bulrush spoke,
Answered the pine-tree and the oak,
The wizard South blew down the glen,
Filled the straits and filled the wide,
Each maple leaf turned up its silver side.
All things shine in his smoky ray,
And all we see are pictures high;
Many a high hillside,
While oaks of pride
Climb to their tops,
And boys run out upon their leafy ropes.
The maple street
In the houseless wood,
Voices followed after,
Every shrub and grape leaf
Rang with fairy laughter.
I have heard them fall
Like the strain of all
King Oberon's minstrelsy.
Would hear the everlasting
And know the only strong?
You must worship fasting,
You must listen long.
Words of the air
Which birds of the air
Carry aloft, below, around,
To the isles of the deep,
To the snow-capped steep,
To the thundercloud.
For Nature, true and like in every place,
Will hint her secret in a garden patch,
Or in lone corners of a doleful heath,
As in the Andes watched by fleets at sea,
Or the sky-piercing horns of Himmaleh;
And, when I would recall the scenes I dreamed
On Adirondac steeps, I know
Small need have I of Turner or Daguerre,
Assured to find the token once again
In silver lakes that unexhausted gleam
And peaceful woods beside my cottage door.
What all the books of ages paint, I have.
What prayers and dreams of youthful genius feign,
I daily dwell in, and am not so blind
But I can see the elastic tent of day
Belike has wider hospitality
Than my few needs exhaust, and bids me read
The quaint devices on its mornings gay.
Yet Nature will not be in full possessed,
And they who truliest love her, heralds are
And harbingers of a majestic race,
Who, having more absorbed, more largely yield,
And walk on earth as the sun walks in the sphere.
But never yet the man was found
Who could the mystery expound,
Though Adam, born when oaks were young,
Endured, the Bible says, as long;
But when at last the patriarch died
The Gordian noose was still untied.
He left, though goodly centuries old,
Meek Nature's secret still untold.
Atom from atom yawns as far
As moon from earth, or star from star.
When all their blooms the meadows flaunt
To deck the morning of the year,
Why tinge thy lustres jubilant
With forecast or with fear?
Teach me your mood, O patient stars!
Who climb each night the ancient sky,
Leaving on space no shade, no scars,
No trace of age, no fear to die.
The sun athwart the cloud thought it no sin
To use my land to put his rainbows in.
For joy and beauty planted it,
With faerie gardens cheered,
And boding Fancy haunted it
With men and women weird.
What central flowing forces, say,
Make up thy splendor, matchless day?
Day by day for her darlings to her much she added more;
In her hundred-gated Thebes every chamber was a door,
A door to something grander,--loftier walls, and vaster floor.
She paints with white and red the moors
To draw the nations out of doors.
A score of airy miles will smooth
Rough Monadnoc to a gem.
THE EARTH
Our eyeless bark sails free
Though with boom and spar
Andes, Alp or Himmalee,
Strikes never moon or star.
THE HEAVENS
Wisp and meteor nightly falling,
But the Stars of God remain.
TRANSITION
See yonder leafless trees against the sky,
How they diffuse themselves into the air,
And, ever subdividing, separate
Limbs into branches, branches into twigs.
As if they loved the element, and hasted
To dissipate their being into it.
Parks and ponds are good by day;
I do not delight
In black acres of the night,
Nor my unseasoned step disturbs
The sleeps of trees or dreams of herbs.
In Walden wood the chickadee
Runs round the pine and maple tree
Intent on insect slaughter:
O tufted entomologist!
Devour as many as you list,
Then drink in Walden water.
The low December vault in June be lifted high,
And largest clouds be flakes of down in that enormous sky.
THE GARDEN
Many things the garden shows,
And pleased I stray
From tree to tree
Watching the white pear-bloom,
Bee-infested quince or plum.
I could walk days, years, away
Till the slow ripening, secular tree
Had reached its fruiting-time,
Nor think it long.
Solar insect on the wing
In the garden murmuring,
Soothing with thy summer horn
Swains by winter pinched and worn.
BIRDS
Darlings of children and of bard,
Perfect kinds by vice unmarred,
All of worth and beauty set
Gems in Nature's cabinet;
These the fables she esteems
Reality most like to dreams.
Welcome back, you little nations,
Far-travelled in the south plantations;
Bring your music and rhythmic flight,
Your colors for our eyes' delight:
Freely nestle in our roof,
Weave your chamber weatherproof;
And your enchanting manners bring
And your autumnal gathering.
Exchange in conclave general
Greetings kind to each and all,
Conscious each of duty done
And unstain鑔 as the sun.
WATER
The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
NAHANT
All day the waves assailed the rock,
I heard no church-bell chime,
The sea-beat scorns the minster clock
And breaks the glass of Time.
SUNRISE
Would you know what joy is hid
In our green Musketaquid,
And for travelled eyes what charms
Draw us to these meadow farms,
Come and I will show you all
Makes each day a festival.
Stand upon this pasture hill,
Face the eastern star until
The slow eye of heaven shall show
The world above, the world below.
Behold the miracle!
Thou saw'st but now the twilight sad
And stood beneath the firmament,
A watchman in a dark gray tent,
Waiting till God create the earth,--
Behold the new majestic birth!
The mottled clouds, like scraps of wool,
Steeped in the light are beautiful.
What majestic stillness broods
Over these colored solitudes.
Sleeps the vast East in pleas鑔 peace,
Up the far mountain walls the streams increase
Inundating the heaven
With spouting streams and waves of light
Which round the floating isles unite:--
See the world below
Baptized with the pure element,
A clear and glorious firmament
Touched with life by every beam.
I share the good with every flower,
I drink the nectar of the hour:--
This is not the ancient earth
Whereof old chronicles relate
The tragic tales of crime and fate;
But rather, like its beads of dew
And dew-bent violets, fresh and new,
An exhalation of the time.
* * *
NIGHT IN JUNE
I left my dreary page and sallied forth,
Received the fair inscriptions of the night;
The moon was making amber of the world,
Glittered with silver every cottage pane,
The trees were rich, yet ominous with gloom.
The meadows broad
From ferns and grapes and from the folded flowers
Sent a nocturnal fragrance; harlot flies
Flashed their small fires in air, or held their court
In fairy groves of herds-grass.
He lives not who can refuse me;
All my force saith, Come and use me:
A gleam of sun, a summer rain,
And all the zone is green again.
Seems, though the soft sheen all enchants,
Cheers the rough crag and mournful dell,
As if on such stern forms and haunts
A wintry storm more fitly fell.
Put in, drive home the sightless wedges
And split to flakes the crystal ledges.
MAIA
Illusion works impenetrable,
Weaving webs innumerable,
Her gay pictures never fail,
Crowds each on other, veil on veil,
Charmer who will be believed
By man who thirsts to be deceived.
Illusions like the tints of pearl,
Or changing colors of the sky,
Or ribbons of a dancing girl
That mend her beauty to the eye.
The cold gray down upon the quinces lieth
And the poor spinners weave their webs thereon
To share the sunshine that so spicy is.
Samson stark, at Dagon's knee,
Gropes for columns strong as he;
When his ringlets grew and curled,
Groped for axle of the world.
But Nature whistled with all her winds,
Did as she pleased and went her way.
LIFE
A train of gay and clouded days
Dappled with joy and grief and praise,
Beauty to fire us, saints to save,
Escort us to a little grave.
No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low,
For God hath writ all dooms magnificent,
So guilt not traverses his tender will.
Around the man who seeks a noble end,
Not angels but divinities attend.
From high to higher forces
The scale of power uprears,
The heroes on their horses,
The gods upon their spheres.
This shining moment is an edifice
Which the Omnipotent cannot rebuild.
Roomy Eternity
Casts her schemes rarely,
And an aeon allows
For each quality and part
Of the multitudinous
And many-chambered heart.
The beggar begs by God's command,
And gifts awake when givers sleep,
Swords cannot cut the giving hand
Nor stab the love that orphans keep.
In the chamber, on the stairs,
Lurking dumb,
Go and come
Lemurs and Lars.
Such another peerless queen
Only could her mirror show.
Easy to match what others do,
Perform the feat as well as they;
Hard to out-do the brave, the true,
And find a loftier way:
The school decays, the learning spoils
Because of the sons of wine;
How snatch the stripling from their toils?--
Yet can one ray of truth divine
The blaze of revellers' feasts outshine.
Of all wit's uses the main one
Is to live well with who has none.
The tongue is prone to lose the way,
Not so the pen, for in a letter
We have not better things to say,
But surely say them better.
She walked in flowers around my field
As June herself around the sphere.
Friends to me are frozen wine;
I wait the sun on them should shine.
You shall not love me for what daily spends;
You shall not know me in the noisy street,
Where I, as others, follow petty ends;
Nor when in fair saloons we chance to meet;
Nor when I'm jaded, sick, anxious or mean.
But love me then and only, when you know
Me for the channel of the rivers of God
From deep ideal fontal heavens that flow.
To and fro the Genius flies,
A light which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.
Of her faults I take no note,
Fault and folly are not mine;
Comes the Genius,--all's forgot,
Replunged again into that upper sphere
He scatters wide and wild its lustres here.
Love
Asks nought his brother cannot give;
Asks nothing, but does all receive.
Love calls not to his aid events;
He to his wants can well suffice:
Asks not of others soft consents,
Nor kind occasion without eyes;
Nor plots to ope or bolt a gate,
Nor heeds Condition's iron walls,--
Where he goes, goes before him Fate;
Whom he uniteth, God installs;
Instant and perfect his access
To the dear object of his thought,
Though foes and land and seas between
Himself and his love intervene.
The brave Empedocles, defying fools,
Pronounced the word that mortals hate to hear--
"I am divine, I am not mortal made;
I am superior to my human weeds."
Not Sense but Reason is the Judge of truth;
Reason's twofold, part human, part divine;
That human part may be described and taught,
The other portion language cannot speak.
Tell men what they knew before;
Paint the prospect from their door.
Him strong Genius urged to roam,
Stronger Custom brought him home.
That each should in his house abide.
Therefore was the world so wide.
Thou shalt make thy house
The temple of a nation's vows.
Spirits of a higher strain
Who sought thee once shall seek again.
I detected many a god
Forth already on the road,
Ancestors of beauty come
In thy breast to make a home.
The archangel Hope
Looks to the azure cope,
Waits through dark ages for the morn,
Defeated day by day, but unto victory born.
As the drop feeds its fated flower,
As finds its Alp the snowy shower,
Child of the omnific Need,
Hurled into life to do a deed,
Man drinks the water, drinks the light.
Ever the Rock of Ages melts
Into the mineral air,
To be the quarry whence to build
Thought and its mansions fair.
Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower,
Go match thee with thy seeming peers;
I will wait Heaven's perfect hour
Through the innumerable years.
Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken
Shall his own sorrow seem impertinent,
A thing that takes no more root in the world
Than doth the traveller's shadow on the rock.
But if thou do thy best,
Without remission, without rest,
And invite the sunbeam,
And abhor to feign or seem
Even to those who thee should love
And thy behavior approve;
If thou go in thine own likeness,
Be it health, or be it sickness;
If thou go as thy father's son,
If thou wear no mask or lie,
Dealing purely and nakedly,--
* * *
Ascending thorough just degrees
To a consummate holiness,
As angel blind to trespass done,
And bleaching all souls like the sun.
From the stores of eldest matter,
The deep-eyed flame, obedient water,
Transparent air, all-feeding earth,
He took the flower of all their worth,
And, best with best in sweet consent,
Combined a new temperament.
REX
The bard and mystic held me for their own,
I filled the dream of sad, poetic maids,
I took the friendly noble by the hand,
I was the trustee of the hand-cart man,
The brother of the fisher, porter, swain,
And these from the crowd's edge well pleased beheld
The service done to me as done to them.
With the key of the secret he marches faster,
From strength to strength, and for night brings day;
While classes or tribes, too weak to master
The flowing conditions of life, give way.
SUUM CUIQUE
Wilt thou seal up the avenues of ill?
Pay every debt as if God wrote the bill.
If curses be the wage of love,
Hide in thy skies, thou fruitless Jove,
Not to be named:
It is clear
Why the gods will not appear;
They are ashamed.
When wrath and terror changed Jove's regal port,
And the rash-leaping thunderbolt fell short.
Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift,
Sit still and Truth is near:
Suddenly it will uplift
Your eyelids to the sphere:
Wait a little, you shall see
The portraiture of things to be.
The rules to men made evident
By Him who built the day,
The columns of the firmament
Not firmer based than they.
On bravely through the sunshine and the showers!
Time hath his work to do and we have ours.
THE BOHEMIAN HYMN
In many forms we try
To utter God's infinity,
But the boundless hath no form,
And the Universal Friend
Doth as far transcend
An angel as a worm.
The great Idea baffles wit,
Language falters under it,
It leaves the learned in the lurch;
Nor art, nor power, nor toil can find
The measure of the eternal Mind,
Nor hymn, nor prayer, nor church.
GRACE
How much, preventing God, how much I owe
To the defences thou hast round me set;
Example, custom, fear, occasion slow,--
These scorned bondmen were my parapet.
I dare not peep over this parapet
To gauge with glance the roaring gulf below,
The depths of sin to which I had descended,
Had not these me against myself defended.
INSIGHT
Power that by obedience grows,
Knowledge which its source not knows,
Wave which severs whom it bears
From the things which he compares,
Adding wings through things to range,
To his own blood harsh and strange.
PAN
O what are heroes, prophets, men,
But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow
A momentary music. Being's tide
Swells hitherward, and myriads of forms
Live, robed with beauty, painted by the sun;
Their dust, pervaded by the nerves of God,
Throbs with an overmastering energy
Knowing and doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie
White hollow shells upon the desert shore,
But not the less the eternal wave rolls on
To animate new millions, and exhale
Races and planets, its enchanted foam.
MONADNOC FROM AFAR
Dark flower of Cheshire garden,
Red evening duly dyes
Thy sombre head with rosy hues
To fix far-gazing eyes.
Well the Planter knew how strongly
Works thy form on human thought;
I muse what secret purpose had he
To draw all fancies to this spot.
SEPTEMBER
In the turbulent beauty
Of a gusty Autumn day,
Poet on a sunny headland
Sighed his soul away.
Farms the sunny landscape dappled,
Swandown clouds dappled the farms,
Cattle lowed in mellow distance
Where far oaks outstretched their arms.
Sudden gusts came full of meaning,
All too much to him they said,
Oh, south winds have long memories,
Of that be none afraid.
I cannot tell rude listeners
Half the tell-tale South-wind said,--
'T would bring the blushes of yon maples
To a man and to a maid.
EROS
They put their finger on their lip,
The Powers above:
The seas their islands clip,
The moons in ocean dip,
They love, but name not love.
OCTOBER
October woods wherein
The boy's dream comes to pass,
And Nature squanders on the boy her pomp,
And crowns him with a more than royal crown,
And unimagined splendor waits his steps.
The gazing urchin walks through tents of gold,
Through crimson chambers, porphyry and pearl,
Pavilion on pavilion, garlanded,
Incensed and starred with lights and airs and shapes,
Color and sound, music to eye and ear,
Beyond the best conceit of pomp or power.
PETER'S FIELD
[Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?]
That field by spirits bad and good,
By Hell and Heaven is haunted,
And every rood in the hemlock wood
I know is ground enchanted.
[In the long sunny afternoon
The plain was full of ghosts:
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.]
For in those lonely grounds the sun
Shines not as on the town,
In nearer arcs his journeys run,
And nearer stoops the moon.
There in a moment I have seen
The buried Past arise;
The fields of Thessaly grew green,
Old gods forsook the skies.
I cannot publish in my rhyme
What pranks the greenwood played;
It was the Carnival of time,
And Ages went or stayed.
To me that spectral nook appeared
The mustering Day of Doom,
And round me swarmed in shadowy troop
Things past and things to come.
The darkness haunteth me elsewhere;
There I am full of light;
In every whispering leaf I hear
More sense than sages write.
Underwoods were full of pleasance,
All to each in kindness bend,
And every flower made obeisance
As a man unto his friend.
Far seen, the river glides below,
Tossing one sparkle to the eyes:
I catch thy meaning, wizard wave;
The River of my Life replies.
MUSIC
Let me go where'er I will,
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.
'T is not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.
THE WALK
A Queen rejoices in her peers,
And wary Nature knows her own
By court and city, dale and down,
And like a lover volunteers,
And to her son will treasures more
And more to purpose freely pour
In one wood walk, than learned men
Can find with glass in ten times ten.
COSMOS
Who saw the hid beginnings
When Chaos and Order strove,
Or who can date the morning.
The purple flaming of love?
I saw the hid beginnings
When Chaos and Order strove,
And I can date the morning prime
And purple flame of love.
Song breathed from all the forest,
The total air was fame;
It seemed the world was all torches
That suddenly caught the flame.
* * *
Is there never a retroscope mirror
In the realms and corners of space
That can give us a glimpse of the battle
And the soldiers face to face?
Sit here on the basalt courses
Where twisted hills betray
The seat of the world-old Forces
Who wrestled here on a day.
* * *
When the purple flame shoots up,
And Love ascends his throne,
I cannot hear your songs, O birds,
For the witchery of my own.
And every human heart
Still keeps that golden day
And rings the bells of jubilee
On its own First of May.
THE MIRACLE
I have trod this path a hundred times
With idle footsteps, crooning rhymes.
I know each nest and web-worm's tent,
The fox-hole which the woodchucks rent,
Maple and oak, the old Divan
Self-planted twice, like the banian.
I know not why I came again
Unless to learn it ten times ten.
To read the sense the woods impart
You must bring the throbbing heart.
Love is aye the counterforce,--
Terror and Hope and wild Remorse,
Newest knowledge, fiery thought,
Or Duty to grand purpose wrought.
Wandering yester morn the brake,
I reached this heath beside the lake,
And oh, the wonder of the power,
The deeper secret of the hour!
Nature, the supplement of man,
His hidden sense interpret can;--
What friend to friend cannot convey
Shall the dumb bird instructed say.
Passing yonder oak, I heard
Sharp accents of my woodland bird;
I watched the singer with delight,--
But mark what changed my joy to fright,--
When that bird sang, I gave the theme;
That wood-bird sang my last night's dream,
A brown wren was the Daniel
That pierced my trance its drift to tell,
Knew my quarrel, how and why,
Published it to lake and sky,
Told every word and syllable
In his flippant chirping babble,
All my wrath and all my shames,
Nay, God is witness, gave the names.
THE WATERFALL
A patch of meadow upland
Reached by a mile of road,
Soothed by the voice of waters,
With birds and flowers bestowed.
Hither I come for strength
Which well it can supply,
For Love draws might from terrene force
And potencies of sky.
The tremulous battery Earth
Responds to the touch of man;
It thrills to the antipodes,
From Boston to Japan.
The planets' child the planet knows
And to his joy replies;
To the lark's trill unfolds the rose,
Clouds flush their gayest dyes.
When Ali prayed and loved
Where Syrian waters roll,
Upward the ninth heaven thrilled and moved;
At the tread of the jubilant soul.
WALDEN
In my garden three ways meet,
Thrice the spot is blest;
Hermit-thrush comes there to build,
Carrier-doves to nest.
There broad-armed oaks, the copses' maze,
The cold sea-wind detain;
Here sultry Summer overstays
When Autumn chills the plain.
Self-sown my stately garden grows;
The winds and wind-blown seed,
Cold April rain and colder snows
My hedges plant and feed.
From mountains far and valleys near
The harvests sown to-day
Thrive in all weathers without fear,--
Wild planters, plant away!
In cities high the careful crowds
Of woe-worn mortals darkling go,
But in these sunny solitudes
My quiet roses blow.
Methought the sky looked scornful down
On all was base in man,
And airy tongues did taunt the town,
'Achieve our peace who can!'
What need I holier dew
Than Walden's haunted wave,
Distilled from heaven's alembic blue,
Steeped in each forest cave?
[If Thought unlock her mysteries,
If Friendship on me smile,
I walk in marble galleries,
I talk with kings the while.]
How drearily in College hall
The Doctor stretched the hours,
But in each pause we heard the call
Of robins out of doors.
The air is wise, the wind thinks well,
And all through which it blows,
If plants or brain, if egg or shell,
Or bird or biped knows;
And oft at home 'mid tasks I heed,
I heed how wears the day;
We must not halt while fiercely speed
The spans of life away.
What boots it here of Thebes or Rome
Or lands of Eastern day?
In forests I am still at home
And there I cannot stray.
THE ENCHANTER
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells;
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,
Scent, form and color; to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,
And crowds a history into a glance;
Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,
Spies oversea the fires of the mountain;
When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE
Six thankful weeks,--and let it be
A meter of prosperity,--
In my coat I bore this book,
And seldom therein could I look,
For I had too much to think,
Heaven and earth to eat and drink.
Is he hapless who can spare
In his plenty things so rare?
RICHES
Have ye seen the caterpillar
Foully warking in his nest?
'T is the poor man getting siller,
Without cleanness, without rest.
Have ye seen the butterfly
In braw claithing drest?
'T is the poor man gotten rich,
In rings and painted vest.
The poor man crawls in web of rags
And sore bested with woes.
But when he flees on riches' wings,
He laugheth at his foes.
PHILOSOPHER
Philosophers are lined with eyes within,
And, being so, the sage unmakes the man.
In love, he cannot therefore cease his trade;
Scarce the first blush has overspread his cheek,
He feels it, introverts his learned eye
To catch the unconscious heart in the very act.
His mother died,--the only friend he had,--
Some tears escaped, but his philosophy
Couched like a cat sat watching close behind
And throttled all his passion. Is't not like
That devil-spider that devours her mate
Scarce freed from her embraces?
INTELLECT
Gravely it broods apart on joy,
And, truth to tell, amused by pain.
LIMITS
Who knows this or that?
Hark in the wall to the rat:
Since the world was, he has gnawed;
Of his wisdom, of his fraud
What dost thou know?
In the wretched little beast
Is life and heart,
Child and parent,
Not without relation
To fruitful field and sun and moon.
What art thou? His wicked eye
Is cruel to thy cruelty.
INSCRIPTION FOR A WELL IN MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF THE WAR
Fall, stream, from Heaven to bless; return as well;
So did our sons; Heaven met them as they fell.
THE EXILE
(AFTER TALIESSIN)
The heavy blue chain
Of the boundless main
Didst thou, just man, endure.
I have an arrow that will find its mark,
A mastiff that will bite without a hark.
* * * * *
VI
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
1823-1834
* * * * *
THE BELL
I love thy music, mellow bell,
I love thine iron chime,
To life or death, to heaven or hell,
Which calls the sons of Time.
Thy voice upon the deep
The home-bound sea-boy hails,
It charms his cares to sleep,
It cheers him as he sails.
To house of God and heavenly joys
Thy summons called our sires,
And good men thought thy sacred voice
Disarmed the thunder's fires.
And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
Shall lift its notes once more,
And mix my requiem with the wind
That sweeps my native shore.
1823.
THOUGHT
I am not poor, but I am proud,
Of one inalienable right,
Above the envy of the crowd,--
Thought's holy light.
Better it is than gems or gold,
And oh! it cannot die,
But thought will glow when the sun grows cold,
And mix with Deity.
BOSTON, 1823.
PRAYER
When success exalts thy lot,
God for thy virtue lays a plot:
And all thy life is for thy own,
Then for mankind's instruction shown;
And though thy knees were never bent,
To Heaven thy hourly prayers are sent,
And whether formed for good or ill,
Are registered and answered still.
1826 [?].
I bear in youth the sad infirmities
That use to undo the limb and sense of age;
It hath pleased Heaven to break the dream of bliss
Which lit my onward way with bright presage,
And my unserviceable limbs forego.
The sweet delight I found in fields and farms,
On windy hills, whose tops with morning glow,
And lakes, smooth mirrors of Aurora's charms.
Yet I think on them in the silent night,
Still breaks that morn, though dim, to Memory's eye,
And the firm soul does the pale train defy
Of grim Disease, that would her peace affright.
Please God, I'll wrap me in mine innocence,
And bid each awful Muse drive the damned harpies hence.
CAMBRIDGE, 1827.
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly
Serve that low whisper thou hast served; for know,
God hath a _select_ family of sons
Now scattered wide thro' earth, and each alone,
Who are thy spiritual kindred, and each one
By constant service to, that inward law,
Is weaving the sublime proportions
Of a true monarch's soul. Beauty and strength,
The riches of a spotless memory,
The eloquence of truth, the wisdom got
By searching of a clear and loving eye
That seeth as God seeth. These are their gifts,
And Time, who keeps God's word, brings on the day
To seal the marriage of these minds with thine,
Thine everlasting lovers. Ye shall be
The salt of all the elements, world of the world.
TO-DAY
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide
The resurrection of departed pride.
Safe in their ancient crannies, dark and deep,
Let kings and conquerors, saints and soldiers sleep--
Late in the world,--too late perchance for fame,
Just late enough to reap abundant blame,--
I choose a novel theme, a bold abuse
Of critic charters, an unlaurelled Muse.
Old mouldy men and books and names and lands
Disgust my reason and defile my hands.
I had as lief respect an ancient shoe,
As love old things _for age_, and hate the new.
I spurn the Past, my mind disdains its nod,
Nor kneels in homage to so mean a God.
I laugh at those who, while they gape and gaze,
The bald antiquity of China praise.
Youth is (whatever cynic tubs pretend)
The fault that boys and nations soonest mend.
1824.
FAME
Ah Fate, cannot a man
Be wise without a beard?
East, West, from Beer to Dan,
Say, was it never heard
That wisdom might in youth be gotten,
Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?
He pays too high a price
For knowledge and for fame
Who sells his sinews to be wise,
His teeth and bones to buy a name,
And crawls through life a paralytic
To earn the praise of bard and critic.
Were it not better done,
To dine and sleep through forty years;
Be loved by few; be feared by none;
Laugh life away; have wine for tears;
And take the mortal leap undaunted,
Content that all we asked was granted?
But Fate will not permit
The seed of gods to die,
Nor suffer sense to win from wit
Its guerdon in the sky,
Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure,
The world's light underneath a measure.
Go then, sad youth, and shine;
Go, sacrifice to Fame;
Put youth, joy, health upon the shrine,
And life to fan the flame;
Being for Seeming bravely barter
And die to Fame a happy martyr.
1824.
THE SUMMONS
A sterner errand to the silken troop
Has quenched the uneasy blush that warmed my cheek;
I am commissioned in my day of joy
To leave my woods and streams and the sweet sloth
Of prayer and song that were my dear delight,
To leave the rudeness of my woodland life,
Sweet twilight walks and midnight solitude
And kind acquaintance with the morning stars
And the glad hey-day of my household hours,
The innocent mirth which sweetens daily bread,
Railing in love to those who rail again,
By mind's industry sharpening the love of life--
Books, Muses, Study, fireside, friends and love,
I loved ye with true love, so fare ye well!
I was a boy; boyhood slid gayly by
And the impatient years that trod on it
Taught me new lessons in the lore of life.
I've learned the sum of that sad history
All woman-born do know, that hoped-for days,
Days that come dancing on fraught with delights,
Dash our blown hopes as they limp heavily by.
But I, the bantling of a country Muse,
Abandon all those toys with speed to obey
The King whose meek ambassador I go.
1826.
THE RIVER
And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,--
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed
The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields,
And where thereafter in the world he went.
Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now
He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales
With his redundant waves.
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,--and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly
A blooming hunter of a fairy fine.
And hark! where overhead the ancient crows
Hold their sour conversation in the sky:--
These are the same, but I am not the same,
But wiser than I was, and wise enough
Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind,
That rustles down the well-known forest road--
It hath a sound more eloquent than speech.
The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind,
All of them utter sounds of 'monishment
And grave parental love.
They are not of our race, they seem to say,
And yet have knowledge of our moral race,
And somewhat of majestic sympathy,
Something of pity for the puny clay,
That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind.
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country's primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.
CONCORD, June, 1827.
GOOD HOPE
The cup of life is not so shallow
That we have drained the best,
That all the wine at once we swallow
And lees make all the rest.
Maids of as soft a bloom shall marry
As Hymen yet hath blessed,
And fairer forms are in the quarry
Than Phidias released.
1827.
LINES TO ELLEN
Tell me, maiden, dost thou use
Thyself thro' Nature to diffuse?
All the angles of the coast
Were tenanted by thy sweet ghost,
Bore thy colors every flower,
Thine each leaf and berry bore;
All wore thy badges and thy favors
In their scent or in their savors,
Every moth with painted wing,
Every bird in carolling,
The wood-boughs with thy manners waved,
The rocks uphold thy name engraved,
The sod throbbed friendly to my feet,
And the sweet air with thee was sweet.
The saffron cloud that floated warm
Studied thy motion, took thy form,
And in his airy road benign
Recalled thy skill in bold design,
Or seemed to use his privilege
To gaze o'er the horizon's edge,
To search where now thy beauty glowed,
Or made what other purlieus proud.
1829.
SECURITY
Though her eye seek other forms
And a glad delight below,
Yet the love the world that warms
Bids for me her bosom glow.
She must love me till she find
Another heart as large and true.
Her soul is frank as the ocean wind,
And the world has only two.
If Nature hold another heart
That knows a purer flame than me,
I too therein could challenge part
And learn of love a new degree.
1829.
A dull uncertain brain,
But gifted yet to know
That God has cherubim who go
Singing an immortal strain,
Immortal here below.
I know the mighty bards,
I listen when they sing,
And now I know
The secret store
Which these explore
When they with torch of genius pierce
The tenfold clouds that cover
The riches of the universe
From God's adoring lover.
And if to me it is not given
To fetch one ingot thence
Of the unfading gold of Heaven
His merchants may dispense,
Yet well I know the royal mine,
And know the sparkle of its ore,
Know Heaven's truth from lies that shine--
Explored they teach us to explore.
1831.
A MOUNTAIN GRAVE
Why fear to die
And let thy body lie
Under the flowers of June,
Thy body food
For the ground-worms' brood
And thy grave smiled on by the visiting moon.
Amid great Nature's halls
Girt in by mountain walls
And washed with waterfalls
It would please me to die,
Where every wind that swept my tomb
Goes loaded with a free perfume
Dealt out with a God's charity.
I should like to die in sweets,
A hill's leaves for winding-sheets,
And the searching sun to see
That I am laid with decency.
And the commissioned wind to sing
His mighty psalm from fall to spring
And annual tunes commemorate
Of Nature's child the common fate.
WILLIAMSTOWN, VERMONT, 1 June, 1831.
A LETTER
Dear brother, would you know the life,
Please God, that I would lead?
On the first wheels that quit this weary town
Over yon western bridges I would ride
And with a cheerful benison forsake
Each street and spire and roof, incontinent.
Then would I seek where God might guide my steps,
Deep in a woodland tract, a sunny farm,
Amid the mountain counties, Hants, Franklin, Berks,
Where down the rock ravine a river roars,
Even from a brook, and where old woods
Not tamed and cleared cumber the ground
With their centennial wrecks.
Find me a slope where I can feel the sun
And mark the rising of the early stars.
There will I bring my books,--my household gods,
The reliquaries of my dead saint, and dwell
In the sweet odor of her memory.
Then in the uncouth solitude unlock
My stock of art, plant dials in the grass,
Hang in the air a bright thermometer
And aim a telescope at the inviolate sun.
CHARDON ST., BOSTON, 1831.
Day by day returns
The everlasting sun,
Replenishing material urns
With God's unspared donation;
But the day of day,
The orb within the mind,
Creating fair and good alway,
Shines not as once it shined.
* * *
Vast the realm of Being is,
In the waste one nook is his;
Whatsoever hap befalls
In his vision's narrow walls
He is here to testify.
1831.
HYMN
There is in all the sons of men
A love that in the spirit dwells,
That panteth after things unseen,
And tidings of the future tells.
And God hath built his altar here
To keep this fire of faith alive,
And sent his priests in holy fear
To speak the truth--for truth to strive.
And hither come the pensive train
Of rich and poor, of young and old,
Of ardent youth untouched by pain,
Of thoughtful maids and manhood bold.
They seek a friend to speak the word
Already trembling on their tongue,
To touch with prophet's hand the chord
Which God in human hearts hath strung.
To speak the plain reproof of sin
That sounded in the soul before,
And bid you let the angels in
That knock at meek contrition's door.
A friend to lift the curtain up
That hides from man the mortal goal,
And with glad thoughts of faith and hope
Surprise the exulting soul.
Sole source of light and hope assured,
O touch thy servant's lips with power,
So shall he speak to us the word
Thyself dost give forever more.
June, 1831.
SELF-RELIANCE
Henceforth, please God, forever I forego
The yoke of men's opinions. I will be
Light-hearted as a bird, and live with God.
I find him in the bottom of my heart,
I hear continually his voice therein.
* * *
The little needle always knows the North,
The little bird remembereth his note,
And this wise Seer within me never errs.
I never taught it what it teaches me;
I only follow, when I act aright.
October 9, 1832.
And when I am entombed in my place,
Be it remembered of a single man,
He never, though he dearly loved his race,
For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship
Of minds that each can stand against the world
By its own meek and incorruptible will?
The days pass over me
And I am still the same;
The aroma of my life is gone
With the flower with which it came.
1833.
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
We are what we are made; each following day
Is the Creator of our human mould
Not less than was the first; the all-wise God
Gilds a few points in every several life,
And as each flower upon the fresh hillside,
And every colored petal of each flower,
Is sketched and dyed, each with a new design,
Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown,
So each man's life shall have its proper lights,
And a few joys, a few peculiar charms,
For him round in the melancholy hours
And reconcile him to the common days.
Not many men see beauty in the fogs
Of close low pine-woods in a river town;
Yet unto me not morn's magnificence,
Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve,
Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls
Of rich men blazing hospitable light,
Nor wit, nor eloquence,--no, nor even the song
Of any woman that is now alive,--
Hath such a soul, such divine influence,
Such resurrection of the happy past,
As is to me when I behold the morn
Ope in such law moist roadside, and beneath
Peep the blue violets out of the black loam,
Pathetic silent poets that sing to me
Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife.
March, 1833.
WRITTEN AT ROME
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;--
Besides, you need not be alone; the soul
Shall have society of its own rank.
Be great, be true, and all the Scipios,
The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome,
Shall flock to you and tarry by your side,
And comfort you with their high company.
Virtue alone is sweet society,
It keeps the key to all heroic hearts,
And opens you a welcome in them all.
You must be like them if you desire them,
Scorn trifles and embrace a better aim
Than wine or sleep or praise;
Hunt knowledge as the lover wooes a maid,
And ever in the strife of your own thoughts
Obey the nobler impulse; that is Rome:
That shall command a senate to your side;
For there is no might in the universe
That can contend with love. It reigns forever.
Wait then, sad friend, wait in majestic peace
The hour of heaven. Generously trust
Thy fortune's web to the beneficent hand
That until now has put his world in fee
To thee. He watches for thee still. His love
Broods over thee, and as God lives in heaven,
However long thou walkest solitary,
The hour of heaven shall come, the man appear.
1833.
WEBSTER
1831
Let Webster's lofty face
Ever on thousands shine,
A beacon set that Freedom's race
Might gather omens from that radiant sign.
FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM
1834
Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
For living brows; ill fits them to receive:
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law,
One portrait--fact or fancy--we may draw;
A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould
Of them who rescued liberty of old;
He, when the rising storm of party roared,
Brought his great forehead to the council board,
There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state,
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate;
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke,
As if the conscience of the country spoke.
Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood,
Than he to common sense and common good:
No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew,
Believed the eloquent was aye the true;
He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise
To that within the vision of small eyes.
Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word
It shook or captivated all who heard,
Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea,
And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.
1854
Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail?
He wrote on Nature's grandest brow, _For Sale_.
* * * * *
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A dull uncertain brain
"A new commandment," said the smiling Muse
A patch of meadow upland
A queen rejoices in her peers
A ruddy drop of manly blood
A score of airy miles will smooth
A sterner errand to the silken troop
A subtle chain of countless rings
A train of gay and clouded days
Ah Fate, cannot a man
Ah, not to me those dreams belong!
All day the waves assailed the rock
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too
Already blushes on thy cheek
And as the light divides the dark
And Ellen, when the graybeard years
And I behold once more
And when I am entombed in my place
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
Around the man who seeks a noble end
Ascending thorough just degrees
Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
As sings the pine-tree in the wind
As sunbeams stream through liberal space
As the drop feeds its fated flower
Atom from atom yawns as far
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly
Because I was content with these poor fields
Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Blooms the laurel which belongs
Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint
Burly, dozing humble-bee
But God said
But if thou do thy best
But Nature whistled with all her winds
But never yet the man was found
But over all his crowning grace
By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
By the rude bridge that arched the flood
By thoughts I lead
Can rules or tutors educate
Cast the bantling on the rocks
Coin the day dawn into lines
Dark flower of Cheshire garden
Darlings of children and of bard
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days
Day by day for her darlings to her much she added more
Day by day returns
Day! hast thou two faces
Dear brother, would you know the life
Dearest, where thy shadow falls
Deep in the man sits fast his fate
Each spot where tulips prank their state
Each the herald is who wrote
Easy to match what others do
Ere he was born, the stars of fate
Ever the Poet _from_ the land
Ever the Rock of Ages melts
Every day brings a ship
Every thought is public
Fall, stream, from Heaven to bless; return as well
Farewell, ye lofty spires
Flow, flow the waves hated
For art, for music over-thrilled
For every God
For Fancy's gift
For Genius made his cabin wide
For joy and beauty planted it
For Nature, true and like in every place
For thought, and not praise
For what need I of book or priest
Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread
Freedom all winged expands
Friends to me are frozen wine
From fall to spring, the russet acorn
From high to higher forces
From the stores of eldest matter
From thy worth and weight the stars gravitate
Gifts of one who loved me
Give all to love
Give me truths
Give to barrows, trays and pans
Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower
Go speed the stars of Thought
Go thou to thy learned task
Gold and iron are good
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home
Grace, Beauty and Caprice
Gravely it broods apart on joy
Hark what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Have ye seen the caterpillar
He could condense cerulean ether
He lives not who can refuse me
He planted where the deluge ploughed
He took the color of his vest
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare
He who has no hands
Hear what British Merlin sung
Henceforth, please God, forever I forego
Her passions the shy violet
Her planted eye to-day controls
High was her heart, and yet was well inclined
Him strong Genius urged to roam
His instant thought a poet spoke
His tongue was framed to music
Hold of the Maker, not the Made
How much, preventing God, how much I owe
I, Alphonso, live and learn
I am not poor but I am proud
I am not wiser for my age
I am the Muse who sung alway
I bear in youth and sad infirmities
I cannot spare water or wine
I do not count the hours I spend
I framed his tongue to music
I grieve that better souls than mine
I have an arrow that will find its mark
I have no brothers and no peers
I have trod this path a hundred times
I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea
I hung my verses in the wind
I left my dreary page and sallied forth
I like a church; I like a cowl
I love thy music, mellow bell
I mourn upon this battle-field
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide
I reached the middle of the mount
I said to heaven that glowed above
I see all human wits
I serve you not, if you I follow
If bright the sun, he tarries
If curses be the wage of love
If I could put my woods in song
If my darling should depart
If the red slayer think he slays
Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
Illusions like the tints of pearl
Illusion works impenetrable
In an age of fops and toys
In countless upward-striving waves
In Farsistan the violet spreads
In many forms we try
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
In my garden three ways meet
In the chamber, on the stairs
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
In the suburb, in the town
In the turbulent beauty
In Walden wood the chickadee
It fell in the ancient periods
It is time to be old
Knows he who tills this lonely field
Let me go where'er I will
Let Webster's lofty face
Like vaulters in a circus round
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Long I followed happy guides
Love asks nought his brother cannot give
Love on his errand bound to go
Love scatters oil
Low and mournful be the strain
Man was made of social earth
Many things the garden shows
May be true what I had heard
Mine and yours
Mine are the night and morning
Mortal mixed of middle clay
Nature centres into balls
Never did sculptor's dream unfold
Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall
No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low
Not in their houses stand the stars
October woods wherein
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes
O pity that I pause!
O tenderly the haughty day
O well for the fortunate soul
O what are heroes, prophets, men
Of all wit's uses the main one
Of Merlin wise I learned a song
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship
On a mound an Arab lay
On bravely through the sunshine and the showers
On prince or bride no diamond stone
On two days it steads not to run from thy grave
Once I wished I might rehearse
One musician is sure
Our eyeless bark sails free
Over his head were the maple buds
Pale genius roves alone
Parks and ponds are good by day
Philosophers are lined with eyes within
Power that by obedience grows
Put in, drive home the sightless wedges
Quit the hut, frequent the palace
Right upward on the road of fame
Roomy Eternity
Roving, roving, as it seems
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves
Samson stark at Dagon's knee
See yonder leafless trees against the sky
Seek not the spirit, if it hide
Seems, though the soft sheen all enchants
Set not thy foot on graves
She is gamesome and good
She paints with white and red the moors
She walked in flowers around my field
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift
Six thankful weeks,--and let it be
Slighted Minerva's learn鑔 tongue
Soft and softlier hold me, friends!
Solar insect on the wing
Some of your hurts you have cured
Space is ample, east and west
Spin the ball! I reel, I burn
Such another peerless queen
Sudden gusts came full of meaning
Tell me, maiden, dost thou use
Tell men what they knew before
Test of the poet is knowledge of love
Thanks to the morning light
That book is good
That each should in his house abide
That you are fair or wise is vain
The April winds are magical
The archangel Hope
The Asmodean feat is mine
The atom displaces all atoms beside
The bard and mystic held me for their own
The beggar begs by God's command
The brave Empedocles, defying fools
The brook sings on, but sings in vain
The cold gray down upon the quinces lieth
The cup of life is not so shallow
The days pass over me
The debt is paid
The gale that wrecked you on the sand
The green grass is bowing
The heavy blue chain
The living Heaven thy prayers respect
The lords of life, the lords of life
The low December vault in June be lifted high
Theme no poet gladly sung
The mountain and the squirrel
The Muse's hill by Fear is guarded
The patient Pan
The prosperous and beautiful
The rhyme of the poet
The rocky nook with hilltops three
The rules to men made evident
The sea is the road of the bold
The sense of the world is short
The solid, solid universe
The South-wind brings
The Sphinx is drowsy
The sun athwart the cloud thought it no sin
The sun goes down, and with him takes
The sun set, but set not his hope
The tongue is prone to lose the way
The water understands
The wings of Time are black and white
The word of the Lord by night
The yesterday doth never smile
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes
There are beggars in Iran and Araby
There is in all the sons of men
There is no great and no small
There is no architect
They brought me rubies from the mine
They put their finger on their lips
They say, through patience, chalk
Thine eyes still shined for me, though far
Think me not unkind and rude
This is he, who, felled by foes
This shining moment is an edifice
Thou foolish Hafiz! Say, do churls
Thou shalt make thy house
Though her eyes seek other forms
Though loath to grieve
Though love repine and reason chafe
Thousand minstrels woke within me
Thy foes to hunt, thy enviers to strike down
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit
Thy trivial harp will never please
To and fro the Genius flies
To clothe the fiery thought
To transmute crime to wisdom, so to stem
Trees in groves
True Brahmin, in the morning meadows wet
Try the might the Muse affords
Two things thou shalt not long for, if thou love a mind serene
Two well-assorted travellers use
Unbar the door, since thou the Opener art
Venus, when her son was lost
Was never form and never face
We are what we are made; each following day
We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends
We love the venerable house
Well and wisely said the Greek
What all the books of ages paint, I have
What care I, so they stand the same
What central flowing forces, say
When all their blooms the meadows flaunt
When I was born
When success exalts thy lot
When the pine tosses its cones
When wrath and terror changed Jove's regal port
Who gave thee, O Beauty
Who knows this or that? 375.
Who saw the hid beginnings
Who shall tell what did befall
Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail?
Why fear to die
Why lingerest thou, pale violet, to see the dying year
Why should I keep holiday
Wilt thou seal up the avenues of ill?
Winters know
Wise and polite,--and if I drew
Wisp and meteor nightly falling
With beams December planets dart
With the key of the secret he marches faster
Would you know what joy is hid
Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken
You shall not be overbold
You shall not love me for what daily spends
Your picture smiles as first it smiled
* * * * *
INDEX OF TITLES
[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal
divisions of the work; those in lower case are of single poems, or the
subdivisions of long poems.]
A.H.
[Greek: Adakryn nemontai Aiona]
Adirondacs, The
Alcuin, From
Ali Ben Abu Taleb, From
Alphonso of Castile
Amulet, The
Apology, The
April
Art
Artist
Astraea
Bacchus
Beauty
Bell, The
Berrying
Birds
Blight
Bo閏e, 蓆ienne de la
Bohemian Hymn, The
Borrowing
Boston
Boston Hymn, read in Music Hall, January 1, 1863
Botanist
Brahma
Caritas
Casella
Celestial Love, The
Channing, W.H., Ode inscribed to
Character
Chartist's Complaint, The
Circles
Climacteric
Compensation
Concord Hymn
Concord, Ode Sung in the Town Hall, July 4, 1857
Cosmos
Culture
Cupido
Daemonic Love, The
Day's Ration, The
Days
Destiny
Dirge
Each and All
Earth, The
Earth-Song
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
Ellen, To
Ellen, Lines to
Enchanter, The
Epitaph
Eros
Eva, To
Excelsior
Exile, The
Experience
Fable
Fame
Fate
Flute, The
Forbearance
Forerunners
Forester
Fragments on Nature and Life
Fragments on the Poet and the Poetic Gift
Freedom
Friendship
Garden, The
Garden, My
Gardener
Gifts
Give all to Love
Good-bye
Good Hope
Grace
Guy
Hafiz
Hafiz, From
Hamatreya
Harp, The
Heavens, The
Heri, Cras, Hodie
Hermione
Heroism
Holidays
Horoscope
House, The
Humble-Bee, The
Hush!
Hymn
Hymn sung at the Second Church, Boston, at the Ordination of
Rev. Chandler Robbins
Ibn Jemin, From
Illusions
Informing Spirit, The
In Memoriam
Initial, Daemonic and Celestial Love
Initial Love, The
Inscription for a Well in Memory of the Martyrs of the War
Insight
Intellect
J.W., To
Last Farewell, The
Letter, A
Letters
Life
Limits
Lines by Ellen Louise Tucker
Lines to Ellen
Love
Love and Thought
Maia
Maiden Speech of the Aeolian Harp
Manners
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
May-Day
Memory
Merlin
Merlin's Song
Merops
Miracle, The
Mithridates
Monadnoc
Monadnoc from afar
Mountain Grave, A
Music
Musketaquid
My Garden
Nahant
Nature
Nature in Leasts
Nemesis
Night in June
Northman
Nun's Aspiration, The
October
Ode, inscribed to W.H. Channing
Ode, sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857
Ode to Beauty
Omar Khayyam, From
Orator
Pan
Park, The
Past, The
Pericles
Peter's Field
Phi Beta Kappa Poem, From the
Philosopher
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
Poet
Poet, The
Politics
Power
Prayer
Problem, The
Promise
Prudence
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
Rex
Rhea, To
Rhodora, The
Riches
River, The
Romany Girl, The
Rubies
S.H.
Saadi
Sacrifice
Seashore
Security
September
Shah, To the
Shakspeare
Snow-Storm, The
Solution
Song of Nature
Song of Seyd Nimetollah of Kuhistan
Sonnet of Michel Angelo Buonarotti
Sphinx, The
Spiritual Laws
Summons, The
Sunrise
Sursum Corda
"Suum Cuique"
Terminus
Test, The
Thine Eyes still Shined
Thought
Threnody
Titmouse, The
To-Day
To Ellen at the South
To Ellen
To Eva
To J.W.
To Rhea
To the Shah
Transition
Translations
Two Rivers
Una
Unity
Uriel
Violet, The
Visit, The
Voluntaries
Waldeinsamkeit
Walden
Walk, The
Water
Waterfall, The
Wealth
Webster
Woodnotes
World-Soul, The
Worship
Written at Rome, 1883
Written in a Volume of Goethe
Written in Naples, March, 1883
Xenophanes
In Mr. Cabot's prefatory note to the Riverside Edition of the Poems,
published the year after Mr. Emerson's death, he said:--
"This volume contains nearly all the pieces included in the POEMS and
MAY-DAY of former editions. In 1876, Mr. Emerson published a _select_ion
from his Poems, adding six new ones and omitting many[1]. Of those
omitted, several are now restored, in accordance with the expressed
wishes of many readers and lovers of them. Also some pieces never
before published are here given in an Appendix; on various grounds.
Some of them appear to have had Mr. Emerson's approval, but to have
been withheld because they were unfinished. These it seemed best not to
suppress, now that they can never receive their completion. Others,
mostly of an early date, remained unpublished, doubtless because of
their personal and private nature. Some of these seem to have an
autobiographic interest sufficient to justify their publication. Others
again, often mere fragments, have been admitted as characteristic, or
as expressing in poetic form thoughts found in the Essays.
[1] __Select_ed Poems_: Little Classic Edition.
"In coming to a decision in these cases it seemed, on the whole,
preferable to take the risk of including too much rather than the
opposite, and to leave the task of further winnowing to the hands of
Time.
"As was stated in the preface to the first volume of this edition of
Mr. Emerson's writings, the readings adopted by him in the _Select_ed
Poems have not always been followed here, but in some cases preference
has been given to corrections made by him when he was in fuller
strength than at the time of the last revision.
"A change in the arrangement of the stanzas of 'May-Day,' in the part
representative of the march of Spring, received his sanction as
bringing them more nearly in accordance with the events in Nature."
In the preparation of the Riverside Edition of the _Poems_, Mr. Cabot
very considerately took the present editor into counsel (as
representing Mr. Emerson's family), who at that time in turn took
counsel with several persons of taste and mature judgment with regard
especially to the admission of poems hitherto unpublished and of
fragments that seemed interested and pleasing. Mr. Cabot and he were
entirely in accord with regard to the Riverside Edition. In the present
edition, the substance of the Riverside Edition has been preserved,
with hardly an exception, although some poems and fragments have been
added. None of the poems therein printed have been omitted. "The
House," which appeared in the first volume of _Poems_, and "Nemesis,"
"Una," "Love and Thought" and "Merlin's Songs," from the _May-Day_
volume, have been restored. To the few mottoes of the Essays, which Mr.
Emerson printed as "Elements" in _May-Day_, most of the others have
been added. Following Mr. Emerson's precedent of giving his brother
Edward's "Last Farewell" a place beside the poem in his memory, two
pleasing poems by Ellen Tucker, his first wife, which he published in
the _Dial_, have been placed with his own poems relating to her. The
publication in the last edition of some poems that Mr. Emerson had long
kept by him, but had never quite been ready to print, and of various
fragments on Poetry, Nature and Life, was not done without advice and
careful consideration, and then was felt to be perhaps a rash
experiment. The continued interest which has been shown in the author's
thought and methods and life--for these unfinished pieces contain much
autobiography--has made the present editor feel it justifiable to keep
almost all of these and to add a few. Their order has been slightly
altered.
A few poems from the verse-books sufficiently complete to have a title
are printed in the Appendix for the first time: "Insight," "September,"
"October," "Hymn" and "Riches."
After much hesitation the editor has gathered in their order of time,
and printed at the end of the book, some twenty early pieces, a few of
them taken from the Appendix of the last edition and others never
printed before. They are for the most part journals in verse covering
the period of his school-teaching, study for the ministry and exercise
of that office, his sickness, bereavement, travel abroad and return to
the new life. This sad period of probation is illuminated by the
episode of his first love. Not for their poetical merit, except in
flashes, but for the light they throw on the growth of his thought and
character are they included.
In this volume the course of the Muse, as Emerson tells it, is pursued
with regard to his own poems.
I hang my verses in the wind,
Time and tide their faults will find.
EDWARD W. EMERSON.
March 12, 1904.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
POEMS
GOOD-BYE
EACH AND ALL
THE PROBLEM
TO RHEA
THE VISIT
URIEL
THE WORLD-SOUL
THE SPHINX
ALPHONSO OF CASTILE
MITHRIDATES
TO J.W.
DESTINY
GUY
HAMATREYA
THE RHODORA
THE HUMBLE-BEE
BERRYING
THE SNOW-STORM
WOODNOTES I
WOODNOTES II
MONADNOC
FABLE
ODE
ASTRAEA
蒚IENNE DE LA BO蒀E
COMPENSATION
FORBEARANCE
THE PARK
FORERUNNERS
SURSUM CORDA
ODE TO BEAUTY
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH
TO ELLEN
TO EVA
LINES
THE VIOLET
THE AMULET
THINE EYES STILL SHINED
EROS
HERMIONE
INITIAL, DAEMONIC AND CELESTIAL LOVE
I. THE INITIAL LOVE
II. THE DAEMONIC LOVE
III. THE CELESTIAL LOVE
THE APOLOGY
MERLIN I
MERLIN II
BACCHUS
MEROPS
THE HOUSE
SAADI
HOLIDAYS
XENOPHANES
THE DAY'S RATION
BLIGHT
MUSKETAQUID
DIRGE
THRENODY
CONCORD HYMN
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
MAY-DAY
THE ADIRONDACS
BRAHMA
NEMESIS
FATE
FREEDOM
ODE
BOSTON HYMN
VOLUNTARIES
LOVE AND THOUGHT
UNA
BOSTON
LETTERS
RUBIES
MERLIN'S SONG
THE TEST
SOLUTION
HYMN
NATURE I
NATURE II
THE ROMANY GIRL
DAYS
MY GARDEN
THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT
THE TITMOUSE
THE HARP
SEASHORE
SONG OF NATURE
TWO RIVERS
WALDEINSAMKEIT
TERMINUS
THE NUN'S ASPIRATION
APRIL
MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP
CUPIDO
THE PAST
THE LAST FAREWELL
IN MEMORIAM E.B.E.
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
EXPERIENCE
COMPENSATION
POLITICS
HEROISM
CHARACTER
CULTURE
FRIENDSHIP
SPIRITUAL LAWS
BEAUTY
MANNERS
ART
UNITY
WORSHIP
PRUDENCE
NATURE
THE INFORMING SPIRIT
CIRCLES
INTELLECT
GIFTS
PROMISE
CARITAS
POWER
WEALTH
ILLUSIONS
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
QUATRAINS
TRANSLATIONS
APPENDIX
THE POET
FRAGMENTS ON THE POET AND THE POETIC GIFT
FRAGMENTS ON NATURE AND LIFE
NATURE
LIFE
THE BOHEMIAN HYMN
GRACE
INSIGHT
PAN
MONADNOC FROM AFAR
SEPTEMBER
EROS
OCTOBER
PETER'S FIELD
MUSIC
THE WALK
COSMOS
THE MIRACLE
THE WATERFALL
WALDEN
THE ENCHANTER
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE
RICHES
PHILOSOPHER
INTELLECT
LIMITS
INSCRIPTION FOR A WELL IN MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF THE WAR
THE EXILE
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
THE BELL
THOUGHT
PRAYER
TO-DAY
FAME
THE SUMMONS
THE RIVER
GOOD HOPE
LINES TO ELLEN
SECURITY
A MOUNTAIN GRAVE
A LETTER
HYMN
SELF-RELIANCE
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
WRITTEN AT ROME
WEBSTER
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
INDEX OF TITLES
* * * * *
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
The Emersons first appeared in the north of England, but Thomas, who
landed in Massachusetts in 1638, came from Hertfordshire. He built soon
after a house, sometimes railed the Saint's Rest, which still stands in
Ipswich on the slope of Heart-break Hill, close by Labour-in-vain Creek.
Ralph Waldo Emerson was the sixth in descent from him. He was born in
Boston, in Summer Street, May 25, 1803. He was the third son of William
Emerson, the minister of the First Church in Boston, whose father,
William Emerson, had been the patriotic minister of Concord at the
outbreak of the Revolution, and died a chaplain in the army. Ruth
Haskins, the mother of Ralph Waldo Emerson, was left a widow in 1811,
with a family of five little boys. The taste of these boys was
scholarly, and four of them went through the Latin School to Harvard
College, and graduated there. Their mother was a person of great
sweetness, dignity, and piety, bringing up her sons wisely and well in
very straitened circumstances, and loved by them. Her husband's
stepfather, Rev. Dr. Ripley of Concord, helped her, and constantly
invited the boys to the Old Manse, so that the woods and fields along
the Concord River were first a playground and then the background of the
dreams of their awakening imaginations.
Born in the city, Emerson's young mind first found delight in poems and
classic prose, to which his instincts led him as naturally as another
boy's would to go fishing, but his vacations in the country supplemented
these by giving him great and increasing love of nature. In his early
poems classic imagery is woven into pictures of New England woodlands.
Even as a little boy he had the habit of attempting flights of verse,
stimulated by Milton, Pope, or Scott, and he and his mates took pleasure
in declaiming to each other in barns and attics. He was so full of
thoughts and fancies that he sought the pen instinctively, to jot them
down.
At college Emerson did not shine as a scholar, though he won prizes for
essays and declamations, being especially unfitted for mathematical
studies, and enjoying the classics rather in a literary than grammatical
way. And yet it is doubtful whether any man in his class used his time
to better purpose with reference to his after life, for young Emerson's
instinct led him to wide reading of works, outside the curriculum, that
spoke directly to him. He had already formed the habit of writing in a
journal, not the facts but the thoughts and inspirations of the day;
often, also, good stories or poetical quotations, and scraps of his own
verse.
On graduation from Harvard in the class of 1821, following the
traditions of his family, Emerson resolved to study to be a minister,
and meantime helped his older brother William in the support of the
family by teaching in a school for young ladies in Boston, that the
former had successfully established. The principal was twenty-one and
the assistant nineteen years of age. For school-teaching on the usual
lines Emerson was not fitted, and his youth and shyness prevented him
from imparting his best gifts to his scholars. Years later, when, in his
age, his old scholars assembled to greet him, he regretted that no hint
had been brought into the school of what at that very time "I was
writing every night in my chamber, my first thoughts on morals and the
beautiful laws of compensation, and of individual genius, which to
observe and illustrate have given sweetness to many years of my life."
Yet many scholars remembered his presence and teaching with pleasure and
gratitude, not only in Boston, but in Chelmsford and Roxbury, for while
his younger brothers were in college it was necessary that he should
help. In these years, as through all his youth, he was loved, spurred on
in his intellectual life, and keenly criticised by his aunt, Mary Moody
Emerson, an eager and wide reader, inspired by religious zeal,
high-minded, but eccentric.
The health of the young teacher suffered from too ascetic a life, and
unmistakable danger-signals began to appear, fortunately heeded in time,
but disappointment and delay resulted, borne, however, with sense and
courage. His course at the Divinity School in Cambridge was much broken;
nevertheless, in October, 1826, he was "approbated to preach" by the
Middlesex Association of Ministers. A winter at the North at this time
threatened to prove fatal, so he was sent South by his helpful kinsman,
Rev. Samuel Ripley, and passed the winter in Florida with benefit,
working northward in the spring, preaching in the cities, and resumed
his studies at Cambridge.
In 1829, Emerson was called by the Second or Old North Church in Boston
to become the associate pastor with Rev. Henry Ware, and soon after,
because of his senior's delicate health, was called on to assume the
full duty. Theological dogmas, such as the Unitarian Church of
Channing's day accepted, did not appeal to Emerson, nor did the
supernatural in religion in its ordinary acceptation interest him. The
omnipresence of spirit, the dignity of man, the daily miracle of the
universe, were what he taught, and while the older members of the
congregation may have been disquieted that he did not dwell on revealed
religion, his words reached the young people, stirred thought, and
awakened aspiration. At this time he lived with his mother and his young
wife (Ellen Tucker) in Chardon Street. For three years he ministered to
his people in Boston. Then having felt the shock of being obliged to
conform to church usage, as stated prayer when the spirit did not move,
and especially the administration of the Communion, he honestly laid his
troubles before his people, and proposed to them some modification of
this rite. While they considered his proposition, Emerson went into the
White Mountains to weigh his conflicting duties to his church and
conscience. He came down, bravely to meet the refusal of the church to
change the rite, and in a sermon preached in September, 1832, explained
his objections to it, and, because he could not honestly administer it,
resigned.
He parted from his people in all kindness, but the wrench was felt. His
wife had recently died, he was ill himself, his life seemed to others
broken up. But meantime voices from far away had reached him. He sailed
for Europe, landed in Italy, saw cities, and art, and men, but would not
stay long. Of the dead, Michael Angelo appealed chiefly to him there;
Landor among the living. He soon passed northward, making little stay in
Paris, but sought out Carlyle, then hardly recognized, and living in the
lonely hills of the Scottish Border. There began a friendship which had
great influence on the lives of both men, and lasted through life. He
also visited Wordsworth. But the new life before him called him home.
He landed at Boston within the year in good health and hope, and joined
his mother and youngest brother Charles in Newton. Frequent invitations
to preach still came, and were accepted, and he even was sounded as to
succeeding Dr. Dewey in the church at New Bedford; but, as he stipulated
for freedom from ceremonial, this came to nothing.
In the autumn of 1834 he moved to Concord, living with his kinsman, Dr.
Ripley, at the Manse, but soon bought house and land on the Boston Road,
on the edge of the village towards Walden woods. Thither, in the autumn,
he brought his wife. Miss Lidian Jackson, of Plymouth, and this was
their home during the rest of their lives.
The new life to which he had been called opened pleasantly and increased
in happiness and opportunity, except for the sadness of bereavements,
for, in the first few years, his brilliant brothers Edward and Charles
died, and soon afterward Waldo, his firstborn son, and later his mother.
Emerson had left traditional religion, the city, the Old World, behind,
and now went to Nature as his teacher, his inspiration. His first book,
"Nature," which he was meditating while in Europe, was finished here,
and published in 1836. His practice during all his life in Concord was
to go alone to the woods almost daily, sometimes to wait there for
hours, and, when thus attuned, to receive the message to which he was to
give voice. Though it might be colored by him in transmission, he held
that the light was universal.
"Ever the words of the Gods resound,
But the porches of man's ear
Seldom in this low life's round
Are unsealed that he may hear."
But he resorted, also, to the books of those who had handed down the
oracles truly, and was quick to find the message destined for him. Men,
too, he studied eagerly, the humblest and the highest, regretting always
that the brand of the scholar on him often silenced the men of shop and
office where he came. He was everywhere a learner, expecting light from
the youngest and least educated visitor. The thoughts combined with the
flower of his reading were gradually grouped into lectures, and his main
occupation through life was reading these to who would hear, at first in
courses in Boston, but later all over the country, for the Lyceum sprang
up in New England in these years in every town, and spread westward to
the new settlements even beyond the Mississippi. His winters were spent
in these rough, but to him interesting journeys, for he loved to watch
the growth of the Republic in which he had faith, and his summers were
spent in study and writing. These lectures were later severely pruned
and revised, and the best of them gathered into seven volumes of essays
under different names between 1841 and 1876. The courses in Boston,
which at first were given in the Masonic Temple, were always well
attended by earnest and thoughtful people. The young, whether in years
or in spirit, were always and to the end his audience of the spoken or
written word. The freedom of the Lyceum platform pleased Emerson. He
found that people would hear on Wednesday with approval and
unsuspectingly doctrines from which on Sunday they felt officially
obliged to dissent.
Mr. Lowell, in his essays, has spoken of these early lectures and what
they were worth to him and others suffering from the generous discontent
of youth with things as they were. Emerson used to say, "My strength and
my doom is to be solitary;" but to a retired scholar a wholesome offset
to this was the travelling and lecturing in cities and in raw frontier
towns, bringing him into touch with the people, and this he knew and
valued.
In 1837 Emerson gave the Phi Beta Kappa oration in Cambridge, The
American Scholar, which increased his growing reputation, but the
following year his Address to the Senior Class at the Divinity School
brought out, even from the friendly Unitarians, severe strictures and
warnings against its dangerous doctrines. Of this heresy Emerson said:
"I deny personality to God because it is too little, not too much." He
really strove to elevate the idea of God. Yet those who were pained or
shocked by his teachings respected Emerson. His lectures were still in
demand; he was often asked to speak by literary societies at orthodox
colleges. He preached regularly at East Lexington until 1838, but
thereafter withdrew from the ministerial office. At this time the
progressive and spiritually minded young people used to meet for
discussion and help in Boston, among them George Ripley, Cyrus Bartol,
James Freeman Clarke, Alcott, Dr. Hedge, Margaret Fuller, and Elizabeth
Peabody. Perhaps from this gathering of friends, which Emerson attended,
came what is called the Transcendental Movement, two results of which
were the Brook Farm Community and the Dial magazine, in which last
Emerson took great interest, and was for the time an editor. Many of
these friends were frequent visitors in Concord. Alcott moved thither
after the breaking up of his school. Hawthorne also came to dwell there.
Henry Thoreau, a Concord youth, greatly interested Emerson; indeed,
became for a year or two a valued inmate of his home, and helped and
instructed him in the labors of the garden and little farm, which
gradually grew to ten acres, the chief interest of which for the owner
was his trees, which he loved and tended. Emerson helped introduce his
countrymen to the teachings of Carlyle, and edited his works here, where
they found more readers than at home.
In 1847 Emerson was invited to read lectures in England, and remained
abroad a year, visiting France also in her troublous times. English
Traits was a result. Just before this journey he had collected and
published his poems. A later volume, called May Day, followed in 1867.
He had written verses from childhood, and to the purified expression of
poetry he, through life, eagerly aspired. He said, "I like my poems
best because it is not I who write them." In 1866 the degree of Doctor
of Laws was conferred on him by Harvard University, and he was chosen an
Overseer. In 1867 he again gave the Phi Beta Kappa oration, and in 1870
and 1871 gave courses in Philosophy in the University Lectures at
Cambridge.
Emerson was not merely a man of letters. He recognized and did the
private and public duties of the hour. He exercised a wide hospitality
to souls as well as bodies. Eager youths came to him for rules, and went
away with light. Reformers, wise and unwise, came to him, and were
kindly received. They were often disappointed that they could not
harness him to their partial and transient scheme. He said, My reforms
include theirs: I must go my way; help people by my strength, not by my
weakness. But if a storm threatened, he felt bound to appear and show
his colors. Against the crying evils of his time he worked bravely in
his own way. He wrote to President Van Buren against the wrong done to
the Cherokees, dared speak against the idolized Webster, when he
deserted the cause of Freedom, constantly spoke of the iniquity of
slavery, aided with speech and money the Free State cause in Kansas,
was at Phillips's side at the antislavery meeting in 1861 broken up by
the Boston mob, urged emancipation during the war.
He enjoyed his Concord home and neighbors, served on the school
committee for years, did much for the Lyceum, and spoke on the town's
great occasions. He went to all town-meetings, oftener to listen and
admire than to speak, and always took pleasure and pride in the people.
In return he was respected and loved by them.
Emerson's house was destroyed by fire in 1872, and the incident exposure
and fatigue did him harm. His many friends insisted on rebuilding his
house and sending him abroad to get well. He went up the Nile, and
revisited England, finding old and new friends, and, on his return, was
welcomed and escorted home by the people of Concord. After this time he
was unable to write. His old age was quiet and happy among his family
and friends. He died in April, 1882.
EDWARD W. EMERSON.
January, 1899.
* * * * *
I
POEMS
* * * * *
GOOD-BYE
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world! I'm going home.
Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.
I am going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,--
secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?
EACH AND ALL
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty's best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, 'I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:'--
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet's breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky.
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;--
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
THE PROBLEM
I like a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles
Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowl鑔 churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure,
Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias brought;
Never from lips of cunning fell
The thrilling Delphic oracle;
Out from the heart of nature rolled
The burdens of the Bible old;
The litanies of nations came,
Like the volcano's tongue of flame,
Up from the burning core below,--
The canticles of love and woe:
The hand that rounded Peter's dome
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome
Wrought in a sad sincerity;
Himself from God he could not free;
He builded better than he knew;--
The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell?
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
As the best gem upon her zone,
And Morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,
As on its friends, with kindred eye;
For out of Thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air;
And Nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast soul that o'er him planned;
And the same power that reared the shrine
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Ever the fiery Pentecost
Girds with one flame the countless host,
Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
And through the priest the mind inspires.
The word unto the prophet spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told,
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the fathers wise,--
The Book itself before me lies,
Old _Chrysostom_, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger _Golden Lips_ or mines,
Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowl鑔 portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
TO RHEA
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes,
Not with flatteries, but truths,
Which tarnish not, but purify
To light which dims the morning's eye.
I have come from the spring-woods,
From the fragrant solitudes;--
Listen what the poplar-tree
And murmuring waters counselled me.
If with love thy heart has burned;
If thy love is unreturned;
Hide thy grief within thy breast,
Though it tear thee unexpressed;
For when love has once departed
From the eyes of the false-hearted,
And one by one has torn off quite
The bandages of purple light;
Though thou wert the loveliest
Form the soul had ever dressed,
Thou shalt seem, in each reply,
A vixen to his altered eye;
Thy softest pleadings seem too bold,
Thy praying lute will seem to scold;
Though thou kept the straightest road,
Yet thou errest far and broad.
But thou shalt do as do the gods
In their cloudless periods;
For of this lore be thou sure,--
Though thou forget, the gods, secure,
Forget never their command,
But make the statute of this land.
As they lead, so follow all,
Ever have done, ever shall.
Warning to the blind and deaf,
'T is written on the iron leaf,
_Who drinks of Cupid's nectar cup_
_Loveth downward, and not up;_
He who loves, of gods or men,
Shall not by the same be loved again;
His sweetheart's idolatry
Falls, in turn, a new degree.
When a god is once beguiled
By beauty of a mortal child
And by her radiant youth delighted,
He is not fooled, but warily knoweth
His love shall never be requited.
And thus the wise Immortal doeth,--
'T is his study and delight
To bless that creature day and night;
From all evils to defend her;
In her lap to pour all splendor;
To ransack earth for riches rare,
And fetch her stars to deck her hair:
He mixes music with her thoughts,
And saddens her with heavenly doubts:
All grace, all good his great heart knows,
Profuse in love, the king bestows,
Saying, 'Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air!
This monument of my despair
Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair.
Not for a private good,
But I, from my beatitude,
Albeit scorned as none was scorned,
Adorn her as was none adorned.
I make this maiden an ensample
To Nature, through her kingdoms ample,
Whereby to model newer races,
Statelier forms and fairer faces;
To carry man to new degrees
Of power and of comeliness.
These presents be the hostages
Which I pawn for my release.
See to thyself, O Universe!
Thou art better, and not worse.'--
And the god, having given all,
Is freed forever from his thrall.
THE VISIT
Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
Devastator of the day!
Know, each substance and relation,
Thorough nature's operation,
Hath its unit, bound and metre;
And every new compound
Is some product and repeater,--
Product of the earlier found.
But the unit of the visit,
The encounter of the wise,--
Say, what other metre is it
Than the meeting of the eyes?
Nature poureth into nature
Through the channels of that feature,
Riding on the ray of sight,
Fleeter far than whirlwinds go,
Or for service, or delight,
Hearts to hearts their meaning show,
Sum their long experience,
And import intelligence.
Single look has drained the breast;
Single moment years confessed.
The duration of a glance
Is the term of convenance,
And, though thy rede be church or state,
Frugal multiples of that.
Speeding Saturn cannot halt;
Linger,--thou shalt rue the fault:
If Love his moment overstay,
Hatred's swift repulsions play.
URIEL
It fell in the ancient periods
Which the brooding soul surveys,
Or ever the wild Time coined itself
Into calendar months and days.
This was the lapse of Uriel,
Which in Paradise befell.
Once, among the Pleiads walking,
Seyd overheard the young gods talking;
And the treason, too long pent,
To his ears was evident.
The young deities discussed
Laws of form, and metre just,
Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,
What subsisteth, and what seems.
One, with low tones that decide,
And doubt and reverend use defied,
With a look that solved the sphere,
And stirred the devils everywhere,
Gave his sentiment divine
Against the being of a line.
'Line in nature is not found;
Unit and universe are round;
In vain produced, all rays return;
Evil will bless, and ice will burn.'
As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,
A shudder ran around the sky;
The stern old war-gods shook their heads,
The seraphs frowned from myrtle-beds;
Seemed to the holy festival
The rash word boded ill to all;
The balance-beam of Fate was bent;
The bounds of good and ill were rent;
Strong Hades could not keep his own,
But all slid to confusion.
A sad self-knowledge, withering, fell
On the beauty of Uriel;
In heaven once eminent, the god
Withdrew, that hour, into his cloud;
Whether doomed to long gyration
In the sea of generation,
Or by knowledge grown too bright
To hit the nerve of feebler sight.
Straightway, a forgetting wind
Stole over the celestial kind,
And their lips the secret kept,
If in ashes the fire-seed slept.
But now and then, truth-speaking things
Shamed the angels' veiling wings;
And, shrilling from the solar course,
Or from fruit of chemic force,
Procession of a soul in matter,
Or the speeding change of water,
Or out of the good of evil born,
Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,
And a blush tinged the upper sky,
And the gods shook, they knew not why.
THE WORLD-SOUL
Thanks to the morning light,
Thanks to the foaming sea,
To the uplands of New Hampshire,
To the green-haired forest free;
Thanks to each man of courage,
To the maids of holy mind,
To the boy with his games undaunted
Who never looks behind.
Cities of proud hotels,
Houses of rich and great,
Vice nestles in your chambers,
Beneath your roofs of slate.
It cannot conquer folly,--
Time-and-space-conquering steam,--
And the light-outspeeding telegraph
Bears nothing on its beam.
The politics are base;
The letters do not cheer;
And 'tis far in the deeps of history,
The voice that speaketh clear.
Trade and the streets ensnare us,
Our bodies are weak and worn;
We plot and corrupt each other,
And we despoil the unborn.
Yet there in the parlor sits
Some figure of noble guise,--
Our angel, in a stranger's form,
Or woman's pleading eyes;
Or only a flashing sunbeam
In at the window-pane;
Or Music pours on mortals
Its beautiful disdain.
The inevitable morning
Finds them who in cellars be;
And be sure the all-loving Nature
Will smile in a factory.
Yon ridge of purple landscape,
Yon sky between the walls,
Hold all the hidden wonders
In scanty intervals.
Alas! the Sprite that haunts us
Deceives our rash desire;
It whispers of the glorious gods,
And leaves us in the mire.
We cannot learn the cipher
That's writ upon our cell;
Stars taunt us by a mystery
Which we could never spell.
If but one hero knew it,
The world would blush in flame;
The sage, till he hit the secret,
Would hang his head for shame.
Our brothers have not read it,
Not one has found the key;
And henceforth we are comforted,--
We are but such as they.
Still, still the secret presses;
The nearing clouds draw down;
The crimson morning flames into
The fopperies of the town.
Within, without the idle earth,
Stars weave eternal rings;
The sun himself shines heartily,
And shares the joy he brings.
And what if Trade sow cities
Like shells along the shore,
And thatch with towns the prairie broad
With railways ironed o'er?--
They are but sailing foam-bells
Along Thought's causing stream,
And take their shape and sun-color
From him that sends the dream.
For Destiny never swerves
Nor yields to men the helm;
He shoots his thought, by hidden nerves,
Throughout the solid realm.
The patient Daemon sits,
With roses and a shroud;
He has his way, and deals his gifts,--
But ours is not allowed.
He is no churl nor trifler,
And his viceroy is none,--
Love-without-weakness,--
Of Genius sire and son.
And his will is not thwarted;
The seeds of land and sea
Are the atoms of his body bright,
And his behest obey.
He serveth the servant,
The brave he loves amain;
He kills the cripple and the sick,
And straight begins again;
For gods delight in gods,
And thrust the weak aside;
To him who scorns their charities
Their arms fly open wide.
When the old world is sterile
And the ages are effete,
He will from wrecks and sediment
The fairer world complete.
He forbids to despair;
His cheeks mantle with mirth;
And the unimagined good of men
Is yeaning at the birth.
Spring still makes spring in the mind
When sixty years are told;
Love wakes anew this throbbing heart,
And we are never old;
Over the winter glaciers
I see the summer glow,
And through the wild-piled snow-drift
The warm rosebuds below.
THE SPHINX
The Sphinx is drowsy,
Her wings are furled:
Her ear is heavy,
She broods on the world.
"Who'll tell me my secret,
The ages have kept?--
I awaited the seer
While they slumbered and slept:--
"The fate of the man-child,
The meaning of man;
Known fruit of the unknown;
Daedalian plan;
Out of sleeping a waking,
Out of waking a sleep;
Life death overtaking;
Deep underneath deep?
"Erect as a sunbeam,
Upspringeth the palm;
The elephant browses,
Undaunted and calm;
In beautiful motion
The thrush plies his wings;
Kind leaves of his covert,
Your silence he sings.
"The waves, unasham鑔,
In difference sweet,
Play glad with the breezes,
Old playfellows meet;
The journeying atoms,
Primordial wholes,
Firmly draw, firmly drive,
By their animate poles.
"Sea, earth, air, sound, silence.
Plant, quadruped, bird,
By one music enchanted,
One deity stirred,--
Each the other adorning,
Accompany still;
Night veileth the morning,
The vapor the hill.
"The babe by its mother
Lies bath鑔 in joy;
Glide its hours uncounted,--
The sun is its toy;
Shines the peace of all being,
Without cloud, in its eyes;
And the sum of the world
In soft miniature lies.
"But man crouches and blushes,
Absconds and conceals;
He creepeth and peepeth,
He palters and steals;
Infirm, melancholy,
Jealous glancing around,
An oaf, an accomplice,
He poisons the ground.
"Out spoke the great mother,
Beholding his fear;--
At the sound of her accents
Cold shuddered the sphere:--
'Who has drugged my boy's cup?
Who has mixed my boy's bread?
Who, with sadness and madness,
Has turned my child's head?'"
I heard a poet answer
Aloud and cheerfully,
'Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges
Are pleasant songs to me.
Deep love lieth under
These pictures of time;
They fade in the light of
Their meaning sublime.
"The fiend that man harries
Is love of the Best;
Yawns the pit of the Dragon,
Lit by rays from the Blest.
The Lethe of Nature
Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the perfect,
Which his eyes seek in vain.
"To vision profounder,
Man's spirit must dive;
His aye-rolling orb
At no goal will arrive;
The heavens that now draw him
With sweetness untold,
Once found,--for new heavens
He spurneth the old.
"Pride ruined the angels,
Their shame them restores;
Lurks the joy that is sweetest
In stings of remorse.
Have I a lover
Who is noble and free?--
I would he were nobler
Than to love me.
"Eterne alternation
Now follows, now flies;
And under pain, pleasure,--
Under pleasure, pain lies.
Love works at the centre,
Heart-heaving alway;
Forth speed the strong pulses
To the borders of day.
"Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits;
Thy sight is growing blear;
Rue, myrrh and cummin for the Sphinx,
Her muddy eyes to clear!"
The old Sphinx bit her thick lip,--
Said, "Who taught thee me to name?
I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow;
Of thine eye I am eyebeam.
"Thou art the unanswered question;
Couldst see thy proper eye,
Alway it asketh, asketh;
And each answer is a lie.
So take thy quest through nature,
It through thousand natures ply;
Ask on, thou clothed eternity;
Time is the false reply."
Uprose the merry Sphinx,
And crouched no more in stone;
She melted into purple cloud,
She silvered in the moon;
She spired into a yellow flame;
She flowered in blossoms red;
She flowed into a foaming wave:
She stood Monadnoc's head.
Thorough a thousand voices
Spoke the universal dame;
"Who telleth one of my meanings
Is master of all I am."
ALPHONSO OF CASTILE
I, Alphonso, live and learn,
Seeing Nature go astern.
Things deteriorate in kind;
Lemons run to leaves and rind;
Meagre crop of figs and limes;
Shorter days and harder times.
Flowering April cools and dies
In the insufficient skies.
Imps, at high midsummer, blot
Half the sun's disk with a spot;
'Twill not now avail to tan
Orange cheek or skin of man.
Roses bleach, the goats are dry,
Lisbon quakes, the people cry.
Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools,
Gaunt as bitterns in the pools,
Are no brothers of my blood;--
They discredit Adamhood.
Eyes of gods! ye must have seen,
O'er your ramparts as ye lean,
The general debility;
Of genius the sterility;
Mighty projects countermanded;
Rash ambition, brokenhanded;
Puny man and scentless rose
Tormenting Pan to double the dose.
Rebuild or ruin: either fill
Of vital force the wasted rill,
Or tumble all again in heap
To weltering Chaos and to sleep.
Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry,
Which fed the veins of earth and sky,
That mortals miss the loyal heats,
Which drove them erst to social feats;
Now, to a savage selfness grown,
Think nature barely serves for one;
With science poorly mask their hurt;
And vex the gods with question pert,
Immensely curious whether you
Still are rulers, or Mildew?
Masters, I'm in pain with you;
Masters, I'll be plain with you;
In my palace of Castile,
I, a king, for kings can feel.
There my thoughts the matter roll,
And solve and oft resolve the whole.
And, for I'm styled Alphonse the Wise,
Ye shall not fail for sound advice.
Before ye want a drop of rain,
Hear the sentiment of Spain.
You have tried famine: no more try it;
Ply us now with a full diet;
Teach your pupils now with plenty,
For one sun supply us twenty.
I have thought it thoroughly over,--
State of hermit, state of lover;
We must have society,
We cannot spare variety.
Hear you, then, celestial fellows!
Fits not to be overzealous;
Steads not to work on the clean jump,
Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump.
Men and gods are too extense;
Could you slacken and condense?
Your rank overgrowths reduce
Till your kinds abound with juice?
Earth, crowded, cries, 'Too many men!'
My counsel is, kill nine in ten,
And bestow the shares of all
On the remnant decimal.
Add their nine lives to this cat;
Stuff their nine brains in one hat;
Make his frame and forces square
With the labors he must dare;
Thatch his flesh, and even his years
With the marble which he rears.
There, growing slowly old at ease
No faster than his planted trees,
He may, by warrant of his age,
In schemes of broader scope engage.
So shall ye have a man of the sphere
Fit to grace the solar year.
MITHRIDATES
I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes;--
From all natures, sharp and slimy,
Salt and basalt, wild and tame:
Tree and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
Bird, and reptile, be my game.
Ivy for my fillet band;
Blinding dog-wood in my hand;
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me;
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampyre-fanned, when I carouse.
Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry!
O all you virtues, methods, mights,
Means, appliances, delights,
Reputed wrongs and braggart rights,
Smug routine, and things allowed,
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye kill me!
TO J.W.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable Time
And Nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament,
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried:
Go, get them where he earned them when alive;
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
In critic peep or cynic bark,
Quarrel or reprimand:
'T will soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark!
DESTINY
That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must add the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose.
There's a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea.
Toil could never compass it;
Art its height could never hit;
It came never out of wit;
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn.
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it? What the soldier's mail,
Unless he conquer and prevail?
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another's gift?
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight:
When thou lookest on his face,
Thy heart saith, 'Brother, go thy ways!
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest,
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden;'
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten.
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad his shoulders are and strong;
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening and young.
I hold it of little matter
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,
But whether it dazzle me with light.
I care not how you are dressed,
In coarsest weeds or in the best;
Nor whether your name is base or brave:
Nor for the fashion of your behavior;
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me
And dress up Nature in your favor.
One thing is forever good;
That one thing is Success,--
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood.
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.
GUY
Mortal mixed of middle clay,
Attempered to the night and day,
Interchangeable with things,
Needs no amulets nor rings.
Guy possessed the talisman
That all things from him began;
And as, of old, Polycrates
Chained the sunshine and the breeze,
So did Guy betimes discover
Fortune was his guard and lover;
In strange junctures, felt, with awe,
His own symmetry with law;
That no mixture could withstand
The virtue of his lucky hand.
He gold or jewel could not lose,
Nor not receive his ample dues.
Fearless Guy had never foes,
He did their weapons decompose.
Aimed at him, the blushing blade
Healed as fast the wounds it made.
If on the foeman fell his gaze,
Him it would straightway blind or craze,
In the street, if he turned round,
His eye the eye 't was seeking found.
It seemed his Genius discreet
Worked on the Maker's own receipt,
And made each tide and element
Stewards of stipend and of rent;
So that the common waters fell
As costly wine into his well.
He had so sped his wise affairs
That he caught Nature in his snares.
Early or late, the falling rain
Arrived in time to swell his grain;
Stream could not so perversely wind
But corn of Guy's was there to grind:
The siroc found it on its way,
To speed his sails, to dry his hay;
And the world's sun seemed to rise
To drudge all day for Guy the wise.
In his rich nurseries, timely skill
Strong crab with nobler blood did fill;
The zephyr in his garden rolled
From plum-trees vegetable gold;
And all the hours of the year
With their own harvest honored were.
There was no frost but welcome came,
Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame.
Belonged to wind and world the toil
And venture, and to Guy the oil.
HAMATREYA
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Possessed the land which rendered to their toil
Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.
Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,
Saying, ''Tis mine, my children's and my name's.
How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!
How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!
I fancy these pure waters and the flags
Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:
And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.
Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
And sighed for all that bounded their domain;
'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
The land is well,--lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'
Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
Hear what the Earth says:--
EARTH-SONG
'Mine and yours;
Mine, not yours.
Earth endures;
Stars abide--
Shine down in the old sea;
Old are the shores;
But where are old men?
I who have seen much,
Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
Forevermore.
'Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
But the heritors?--
Fled like the flood's foam.
The lawyer, and the laws,
And the kingdom,
Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone,
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
THE RHODORA:
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool.
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
THE HUMBLE-BEE
Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,--
All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a color of romance,
And infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
BERRYING
'May be true what I had heard,--
Earth's a howling wilderness,
Truculent with fraud and force,'
Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the river-side.
Caught among the blackberry vines,
Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,
Pleasant fancies overtook me.
I said, 'What influence me preferred,
Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?'
The vines replied, 'And didst thou deem
No wisdom from our berries went?'
THE SNOW-STORM
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
WOODNOTES I
1
When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
Who speeds to the woodland walks?
To birds and trees who talks?
Caesar of his leafy Rome,
There the poet is at home.
He goes to the river-side,--
Not hook nor line hath he;
He stands in the meadows wide,--
Nor gun nor scythe to see.
Sure some god his eye enchants:
What he knows nobody wants.
In the wood he travels glad,
Without better fortune had,
Melancholy without bad.
Knowledge this man prizes best
Seems fantastic to the rest:
Pondering shadows, colors, clouds,
Grass-buds and caterpillar-shrouds,
Boughs on which the wild bees settle,
Tints that spot the violet's petal,
Why Nature loves the number five,
And why the star-form she repeats:
Lover of all things alive,
Wonderer at all he meets,
Wonderer chiefly at himself,
Who can tell him what he is?
Or how meet in human elf
Coming and past eternities?
2
And such I knew, a forest seer,
A minstrel of the natural year,
Foreteller of the vernal ides,
Wise harbinger of spheres and tides,
A lover true, who knew by heart
Each joy the mountain dales impart;
It seemed that Nature could not raise
A plant in any secret place,
In quaking bog, on snowy hill,
Beneath the grass that shades the rill,
Under the snow, between the rocks,
In damp fields known to bird and fox.
But he would come in the very hour
It opened in its virgin bower,
As if a sunbeam showed the place,
And tell its long-descended race.
It seemed as if the breezes brought him,
It seemed as if the sparrows taught him;
As if by secret sight he knew
Where, in far fields, the orchis grew.
Many haps fall in the field
Seldom seen by wishful eyes,
But all her shows did Nature yield,
To please and win this pilgrim wise.
He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
He heard the woodcock's evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrushes' broods;
And the shy hawk did wait for him;
What others did at distance hear,
And guessed within the thicket's gloom,
Was shown to this philosopher,
And at his bidding seemed to come.
3
In unploughed Maine he sought the lumberers' gang
Where from a hundred lakes young rivers sprang;
He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon
The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone;
Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,
And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.
He saw beneath dim aisles, in odorous beds,
The slight Linnaea hang its twin-born heads,
And blessed the monument of the man of flowers,
Which breathes his sweet fame through the northern bowers.
He heard, when in the grove, at intervals,
With sudden roar the aged pine-tree falls,--
One crash, the death-hymn of the perfect tree,
Declares the close of its green century.
Low lies the plant to whose creation went
Sweet influence from every element;
Whose living towers the years conspired to build,
Whose giddy top the morning loved to gild.
Through these green tents, by eldest Nature dressed,
He roamed, content alike with man and beast.
Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;
There the red morning touched him with its light.
Three moons his great heart him a hermit made,
So long he roved at will the boundless shade.
The timid it concerns to ask their way,
And fear what foe in caves and swamps can stray,
To make no step until the event is known,
And ills to come as evils past bemoan.
Not so the wise; no coward watch he keeps
To spy what danger on his pathway creeps;
Go where he will, the wise man is at home,
His hearth the earth,--his hall the azure dome;
Where his clear spirit leads him, there's his road
By God's own light illumined and foreshowed.
4
'T was one of the charm鑔 days
When the genius of God doth flow;
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow;
It may blow north, it still is warm;
Or south, it still is clear;
Or east, it smells like a clover-farm;
Or west, no thunder fear.
The musing peasant, lowly great,
Beside the forest water sate;
The rope-like pine-roots crosswise grown
Composed the network of his throne;
The wide lake, edged with sand and grass,
Was burnished to a floor of glass,
Painted with shadows green and proud
Of the tree and of the cloud.
He was the heart of all the scene;
On him the sun looked more serene;
To hill and cloud his face was known,--
It seemed the likeness of their own;
They knew by secret sympathy
The public child of earth and sky.
'You ask,' he said, 'what guide
Me through trackless thickets led,
Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide.
I found the water's bed.
The watercourses were my guide;
I travelled grateful by their side,
Or through their channel dry;
They led me through the thicket damp,
Through brake and fern, the beavers' camp,
Through beds of granite cut my road,
And their resistless friendship showed.
The falling waters led me,
The foodful waters fed me,
And brought me to the lowest land,
Unerring to the ocean sand.
The moss upon the forest bark
Was pole-star when the night was dark;
The purple berries in the wood
Supplied me necessary food;
For Nature ever faithful is
To such as trust her faithfulness.
When the forest shall mislead me,
When the night and morning lie,
When sea and land refuse to feed me,
'T will be time enough to die;
Then will yet my mother yield
A pillow in her greenest field,
Nor the June flowers scorn to cover
The clay of their departed lover.'
WOODNOTES II
_As sunbeams stream through liberal space_
_And nothing jostle or displace,_
_So waved the pine-tree through my thought_
_And fanned the dreams it never brought._
'Whether is better, the gift or the donor?
Come to me,'
Quoth the pine-tree,
'I am the giver of honor.
My garden is the cloven rock,
And my manure the snow;
And drifting sand-heaps feed my stock,
In summer's scorching glow.
He is great who can live by me:
The rough and bearded forester
Is better than the lord;
God fills the script and canister,
Sin piles the loaded board.
The lord is the peasant that was,
The peasant the lord that shall be;
The lord is hay, the peasant grass,
One dry, and one the living tree.
Who liveth by the ragged pine
Foundeth a heroic line;
Who liveth in the palace hall
Waneth fast and spendeth all.
He goes to my savage haunts,
With his chariot and his care;
My twilight realm he disenchants,
And finds his prison there.
'What prizes the town and the tower?
Only what the pine-tree yields;
Sinew that subdued the fields;
The wild-eyed boy, who in the woods
Chants his hymn to hills and floods,
Whom the city's poisoning spleen
Made not pale, or fat, or lean;
Whom the rain and the wind purgeth,
Whom the dawn and the day-star urgeth,
In whose cheek the rose-leaf blusheth,
In whose feet the lion rusheth,
Iron arms, and iron mould,
That know not fear, fatigue, or cold.
I give my rafters to his boat,
My billets to his boiler's throat,
And I will swim the ancient sea
To float my child to victory,
And grant to dwellers with the pine
Dominion o'er the palm and vine.
Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,
Unnerves his strength, invites his end.
Cut a bough from my parent stem,
And dip it in thy porcelain vase;
A little while each russet gem
Will swell and rise with wonted grace;
But when it seeks enlarged supplies,
The orphan of the forest dies.
Whoso walks in solitude
And inhabiteth the wood,
Choosing light, wave, rock and bird,
Before the money-loving herd,
Into that forester shall pass,
From these companions, power and grace.
Clean shall he be, without, within,
From the old adhering sin,
All ill dissolving in the light
Of his triumphant piercing sight:
Not vain, sour, nor frivolous;
Not mad, athirst, nor garrulous;
Grave, chaste, contented, though retired,
And of all other men desired.
On him the light of star and moon
Shall fall with purer radiance down;
All constellations of the sky
Shed their virtue through his eye.
Him Nature giveth for defence
His formidable innocence;
The mounting sap, the shells, the sea,
All spheres, all stones, his helpers be;
He shall meet the speeding year,
Without wailing, without fear;
He shall be happy in his love,
Like to like shall joyful prove;
He shall be happy whilst he wooes,
Muse-born, a daughter of the Muse.
But if with gold she bind her hair,
And deck her breast with diamond,
Take off thine eyes, thy heart forbear,
Though thou lie alone on the ground.
'Heed the old oracles,
Ponder my spells;
Song wakes in my pinnacles
When the wind swells.
Soundeth the prophetic wind,
The shadows shake on the rock behind,
And the countless leaves of the pine are strings
Tuned to the lay the wood-god sings.
Hearken! Hearken!
If thou wouldst know the mystic song
Chanted when the sphere was young.
Aloft, abroad, the paean swells;
O wise man! hear'st thou half it tells?
O wise man! hear'st thou the least part?
'Tis the chronicle of art.
To the open ear it sings
Sweet the genesis of things,
Of tendency through endless ages,
Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages,
Of rounded worlds, of space and time,
Of the old flood's subsiding slime,
Of chemic matter, force and form,
Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm:
The rushing metamorphosis
Dissolving all that fixture is,
Melts things that be to things that seem,
And solid nature to a dream.
O, listen to the undersong,
The ever old, the ever young;
And, far within those cadent pauses,
The chorus of the ancient Causes!
Delights the dreadful Destiny
To fling his voice into the tree,
And shock thy weak ear with a note
Breathed from the everlasting throat.
In music he repeats the pang
Whence the fair flock of Nature sprang.
O mortal! thy ears are stones;
These echoes are laden with tones
Which only the pure can hear;
Thou canst not catch what they recite
Of Fate and Will, of Want and Right,
Of man to come, of human life,
Of Death and Fortune, Growth and Strife.'
Once again the pine-tree sung:--
'Speak not thy speech my boughs among:
Put off thy years, wash in the breeze;
My hours are peaceful centuries.
Talk no more with feeble tongue;
No more the fool of space and time,
Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.
Only thy Americans
Can read thy line, can meet thy glance,
But the runes that I rehearse
Understands the universe;
The least breath my boughs which tossed
Brings again the Pentecost;
To every soul resounding clear
In a voice of solemn cheer,--
"Am I not thine? Are not these thine?"
And they reply, "Forever mine!"
My branches speak Italian,
English, German, Basque, Castilian,
Mountain speech to Highlanders,
Ocean tongues to islanders,
To Fin and Lap and swart Malay,
To each his bosom-secret say.
'Come learn with me the fatal song
Which knits the world in music strong,
Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes,
Of things with things, of times with times,
Primal chimes of sun and shade,
Of sound and echo, man and maid,
The land reflected in the flood,
Body with shadow still pursued.
For Nature beats in perfect tune,
And rounds with rhyme her every rune,
Whether she work in land or sea,
Or hide underground her alchemy.
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,
Or dip thy paddle in the lake,
But it carves the bow of beauty there,
And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
The wood is wiser far than thou;
The wood and wave each other know
Not unrelated, unaffied,
But to each thought and thing allied,
Is perfect Nature's every part,
Rooted in the mighty Heart,
But thou, poor child! unbound, unrhymed,
Whence camest thou, misplaced, mistimed,
Whence, O thou orphan and defrauded?
Is thy land peeled, thy realm marauded?
Who thee divorced, deceived and left?
Thee of thy faith who hath bereft,
And torn the ensigns from thy brow,
And sunk the immortal eye so low?
Thy cheek too white, thy form too slender,
Thy gait too slow, thy habits tender
For royal man;--they thee confess
An exile from the wilderness,--
The hills where health with health agrees,
And the wise soul expels disease.
Hark! in thy ear I will tell the sign
By which thy hurt thou may'st divine.
When thou shalt climb the mountain cliff,
Or see the wide shore from thy skiff,
To thee the horizon shall express
But emptiness on emptiness;
There lives no man of Nature's worth
In the circle of the earth;
And to thine eye the vast skies fall,
Dire and satirical,
On clucking hens and prating fools,
On thieves, on drudges and on dolls.
And thou shalt say to the Most High,
"Godhead! all this astronomy,
And fate and practice and invention,
Strong art and beautiful pretension,
This radiant pomp of sun and star,
Throes that were, and worlds that are,
Behold! were in vain and in vain;--
It cannot be,--I will look again.
Surely now will the curtain rise,
And earth's fit tenant me surprise;--
But the curtain doth _not_ rise,
And Nature has miscarried wholly
Into failure, into folly."
'Alas! thine is the bankruptcy,
Blessed Nature so to see.
Come, lay thee in my soothing shade,
And heal the hurts which sin has made.
I see thee in the crowd alone;
I will be thy companion.
Quit thy friends as the dead in doom,
And build to them a final tomb;
Let the starred shade that nightly falls
Still celebrate their funerals,
And the bell of beetle and of bee
Knell their melodious memory.
Behind thee leave thy merchandise,
Thy churches and thy charities;
And leave thy peacock wit behind;
Enough for thee the primal mind
That flows in streams, that breathes in wind:
Leave all thy pedant lore apart;
God hid the whole world in thy heart.
Love shuns the sage, the child it crowns,
Gives all to them who all renounce.
The rain comes when the wind calls;
The river knows the way to the sea;
Without a pilot it runs and falls,
Blessing all lands with its charity;
The sea tosses and foams to find
Its way up to the cloud and wind;
The shadow sits close to the flying ball;
The date fails not on the palm-tree tall;
And thou,--go burn thy wormy pages,--
Shalt outsee seers, and outwit sages.
Oft didst thou thread the woods in vain
To find what bird had piped the strain:--
Seek not, and the little eremite
Flies gayly forth and sings in sight.
'Hearken once more!
I will tell thee the mundane lore.
Older am I than thy numbers wot,
Change I may, but I pass not.
Hitherto all things fast abide,
And anchored in the tempest ride.
Trenchant time behoves to hurry
All to yean and all to bury:
All the forms are fugitive,
But the substances survive.
Ever fresh the broad creation,
A divine improvisation,
From the heart of God proceeds,
A single will, a million deeds.
Once slept the world an egg of stone,
And pulse, and sound, and light was none;
And God said, "Throb!" and there was motion
And the vast mass became vast ocean.
Onward and on, the eternal Pan,
Who layeth the world's incessant plan,
Halteth never in one shape,
But forever doth escape,
Like wave or flame, into new forms
Of gem, and air, of plants, and worms.
I, that to-day am a pine,
Yesterday was a bundle of grass.
He is free and libertine,
Pouring of his power the wine
To every age, to every race;
Unto every race and age
He emptieth the beverage;
Unto each, and unto all,
Maker and original.
The world is the ring of his spells,
And the play of his miracles.
As he giveth to all to drink,
Thus or thus they are and think.
With one drop sheds form and feature;
With the next a special nature;
The third adds heat's indulgent spark;
The fourth gives light which eats the dark;
Into the fifth himself he flings,
And conscious Law is King of kings.
As the bee through the garden ranges,
From world to world the godhead changes;
As the sheep go feeding in the waste,
From form to form He maketh haste;
This vault which glows immense with light
Is the inn where he lodges for a night.
What recks such Traveller if the bowers
Which bloom and fade like meadow flowers
A bunch of fragrant lilies be,
Or the stars of eternity?
Alike to him the better, the worse,--
The glowing angel, the outcast corse.
Thou metest him by centuries,
And lo! he passes like the breeze;
Thou seek'st in globe and galaxy,
He hides in pure transparency;
Thou askest in fountains and in fires,
He is the essence that inquires.
He is the axis of the star;
He is the sparkle of the spar;
He is the heart of every creature;
He is the meaning of each feature;
And his mind is the sky.
Than all it holds more deep, more high.'
MONADNOC
Thousand minstrels woke within me,
'Our music's in the hills;'--
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
'Up!--If thou knew'st who calls
To twilight parks of beech and pine,
High over the river intervals,
Above the ploughman's highest line,
Over the owner's farthest walls!
Up! where the airy citadel
O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell!
Let not unto the stones the Day
Her lily and rose, her sea and land display.
Read the celestial sign!
Lo! the south answers to the north;
Bookworm, break this sloth urbane;
A greater spirit bids thee forth
Than the gray dreams which thee detain.
Mark how the climbing Oreads
Beckon thee to their arcades;
Youth, for a moment free as they,
Teach thy feet to feel the ground,
Ere yet arrives the wintry day
When Time thy feet has bound.
Take the bounty of thy birth,
Taste the lordship of the earth.'
I heard, and I obeyed,--
Assured that he who made the claim,
Well known, but loving not a name,
Was not to be gainsaid.
Ere yet the summoning voice was still,
I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill.
From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed
Like ample banner flung abroad
To all the dwellers in the plains
Round about, a hundred miles,
With salutation to the sea and to the bordering isles.
In his own loom's garment dressed,
By his proper bounty blessed,
Fast abides this constant giver,
Pouring many a cheerful river;
To far eyes, an aerial isle
Unploughed, which finer spirits pile,
Which morn and crimson evening paint
For bard, for lover and for saint;
An eyemark and the country's core,
Inspirer, prophet evermore;
Pillar which God aloft had set
So that men might it not forget;
It should be their life's ornament,
And mix itself with each event;
Gauge and calendar and dial,
Weatherglass and chemic phial,
Garden of berries, perch of birds,
Pasture of pool-haunting herds,
Graced by each change of sum untold,
Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold.
The Titan heeds his sky-affairs,
Rich rents and wide alliance shares;
Mysteries of color daily laid
By morn and eve in light and shade;
And sweet varieties of chance,
And the mystic seasons' dance;
And thief-like step of liberal hours
Thawing snow-drift into flowers.
O, wondrous craft of plant and stone
By eldest science wrought and shown!
'Happy,' I said, 'whose home is here!
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer!
Boon Nature to his poorest shed
Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread.'
Intent, I searched the region round,
And in low hut the dweller found:
Woe is me for my hope's downfall!
Is yonder squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed
For God's vicegerency and stead?
Time out of mind, this forge of ores;
Quarry of spars in mountain pores;
Old cradle, hunting-ground and bier
Of wolf and otter, bear and deer;
Well-built abode of many a race;
Tower of observance searching space;
Factory of river and of rain;
Link in the Alps' globe-girding chain;
By million changes skilled to tell
What in the Eternal standeth well,
And what obedient Nature can;--
Is this colossal talisman
Kindly to plant and blood and kind,
But speechless to the master's mind?
I thought to find the patriots
In whom the stock of freedom roots;
To myself I oft recount
Tales of many a famous mount,--
Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells:
Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs and Tells;
And think how Nature in these towers
Uplifted shall condense her powers,
And lifting man to the blue deep
Where stars their perfect courses keep,
Like wise preceptor, lure his eye
To sound the science of the sky,
And carry learning to its height
Of untried power and sane delight:
The Indian cheer, the frosty skies,
Rear purer wits, inventive eyes,--
Eyes that frame cities where none be,
And hands that stablish what these see:
And by the moral of his place
Hint summits of heroic grace;
Man in these crags a fastness find
To fight pollution of the mind;
In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong,
Adhere like this foundation strong,
The insanity of towns to stem
With simpleness for stratagem.
But if the brave old mould is broke,
And end in churls the mountain folk
In tavern cheer and tavern joke,
Sink, O mountain, in the swamp!
Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp!
Perish like leaves, the highland breed
No sire survive, no son succeed!
Soft! let not the offended muse
Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse.
Many hamlets sought I then,
Many farms of mountain men.
Rallying round a parish steeple
Nestle warm the highland people,
Coarse and boisterous, yet mild,
Strong as giant, slow as child.
Sweat and season are their arts,
Their talismans are ploughs and carts;
And well the youngest can command
Honey from the frozen land;
With cloverheads the swamp adorn,
Change the running sand to corn;
For wolf and fox, bring lowing herds,
And for cold mosses, cream and curds:
Weave wood to canisters and mats;
Drain sweet maple juice in vats.
No bird is safe that cuts the air
From their rifle or their snare;
No fish, in river or in lake,
But their long hands it thence will take;
Whilst the country's flinty face,
Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays,
To fill the hollows, sink the hills,
Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills,
And fit the bleak and howling waste
For homes of virtue, sense and taste.
The World-soul knows his own affair,
Forelooking, when he would prepare
For the next ages, men of mould
Well embodied, well ensouled,
He cools the present's fiery glow,
Sets the life-pulse strong but slow:
Bitter winds and fasts austere
His quarantines and grottoes, where
He slowly cures decrepit flesh,
And brings it infantile and fresh.
Toil and tempest are the toys
And games to breathe his stalwart boys:
They bide their time, and well can prove,
If need were, their line from Jove;
Of the same stuff, and so allayed,
As that whereof the sun is made,
And of the fibre, quick and strong,
Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song.
Now in sordid weeds they sleep,
In dulness now their secret keep;
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech,
These the masters who can teach.
Fourscore or a hundred words
All their vocal muse affords;
But they turn them in a fashion
Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passion.
I can spare the college bell,
And the learned lecture, well;
Spare the clergy and libraries,
Institutes and dictionaries,
For that hardy English root
Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot.
Rude poets of the tavern hearth,
Squandering your unquoted mirth,
Which keeps the ground and never soars,
While Jake retorts and Reuben roars;
Scoff of yeoman strong and stark,
Goes like bullet to its mark;
While the solid curse and jeer
Never balk the waiting ear.
On the summit as I stood,
O'er the floor of plain and flood
Seemed to me, the towering hill
Was not altogether still,
But a quiet sense conveyed:
If I err not, thus it said:--
'Many feet in summer seek,
Oft, my far-appearing peak;
In the dreaded winter time,
None save dappling shadows climb,
Under clouds, my lonely head,
Old as the sun, old almost as the shade;
And comest thou
To see strange forests and new snow,
And tread uplifted land?
And leavest thou thy lowland race,
Here amid clouds to stand?
And wouldst be my companion
Where I gaze, and still shall gaze,
Through tempering nights and flashing days,
When forests fall, and man is gone,
Over tribes and over times,
At the burning Lyre,
Nearing me,
With its stars of northern fire,
In many a thousand years?
'Gentle pilgrim, if thou know
The gamut old of Pan,
And how the hills began,
The frank blessings of the hill
Fall on thee, as fall they will.
'Let him heed who can and will;
Enchantment fixed me here
To stand the hurts of time, until
In mightier chant I disappear.
If thou trowest
How the chemic eddies play,
Pole to pole, and what they say;
And that these gray crags
Not on crags are hung,
But beads are of a rosary
On prayer and music strung;
And, credulous, through the granite seeming,
Seest the smile of Reason beaming;--
Can thy style-discerning eye
The hidden-working Builder spy,
Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din,
With hammer soft as snowflake's flight;--
Knowest thou this?
O pilgrim, wandering not amiss!
Already my rocks lie light,
And soon my cone will spin.
'For the world was built in order,
And the atoms march in tune;
Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder,
The sun obeys them and the moon.
Orb and atom forth they prance,
When they hear from far the rune;
None so backward in the troop,
When the music and the dance
Reach his place and circumstance,
But knows the sun-creating sound,
And, though a pyramid, will bound.
'Monadnoc is a mountain strong,
Tall and good my kind among;
But well I know, no mountain can,
Zion or Meru, measure with man.
For it is on zodiacs writ,
Adamant is soft to wit:
And when the greater comes again
With my secret in his brain,
I shall pass, as glides my shadow
Daily over hill and meadow.
'Through all time, in light, in gloom
Well I hear the approaching feet
On the flinty pathway beat
Of him that cometh, and shall come;
Of him who shall as lightly bear
My daily load of woods and streams,
As doth this round sky-cleaving boat
Which never strains its rocky beams;
Whose timbers, as they silent float,
Alps and Caucasus uprear,
And the long Alleghanies here,
And all town-sprinkled lands that be,
Sailing through stars with all their history.
'Every morn I lift my head,
See New England underspread,
South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound,
From Katskill east to the sea-bound.
Anchored fast for many an age,
I await the bard and sage,
Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed,
Shall string Monadnoc like a bead.
Comes that cheerful troubadour,
This mound shall throb his face before,
As when, with inward fires and pain,
It rose a bubble from the plain.
When he cometh, I shall shed,
From this wellspring in my head,
Fountain-drop of spicier worth
Than all vintage of the earth.
There's fruit upon my barren soil
Costlier far than wine or oil.
There's a berry blue and gold,--
Autumn-ripe, its juices hold
Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart,
Asia's rancor, Athens' art,
Slowsure Britain's secular might,
And the German's inward sight.
I will give my son to eat
Best of Pan's immortal meat,
Bread to eat, and juice to drain;
So the coinage of his brain
Shall not be forms of stars, but stars,
Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars,
He comes, but not of that race bred
Who daily climb my specular head.
Oft as morning wreathes my scarf,
Fled the last plumule of the Dark,
Pants up hither the spruce clerk
From South Cove and City Wharf.
I take him up my rugged sides,
Half-repentant, scant of breath,--
Bead-eyes my granite chaos show,
And my midsummer snow:
Open the daunting map beneath,--
All his county, sea and land,
Dwarfed to measure of his hand;
His day's ride is a furlong space,
His city-tops a glimmering haze.
I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding;
"See there the grim gray rounding
Of the bullet of the earth
Whereon ye sail,
Tumbling steep
In the uncontinented deep."
He looks on that, and he turns pale.
'T is even so, this treacherous kite,
Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere,
Thoughtless of its anxious freight,
Plunges eyeless on forever;
And he, poor parasite,
Cooped in a ship he cannot steer,--
Who is the captain he knows not,
Port or pilot trows not,--
Risk or ruin he must share.
I scowl on him with my cloud,
With my north wind chill his blood;
I lame him, clattering down the rocks;
And to live he is in fear.
Then, at last, I let him down
Once more into his dapper town,
To chatter, frightened, to his clan
And forget me if he can.'
As in the old poetic fame
The gods are blind and lame,
And the simular despite
Betrays the more abounding might,
So call not waste that barren cone
Above the floral zone,
Where forests starve:
It is pure use;--
What sheaves like those which here we glean and bind
Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse?
Ages are thy days,
Thou grand affirmer of the present tense,
And type of permanence!
Firm ensign of the fatal Being,
Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief,
That will not bide the seeing!
Hither we bring
Our insect miseries to thy rocks;
And the whole flight, with folded wing,
Vanish, and end their murmuring,--
Vanish beside these dedicated blocks,
Which who can tell what mason laid?
Spoils of a front none need restore,
Replacing frieze and architrave;--
Where flowers each stone rosette and metope brave;
Still is the haughty pile erect
Of the old building Intellect.
Complement of human kind,
Holding us at vantage still,
Our sumptuous indigence,
O barren mound, thy plenties fill!
We fool and prate;
Thou art silent and sedate.
To myriad kinds and times one sense
The constant mountain doth dispense;
Shedding on all its snows and leaves,
One joy it joys, one grief it grieves.
Thou seest, O watchman tall,
Our towns and races grow and fall,
And imagest the stable good
For which we all our lifetime grope,
In shifting form the formless mind,
And though the substance us elude,
We in thee the shadow find.
Thou, in our astronomy
An opaker star,
Seen haply from afar,
Above the horizon's hoop,
A moment, by the railway troop,
As o'er some bolder height they speed,--
By circumspect ambition,
By errant gain,
By feasters and the frivolous,--
Recallest us,
And makest sane.
Mute orator! well skilled to plead,
And send conviction without phrase,
Thou dost succor and remede
The shortness of our days,
And promise, on thy Founder's truth,
Long morrow to this mortal youth.
FABLE
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter 'Little Prig;
Bun replied,
'You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.'
ODE
INSCRIBED TO W.H. CHANNING
Though loath to grieve
The evil time's sole patriot,
I cannot leave
My honied thought
For the priest's cant,
Or statesman's rant.
If I refuse
My study for their politique,
Which at the best is trick,
The angry Muse
Puts confusion in my brain.
But who is he that prates
Of the culture of mankind,
Of better arts and life?
Go, blindworm, go,
Behold the famous States
Harrying Mexico
With rifle and with knife!
Or who, with accent bolder,
Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer?
I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook!
And in thy valleys, Agiochook!
The jackals of the negro-holder.
The God who made New Hampshire
Taunted the lofty land
With little men;--
Small bat and wren
House in the oak:--
If earth-fire cleave
The upheaved land, and bury the folk,
The southern crocodile would grieve.
Virtue palters; Right is hence;
Freedom praised, but hid;
Funeral eloquence
Rattles the coffin-lid.
What boots thy zeal,
O glowing friend,
That would indignant rend
The northland from the south?
Wherefore? to what good end?
Boston Bay and Bunker Hill
Would serve things still;--
Things are of the snake.
The horseman serves the horse,
The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat;
'T is the day of the chattel,
Web to weave, and corn to grind;
Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.
There are two laws discrete,
Not reconciled,--
Law for man, and law for thing;
The last builds town and fleet,
But it runs wild,
And doth the man unking.
'T is fit the forest fall,
The steep be graded,
The mountain tunnelled,
The sand shaded,
The orchard planted,
The glebe tilled,
The prairie granted,
The steamer built.
Let man serve law for man;
Live for friendship, live for love,
For truth's and harmony's behoof;
The state may follow how it can,
As Olympus follows Jove.
Yet do not I implore
The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods,
Nor bid the unwilling senator
Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes.
Every one to his chosen work;--
Foolish hands may mix and mar;
Wise and sure the issues are.
Round they roll till dark is light,
Sex to sex, and even to odd;--
The over-god
Who marries Right to Might,
Who peoples, unpeoples,--
He who exterminates
Races by stronger races,
Black by white faces,--
Knows to bring honey
Out of the lion;
Grafts gentlest scion
On pirate and Turk.
The Cossack eats Poland,
Like stolen fruit;
Her last noble is ruined,
Her last poet mute:
Straight, into double band
The victors divide;
Half for freedom strike and stand;--
The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side.
ASTRAEA
Each the herald is who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down,
In the country and the town,
With this tablet on their neck,
'Judgment and a judge we seek.'
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair;
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears;
Louder than with speech they pray,--
'What am I? companion, say.'
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates;
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;
Each to each a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared repeats,
What himself confessed records,
Sentences him in his words;
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine forever virgin minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state;
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge.
To those who gaze from the sea's edge
It is there for benefit;
It is there for purging light;
There for purifying storms;
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,--
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot,
But Justice, journeying in the sphere,
Daily stoops to harbor there.
蒚IENNE DE LA BO蒀E
I serve you not, if you I follow,
Shadowlike, o'er hill and hollow;
And bend my fancy to your leading,
All too nimble for my treading.
When the pilgrimage is done,
And we've the landscape overrun,
I am bitter, vacant, thwarted,
And your heart is unsupported.
Vainly valiant, you have missed
The manhood that should yours resist,--
Its complement; but if I could,
In severe or cordial mood,
Lead you rightly to my altar,
Where the wisest Muses falter,
And worship that world-warming spark
Which dazzles me in midnight dark,
Equalizing small and large,
While the soul it doth surcharge,
Till the poor is wealthy grown,
And the hermit never alone,--
The traveller and the road seem one
With the errand to be done,--
That were a man's and lover's part,
That were Freedom's whitest chart.
COMPENSATION
Why should I keep holiday
When other men have none?
Why but because, when these are gay,
I sit and mourn alone?
And why, when mirth unseals all tongues,
Should mine alone be dumb?
Ah! late I spoke to silent throngs,
And now their hour is come.
FORBEARANCE
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
And loved so well a high behavior,
In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
Nobility more nobly to repay?
O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
THE PARK
The prosperous and beautiful
To me seem not to wear
The yoke of conscience masterful,
Which galls me everywhere.
I cannot shake off the god;
On my neck he makes his seat;
I look at my face in the glass,--
My eyes his eyeballs meet.
Enchanters! Enchantresses!
Your gold makes you seem wise;
The morning mist within your grounds
More proudly rolls, more softly lies.
Yet spake yon purple mountain,
Yet said yon ancient wood,
That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,
Leads all souls to the Good.
FORERUNNERS
Long I followed happy guides,
I could never reach their sides;
Their step is forth, and, ere the day
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right good-will my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet;
Flowers they strew,--I catch the scent;
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace;
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes,
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I met many travellers
Who the road had surely kept;
They saw not my fine revellers,--
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report,
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken;
In sleep their jubilant troop is near,--
I tuneful voices overhear;
It may be in wood or waste,--
At unawares 't is come and past.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harp-like laughter,
And carry in my heart, for days,
Peace that hallows rudest ways.
SURSUM CORDA
Seek not the spirit, if it hide
Inexorable to thy zeal:
Trembler, do not whine and chide:
Art thou not also real?
Stoop not then to poor excuse;
Turn on the accuser roundly; say,
'Here am I, here will I abide
Forever to myself soothfast;
Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay!'
Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast,
For only it can absolutely deal.
ODE TO BEAUTY
Who gave thee, O Beauty,
The keys of this breast,--
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say, when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old?
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born, we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err!
Guest of million painted forms,
Which in turn thy glory warms!
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,
The swinging spider's silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond,
In thy momentary play,
Would bankrupt nature to repay.
Ah, what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep's lover;
The sun and sea,
Informed by thee,
Before me run
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses.
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole;
Sea-valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies;
And the sands whereof I'm made
Draw me to them, self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolio
Which holds the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi's lines.
I hear the lofty paeans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music
And recount the numbers well;
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young
And always keep us so.
Oft, in streets or humblest places,
I detect far-wandered graces,
Which, from Eden wide astray,
In lowly homes have lost their way.
Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive,
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet, extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily-bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.
All that's good and great with thee
Works in close conspiracy;
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning;
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art;
E'en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair;
And, if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being's deeps past ear and eye;
Lest there I find the same deceiver
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!
GIVE ALL TO LOVE
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,--
Nothing refuse.
'T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope:
High and more high
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean;
It requireth courage stout.
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending,
It will reward,--
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,--
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise
Flits across her bosom young,
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture's hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go.
The gods arrive.
TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH
The green grass is bowing,
The morning wind is in it;
'T is a tune worth thy knowing,
Though it change every minute.
'T is a tune of the Spring;
Every year plays it over
To the robin on the wing,
And to the pausing lover.
O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,
Goes light the nimble zephyr;
The Flowers--tiny sect of Shakers--
Worship him ever.
Hark to the winning sound!
They summon thee, dearest,--
Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground,
Nor yet thou appearest.
'O hasten;' 't is our time,
Ere yet the red Summer
Scorch our delicate prime,
Loved of bee,--the tawny hummer.
'O pride of thy race!
Sad, in sooth, it were to ours,
If our brief tribe miss thy face,
We poor New England flowers.
'Fairest, choose the fairest members
Of our lithe society;
June's glories and September's
Show our love and piety.
'Thou shalt command us all,--
April's cowslip, summer's clover,
To the gentian in the fall,
Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.
'O come, then, quickly come!
We are budding, we are blowing;
And the wind that we perfume
Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.'
TO ELLEN
And Ellen, when the graybeard years
Have brought us to life's evening hour,
And all the crowded Past appears
A tiny scene of sun and shower,
Then, if I read the page aright
Where Hope, the soothsayer, reads our lot,
Thyself shalt own the page was bright,
Well that we loved, woe had we not,
When Mirth is dumb and Flattery's fled,
And mute thy music's dearest tone,
When all but Love itself is dead
And all but deathless Reason gone.
TO EVA
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes
Were kindled in the upper skies
At the same torch that lighted mine;
For so I must interpret still
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will,
A sympathy divine.
Ah! let me blameless gaze upon
Features that seem at heart my own;
Nor fear those watchful sentinels,
Who charm the more their glance forbids,
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids,
With fire that draws while it repels.
LINES
WRITTEN BY ELLEN LOUISA TUCKER SHORTLY BEFORE
HER MARRIAGE TO MR. EMERSON
Love scatters oil
On Life's dark sea,
Sweetens its toil--
Our helmsman he.
Around him hover
Odorous clouds;
Under this cover
His arrows he shrouds.
The cloud was around me,
I knew not why
Such sweetness crowned me.
While Time shot by.
No pain was within,
But calm delight,
Like a world without sin,
Or a day without night.
The shafts of the god
Were tipped with down,
For they drew no blood,
And they knit no frown.
I knew of them not
Until Cupid laughed loud,
And saying "You're caught!"
Flew off in the cloud.
O then I awoke,
And I lived but to sigh,
Till a clear voice spoke,--
And my tears are dry.
THE VIOLET
BY ELLEN LOUISA TUCKER
Why lingerest thou, pale violet, to see the dying year;
Are Autumn's blasts fit music for thee, fragile one, to hear;
Will thy clear blue eye, upward bent, still keep its chastened glow,
Still tearless lift its slender form above the wintry snow?
Why wilt thou live when none around reflects thy pensive ray?
Thou bloomest here a lonely thing in the clear autumn day.
The tall green trees, that shelter thee, their last gay dress put on;
There will be nought to shelter thee when their sweet leaves are gone.
O Violet, like thee, how blest could I lie down and die,
When summer light is fading, and autumn breezes sigh;
When Winter reigned I'd close my eye, but wake with bursting Spring,
And live with living nature, a pure rejoicing thing.
I had a sister once who seemed just like a violet;
Her morning sun shone bright and calmly purely set;
When the violets were in their shrouds, and Summer in its pride,
She laid her hopes at rest, and in the year's rich beauty died.
THE AMULET
Your picture smiles as first it smiled;
The ring you gave is still the same;
Your letter tells, O changing child!
No tidings _since_ it came.
Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you,--
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not, pale and blue.
Alas! that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.
THINE EYES STILL SHINED
Thine eyes still shined for me, though far
I lonely roved the land or sea:
As I behold yon evening star,
Which yet beholds not me.
This morn I climbed the misty hill
And roamed the pastures through;
How danced thy form before my path
Amidst the deep-eyed dew!
When the redbird spread his sable wing,
And showed his side of flame;
When the rosebud ripened to the rose,
In both I read thy name.
EROS
The sense of the world is short,--
Long and various the report,--
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe'er they've turned it,
Not to be improved.
HERMIONE
On a mound an Arab lay,
And sung his sweet regrets
And told his amulets:
The summer bird
His sorrow heard,
And, when he heaved a sigh profound,
The sympathetic swallow swept the ground.
'If it be, as they said, she was not fair,
Beauty's not beautiful to me,
But sceptred genius, aye inorbed,
Culminating in her sphere.
This Hermione absorbed
The lustre of the land and ocean,
Hills and islands, cloud and tree,
In her form and motion.
'I ask no bauble miniature,
Nor ringlets dead
Shorn from her comely head,
Now that morning not disdains
Mountains and the misty plains
Her colossal portraiture;
They her heralds be,
Steeped in her quality,
And singers of her fame
Who is their Muse and dame.
'Higher, dear swallows! mind not what I say.
Ah! heedless how the weak are strong,
Say, was it just,
In thee to frame, in me to trust,
Thou to the Syrian couldst belong?
'I am of a lineage
That each for each doth fast engage;
In old Bassora's schools, I seemed
Hermit vowed to books and gloom,--
Ill-bestead for gay bridegroom.
I was by thy touch redeemed;
When thy meteor glances came,
We talked at large of worldly fate,
And drew truly every trait.
'Once I dwelt apart,
Now I live with all;
As shepherd's lamp on far hill-side
Seems, by the traveller espied,
A door into the mountain heart,
So didst thou quarry and unlock
Highways for me through the rock.
'Now, deceived, thou wanderest
In strange lands unblest;
And my kindred come to soothe me.
Southwind is my next of blood;
He is come through fragrant wood,
Drugged with spice from climates warm,
And in every twinkling glade,
And twilight nook,
Unveils thy form.
Out of the forest way
Forth paced it yesterday;
And when I sat by the watercourse,
Watching the daylight fade,
It throbbed up from the brook.
'River and rose and crag and bird,
Frost and sun and eldest night,
To me their aid preferred,
To me their comfort plight;--
"Courage! we are thine allies,
And with this hint be wise,--
The chains of kind
The distant bind;
Deed thou doest she must do,
Above her will, be true;
And, in her strict resort
To winds and waterfalls
And autumn's sunlit festivals,
To music, and to music's thought,
Inextricably bound,
She shall find thee, and be found.
Follow not her flying feet;
Come to us herself to meet."'
INITIAL, DAEMONIC AND CELESTIAL LOVE
I. THE INITIAL LOVE
Venus, when her son was lost,
Cried him up and down the coast,
In hamlets, palaces and parks,
And told the truant by his marks,--
Golden curls, and quiver and bow.
This befell how long ago!
Time and tide are strangely changed,
Men and manners much deranged:
None will now find Cupid latent
By this foolish antique patent.
He came late along the waste,
Shod like a traveller for haste;
With malice dared me to proclaim him,
That the maids and boys might name him.
Boy no more, he wears all coats,
Frocks and blouses, capes, capotes;
He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,
Nor chaplet on his head or hand.
Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,--
All the rest he can disguise.
In the pit of his eye's a spark
Would bring back day if it were dark;
And, if I tell you all my thought,
Though I comprehend it not,
In those unfathomable orbs
Every function he absorbs;
Doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,
And write, and reason, and compute,
And ride, and run, and have, and hold,
And whine, and flatter, and regret,
And kiss, and couple, and beget,
By those roving eyeballs bold.
Undaunted are their courages,
Right Cossacks in their forages;
Fleeter they than any creature,--
They are his steeds, and not his feature;
Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,
Restless, predatory, hasting;
And they pounce on other eyes
As lions on their prey;
And round their circles is writ,
Plainer than the day,
Underneath, within, above,--
Love--love--love--love.
He lives in his eyes;
There doth digest, and work, and spin,
And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;
He rolls them with delighted motion,
Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.
Yet holds he them with tautest rein,
That they may seize and entertain
The glance that to their glance opposes,
Like fiery honey sucked from roses.
He palmistry can understand,
Imbibing virtue by his hand
As if it were a living root;
The pulse of hands will make him mute;
With all his force he gathers balms
Into those wise, thrilling palms.
Cupid is a casuist,
A mystic and a cabalist,--
Can your lurking thought surprise,
And interpret your device.
He is versed in occult science,
In magic and in clairvoyance,
Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,
And Reason on her tiptoe pained
For a雛y intelligence,
And for strange coincidence.
But it touches his quick heart
When Fate by omens takes his part,
And chance-dropped hints from Nature's sphere
Deeply soothe his anxious ear.
Heralds high before him run;
He has ushers many a one;
He spreads his welcome where he goes,
And touches all things with his rose.
All things wait for and divine him,--
How shall I dare to malign him,
Or accuse the god of sport?
I must end my true report,
Painting him from head to foot,
In as far as I took note,
Trusting well the matchless power
Of this young-eyed emperor
Will clear his fame from every cloud
With the bards and with the crowd.
He is wilful, mutable,
Shy, untamed, inscrutable,
Swifter-fashioned than the fairies.
Substance mixed of pure contraries;
His vice some elder virtue's token,
And his good is evil-spoken.
Failing sometimes of his own,
He is headstrong and alone;
He affects the wood and wild,
Like a flower-hunting child;
Buries himself in summer waves,
In trees, with beasts, in mines and caves,
Loves nature like a horn鑔 cow,
Bird, or deer, or caribou.
Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!
He has a total world of wit;
O how wise are his discourses!
But he is the arch-hypocrite,
And, through all science and all art,
Seeks alone his counterpart.
He is a Pundit of the East,
He is an augur and a priest,
And his soul will melt in prayer,
But word and wisdom is a snare;
Corrupted by the present toy
He follows joy, and only joy.
There is no mask but he will wear;
He invented oaths to swear;
He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,
And holds all stars in his embrace.
He takes a sovran privilege
Not allowed to any liege;
For Cupid goes behind all law,
And right into himself does draw;
For he is sovereignly allied,--
Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side,--
And interchangeably at one
With every king on every throne,
That no god dare say him nay,
Or see the fault, or seen betray;
He has the Muses by the heart,
And the stern Parcae on his part.
His many signs cannot be told;
He has not one mode, but manifold,
Many fashions and addresses,
Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses.
He will preach like a friar,
And jump like Harlequin;
He will read like a crier,
And fight like a Paladin.
Boundless is his memory;
Plans immense his term prolong;
He is not of counted age,
Meaning always to be young.
And his wish is intimacy,
Intimater intimacy,
And a stricter privacy;
The impossible shall yet be done,
And, being two, shall still be one.
As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,
Then runs into a wave again,
So lovers melt their sundered selves,
Yet melted would be twain.
II. THE DAEMONIC LOVE
Man was made of social earth,
Child and brother from his birth,
Tethered by a liquid cord
Of blood through veins of kindred poured.
Next his heart the fireside band
Of mother, father, sister, stand;
Names from awful childhood heard
Throbs of a wild religion stirred;--
Virtue, to love, to hate them, vice;
Till dangerous Beauty came, at last,
Till Beauty came to snap all ties;
The maid, abolishing the past,
With lotus wine obliterates
Dear memory's stone-incarved traits,
And, by herself, supplants alone
Friends year by year more inly known.
When her calm eyes opened bright,
All else grew foreign in their light.
It was ever the self-same tale,
The first experience will not fail;
Only two in the garden walked,
And with snake and seraph talked.
Close, close to men,
Like undulating layer of air,
Right above their heads,
The potent plain of Daemons spreads.
Stands to each human soul its own,
For watch and ward and furtherance,
In the snares of Nature's dance;
And the lustre and the grace
To fascinate each youthful heart,
Beaming from its counterpart,
Translucent through the mortal covers,
Is the Daemon's form and face.
To and fro the Genius hies,--
A gleam which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head,
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.
Unknown, albeit lying near,
To men, the path to the Daemon sphere;
And they that swiftly come and go
Leave no track on the heavenly snow.
Sometimes the airy synod bends,
And the mighty choir descends,
And the brains of men thenceforth,
In crowded and in still resorts,
Teem with unwonted thoughts:
As, when a shower of meteors
Cross the orbit of the earth,
And, lit by fringent air,
Blaze near and far,
Mortals deem the planets bright
Have slipped their sacred bars,
And the lone seaman all the night
Sails, astonished, amid stars.
Beauty of a richer vein,
Graces of a subtler strain,
Unto men these moonmen lend,
And our shrinking sky extend.
So is man's narrow path
By strength and terror skirted;
Also (from the song the wrath
Of the Genii be averted!
The Muse the truth uncolored speaking)
The Daemons are self-seeking:
Their fierce and limitary will
Draws men to their likeness still.
The erring painter made Love blind,--
Highest Love who shines on all;
Him, radiant, sharpest-sighted god,
None can bewilder;
Whose eyes pierce
The universe,
Path-finder, road-builder,
Mediator, royal giver;
Rightly seeing, rightly seen,
Of joyful and transparent mien.
'T is a sparkle passing
From each to each, from thee to me,
To and fro perpetually;
Sharing all, daring all,
Levelling, displacing
Each obstruction, it unites
Equals remote, and seeming opposites.
And ever and forever Love
Delights to build a road:
Unheeded Danger near him strides,
Love laughs, and on a lion rides.
But Cupid wears another face,
Born into Daemons less divine:
His roses bleach apace,
His nectar smacks of wine.
The Daemon ever builds a wall,
Himself encloses and includes,
Solitude in solitudes:
In like sort his love doth fall.
He doth elect
The beautiful and fortunate,
And the sons of intellect,
And the souls of ample fate,
Who the Future's gates unbar,--
Minions of the Morning Star.
In his prowess he exults,
And the multitude insults.
His impatient looks devour
Oft the humble and the poor;
And, seeing his eye glare,
They drop their few pale flowers,
Gathered with hope to please,
Along the mountain towers,--
Lose courage, and despair.
He will never be gainsaid,--
Pitiless, will not be stayed;
His hot tyranny
Burns up every other tie.
Therefore comes an hour from Jove
Which his ruthless will defies,
And the dogs of Fate unties.
Shiver the palaces of glass;
Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls,
Where in bright Art each god and sibyl dwelt
Secure as in the zodiac's belt;
And the galleries and halls,
Wherein every siren sung,
Like a meteor pass.
For this fortune wanted root
In the core of God's abysm,--
Was a weed of self and schism;
And ever the Daemonic Love
Is the ancestor of wars
And the parent of remorse.
III. THE CELESTIAL LOVE
But God said,
'I will have a purer gift;
There is smoke in the flame;
New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,
And love without a name.
Fond children, ye desire
To please each other well;
Another round, a higher,
Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,
And selfish preference forbear;
And in right deserving,
And without a swerving
Each from your proper state,
Weave roses for your mate.
'Deep, deep are loving eyes,
Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet;
And the point is paradise,
Where their glances meet:
Their reach shall yet be more profound,
And a vision without bound:
The axis of those eyes sun-clear
Be the axis of the sphere:
So shall the lights ye pour amain
Go, without check or intervals,
Through from the empyrean walls
Unto the same again.'
Higher far into the pure realm,
Over sun and star,
Over the flickering Daemon film,
Thou must mount for love;
Into vision where all form
In one only form dissolves;
In a region where the wheel
On which all beings ride
Visibly revolves;
Where the starred, eternal worm
Girds the world with bound and term;
Where unlike things are like;
Where good and ill,
And joy and moan,
Melt into one.
There Past, Present, Future, shoot
Triple blossoms from one root;
Substances at base divided,
In their summits are united;
There the holy essence rolls,
One through separated souls;
And the sunny Aeon sleeps
Folding Nature in its deeps,
And every fair and every good,
Known in part, or known impure,
To men below,
In their archetypes endure.
The race of gods,
Or those we erring own,
Are shadows flitting up and down
In the still abodes.
The circles of that sea are laws
Which publish and which hide the cause.
Pray for a beam
Out of that sphere,
Thee to guide and to redeem.
O, what a load
Of care and toil,
By lying use bestowed,
From his shoulders falls who sees
The true astronomy,
The period of peace.
Counsel which the ages kept
Shall the well-born soul accept.
As the overhanging trees
Fill the lake with images,--
As garment draws the garment's hem,
Men their fortunes bring with them.
By right or wrong,
Lands and goods go to the strong.
Property will brutely draw
Still to the proprietor;
Silver to silver creep and wind,
And kind to kind.
Nor less the eternal poles
Of tendency distribute souls.
There need no vows to bind
Whom not each other seek, but find.
They give and take no pledge or oath,--
Nature is the bond of both:
No prayer persuades, no flattery fawns,--
Their noble meanings are their pawns.
Plain and cold is their address,
Power have they for tenderness;
And, so thoroughly is known
Each other's counsel by his own,
They can parley without meeting;
Need is none of forms of greeting;
They can well communicate
In their innermost estate;
When each the other shall avoid,
Shall each by each be most enjoyed.
Not with scarfs or perfumed gloves
Do these celebrate their loves:
Not by jewels, feasts and savors,
Not by ribbons or by favors,
But by the sun-spark on the sea,
And the cloud-shadow on the lea,
The soothing lapse of morn to mirk,
And the cheerful round of work.
Their cords of love so public are,
They intertwine the farthest star:
The throbbing sea, the quaking earth,
Yield sympathy and signs of mirth;
Is none so high, so mean is none,
But feels and seals this union;
Even the fell Furies are appeased,
The good applaud, the lost are eased.
Love's hearts are faithful, but not fond,
Bound for the just, but not beyond;
Not glad, as the low-loving herd,
Of self in other still preferred,
But they have heartily designed
The benefit of broad mankind.
And they serve men austerely,
After their own genius, clearly,
Without a false humility;
For this is Love's nobility,--
Not to scatter bread and gold,
Goods and raiment bought and sold;
But to hold fast his simple sense,
And speak the speech of innocence,
And with hand and body and blood,
To make his bosom-counsel good.
He that feeds men serveth few;
He serves all who dares be true.
THE APOLOGY
Think me not unkind and rude
That I walk alone in grove and glen;
I go to the god of the wood
To fetch his word to men.
Tax not my sloth that I
Fold my arms beside the brook;
Each cloud that floated in the sky
Writes a letter in my book.
Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.
There was never mystery
But 'tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history
But birds tell it in the bowers.
One harvest from thy field
Homeward brought the oxen strong;
A second crop thine acres yield,
Which I gather in a song.
MERLIN I
Thy trivial harp will never please
Or fill my craving ear;
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze,
Free, peremptory, clear.
No jingling serenader's art,
Nor tinkle of piano strings,
Can make the wild blood start
In its mystic springs.
The kingly bard
Must smite the chords rudely and hard,
As with hammer or with mace;
That they may render back
Artful thunder, which conveys
Secrets of the solar track,
Sparks of the supersolar blaze.
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate,
Chiming with the forest tone,
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood;
Chiming with the gasp and moan
Of the ice-imprisoned flood;
With the pulse of manly hearts;
With the voice of orators;
With the din of city arts;
With the cannonade of wars;
With the marches of the brave;
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.
Great is the art,
Great be the manners, of the bard.
He shall not his brain encumber
With the coil of rhythm and number;
But, leaving rule and pale forethought,
He shall aye climb
For his rhyme.
'Pass in, pass in,' the angels say,
'In to the upper doors,
Nor count compartments of the floors,
But mount to paradise
By the stairway of surprise.'
Blameless master of the games,
King of sport that never shames,
He shall daily joy dispense
Hid in song's sweet influence.
Forms more cheerly live and go,
What time the subtle mind
Sings aloud the tune whereto
Their pulses beat,
And march their feet,
And their members are combined.
By Sybarites beguiled,
He shall no task decline;
Merlin's mighty line
Extremes of nature reconciled,--
Bereaved a tyrant of his will,
And made the lion mild.
Songs can the tempest still,
Scattered on the stormy air,
Mould the year to fair increase,
And bring in poetic peace.
He shall not seek to weave,
In weak, unhappy times,
Efficacious rhymes;
Wait his returning strength.
Bird that from the nadir's floor
To the zenith's top can soar,--
The soaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length.
Nor profane affect to hit
Or compass that, by meddling wit,
Which only the propitious mind
Publishes when 't is inclined.
There are open hours
When the God's will sallies free,
And the dull idiot might see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years;--
Sudden, at unawares,
Self-moved, fly-to the doors.
Nor sword of angels could reveal
What they conceal.
MERLIN II
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs;
Balance-loving Nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode;
Each color with its counter glowed;
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough;
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting balls and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand;
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated;
Adding by their mutual gage,
One to other, health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The self-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife,
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay.
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
BACCHUS
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through,
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,--
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mould of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,--
Music and wine are one,--
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;--
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of me and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,--
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
Let wine repair what this undid;
And where the infection slid,
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
MEROPS
What care I, so they stand the same,--
Things of the heavenly mind,--
How long the power to give them name
Tarries yet behind?
Thus far to-day your favors reach,
O fair, appeasing presences!
Ye taught my lips a single speech,
And a thousand silences.
Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day;
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say.
THE HOUSE
There is no architect
Can build as the Muse can;
She is skilful to _select_
Materials for her plan;
Slow and warily to choose
Rafters of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,
Worthy her design,
She threads dark Alpine forests
Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,
Ere she can find a tree.
She ransacks mines and ledges
And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant
For each eternal block--
She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun--
That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.
SAADI
Trees in groves,
Kine in droves,
In ocean sport the scaly herds,
Wedge-like cleave the air the birds,
To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks,
Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,
Men consort in camp and town,
But the poet dwells alone.
God, who gave to him the lyre,
Of all mortals the desire,
For all breathing men's behoof,
Straitly charged him, 'Sit aloof;'
Annexed a warning, poets say,
To the bright premium,--
Ever, when twain together play,
Shall the harp be dumb.
Many may come,
But one shall sing;
Two touch the string,
The harp is dumb.
Though there come a million,
Wise Saadi dwells alone.
Yet Saadi loved the race of men,--
No churl, immured in cave or den;
In bower and hall
He wants them all,
Nor can dispense
With Persia for his audience;
They must give ear,
Grow red with joy and white with fear;
But he has no companion;
Come ten, or come a million,
Good Saadi dwells alone.
Be thou ware where Saadi dwells;
Wisdom of the gods is he,--
Entertain it reverently.
Gladly round that golden lamp
Sylvan deities encamp,
And simple maids and noble youth
Are welcome to the man of truth.
Most welcome they who need him most,
They feed the spring which they exhaust;
For greater need
Draws better deed:
But, critic, spare thy vanity,
Nor show thy pompous parts,
To vex with odious subtlety
The cheerer of men's hearts.
Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say
Endless dirges to decay,
Never in the blaze of light
Lose the shudder of midnight;
Pale at overflowing noon
Hear wolves barking at the moon;
In the bower of dalliance sweet
Hear the far Avenger's feet:
And shake before those awful Powers,
Who in their pride forgive not ours.
Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach:
'Bard, when thee would Allah teach,
And lift thee to his holy mount,
He sends thee from his bitter fount
Wormwood,--saying, "Go thy ways;
Drink not the Malaga of praise,
But do the deed thy fellows hate,
And compromise thy peaceful state;
Smite the white breasts which thee fed.
Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head
Of them thou shouldst have comforted;
For out of woe and out of crime
Draws the heart a lore sublime."'
And yet it seemeth not to me
That the high gods love tragedy;
For Saadi sat in the sun,
And thanks was his contrition;
For haircloth and for bloody whips,
Had active hands and smiling lips;
And yet his runes he rightly read,
And to his folk his message sped.
Sunshine in his heart transferred
Lighted each transparent word,
And well could honoring Persia learn
What Saadi wished to say;
For Saadi's nightly stars did burn
Brighter than Jami's day.
Whispered the Muse in Saadi's cot:
'O gentle Saadi, listen not,
Tempted by thy praise of wit,
Or by thirst and appetite
For the talents not thine own,
To sons of contradiction.
Never, son of eastern morning,
Follow falsehood, follow scorning.
Denounce who will, who will deny,
And pile the hills to scale the sky;
Let theist, atheist, pantheist,
Define and wrangle how they list,
Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer,--
But thou, joy-giver and enjoyer,
Unknowing war, unknowing crime,
Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme;
Heed not what the brawlers say,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
'Let the great world bustle on
With war and trade, with camp and town;
A thousand men shall dig and eat;
At forge and furnace thousands sweat;
And thousands sail the purple sea,
And give or take the stroke of war,
Or crowd the market and bazaar;
Oft shall war end, and peace return,
And cities rise where cities burn,
Ere one man my hill shall climb,
Who can turn the golden rhyme.
Let them manage how they may,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Seek the living among the dead,--
Man in man is imprison鑔;
Barefooted Dervish is not poor,
If fate unlock his bosom's door,
So that what his eye hath seen
His tongue can paint as bright, as keen;
And what his tender heart hath felt
With equal fire thy heart shalt melt.
For, whom the Muses smile upon,
And touch with soft persuasion,
His words like a storm-wind can bring
Terror and beauty on their wing;
In his every syllable
Lurketh Nature veritable;
And though he speak in midnight dark,--
In heaven no star, on earth no spark,--
Yet before the listener's eye
Swims the world in ecstasy,
The forest waves, the morning breaks,
The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,
Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,
And life pulsates in rock or tree.
Saadi, so far thy words shall reach:
Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech!'
And thus to Saadi said the Muse:
'Eat thou the bread which men refuse;
Flee from the goods which from thee flee;
Seek nothing,--Fortune seeketh thee.
Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep
The midway of the eternal deep.
Wish not to fill the isles with eyes
To fetch thee birds of paradise:
On thine orchard's edge belong
All the brags of plume and song;
Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass
For proverbs in the market-place:
Through mountains bored by regal art,
Toil whistles as he drives his cart.
Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,
A poet or a friend to find:
Behold, he watches at the door!
Behold his shadow on the floor!
Open innumerable doors
The heaven where unveiled Allah pours
The flood of truth, the flood of good,
The Seraph's and the Cherub's food.
Those doors are men: the Pariah hind
Admits thee to the perfect Mind.
Seek not beyond thy cottage wall
Redeemers that can yield thee all:
While thou sittest at thy door
On the desert's yellow floor,
Listening to the gray-haired crones,
Foolish gossips, ancient drones,
Saadi, see! they rise in stature
To the height of mighty Nature,
And the secret stands revealed
Fraudulent Time in vain concealed,--
That blessed gods in servile masks
Plied for thee thy household tasks.'
HOLIDAYS
From fall to spring, the russet acorn,
Fruit beloved of maid and boy,
Lent itself beneath the forest,
To be the children's toy.
Pluck it now! In vain,--thou canst not;
Its root has pierced yon shady mound;
Toy no longer--it has duties;
It is anchored in the ground.
Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,
Playfellow of young and old,
Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,
More dear to one than mines of gold.
Whither went the lovely hoyden?
Disappeared in blessed wife;
Servant to a wooden cradle,
Living in a baby's life.
Still thou playest;--short vacation
Fate grants each to stand aside;
Now must thou be man and artist,--
'T is the turning of the tide.
XENOPHANES
By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,
One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,
One aspect to the desert and the lake.
It was her stern necessity: all things
Are of one pattern made; bird, beast and flower,
Song, picture, form, space, thought and character
Deceive us, seeming to be many things,
And are but one. Beheld far off, they part
As God and devil; bring them to the mind,
They dull its edge with their monotony.
To know one element, explore another,
And in the second reappears the first.
The specious panorama of a year
But multiplies the image of a day,--
A belt of mirrors round a taper's flame;
And universal Nature, through her vast
And crowded whole, an infinite paroquet,
Repeats one note.
THE DAY'S RATION
When I was born,
From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice,
Saying, 'This be thy portion, child; this chalice,
Less than a lily's, thou shalt daily draw
From my great arteries,--nor less, nor more.'
All substances the cunning chemist Time
Melts down into that liquor of my life,--
Friends, foes, joys, fortunes, beauty and disgust.
And whether I am angry or content,
Indebted or insulted, loved or hurt,
All he distils into sidereal wine
And brims my little cup; heedless, alas!
Of all he sheds how little it will hold,
How much runs over on the desert sands.
If a new Muse draw me with splendid ray,
And I uplift myself into its heaven,
The needs of the first sight absorb my blood,
And all the following hours of the day
Drag a ridiculous age.
To-day, when friends approach, and every hour
Brings book, or starbright scroll of genius,
The little cup will hold not a bead more,
And all the costly liquor runs to waste;
Nor gives the jealous lord one diamond drop
So to be husbanded for poorer days.
Why need I volumes, if one word suffice?
Why need I galleries, when a pupil's draught
After the master's sketch fills and o'erfills
My apprehension? Why seek Italy,
Who cannot circumnavigate the sea
Of thoughts and things at home, but still adjourn
The nearest matters for a thousand days?
BLIGHT
Give me truths;
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition. If I knew
Only the herbs and simples of the wood,
Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain and agrimony,
Blue-vetch and trillium, hawkweed, sassafras,
Milkweeds and murky brakes, quaint pipes and sundew,
And rare and virtuous roots, which in these woods
Draw untold juices from the common earth,
Untold, unknown, and I could surely spell
Their fragrance, and their chemistry apply
By sweet affinities to human flesh,
Driving the foe and stablishing the friend,--
O, that were much, and I could be a part
Of the round day, related to the sun
And planted world, and full executor
Of their imperfect functions.
But these young scholars, who invade our hills,
Bold as the engineer who fells the wood,
And travelling often in the cut he makes,
Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,
And all their botany is Latin names.
The old men studied magic in the flowers,
And human fortunes in astronomy,
And an omnipotence in chemistry,
Preferring things to names, for these were men,
Were unitarians of the united world,
And, wheresoever their clear eye-beams fell,
They caught the footsteps of the SAME. Our eyes
Are armed, but we are strangers to the stars,
And strangers to the mystic beast and bird,
And strangers to the plant and to the mine.
The injured elements say, 'Not in us;'
And night and day, ocean and continent,
Fire, plant and mineral say, 'Not in us;'
And haughtily return us stare for stare.
For we invade them impiously for gain;
We devastate them unreligiously,
And coldly ask their pottage, not their love.
Therefore they shove us from them, yield to us
Only what to our griping toil is due;
But the sweet affluence of love and song,
The rich results of the divine consents
Of man and earth, of world beloved and lover,
The nectar and ambrosia, are withheld;
And in the midst of spoils and slaves, we thieves
And pirates of the universe, shut out
Daily to a more thin and outward rind,
Turn pale and starve. Therefore, to our sick eyes,
The stunted trees look sick, the summer short,
Clouds shade the sun, which will not tan our hay,
And nothing thrives to reach its natural term;
And life, shorn of its venerable length,
Even at its greatest space is a defeat,
And dies in anger that it was a dupe;
And, in its highest noon and wantonness,
Is early frugal, like a beggar's child;
Even in the hot pursuit of the best aims
And prizes of ambition, checks its hand,
Like Alpine cataracts frozen as they leaped,
Chilled with a miserly comparison
Of the toy's purchase with the length of life.
MUSKETAQUID
Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear, dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And through my rock-like, solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.
For me, in showers, in sweeping showers, the Spring
Visits the valley;--break away the clouds,--
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird,
Blue-coated,--flying before from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward and nearer rides the sun of May;
And wide around, the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.
Beneath low hills, in the broad interval
Through which at will our Indian rivulet
Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,
Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,
Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees,
Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.
Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road,
Or, it may be, a picture; to these men,
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.
They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use
To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal.
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap,
They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain,
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime,
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked,
Transmuted in these men to rule their like),
And by the order in the field disclose
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.
What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre;
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle deities
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds,
The innumerable tenements of beauty.
The miracle of generative force,
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Better, the linked purpose of the whole,
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty
In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave.
The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk,
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush,
A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear:
'Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like Nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less?
As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.'
DIRGE
CONCORD, 1838
I reached the middle of the mount
Up which the incarnate soul must climb,
And paused for them, and looked around,
With me who walked through space and time.
Five rosy boys with morning light
Had leaped from one fair mother's arms,
Fronted the sun with hope as bright,
And greeted God with childhood's psalms.
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?
In the long sunny afternoon
The plain was full of ghosts;
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers, long ago,
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone,--the holy ones
Who trod with me this lovely vale;
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place!
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood;
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,--
They treated Nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round;
Stars flamed and faded as they bade,
All echoes hearkened for their sound,--
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf,
Which once our childhood knew;
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief
Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine-warbler
Singing aloft in the tree!
Hearest thou, O traveller,
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear
With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay could'st thou
Its heavy tale divine.
'Go, lonely man,' it saith;
'They loved thee from their birth;
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,--
There are no such hearts on earth.
'Ye drew one mother's milk,
One chamber held ye all;
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
'You cannot unlock your heart,
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants
The master's requiem.'
THRENODY
The South-wind brings
Life, sunshine and desire,
And on every mount and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire;
But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;
And, looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.
I see my empty house,
I see my trees repair their boughs;
And he, the wondrous child,
Whose silver warble wild
Outvalued every pulsing sound
Within the air's cerulean round,--
The hyacinthine boy, for whom
Morn well might break and April bloom,
The gracious boy, who did adorn
The world whereinto he was born,
And by his countenance repay
The favor of the loving Day,--
Has disappeared from the Day's eye;
Far and wide she cannot find him;
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.
Returned this day, the South-wind searches,
And finds young pines and budding birches;
But finds not the budding man;
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him;
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.
And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,
O, whither tend thy feet?
I had the right, few days ago,
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know:
How have I forfeited the right?
Hast thou forgot me in a new delight?
I hearken for thy household cheer,
O eloquent child!
Whose voice, an equal messenger,
Conveyed thy meaning mild.
What though the pains and joys
Whereof it spoke were toys
Fitting his age and ken,
Yet fairest dames and bearded men,
Who heard the sweet request,
So gentle, wise and grave,
Bended with joy to his behest
And let the world's affairs go by,
A while to share his cordial game,
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame,
Still plotting how their hungry fear
That winsome voice again might hear;
For his lips could well pronounce
Words that were persuasions.
Gentlest guardians marked serene
His early hope, his liberal mien;
Took counsel from his guiding eyes
To make this wisdom earthly wise.
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall
The school-march, each day's festival,
When every morn my bosom glowed
To watch the convoy on the road;
The babe in willow wagon closed,
With rolling eyes and face composed;
With children forward and behind,
Like Cupids studiously inclined;
And he the chieftain paced beside,
The centre of the troop allied,
With sunny face of sweet repose,
To guard the babe from fancied foes.
The little captain innocent
Took the eye with him as he went;
Each village senior paused to scan
And speak the lovely caravan.
From the window I look out
To mark thy beautiful parade,
Stately marching in cap and coat
To some tune by fairies played;--
A music heard by thee alone
To works as noble led thee on.
Now Love and Pride, alas! in vain,
Up and down their glances strain.
The painted sled stands where it stood;
The kennel by the corded wood;
His gathered sticks to stanch the wall
Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall;
The ominous hole he dug in the sand,
And childhood's castles built or planned;
His daily haunts I well discern,--
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn,--
And every inch of garden ground
Paced by the blessed feet around,
From the roadside to the brook
Whereinto he loved to look.
Step the meek fowls where erst they ranged;
The wintry garden lies unchanged;
The brook into the stream runs on;
But the deep-eyed boy is gone.
On that shaded day,
Dark with more clouds than tempests are,
When thou didst yield thy innocent breath
In birdlike heavings unto death,
Night came, and Nature had not thee;
I said, 'We are mates in misery.'
The morrow dawned with needless glow;
Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow;
Each tramper started; but the feet
Of the most beautiful and sweet
Of human youth had left the hill
And garden,--they were bound and still.
There's not a sparrow or a wren,
There's not a blade of autumn grain,
Which the four seasons do not tend
And tides of life and increase lend;
And every chick of every bird,
And weed and rock-moss is preferred.
O ostrich-like forgetfulness!
O loss of larger in the less!
Was there no star that could be sent,
No watcher in the firmament,
No angel from the countless host
That loiters round the crystal coast,
Could stoop to heal that only child,
Nature's sweet marvel undefiled,
And keep the blossom of the earth,
Which all her harvests were not worth?
Not mine,--I never called thee mine,
But Nature's heir,--if I repine,
And seeing rashly torn and moved
Not what I made, but what I loved,
Grow early old with grief that thou
Must to the wastes of Nature go,--
'T is because a general hope
Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope.
For flattering planets seemed to say
This child should ills of ages stay,
By wondrous tongue, and guided pen,
Bring the flown Muses back to men.
Perchance not he but Nature ailed,
The world and not the infant failed.
It was not ripe yet to sustain
A genius of so fine a strain,
Who gazed upon the sun and moon
As if he came unto his own,
And, pregnant with his grander thought,
Brought the old order into doubt.
His beauty once their beauty tried;
They could not feed him, and he died,
And wandered backward as in scorn,
To wait an aeon to be born.
Ill day which made this beauty waste,
Plight broken, this high face defaced!
Some went and came about the dead;
And some in books of solace read;
Some to their friends the tidings say;
Some went to write, some went to pray;
One tarried here, there hurried one;
But their heart abode with none.
Covetous death bereaved us all,
To aggrandize one funeral.
The eager fate which carried thee
Took the largest part of me:
For this losing is true dying;
This is lordly man's down-lying,
This his slow but sure reclining,
Star by star his world resigning.
O child of paradise,
Boy who made dear his father's home,
In whose deep eyes
Men read the welfare of the times to come,
I am too much bereft.
The world dishonored thou hast left.
O truth's and nature's costly lie!
O trusted broken prophecy!
O richest fortune sourly crossed!
Born for the future, to the future lost!
The deep Heart answered, 'Weepest thou?
Worthier cause for passion wild
If I had not taken the child.
And deemest thou as those who pore,
With aged eyes, short way before,--
Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast
Of matter, and thy darling lost?
Taught he not thee--the man of eld,
Whose eyes within his eyes beheld
Heaven's numerous hierarchy span
The mystic gulf from God to man?
To be alone wilt thou begin
When worlds of lovers hem thee in?
To-morrow, when the masks shall fall
That dizen Nature's carnival,
The pure shall see by their own will,
Which overflowing Love shall fill,
'T is not within the force of fate
The fate-conjoined to separate.
But thou, my votary, weepest thou?
I gave thee sight--where is it now?
I taught thy heart beyond the reach
Of ritual, bible, or of speech;
Wrote in thy mind's transparent table,
As far as the incommunicable;
Taught thee each private sign to raise
Lit by the supersolar blaze.
Past utterance, and past belief,
And past the blasphemy of grief,
The mysteries of Nature's heart;
And though no Muse can these impart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
'I came to thee as to a friend;
Dearest, to thee I did not send
Tutors, but a joyful eye,
Innocence that matched the sky,
Lovely locks, a form of wonder,
Laughter rich as woodland thunder,
That thou might'st entertain apart
The richest flowering of all art:
And, as the great all-loving Day
Through smallest chambers takes its way,
That thou might'st break thy daily bread
With prophet, savior and head;
That thou might'st cherish for thine own
The riches of sweet Mary's Son,
Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon.
And thoughtest thou such guest
Would in thy hall take up his rest?
Would rushing life forget her laws,
Fate's glowing revolution pause?
High omens ask diviner guess;
Not to be conned to tediousness
And know my higher gifts unbind
The zone that girds the incarnate mind.
When the scanty shores are full
With Thought's perilous, whirling pool;
When frail Nature can no more,
Then the Spirit strikes the hour:
My servant Death, with solving rite,
Pours finite into infinite.
Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,
Whose streams through Nature circling go?
Nail the wild star to its track
On the half-climbed zodiac?
Light is light which radiates,
Blood is blood which circulates,
Life is life which generates,
And many-seeming life is one,--
Wilt thou transfix and make it none?
Its onward force too starkly pent
In figure, bone and lineament?
Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate,
Talker! the unreplying Fate?
Nor see the genius of the whole
Ascendant in the private soul,
Beckon it when to go and come,
Self-announced its hour of doom?
Fair the soul's recess and shrine,
Magic-built to last a season;
Masterpiece of love benign,
Fairer that expansive reason
Whose omen 'tis, and sign.
Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know
What rainbows teach, and sunsets show?
Verdict which accumulates
From lengthening scroll of human fates,
Voice of earth to earth returned,
Prayers of saints that inly burned,--
Saying, _What is excellent,_
_As God lives, is permanent;_
_Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain;_
_Heart's love will meet thee again._
Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye
Up to his style, and manners of the sky.
Not of adamant and gold
Built he heaven stark and cold;
No, but a nest of bending reeds,
Flowering grass and scented weeds;
Or like a traveller's fleeing tent,
Or bow above the tempest bent;
Built of tears and sacred flames,
And virtue reaching to its aims;
Built of furtherance and pursuing,
Not of spent deeds, but of doing.
Silent rushes the swift Lord
Through ruined systems still restored,
Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless,
Plants with worlds the wilderness;
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow.
House and tenant go to ground,
Lost in God, in Godhead found.'
CONCORD HYMN
SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE
MONUMENT, JULY 4, 1837
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
* * * * *
II
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
* * * * *
MAY-DAY
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Teaching Barren moors to smile,
Painting pictures mile on mile,
Holds a cup with cowslip-wreaths,
Whence a smokeless incense breathes.
The air is full of whistlings bland;
What was that I heard
Out of the hazy land?
Harp of the wind, or song of bird,
Or vagrant booming of the air,
Voice of a meteor lost in day?
Such tidings of the starry sphere
Can this elastic air convey.
Or haply 'twas the cannonade
Of the pent and darkened lake,
Cooled by the pendent mountain's shade,
Whose deeps, till beams of noonday break,
Afflicted moan, and latest hold
Even into May the iceberg cold.
Was it a squirrel's pettish bark,
Or clarionet of jay? or hark
Where yon wedged line the Nestor leads,
Steering north with raucous cry
Through tracts and provinces of sky,
Every night alighting down
In new landscapes of romance,
Where darkling feed the clamorous clans
By lonely lakes to men unknown.
Come the tumult whence it will,
Voice of sport, or rush of wings,
It is a sound, it is a token
That the marble sleep is broken,
And a change has passed on things.
When late I walked, in earlier days,
All was stiff and stark;
Knee-deep snows choked all the ways,
In the sky no spark;
Firm-braced I sought my ancient woods,
Struggling through the drifted roads;
The whited desert knew me not,
Snow-ridges masked each darling spot;
The summer dells, by genius haunted,
One arctic moon had disenchanted.
All the sweet secrets therein hid
By Fancy, ghastly spells undid.
Eldest mason, Frost, had piled
Swift cathedrals in the wild;
The piny hosts were sheeted ghosts
In the star-lit minster aisled.
I found no joy: the icy wind
Might rule the forest to his mind.
Who would freeze on frozen lakes?
Back to books and sheltered home,
And wood-fire flickering on the walls,
To hear, when, 'mid our talk and games,
Without the baffled North-wind calls.
But soft! a sultry morning breaks;
The ground-pines wash their rusty green,
The maple-tops their crimson tint,
On the soft path each track is seen,
The girl's foot leaves its neater print.
The pebble loosened from the frost
Asks of the urchin to be tost.
In flint and marble beats a heart,
The kind Earth takes her children's part,
The green lane is the school-boy's friend,
Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,
The fresh ground loves his top and ball,
The air rings jocund to his call,
The brimming brook invites a leap,
He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.
The youth sees omens where he goes,
And speaks all languages the rose,
The wood-fly mocks with tiny voice
The far halloo of human voice;
The perfumed berry on the spray
Smacks of faint memories far away.
A subtle chain of countless rings
The next into the farthest brings,
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.
The caged linnet in the Spring
Hearkens for the choral glee,
When his fellows on the wing
Migrate from the Southern Sea;
When trellised grapes their flowers unmask,
And the new-born tendrils twine,
The old wine darkling in the cask
Feels the bloom on the living vine,
And bursts the hoops at hint of Spring:
And so, perchance, in Adam's race,
Of Eden's bower some dream-like trace
Survived the Flight and swam the Flood,
And wakes the wish in youngest blood
To tread the forfeit Paradise,
And feed once more the exile's eyes;
And ever when the happy child
In May beholds the blooming wild,
And hears in heaven the bluebird sing,
'Onward,' he cries, 'your baskets bring,--
In the next field is air more mild,
And o'er yon hazy crest is Eden's balmier spring.'
Not for a regiment's parade,
Nor evil laws or rulers made,
Blue Walden rolls its cannonade,
But for a lofty sign
Which the Zodiac threw,
That the bondage-days are told.
And waters free as winds shall flow.
Lo! how all the tribes combine
To rout the flying foe.
See, every patriot oak-leaf throws
His elfin length upon the snows,
Not idle, since the leaf all day
Draws to the spot the solar ray,
Ere sunset quarrying inches down,
And halfway to the mosses brown;
While the grass beneath the rime
Has hints of the propitious time,
And upward pries and perforates
Through the cold slab a thousand gates,
Till green lances peering through
Bend happy in the welkin blue.
As we thaw frozen flesh with snow,
So Spring will not her time forerun,
Mix polar night with tropic glow,
Nor cloy us with unshaded sun,
Nor wanton skip with bacchic dance,
But she has the temperance
Of the gods, whereof she is one,--
Masks her treasury of heat
Under east winds crossed with sleet.
Plants and birds and humble creatures
Well accept her rule austere;
Titan-born, to hardy natures
Cold is genial and dear.
As Southern wrath to Northern right
Is but straw to anthracite;
As in the day of sacrifice,
When heroes piled the pyre,
The dismal Massachusetts ice
Burned more than others' fire,
So Spring guards with surface cold
The garnered heat of ages old.
Hers to sow the seed of bread,
That man and all the kinds be fed;
And, when the sunlight fills the hours,
Dissolves the crust, displays the flowers.
Beneath the calm, within the light,
A hid unruly appetite
Of swifter life, a surer hope,
Strains every sense to larger scope,
Impatient to anticipate
The halting steps of aged Fate.
Slow grows the palm, too slow the pearl:
When Nature falters, fain would zeal
Grasp the felloes of her wheel,
And grasping give the orbs another whirl.
Turn swiftlier round, O tardy ball!
And sun this frozen side.
Bring hither back the robin's call,
Bring back the tulip's pride.
Why chidest thou the tardy Spring?
The hardy bunting does not chide;
The blackbirds make the maples ring
With social cheer and jubilee;
The redwing flutes his _o-ka-lee_,
The robins know the melting snow;
The sparrow meek, prophetic-eyed,
Her nest beside the snow-drift weaves,
Secure the osier yet will hide
Her callow brood in mantling leaves,--
And thou, by science all undone,
Why only must thy reason fail
To see the southing of the sun?
The world rolls round,--mistrust it not,--
Befalls again what once befell;
All things return, both sphere and mote,
And I shall hear my bluebird's note,
And dream the dream of Auburn dell.
April cold with dropping rain
Willows and lilacs brings again,
The whistle of returning birds,
And trumpet-lowing of the herds.
The scarlet maple-keys betray
What potent blood hath modest May,
What fiery force the earth renews,
The wealth of forms, the flush of hues;
What joy in rosy waves outpoured
Flows from the heart of Love, the Lord.
Hither rolls the storm of heat;
I feel its finer billows beat
Like a sea which me infolds;
Heat with viewless fingers moulds,
Swells, and mellows, and matures,
Paints, and flavors, and allures,
Bird and brier inly warms,
Still enriches and transforms,
Gives the reed and lily length,
Adds to oak and oxen strength,
Transforming what it doth infold,
Life out of death, new out of old,
Painting fawns' and leopards' fells,
Seethes the gulf-encrimsoning shells,
Fires gardens with a joyful blaze
Of tulips, in the morning's rays.
The dead log touched bursts into leaf,
The wheat-blade whispers of the sheaf.
What god is this imperial Heat,
Earth's prime secret, sculpture's seat?
Doth it bear hidden in its heart
Water-line patterns of all art?
Is it Daedalus? is it Love?
Or walks in mask almighty Jove,
And drops from Power's redundant horn
All seeds of beauty to be born?
Where shall we keep the holiday,
And duly greet the entering May?
Too strait and low our cottage doors,
And all unmeet our carpet floors;
Nor spacious court, nor monarch's hall,
Suffice to hold the festival.
Up and away! where haughty woods
Front the liberated floods:
We will climb the broad-backed hills,
Hear the uproar of their joy;
We will mark the leaps and gleams
Of the new-delivered streams,
And the murmuring rivers of sap
Mount in the pipes of the trees,
Giddy with day, to the topmost spire,
Which for a spike of tender green
Bartered its powdery cap;
And the colors of joy in the bird,
And the love in its carol heard,
Frog and lizard in holiday coats,
And turtle brave in his golden spots;
While cheerful cries of crag and plain
Reply to the thunder of river and main.
As poured the flood of the ancient sea
Spilling over mountain chains,
Bending forests as bends the sedge,
Faster flowing o'er the plains,--
A world-wide wave with a foaming edge
That rims the running silver sheet,--
So pours the deluge of the heat
Broad northward o'er the land,
Painting artless paradises,
Drugging herbs with Syrian spices,
Fanning secret fires which glow
In columbine and clover-blow,
Climbing the northern zones,
Where a thousand pallid towns
Lie like cockles by the main,
Or tented armies on a plain.
The million-handed sculptor moulds
Quaintest bud and blossom folds,
The million-handed painter pours
Opal hues and purple dye;
Azaleas flush the island floors,
And the tints of heaven reply.
Wreaths for the May! for happy Spring
To-day shall all her dowry bring,
The love of kind, the joy, the grace,
Hymen of element and race,
Knowing well to celebrate
With song and hue and star and state,
With tender light and youthful cheer,
The spousals of the new-born year.
Spring is strong and virtuous,
Broad-sowing, cheerful, plenteous,
Quickening underneath the mould
Grains beyond the price of gold.
So deep and large her bounties are,
That one broad, long midsummer day
Shall to the planet overpay
The ravage of a year of war.
Drug the cup, thou butler sweet,
And send the nectar round;
The feet that slid so long on sleet
Are glad to feel the ground.
Fill and saturate each kind
With good according to its mind,
Fill each kind and saturate
With good agreeing with its fate,
And soft perfection of its plan--
Willow and violet, maiden and man.
The bitter-sweet, the haunting air
Creepeth, bloweth everywhere;
It preys on all, all prey on it.
Blooms in beauty, thinks in wit,
Stings the strong with enterprise,
Makes travellers long for Indian skies,
And where it comes this courier fleet
Fans in all hearts expectance sweet,
As if to-morrow should redeem
The vanished rose of evening's dream.
By houses lies a fresher green,
On men and maids a ruddier mien,
As if Time brought a new relay
Of shining virgins every May,
And Summer came to ripen maids
To a beauty that not fades.
I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,
Stepping daily onward north
To greet staid ancient cavaliers
Filing single in stately train.
And who, and who are the travellers?
They were Night and Day, and Day and Night,
Pilgrims wight with step forthright.
I saw the Days deformed and low,
Short and bent by cold and snow;
The merry Spring threw wreaths on them,
Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell;
Many a flower and many a gem,
They were refreshed by the smell,
They shook the snow from hats and shoon,
They put their April raiment on;
And those eternal forms,
Unhurt by a thousand storms,
Shot up to the height of the sky again,
And danced as merrily as young men.
I saw them mask their awful glance
Sidewise meek in gossamer lids;
And to speak my thought if none forbids
It was as if the eternal gods,
Tired of their starry periods,
Hid their majesty in cloth
Woven of tulips and painted moth.
On carpets green the maskers march
Below May's well-appointed arch,
Each star, each god; each grace amain,
Every joy and virtue speed,
Marching duly in her train,
And fainting Nature at her need
Is made whole again.
'Twas the vintage-day of field and wood,
When magic wine for bards is brewed;
Every tree and stem and chink
Gushed with syrup to the brink.
The air stole into the streets of towns,
Refreshed the wise, reformed the clowns,
And betrayed the fund of joy
To the high-school and medalled boy:
On from hall to chamber ran,
From youth to maid, from boy to man,
To babes, and to old eyes as well.
'Once more,' the old man cried, 'ye clouds,
Airy turrets purple-piled,
Which once my infancy beguiled,
Beguile me with the wonted spell.
I know ye skilful to convoy
The total freight of hope and joy
Into rude and homely nooks,
Shed mocking lustres on shelf of books,
On farmer's byre, on pasture rude,
And stony pathway to the wood.
I care not if the pomps you show
Be what they soothfast appear,
Or if yon realms in sunset glow
Be bubbles of the atmosphere.
And if it be to you allowed
To fool me with a shining cloud,
So only new griefs are consoled
By new delights, as old by old,
Frankly I will be your guest,
Count your change and cheer the best.
The world hath overmuch of pain,--
If Nature give me joy again,
Of such deceit I'll not complain.'
Ah! well I mind the calendar,
Faithful through a thousand years,
Of the painted race of flowers,
Exact to days, exact to hours,
Counted on the spacious dial
Yon broidered zodiac girds.
I know the trusty almanac
Of the punctual coming-back,
On their due days, of the birds.
I marked them yestermorn,
A flock of finches darting
Beneath the crystal arch,
Piping, as they flew, a march,--
Belike the one they used in parting
Last year from yon oak or larch;
Dusky sparrows in a crowd,
Diving, darting northward free,
Suddenly betook them all,
Every one to his hole in the wall,
Or to his niche in the apple-tree.
I greet with joy the choral trains
Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.
Best gems of Nature's cabinet,
With dews of tropic morning wet,
Beloved of children, bards and Spring,
O birds, your perfect virtues bring,
Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,
Your manners for the heart's delight,
Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,
Here weave your chamber weather-proof,
Forgive our harms, and condescend
To man, as to a lubber friend,
And, generous, teach his awkward race
Courage and probity and grace!
Poets praise that hidden wine
Hid in milk we drew
At the barrier of Time,
When our life was new.
We had eaten fairy fruit,
We were quick from head to foot,
All the forms we looked on shone
As with diamond dews thereon.
What cared we for costly joys,
The Museum's far-fetched toys?
Gleam of sunshine on the wall
Poured a deeper cheer than all
The revels of the Carnival.
We a pine-grove did prefer
To a marble theatre,
Could with gods on mallows dine,
Nor cared for spices or for wine.
Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned.
Arch on arch, the grimmest land;
Whittle of a woodland bird
Made the pulses dance,
Note of horn in valleys heard
Filled the region with romance.
None can tell how sweet,
How virtuous, the morning air;
Every accent vibrates well;
Not alone the wood-bird's call,
Or shouting boys that chase their ball,
Pass the height of minstrel skill,
But the ploughman's thoughtless cry,
Lowing oxen, sheep that bleat,
And the joiner's hammer-beat,
Softened are above their will,
Take tones from groves they wandered through
Or flutes which passing angels blew.
All grating discords melt,
No dissonant note is dealt,
And though thy voice be shrill
Like rasping file on steel,
Such is the temper of the air,
Echo waits with art and care,
And will the faults of song repair.
So by remote Superior Lake,
And by resounding Mackinac,
When northern storms the forest shake,
And billows on the long beach break,
The artful Air will separate
Note by note all sounds that grate,
Smothering in her ample breast
All but godlike words,
Reporting to the happy ear
Only purified accords.
Strangely wrought from barking waves,
Soft music daunts the Indian braves,--
Convent-chanting which the child
Hears pealing from the panther's cave
And the impenetrable wild.
Soft on the South-wind sleeps the haze:
So on thy broad mystic van
Lie the opal-colored days,
And waft the miracle to man.
Soothsayer of the eldest gods,
Repairer of what harms betide,
Revealer of the inmost powers
Prometheus proffered, Jove denied;
Disclosing treasures more than true,
Or in what far to-morrow due;
Speaking by the tongues of flowers,
By the ten-tongued laurel speaking,
Singing by the oriole songs,
Heart of bird the man's heart seeking;
Whispering hints of treasure hid
Under Morn's unlifted lid,
Islands looming just beyond
The dim horizon's utmost bound;--
Who can, like thee, our rags upbraid,
Or taunt us with our hope decayed?
Or who like thee persuade,
Making the splendor of the air,
The morn and sparkling dew, a snare?
Or who resent
Thy genius, wiles and blandishment?
There is no orator prevails
To beckon or persuade
Like thee the youth or maid:
Thy birds, thy songs, thy brooks, thy gales,
Thy blooms, thy kinds,
Thy echoes in the wilderness,
Soothe pain, and age, and love's distress,
Fire fainting will, and build heroic minds.
For thou, O Spring! canst renovate
All that high God did first create.
Be still his arm and architect,
Rebuild the ruin, mend defect;
Chemist to vamp old worlds with new,
Coat sea and sky with heavenlier blue,
New tint the plumage of the birds,
And slough decay from grazing herds,
Sweep ruins from the scarped mountain,
Cleanse the torrent at the fountain,
Purge alpine air by towns defiled,
Bring to fair mother fairer child,
Not less renew the heart and brain,
Scatter the sloth, wash out the stain,
Make the aged eye sun-clear,
To parting soul bring grandeur near.
Under gentle types, my Spring
Masks the might of Nature's king,
An energy that searches thorough
From Chaos to the dawning morrow;
Into all our human plight,
The soul's pilgrimage and flight;
In city or in solitude,
Step by step, lifts bad to good,
Without halting, without rest,
Lifting Better up to Best;
Planting seeds of knowledge pure,
Through earth to ripen, through heaven endure.
THE ADIRONDACS
A JOURNAL
DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW TRAVELLERS IN AUGUST, 1858
Wise and polite,--and if I drew
Their several portraits, you would own
Chaucer had no such worthy crew,
Nor Boccace in Decameron.
We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends,
Thence, in strong country carts, rode up the forks
Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach
The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach
We chose our boats; each man a boat and guide,--
Ten men, ten guides, our company all told.
Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac,
With skies of benediction, to Round Lake,
Where all the sacred mountains drew around us,
Tah醱us, Seaward, MacIntyre, Baldhead,
And other Titans without muse or name.
Pleased with these grand companions, we glide on,
Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of hills.
We made our distance wider, boat from boat,
As each would hear the oracle alone.
By the bright morn the gay flotilla slid
Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets,
Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel-flower,
Through scented banks of lilies white and gold,
Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day,
On through the Upper Saranac, and up
P鑢e Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass
Winding through grassy shallows in and out,
Two creeping miles of rushes, pads and sponge,
To Follansbee Water and the Lake of Loons.
Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed,
Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge
Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore.
A pause and council: then, where near the head
Due east a bay makes inward to the land
Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank,
And in the twilight of the forest noon
Wield the first axe these echoes ever heard.
We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts,
Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof,
Then struck a light and kindled the camp-fire.
The wood was sovran with centennial trees,--
Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir,
Linden and spruce. In strict society
Three conifers, white, pitch and Norway pine,
Five-leaved, three-leaved and two-leaved, grew thereby,
Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth,
The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower.
'Welcome!' the wood-god murmured through the leaves,--
'Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known to me.'
Evening drew on; stars peeped through maple-boughs,
Which o'erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire.
Decayed millennial trunks, like moonlight flecks,
Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor.
Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft
In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed,
Lie here on hemlock-boughs, like Sacs and Sioux,
And greet unanimous the joyful change.
So fast will Nature acclimate her sons,
Though late returning to her pristine ways.
Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold;
And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned,
Sleep on the fragrant brush, as on down-beds.
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air
That circled freshly in their forest dress
Made them to boys again. Happier that they
Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind,
At the first mounting of the giant stairs.
No placard on these rocks warned to the polls,
No door-bell heralded a visitor,
No courier waits, no letter came or went,
Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or sold;
The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop,
The falling rain will spoil no holiday.
We were made freemen of the forest laws,
All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends,
Essaying nothing she cannot perform.
In Adirondac lakes
At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded:
Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make
His brief toilette: at night, or in the rain,
He dons a surcoat which he doffs at morn:
A paddle in the right hand, or an oar,
And in the left, a gun, his needful arms.
By turns we praised the stature of our guides,
Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill
To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp,
To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs
Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down:
Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount,
And wit to trap or take him in his lair.
Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent,
In winter, lumberers; in summer, guides;
Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired
Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to eve.
Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen!
No city airs or arts pass current here.
Your rank is all reversed; let men or cloth
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls:
_They_ are the doctors of the wilderness,
And we the low-prized laymen.
In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test
Which few can put on with impunity.
What make you, master, fumbling at the oar?
Will you catch crabs? Truth tries pretension here.
The sallow knows the basket-maker's thumb;
The oar, the guide's. Dare you accept the tasks
He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes,
Tell the sun's time, determine the true north,
Or stumbling on through vast self-similar woods
To thread by night the nearest way to camp?
Ask you, how went the hours?
All day we swept the lake, searched every cove,
North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay,
Watching when the loud dogs should drive in deer,
Or whipping its rough surface for a trout;
Or, bathers, diving from the rock at noon;
Challenging Echo by our guns and cries;
Or listening to the laughter of the loon;
Or, in the evening twilight's latest red,
Beholding the procession of the pines;
Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack,
In the boat's bows, a silent night-hunter
Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds
Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist.
Hark to that muffled roar! a tree in the woods
Is fallen: but hush! it has not scared the buck
Who stands astonished at the meteor light,
Then turns to bound away,--is it too late?
Our heroes tried their rifles at a mark,
Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five;
Sometimes their wits at sally and retort,
With laughter sudden as the crack of rifle;
Or parties scaled the near acclivities
Competing seekers of a rumored lake,
Whose unauthenticated waves we named
Lake Probability,--our carbuncle,
Long sought, not found.
Two Doctors in the camp
Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout's brain,
Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew,
Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow and moth;
Insatiate skill in water or in air
Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss;
The while, one leaden got of alcohol
Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds.
Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants,
Orchis and gentian, fern and long whip-scirpus,
Rosy polygonum, lake-margin's pride,
Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge and moss,
Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls.
Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed,
The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker
Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp.
As water poured through hollows of the hills
To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets,
So Nature shed all beauty lavishly
From her redundant horn.
Lords of this realm,
Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day
Rounded by hours where each outdid the last
In miracles of pomp, we must be proud,
As if associates of the sylvan gods.
We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac,
So pure the Alpine element we breathed,
So light, so lofty pictures came and went.
We trode on air, contemned the distant town,
Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned
That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge
And how we should come hither with our sons,
Hereafter,--willing they, and more adroit.
Hard fare, hard bed and comic misery,--
The midge, the blue-fly and the mosquito
Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands:
But, on the second day, we heed them not,
Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries,
Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names.
For who defends our leafy tabernacle
From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd,--
Who but the midge, mosquito and the fly,
Which past endurance sting the tender cit,
But which we learn to scatter with a smudge,
Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn?
Our foaming ale we drank from hunters' pans,
Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave
Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread;
All ate like abbots, and, if any missed
Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss
With hunters' appetite and peals of mirth.
And Stillman, our guides' guide, and Commodore,
Crusoe, Crusader, Pius Aeneas, said aloud,
"Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating
Food indigestible":--then murmured some,
Others applauded him who spoke the truth.
Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought
Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday
'Mid all the hints and glories of the home.
For who can tell what sudden privacies
Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry
Of scholars furloughed from their tasks and let
Into this Oreads' fended Paradise,
As chapels in the city's thoroughfares,
Whither gaunt Labor slips to wipe his brow
And meditate a moment on Heaven's rest.
Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke
To each apart, lifting her lovely shows
To spiritual lessons pointed home,
And as through dreams in watches of the night,
So through all creatures in their form and ways
Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant,
Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense
Inviting to new knowledge, one with old.
Hark to that petulant chirp! what ails the warbler?
Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye.
Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird,
Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light,
Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky?
And presently the sky is changed; O world!
What pictures and what harmonies are thine!
The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene,
So like the soul of me, what if 't were me?
A melancholy better than all mirth.
Comes the sweet sadness at the retrospect,
Or at the foresight of obscurer years?
Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory
Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty
Superior to all its gaudy skirts.
And, that no day of life may lack romance,
The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down
A private beam into each several heart.
Daily the bending skies solicit man,
The seasons chariot him from this exile,
The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair,
The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along,
Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights
Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home.
With a vermilion pencil mark the day
When of our little fleet three cruising skiffs
Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls
Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront
Two of our mates returning with swift oars.
One held a printed journal waving high
Caught from a late-arriving traveller,
Big with great news, and shouted the report
For which the world had waited, now firm fact,
Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea,
And landed on our coast, and pulsating
With ductile fire. Loud, exulting cries
From boat to boat, and to the echoes round,
Greet the glad miracle. Thought's new-found path
Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways,
Match God's equator with a zone of art,
And lift man's public action to a height
Worthy the enormous cloud of witnesses,
When link鑔 hemispheres attest his deed.
We have few moments in the longest life
Of such delight and wonder as there grew,--
Nor yet unsuited to that solitude:
A burst of joy, as if we told the fact
To ears intelligent; as if gray rock
And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know
This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind;
As if we men were talking in a vein
Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs,
And a prime end of the most subtle element
Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing caves!
Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops,
Let them hear well! 'tis theirs as much as ours.
A spasm throbbing through the pedestals
Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent,
Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill
To be a brain, or serve the brain of man.
The lightning has run masterless too long;
He must to school and learn his verb and noun
And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage,
Spelling with guided tongue man's messages
Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea.
And yet I marked, even in the manly joy
Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat
(Perchance I erred), a shade of discontent;
Or was it for mankind a generous shame,
As of a luck not quite legitimate,
Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part?
Was it a college pique of town and gown,
As one within whose memory it burned
That not academicians, but some lout,
Found ten years since the Californian gold?
And now, again, a hungry company
Of traders, led by corporate sons of trade,
Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools
Of science, not from the philosophers,
Had won the brightest laurel of all time.
'Twas always thus, and will be; hand and head
Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift,
The other slow,--this the Prometheus,
And that the Jove,--yet, howsoever hid,
It was from Jove the other stole his fire,
And, without Jove, the good had never been.
It is not Iroquois or cannibals,
But ever the free race with front sublime,
And these instructed by their wisest too,
Who do the feat, and lift humanity.
Let not him mourn who best entitled was,
Nay, mourn not one: let him exult,
Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant,
And water it with wine, nor watch askance
Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit:
Enough that mankind eat and are refreshed.
We flee away from cities, but we bring
The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers,
Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of experts.
We praise the guide, we praise the forest life:
But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore
Of books and arts and trained experiment,
Or count the Sioux a match for Agassiz?
O no, not we! Witness the shout that shook
Wild Tupper Lake; witness the mute all-hail
The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge
Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears
From a log cabin stream Beethoven's notes
On the piano, played with master's hand.
'Well done!' he cries; 'the bear is kept at bay,
The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire;
All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold,
This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall,
This wild plantation will suffice to chase.
Now speed the gay celerities of art,
What in the desert was impossible
Within four walls is possible again,--
Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill,
Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife
Of keen competing youths, joined or alone
To outdo each other and extort applause.
Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep.
Twirl the old wheels! Time takes fresh start again,
On for a thousand years of genius more.'
The holidays were fruitful, but must end;
One August evening had a cooler breath;
Into each mind intruding duties crept;
Under the cinders burned the fires of home;
Nay, letters found us in our paradise:
So in the gladness of the new event
We struck our camp and left the happy hills.
The fortunate star that rose on us sank not;
The prodigal sunshine rested on the land,
The rivers gambolled onward to the sea,
And Nature, the inscrutable and mute,
Permitted on her infinite repose
Almost a smile to steal to cheer her sons,
As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed.
BRAHMA
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
NEMESIS
Already blushes on thy cheek
The bosom thought which thou must speak;
The bird, how far it haply roam
By cloud or isle, is flying home;
The maiden fears, and fearing runs
Into the charmed snare she shuns;
And every man, in love or pride,
Of his fate is never wide.
Will a woman's fan the ocean smooth?
Or prayers the stony Parcae soothe,
Or coax the thunder from its mark?
Or tapers light the chaos dark?
In spite of Virtue and the Muse,
Nemesis will have her dues,
And all our struggles and our toils
Tighter wind the giant coils.
FATE
Deep in the man sits fast his fate
To mould his fortunes, mean or great:
Unknown to Cromwell as to me
Was Cromwell's measure or degree;
Unknown to him as to his horse,
If he than his groom be better or worse.
He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs,
With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares,
Till late he learned, through doubt and fear,
Broad England harbored not his peer:
Obeying time, the last to own
The Genius from its cloudy throne.
For the prevision is allied
Unto the thing so signified;
Or say, the foresight that awaits
Is the same Genius that creates.
FREEDOM
Once I wished I might rehearse
Freedom's paean in my verse,
That the slave who caught the strain
Should throb until he snapped his chain,
But the Spirit said, 'Not so;
Speak it not, or speak it low;
Name not lightly to be said,
Gift too precious to be prayed,
Passion not to be expressed
But by heaving of the breast:
Yet,--wouldst thou the mountain find
Where this deity is shrined,
Who gives to seas and sunset skies
Their unspent beauty of surprise,
And, when it lists him, waken can
Brute or savage into man;
Or, if in thy heart he shine,
Blends the starry fates with thine,
Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee,
And makes thy thoughts archangels be;
Freedom's secret wilt thou know?--
Counsel not with flesh and blood;
Loiter not for cloak or food;
Right thou feelest, rush to do.'
ODE
SUNG IN THE TOWN HALL, CONCORD, JULY 4, 1857
O tenderly the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;
One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.
The cannon booms from town to town,
Our pulses beat not less,
The joy-bells chime their tidings down,
Which children's voices bless.
For He that flung the broad blue fold
O'er-mantling land and sea,
One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.
The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,--
To take the statute from the mind
And make of duty fate.
United States! the ages plead,--
Present and Past in under-song,--
Go put your creed into your deed,
Nor speak with double tongue.
For sea and land don't understand,
Nor skies without a frown
See rights for which the one hand fights
By the other cloven down.
Be just at home; then write your scroll
Of honor o'er the sea,
And bid the broad Atlantic roll,
A ferry of the free.
And henceforth there shall be no chain,
Save underneath the sea
The wires shall murmur through the main
Sweet songs of liberty.
The conscious stars accord above,
The waters wild below,
And under, through the cable wove,
Her fiery errands go.
For He that worketh high and wise.
Nor pauses in his plan,
Will take the sun out of the skies
Ere freedom out of man.
BOSTON HYMN
READ IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863
The word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,
As they sat by the seaside,
And filled their hearts with flame.
God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more;
Up to my ear the morning brings
The outrage of the poor.
Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?
My angel,--his name is Freedom,--
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west
And fend you with his wing.
Lo! I uncover the land
Which I hid of old time in the West,
As the sculptor uncovers the statue
When he has wrought his best;
I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds and the boreal fleece.
I will divide my goods;
Call in the wretch and slave:
None shall rule but the humble.
And none but Toil shall have.
I will have never a noble,
No lineage counted great;
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen
Shall constitute a state.
Go, cut down trees in the forest
And trim the straightest boughs;
Cut down trees in the forest
And build me a wooden house.
Call the people together,
The young men and the sires,
The digger in the harvest-field,
Hireling and him that hires;
And here in a pine state-house
They shall choose men to rule
In every needful faculty,
In church and state and school.
Lo, now! if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.
And ye shall succor men;
'Tis nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again:
Beware from right to swerve.
I break your bonds and masterships,
And I unchain the slave:
Free be his heart and hand henceforth
As wind and wandering wave.
I cause from every creature
His proper good to flow:
As much as he is and doeth,
So much he shall bestow.
But, laying hands on another
To coin his labor and sweat,
He goes in pawn to his victim
For eternal years in debt.
To-day unbind the captive,
So only are ye unbound;
Lift up a people from the dust,
Trump of their rescue, sound!
Pay ransom to the owner
And fill the bag to the brim.
Who is the owner? The slave is owner,
And ever was. Pay him.
O North! give him beauty for rags,
And honor, O South! for his shame;
Nevada! coin thy golden crags
With Freedom's image and name.
Up! and the dusky race
That sat in darkness long,--
Be swift their feet as antelopes.
And as behemoth strong.
Come, East and West and North,
By races, as snow-flakes,
And carry my purpose forth,
Which neither halts nor shakes.
My will fulfilled shall be,
For, in daylight or in dark,
My thunderbolt has eyes to see
His way home to the mark.
VOLUNTARIES
I
Low and mournful be the strain,
Haughty thought be far from me;
Tones of penitence and pain,
Meanings of the tropic sea;
Low and tender in the cell
Where a captive sits in chains.
Crooning ditties treasured well
From his Afric's torrid plains.
Sole estate his sire bequeathed,--
Hapless sire to hapless son,--
Was the wailing song he breathed,
And his chain when life was done.
What his fault, or what his crime?
Or what ill planet crossed his prime?
Heart too soft and will too weak
To front the fate that crouches near,--
Dove beneath the vulture's beak;--
Will song dissuade the thirsty spear?
Dragged from his mother's arms and breast,
Displaced, disfurnished here,
His wistful toil to do his best
Chilled by a ribald jeer.
Great men in the Senate sate,
Sage and hero, side by side,
Building for their sons the State,
Which they shall rule with pride.
They forbore to break the chain
Which bound the dusky tribe,
Checked by the owners' fierce disdain,
Lured by 'Union' as the bribe.
Destiny sat by, and said,
'Pang for pang your seed shall pay,
Hide in false peace your coward head,
I bring round the harvest day.'
II
Freedom all winged expands,
Nor perches in a narrow place;
Her broad van seeks unplanted lands;
She loves a poor and virtuous race.
Clinging to a colder zone
Whose dark sky sheds the snowflake down,
The snowflake is her banner's star,
Her stripes the boreal streamers are.
Long she loved the Northman well;
Now the iron age is done,
She will not refuse to dwell
With the offspring of the Sun;
Foundling of the desert far,
Where palms plume, siroccos blaze,
He roves unhurt the burning ways
In climates of the summer star.
He has avenues to God
Hid from men of Northern brain,
Far beholding, without cloud,
What these with slowest steps attain.
If once the generous chief arrive
To lead him willing to be led,
For freedom he will strike and strive,
And drain his heart till he be dead.
III
In an age of fops and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys
To hazard all in Freedom's fight,--
Break sharply off their jolly games,
Forsake their comrades gay
And quit proud homes and youthful dames
For famine, toil and fray?
Yet on the nimble air benign
Speed nimbler messages,
That waft the breath of grace divine
To hearts in sloth and ease.
So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, _Thou must_,
The youth replies, _I can_.
IV
O, well for the fortunate soul
Which Music's wings infold,
Stealing away the memory
Of sorrows new and old!
Yet happier he whose inward sight,
Stayed on his subtile thought,
Shuts his sense on toys of time,
To vacant bosoms brought.
But best befriended of the God
He who, in evil times,
Warned by an inward voice,
Heeds not the darkness and the dread,
Biding by his rule and choice,
Feeling only the fiery thread
Leading over heroic ground,
Walled with mortal terror round,
To the aim which him allures,
And the sweet heaven his deed secures.
Peril around, all else appalling,
Cannon in front and leaden rain
Him duty through the clarion calling
To the van called not in vain.
Stainless soldier on the walls,
Knowing this,--and knows no more,--
Whoever fights, whoever falls,
Justice conquers evermore,
Justice after as before,--
And he who battles on her side,
God, though he were ten times slain,
Crowns him victor glorified,
Victor over death and pain.
V
Blooms the laurel which belongs
To the valiant chief who fights;
I see the wreath, I hear the songs
Lauding the Eternal Rights,
Victors over daily wrongs:
Awful victors, they misguide
Whom they will destroy,
And their coming triumph hide
In our downfall, or our joy:
They reach no term, they never sleep,
In equal strength through space abide;
Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep,
The strong they slay, the swift outstride:
Fate's grass grows rank in valley clods,
And rankly on the castled steep,--
Speak it firmly, these are gods,
All are ghosts beside.
LOVE AND THOUGHT
Two well-assorted travellers use
The highway, Eros and the Muse.
From the twins is nothing hidden,
To the pair is nought forbidden;
Hand in hand the comrades go
Every nook of Nature through:
Each for other they were born,
Each can other best adorn;
They know one only mortal grief
Past all balsam or relief;
When, by false companions crossed,
The pilgrims have each other lost.
UNA
Roving, roving, as it seems,
Una lights my clouded dreams;
Still for journeys she is dressed;
We wander far by east and west.
In the homestead, homely thought,
At my work I ramble not;
If from home chance draw me wide,
Half-seen Una sits beside.
In my house and garden-plot,
Though beloved, I miss her not;
But one I seek in foreign places,
One face explore in foreign faces.
At home a deeper thought may light
The inward sky with chrysolite,
And I greet from far the ray,
Aurora of a dearer day.
But if upon the seas I sail,
Or trundle on the glowing rail,
I am but a thought of hers,
Loveliest of travellers.
So the gentle poet's name
To foreign parts is blown by fame,
Seek him in his native town,
He is hidden and unknown.
BOSTON
SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS
The rocky nook with hilltops three
Looked eastward from the farms,
And twice each day the flowing sea
Took Boston in its arms;
The men of yore were stout and poor,
And sailed for bread to every shore.
And where they went on trade intent
They did what freemen can,
Their dauntless ways did all men praise,
The merchant was a man.
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
The waves that rocked them on the deep
To them their secret told;
Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep,
'Like us be free and bold!'
The honest waves refused to slaves
The empire of the ocean caves.
Old Europe groans with palaces,
Has lords enough and more;--
We plant and build by foaming seas
A city of the poor;--
For day by day could Boston Bay
Their honest labor overpay.
We grant no dukedoms to the few,
We hold like rights, and shall;--
Equal on Sunday in the pew,
On Monday in the mall,
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The noble craftsman we promote,
Disown the knave and fool;
Each honest man shall have his vote,
Each child shall have his school.
A union then of honest men,
Or union never more again.
The wild rose and the barberry thorn
Hung out their summer pride,
Where now on heated pavements worn
The feet of millions stride.
Fair rose the planted hills behind
The good town on the bay,
And where the western hills declined
The prairie stretched away.
What care though rival cities soar
Along the stormy coast,
Penn's town, New York and Baltimore,
If Boston knew the most!
They laughed to know the world so wide;
The mountains said, 'Good-day!
We greet you well, you Saxon men,
Up with your towns and stay!'
The world was made for honest trade,--
To plant and eat be none afraid.
'For you,' they said, 'no barriers be,
For you no sluggard rest;
Each street leads downward to the sea,
Or landward to the west.'
O happy town beside the sea,
Whose roads lead everywhere to all;
Than thine no deeper moat can be,
No stouter fence, no steeper wall!
Bad news from George on the English throne;
'You are thriving well,' said he;
'Now by these presents be it known
You shall pay us a tax on tea;
'Tis very small,--no load at all,--
Honor enough that we send the call.
'Not so,' said Boston, 'good my lord,
We pay your governors here
Abundant for their bed and board,
Six thousand pounds a year.
(Your Highness knows our homely word)
Millions for self-government,
But for tribute never a cent.'
The cargo came! and who could blame
If _Indians_ seized the tea,
And, chest by chest, let down the same,
Into the laughing sea?
For what avail the plough or sail,
Or land or life, if freedom fail?
The townsmen braved the English king,
Found friendship in the French,
And honor joined the patriot ring
Low on their wooden bench.
O bounteous seas that never fail!
O day remembered yet!
O happy port that spied the sail
Which wafted Lafayette!
Pole-star of light in Europe's night,
That never faltered from the right.
Kings shook with fear, old empires crave
The secret force to find
Which fired the little State to save
The rights of all mankind.
But right is might through all the world;
Province to province faithful clung,
Through good and ill the war-bolt hurled,
Till Freedom cheered and joy-bells rung.
The sea returning day by day
Restores the world-wide mart;
So let each dweller on the Bay
Fold Boston in his heart,
Till these echoes be choked with snows,
Or over the town blue ocean flows.
Let the blood of her hundred thousands
Throb in each manly vein;
And the wits of all her wisest,
Make sunshine in her brain.
For you can teach the lightning speech,
And round the globe your voices reach.
And each shall care for other,
And each to each shall bend,
To the poor a noble brother,
To the good an equal friend.
A blessing through the ages thus
Shield all thy roofs and towers!
GOD WITH THE FATHERS, SO WITH US,
Thou darling town of ours!
LETTERS
Every day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear.
Looking seaward, well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.
RUBIES
They brought me rubies from the mine,
And held them to the sun;
I said, they are drops of frozen wine
From Eden's vats that run.
I looked again,--I thought them hearts
Of friends to friends unknown;
Tides that should warm each neighboring life
Are locked in sparkling stone.
But fire to thaw that ruddy snow,
To break enchanted ice,
And give love's scarlet tides to flow,--
When shall that sun arise?
MERLIN'S SONG
I
Of Merlin wise I learned a song,--
Sing it low or sing it loud,
It is mightier than the strong,
And punishes the proud.
I sing it to the surging crowd,--
Good men it will calm and cheer,
Bad men it will chain and cage--
In the heart of the music peals a strain
Which only angels hear;
Whether it waken joy or rage
Hushed myriads hark in vain,
Yet they who hear it shed their age,
And take their youth again.
II
Hear what British Merlin sung,
Of keenest eye and truest tongue.
Say not, the chiefs who first arrive
Usurp the seats for which all strive;
The forefathers this land who found
Failed to plant the vantage-ground;
Ever from one who comes to-morrow
Men wait their good and truth to borrow.
But wilt thou measure all thy road,
See thou lift the lightest load.
Who has little, to him who has less, can spare,
And thou, Cyndyllan's son! beware
Ponderous gold and stuffs to bear,
To falter ere thou thy task fulfil,--
Only the light-armed climb the hill.
The richest of all lords is Use,
And ruddy Health the loftiest Muse.
Live in the sunshine, swim the sea,
Drink the wild air's salubrity:
When the star Canope shines in May,
Shepherds are thankful and nations gay.
The music that can deepest reach,
And cure all ill, is cordial speech:
Mask thy wisdom with delight,
Toy with the bow, yet hit the white.
Of all wit's uses, the main one
Is to live well with who has none.
THE TEST
(Musa loquitur.)
I hung my verses in the wind,
Time and tide their faults may find.
All were winnowed through and through,
Five lines lasted sound and true;
Five were smelted in a pot
Than the South more fierce and hot;
These the siroc could not melt,
Fire their fiercer flaming felt,
And the meaning was more white
Than July's meridian light.
Sunshine cannot bleach the snow,
Nor time unmake what poets know.
Have you eyes to find the five
Which five hundred did survive?
SOLUTION
I am the Muse who sung alway
By Jove, at dawn of the first day.
Star-crowned, sole-sitting, long I wrought
To fire the stagnant earth with thought:
On spawning slime my song prevails,
Wolves shed their fangs, and dragons scales;
Flushed in the sky the sweet May-morn,
Earth smiled with flowers, and man was born.
Then Asia yeaned her shepherd race,
And Nile substructs her granite base,--
Tented Tartary, columned Nile,--
And, under vines, on rocky isle,
Or on wind-blown sea-marge bleak,
Forward stepped the perfect Greek:
That wit and joy might find a tongue,
And earth grow civil, HOMER sung.
Flown to Italy from Greece,
I brooded long and held my peace,
For I am wont to sing uncalled,
And in days of evil plight
Unlock doors of new delight;
And sometimes mankind I appalled
With a bitter horoscope,
With spasms of terror for balm of hope.
Then by better thought I lead
Bards to speak what nations need;
So I folded me in fears,
And DANTE searched the triple spheres,
Moulding Nature at his will,
So shaped, so colored, swift or still,
And, sculptor-like, his large design
Etched on Alp and Apennine.
Seethed in mists of Penmanmaur,
Taught by Plinlimmon's Druid power,
England's genius filled all measure
Of heart and soul, of strength and pleasure,
Gave to the mind its emperor,
And life was larger than before:
Nor sequent centuries could hit
Orbit and sum of SHAKSPEARE'S wit.
The men who lived with him became
Poets, for the air was fame.
Far in the North, where polar night
Holds in check the frolic light,
In trance upborne past mortal goal
The Swede EMANUEL leads the soul.
Through snows above, mines underground,
The inks of Erebus he found;
Rehearsed to men the damned wails
On which the seraph music sails.
In spirit-worlds he trod alone,
But walked the earth unmarked, unknown,
The near bystander caught no sound,--
Yet they who listened far aloof
Heard rendings of the skyey roof,
And felt, beneath, the quaking ground;
And his air-sown, unheeded words,
In the next age, are flaming swords.
In newer days of war and trade,
Romance forgot, and faith decayed,
When Science armed and guided war,
And clerks the Janus-gates unbar,
When France, where poet never grew,
Halved and dealt the globe anew,
GOETHE, raised o'er joy and strife,
Drew the firm lines of Fate and Life
And brought Olympian wisdom down
To court and mart, to gown and town.
Stooping, his finger wrote in clay
The open secret of to-day.
So bloom the unfading petals five,
And verses that all verse outlive.
HYMN
SUNG AT THE SECOND CHURCH, AT THE ORDINATION
OF REV. CHANDLER ROBBINS
We love the venerable house
Our fathers built to God;--
In heaven are kept their grateful vows,
Their dust endears the sod.
Here holy thoughts a light have shed
From many a radiant face,
And prayers of humble virtue made
The perfume of the place.
And anxious hearts have pondered here
The mystery of life,
And prayed the eternal Light to clear
Their doubts, and aid their strife.
From humble tenements around
Came up the pensive train,
And in the church a blessing found
That filled their homes again;
For faith and peace and mighty love
That from the Godhead flow,
Showed them the life of Heaven above
Springs from the life below.
They live with God; their homes are dust;
Yet here their children pray,
And in this fleeting lifetime trust
To find the narrow way.
On him who by the altar stands,
On him thy blessing fall,
Speak through his lips thy pure commands,
Thou heart that lovest all.
NATURE I
Winters know
Easily to shed the snow,
And the untaught Spring is wise
In cowslips and anemonies.
Nature, hating art and pains,
Baulks and baffles plotting brains;
Casualty and Surprise
Are the apples of her eyes;
But she dearly loves the poor,
And, by marvel of her own,
Strikes the loud pretender down.
For Nature listens in the rose
And hearkens in the berry's bell
To help her friends, to plague her foes,
And like wise God she judges well.
Yet doth much her love excel
To the souls that never fell,
To swains that live in happiness
And do well because they please,
Who walk in ways that are unfamed,
And feats achieve before they're named.
NATURE II
She is gamesome and good,
But of mutable mood,--
No dreary repeater now and again,
She will be all things to all men.
She who is old, but nowise feeble,
Pours her power into the people,
Merry and manifold without bar,
Makes and moulds them what they are,
And what they call their city way
Is not their way, but hers,
And what they say they made to-day,
They learned of the oaks and firs.
She spawneth men as mallows fresh,
Hero and maiden, flesh of her flesh;
She drugs her water and her wheat
With the flavors she finds meet,
And gives them what to drink and eat;
And having thus their bread and growth,
They do her bidding, nothing loath.
What's most theirs is not their own,
But borrowed in atoms from iron and stone,
And in their vaunted works of Art
The master-stroke is still her part.
THE ROMANY GIRL
The sun goes down, and with him takes
The coarseness of my poor attire;
The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame
Of Gypsy beauty blazes higher.
Pale Northern girls! you scorn our race;
You captives of your air-tight halls,
Wear out indoors your sickly days,
But leave us the horizon walls.
And if I take you, dames, to task,
And say it frankly without guile,
Then you are Gypsies in a mask,
And I the lady all the while.
If on the heath, below the moon,
I court and play with paler blood,
Me false to mine dare whisper none,--
One sallow horseman knows me good.
Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain,
For teeth and hair with shopmen deal;
My swarthy tint is in the grain,
The rocks and forest know it real.
The wild air bloweth in our lungs,
The keen stars twinkle in our eyes,
The birds gave us our wily tongues,
The panther in our dances flies.
You doubt we read the stars on high,
Nathless we read your fortunes true;
The stars may hide in the upper sky,
But without glass we fathom you.
DAYS
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
MY GARDEN
If I could put my woods in song
And tell what's there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.
In my plot no tulips blow,--
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
And rank the savage maples grow
From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red.
My garden is a forest ledge
Which older forests bound;
The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
Then plunge to depths profound.
Here once the Deluge ploughed,
Laid the terraces, one by one;
Ebbing later whence it flowed,
They bleach and dry in the sun.
The sowers made haste to depart,--
The wind and the birds which sowed it;
Not for fame, nor by rules of art,
Planted these, and tempests flowed it.
Waters that wash my garden-side
Play not in Nature's lawful web,
They heed not moon or solar tide,--
Five years elapse from flood to ebb.
Hither hasted, in old time, Jove,
And every god,--none did refuse;
And be sure at last came Love,
And after Love, the Muse.
Keen ears can catch a syllable,
As if one spake to another,
In the hemlocks tall, untamable,
And what the whispering grasses smother.
Aeolian harps in the pine
Ring with the song of the Fates;
Infant Bacchus in the vine,--
Far distant yet his chorus waits.
Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,
Write in a book the morning's prime,
Or match with words that tender sky?
Wonderful verse of the gods,
Of one import, of varied tone;
They chant the bliss of their abodes
To man imprisoned in his own.
Ever the words of the gods resound;
But the porches of man's ear
Seldom in this low life's round
Are unsealed that he may hear.
Wandering voices in the air
And murmurs in the wold
Speak what I cannot declare,
Yet cannot all withhold.
When the shadow fell on the lake,
The whirlwind in ripples wrote
Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
And omens above thought.
But the meanings cleave to the lake,
Cannot be carried in book or urn;
Go thy ways now, come later back,
On waves and hedges still they burn.
These the fates of men forecast,
Of better men than live to-day;
If who can read them comes at last
He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'
THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT
Day! hast thou two faces,
Making one place two places?
One, by humble farmer seen,
Chill and wet, unlighted, mean,
Useful only, triste and damp,
Serving for a laborer's lamp?
Have the same mists another side,
To be the appanage of pride,
Gracing the rich man's wood and lake,
His park where amber mornings break,
And treacherously bright to show
His planted isle where roses glow?
O Day! and is your mightiness
A sycophant to smug success?
Will the sweet sky and ocean broad
Be fine accomplices to fraud?
O Sun! I curse thy cruel ray:
Back, back to chaos, harlot Day!
THE TITMOUSE
You shall not be overbold
When you deal with arctic cold,
As late I found my lukewarm blood
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.
How should I fight? my foeman fine
Has million arms to one of mine:
East, west, for aid I looked in vain,
East, west, north, south, are his domain.
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;
Must borrow his winds who there would come.
Up and away for life! be fleet!--
The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,
Curdles the blood to the marble bones,
Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,
And hems in life with narrowing fence.
Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,--
The punctual stars will vigil keep,--
Embalmed by purifying cold;
The winds shall sing their dead-march old,
The snow is no ignoble shroud,
The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.
Softly,--but this way fate was pointing,
'T was coming fast to such anointing,
When piped a tiny voice hard by,
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,
_Chic-chic-a-dee-de!_ saucy note
Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, 'Good day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces.'
This poet, though he live apart,
Moved by his hospitable heart,
Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
To do the honors of his court,
As fits a feathered lord of land;
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
Prints his small impress on the snow,
Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
Head downward, clinging to the spray.
Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death;
This scrap of valor just for play
Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,
As if to shame my weak behavior;
I greeted loud my little savior,
'You pet! what dost here? and what for?
In these woods, thy small Labrador,
At this pinch, wee San Salvador!
What fire burns in that little chest
So frolic, stout and self-possest?
Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;
Ashes and jet all hues outshine.
Why are not diamonds black and gray,
To ape thy dare-devil array?
And I affirm, the spacious North
Exists to draw thy virtue forth.
I think no virtue goes with size;
The reason of all cowardice
Is, that men are overgrown,
And, to be valiant, must come down
To the titmouse dimension.'
'T is good will makes intelligence,
And I began to catch the sense
Of my bird's song: 'Live out of doors
In the great woods, on prairie floors.
I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,
I too have a hole in a hollow tree;
And I like less when Summer beats
With stifling beams on these retreats,
Than noontide twilights which snow makes
With tempest of the blinding flakes.
For well the soul, if stout within,
Can arm impregnably the skin;
And polar frost my frame defied,
Made of the air that blows outside.'
With glad remembrance of my debt,
I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!
When here again thy pilgrim comes,
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed;
The Providence that is most large
Takes hearts like thine in special charge,
Helps who for their own need are strong,
And the sky doats on cheerful song.
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant
O'er all that mass and minster vaunt;
For men mis-hear thy call in Spring,
As 't would accost some frivolous wing,
Crying out of the hazel copse, _Phe-be!_
And, in winter, _Chic-a-dee-dee!_
I think old Caesar must have heard
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,
And, echoed in some frosty wold,
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.
And I will write our annals new,
And thank thee for a better clew,
I, who dreamed not when I came here
To find the antidote of fear,
Now hear thee say in Roman key,
_Paean! Veni, vidi, vici._
THE HARP
One musician is sure,
His wisdom will not fail,
He has not tasted wine impure,
Nor bent to passion frail.
Age cannot cloud his memory,
Nor grief untune his voice,
Ranging down the ruled scale
From tone of joy to inward wail,
Tempering the pitch of all
In his windy cave.
He all the fables knows,
And in their causes tells,--
Knows Nature's rarest moods,
Ever on her secret broods.
The Muse of men is coy,
Oft courted will not come;
In palaces and market squares
Entreated, she is dumb;
But my minstrel knows and tells
The counsel of the gods,
Knows of Holy Book the spells,
Knows the law of Night and Day,
And the heart of girl and boy,
The tragic and the gay,
And what is writ on Table Round
Of Arthur and his peers;
What sea and land discoursing say
In sidereal years.
He renders all his lore
In numbers wild as dreams,
Modulating all extremes,--
What the spangled meadow saith
To the children who have faith;
Only to children children sing,
Only to youth will spring be spring.
Who is the Bard thus magnified?
When did he sing? and where abide?
Chief of song where poets feast
Is the wind-harp which thou seest
In the casement at my side.
Aeolian harp,
How strangely wise thy strain!
Gay for youth, gay for youth,
(Sweet is art, but sweeter truth,)
In the hall at summer eve
Fate and Beauty skilled to weave.
From the eager opening strings
Rung loud and bold the song.
Who but loved the wind-harp's note?
How should not the poet doat
On its mystic tongue,
With its primeval memory,
Reporting what old minstrels told
Of Merlin locked the harp within,--
Merlin paying the pain of sin,
Pent in a dungeon made of air,--
And some attain his voice to hear,
Words of pain and cries of fear,
But pillowed all on melody,
As fits the griefs of bards to be.
And what if that all-echoing shell,
Which thus the buried Past can tell,
Should rive the Future, and reveal
What his dread folds would fain conceal?
It shares the secret of the earth,
And of the kinds that owe her birth.
Speaks not of self that mystic tone,
But of the Overgods alone:
It trembles to the cosmic breath,--
As it heareth, so it saith;
Obeying meek the primal Cause,
It is the tongue of mundane laws.
And this, at least, I dare affirm,
Since genius too has bound and term,
There is no bard in all the choir,
Not Homer's self, the poet sire,
Wise Milton's odes of pensive pleasure,
Or Shakspeare, whom no mind can measure,
Nor Collins' verse of tender pain,
Nor Byron's clarion of disdain,
Scott, the delight of generous boys,
Or Wordsworth, Pan's recording voice,--
Not one of all can put in verse,
Or to this presence could rehearse
The sights and voices ravishing
The boy knew on the hills in spring,
When pacing through the oaks he heard
Sharp queries of the sentry-bird,
The heavy grouse's sudden whir,
The rattle of the kingfisher;
Saw bonfires of the harlot flies
In the lowland, when day dies;
Or marked, benighted and forlorn,
The first far signal-fire of morn.
These syllables that Nature spoke,
And the thoughts that in him woke,
Can adequately utter none
Save to his ear the wind-harp lone.
Therein I hear the Parcae reel
The threads of man at their humming wheel,
The threads of life and power and pain,
So sweet and mournful falls the strain.
And best can teach its Delphian chord
How Nature to the soul is moored,
If once again that silent string,
As erst it wont, would thrill and ring.
Not long ago at eventide,
It seemed, so listening, at my side
A window rose, and, to say sooth,
I looked forth on the fields of youth:
I saw fair boys bestriding steeds,
I knew their forms in fancy weeds,
Long, long concealed by sundering fates,
Mates of my youth,--yet not my mates,
Stronger and bolder far than I,
With grace, with genius, well attired,
And then as now from far admired,
Followed with love
They knew not of,
With passion cold and shy.
O joy, for what recoveries rare!
Renewed, I breathe Elysian air,
See youth's glad mates in earliest bloom,--
Break not my dream, obtrusive tomb!
Or teach thou, Spring! the grand recoil
Of life resurgent from the soil
Wherein was dropped the mortal spoil.
SEASHORE
I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea
Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slow to come?
Am I not always here, thy summer home?
Is not my voice thy music, morn and eve?
My breath thy healthful climate in the heats,
My touch thy antidote, my bay thy bath?
Was ever building like my terraces?
Was ever couch magnificent as mine?
Lie on the warm rock-ledges, and there learn
A little hut suffices like a town.
I make your sculptured architecture vain,
Vain beside mine. I drive my wedges home,
And carve the coastwise mountain into caves.
Lo! here is Rome and Nineveh and Thebes,
Karnak and Pyramid and Giant's Stairs
Half piled or prostrate; and my newest slab
Older than all thy race.
Behold the Sea,
The opaline, the plentiful and strong,
Yet beautiful as is the rose in June,
Fresh as the trickling rainbow of July;
Sea full of food, the nourisher of kinds,
Purger of earth, and medicine of men;
Creating a sweet climate by my breath,
Washing out harms and griefs from memory,
And, in my mathematic ebb and flow,
Giving a hint of that which changes not.
Rich are the sea-gods:--who gives gifts but they?
They grope the sea for pearls, but more than pearls:
They pluck Force thence, and give it to the wise.
For every wave is wealth to Daedalus,
Wealth to the cunning artist who can work
This matchless strength. Where shall he find, O waves!
A load your Atlas shoulders cannot lift?
I with my hammer pounding evermore
The rocky coast, smite Andes into dust,
Strewing my bed, and, in another age,
Rebuild a continent of better men.
Then I unbar the doors: my paths lead out
The exodus of nations: I disperse
Men to all shores that front the hoary main.
I too have arts and sorceries;
Illusion dwells forever with the wave.
I know what spells are laid. Leave me to deal
With credulous and imaginative man;
For, though he scoop my water in his palm,
A few rods off he deems it gems and clouds.
Planting strange fruits and sunshine on the shore,
I make some coast alluring, some lone isle,
To distant men, who must go there, or die.
SONG OF NATURE
Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.
I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.
No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;
And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.
And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.
I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;
What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.
Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.
But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.
My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.
Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?
Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;
I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?
I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.
Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.
One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.
I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.
Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.
TWO RIVERS
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain;
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through Concord Plain.
Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes
Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows.
I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the stream
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.
Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.
So forth and brighter fares my stream,--
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness stains its equal gleam.
And ages drop in it like rain.
WALDEINSAMKEIT
I do not count the hours I spend
In wandering by the sea;
The forest is my loyal friend,
Like God it useth me.
In plains that room for shadows make
Of skirting hills to lie,
Bound in by streams which give and take
Their colors from the sky;
Or on the mountain-crest sublime,
Or down the oaken glade,
O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.
Cities of mortals woe-begone
Fantastic care derides,
But in the serious landscape lone
Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy,
And merry is only a mask of sad,
But, sober on a fund of joy,
The woods at heart are glad.
There the great Planter plants
Of fruitful worlds the grain,
And with a million spells enchants
The souls that walk in pain.
Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns;
Through times that wear and forms that fade,
Immortal youth returns.
The black ducks mounting from the lake,
The pigeon in the pines,
The bittern's boom, a desert make
Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook,
Where bearded mists divide,
The gray old gods whom Chaos knew,
The sires of Nature, hide.
Aloft, in secret veins of air,
Blows the sweet breath of song,
O, few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong!
See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;
Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.
Oblivion here thy wisdom is,
Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;
For a proud idleness like this
Crowns all thy mean affairs.
TERMINUS
It is time to be old,
To take in sail:--
The god of bounds,
Who sets to seas a shore,
Came to me in his fatal rounds,
And said: 'No more!
No farther shoot
Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root.
Fancy departs: no more invent;
Contract thy firmament
To compass of a tent.
There's not enough for this and that,
Make thy option which of two;
Economize the failing river,
Not the less revere the Giver,
Leave the many and hold the few.
Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary foot;
A little while
Still plan and smile,
And,--fault of novel germs,--
Mature the unfallen fruit.
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath
The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,--
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb.'
As the bird trims her to the gale,
I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime:
'Lowly faithful, banish fear,
Right onward drive unharmed;
The port, well worth the cruise, is near,
And every wave is charmed.'
THE NUN'S ASPIRATION
The yesterday doth never smile,
The day goes drudging through the while,
Yet, in the name of Godhead, I
The morrow front, and can defy;
Though I am weak, yet God, when prayed,
Cannot withhold his conquering aid.
Ah me! it was my childhood's thought,
If He should make my web a blot
On life's fair picture of delight,
My heart's content would find it right.
But O, these waves and leaves,--
When happy stoic Nature grieves,
No human speech so beautiful
As their murmurs mine to lull.
On this altar God hath built
I lay my vanity and guilt;
Nor me can Hope or Passion urge
Hearing as now the lofty dirge
Which blasts of Northern mountains hymn,
Nature's funeral high and dim,--
Sable pageantry of clouds,
Mourning summer laid in shrouds.
Many a day shall dawn and die,
Many an angel wander by,
And passing, light my sunken turf
Moist perhaps by ocean surf,
Forgotten amid splendid tombs,
Yet wreathed and hid by summer blooms.
On earth I dream;--I die to be:
Time, shake not thy bald head at me.
I challenge thee to hurry past
Or for my turn to fly too fast.
Think me not numbed or halt with age,
Or cares that earth to earth engage,
Caught with love's cord of twisted beams,
Or mired by climate's gross extremes.
I tire of shams, I rush to be:
I pass with yonder comet free,--
Pass with the comet into space
Which mocks thy aeons to embrace;
Aeons which tardily unfold
Realm beyond realm,--extent untold;
No early morn, no evening late,--
Realms self-upheld, disdaining Fate,
Whose shining sons, too great for fame,
Never heard thy weary name;
Nor lives the tragic bard to say
How drear the part I held in one,
How lame the other limped away.
APRIL
The April winds are magical
And thrill our tuneful frames;
The garden walks are passional
To bachelors and dames.
The hedge is gemmed with diamonds,
The air with Cupids full,
The cobweb clues of Rosamond
Guide lovers to the pool.
Each dimple in the water,
Each leaf that shades the rock
Can cozen, pique and flatter,
Can parley and provoke.
Goodfellow, Puck and goblins,
Know more than any book.
Down with your doleful problems,
And court the sunny brook.
The south-winds are quick-witted,
The schools are sad and slow,
The masters quite omitted
The lore we care to know.
MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP
Soft and softlier hold me, friends!
Thanks if your genial care
Unbind and give me to the air.
Keep your lips or finger-tips
For flute or spinet's dancing chips;
I await a tenderer touch,
I ask more or not so much:
Give me to the atmosphere,--
Where is the wind, my brother,--where?
Lift the sash, lay me within,
Lend me your ears, and I begin.
For gentle harp to gentle hearts
The secret of the world imparts;
And not to-day and not to-morrow
Can drain its wealth of hope and sorrow;
But day by day, to loving ear
Unlocks new sense and loftier cheer.
I've come to live with you, sweet friends,
This home my minstrel-journeyings ends.
Many and subtle are my lays,
The latest better than the first,
For I can mend the happiest days
And charm the anguish of the worst.
CUPIDO
The solid, solid universe
Is pervious to Love;
With bandaged eyes he never errs,
Around, below, above.
His blinding light
He flingeth white
On God's and Satan's brood,
And reconciles
By mystic wiles
The evil and the good.
THE PAST
The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed.
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death forevermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door
Bolted down forevermore.
None can re雗ter there,--
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick
Steal in by window, chink, or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked,
_Insert_ a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend eternal Fact.
THE LAST FAREWELL
LINES WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR'S BROTHER,
EDWARD BLISS EMERSON, WHILST SAILING OUT
OF BOSTON HARBOR, BOUND FOR THE ISLAND OF
PORTO RICO, IN 1832
Farewell, ye lofty spires
That cheered the holy light!
Farewell, domestic fires
That broke the gloom of night!
Too soon those spires are lost,
Too fast we leave the bay,
Too soon by ocean tost
From hearth and home away,
Far away, far away.
Farewell the busy town,
The wealthy and the wise,
Kind smile and honest frown
From bright, familiar eyes.
All these are fading now;
Our brig hastes on her way,
Her unremembering prow
Is leaping o'er the sea,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, my mother fond,
Too kind, too good to me;
Nor pearl nor diamond
Would pay my debt to thee.
But even thy kiss denies
Upon my cheek to stay;
The winged vessel flies,
And billows round her play,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, my brothers true,
My betters, yet my peers;
How desert without you
My few and evil years!
But though aye one in heart,
Together sad or gay,
Rude ocean doth us part;
We separate to-day,
Far away, far away.
Farewell, thou fairest one,
Unplighted yet to me,
Uncertain of thine own
I gave my heart to thee.
That untold early love
I leave untold to-day,
My lips in whisper move
Farewell to ...!
Far away, far away.
Farewell I breathe again
To dim New England's shore,
My heart shall beat not when
I pant for thee no more.
In yon green palmy isle,
Beneath the tropic ray,
I murmur never while
For thee and thine I pray;
Far away, far away.
IN MEMORIAM E.B.E.
I mourn upon this battle-field,
But not for those who perished here.
Behold the river-bank
Whither the angry farmers came,
In sloven dress and broken rank,
Nor thought of fame.
Their deed of blood
All mankind praise;
Even the serene Reason says,
It was well done.
The wise and simple have one glance
To greet yon stern head-stone,
Which more of pride than pity gave
To mark the Briton's friendless grave.
Yet it is a stately tomb;
The grand return
Of eve and morn,
The year's fresh bloom,
The silver cloud,
Might grace the dust that is most proud.
Yet not of these I muse
In this ancestral place,
But of a kindred face
That never joy or hope shall here diffuse.
Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star!
What hast thou to do with these
Haunting this bank's historic trees?
Thou born for noblest life,
For action's field, for victor's car,
Thou living champion of the right?
To these their penalty belonged:
I grudge not these their bed of death,
But thine to thee, who never wronged
The poorest that drew breath.
All inborn power that could
Consist with homage to the good
Flamed from his martial eye;
He who seemed a soldier born,
He should have the helmet worn,
All friends to fend, all foes defy,
Fronting foes of God and man,
Frowning down the evil-doer,
Battling for the weak and poor.
His from youth the leader's look
Gave the law which others took,
And never poor beseeching glance
Shamed that sculptured countenance.
There is no record left on earth,
Save in tablets of the heart,
Of the rich inherent worth,
Of the grace that on him shone,
Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit:
He could not frame a word unfit,
An act unworthy to be done;
Honor prompted every glance,
Honor came and sat beside him,
In lowly cot or painful road,
And evermore the cruel god
Cried "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed,
Born for success he seemed,
With grace to win, with heart to hold,
With shining gifts that took all eyes,
With budding power in college-halls,
As pledged in coming days to forge
Weapons to guard the State, or scourge
Tyrants despite their guards or walls.
On his young promise Beauty smiled,
Drew his free homage unbeguiled,
And prosperous Age held out his hand,
And richly his large future planned,
And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,--
All, all was given, and only health denied.
I see him with superior smile
Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train
In lands remote, in toil and pain,
With angel patience labor on,
With the high port he wore erewhile,
When, foremost of the youthful band,
The prizes in all lists he won;
Nor bate one jot of heart or hope,
And, least of all, the loyal tie
Which holds to home 'neath every sky,
The joy and pride the pilgrim feels
In hearts which round the hearth at home
Keep pulse for pulse with those who roam.
What generous beliefs console
The brave whom Fate denies the goal!
If others reach it, is content;
To Heaven's high will his will is bent.
Firm on his heart relied,
What lot soe'er betide,
Work of his hand
He nor repents nor grieves,
Pleads for itself the fact,
As unrepenting Nature leaves
Her every act.
Fell the bolt on the branching oak;
The rainbow of his hope was broke;
No craven cry, no secret tear,--
He told no pang, he knew no fear;
Its peace sublime his aspect kept,
His purpose woke, his features slept;
And yet between the spasms of pain
His genius beamed with joy again.
O'er thy rich dust the endless smile
Of Nature in thy Spanish isle
Hints never loss or cruel break
And sacrifice for love's dear sake,
Nor mourn the unalterable Days
That Genius goes and Folly stays.
What matters how, or from what ground,
The freed soul its Creator found?
Alike thy memory embalms
That orange-grove, that isle of palms,
And these loved banks, whose oak-bough bold
Root in the blood of heroes old.
* * * * *
III
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
* * * * *
EXPERIENCE
The lords of life, the lords of life,--
I saw them pass
In their own guise,
Like and unlike,
Portly and grim,--
Use and Surprise,
Surface and Dream,
Succession swift and spectral Wrong,
Temperament without a tongue,
And the inventor of the game
Omnipresent without name;--
Some to see, some to be guessed,
They marched from east to west:
Little man, least of all,
Among the legs of his guardians tall,
Walked about with puzzled look.
Him by the hand dear Nature took,
Dearest Nature, strong and kind,
Whispered, 'Darling, never mind!
To-morrow they will wear another face,
The founder thou; these are thy race!'
COMPENSATION
The wings of Time are black and white,
Pied with morning and with night.
Mountain tall and ocean deep
Trembling balance duly keep.
In changing moon and tidal wave
Glows the feud of Want and Have.
Gauge of more and less through space,
Electric star or pencil plays,
The lonely Earth amid the balls
That hurry through the eternal halls,
A makeweight flying to the void,
Supplemental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoots across the neutral Dark.
Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm;
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts.
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.
POLITICS
Gold and iron are good
To buy iron and gold;
All earth's fleece and food
For their like are sold.
Boded Merlin wise,
Proved Napoleon great,
Nor kind nor coinage buys
Aught above its rate.
Fear, Craft and Avarice
Cannot rear a State.
Out of dust to build
What is more than dust,
Walls Amphion piled
Phoebus stablish must.
When the Muses nine
With the Virtues meet,
Find to their design
An Atlantic seat,
By green orchard boughs
Fended from the heat,
here the statesman ploughs
Furrow for the wheat,--
When the Church is social worth,
When the state-house is the hearth,
Then the perfect State is come,
The republican at home.
HEROISM
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,
Sugar spends to fatten slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons;
Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons,
Drooping oft in wreaths of dread,
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.
CHARACTER
The sun set, but set not his hope:
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye;
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again:
His action won such reverence sweet
As hid all measure of the feat.
CULTURE
Can rules or tutors educate
The semigod whom we await?
He must be musical,
Tremulous, impressional,
Alive to gentle influence
Of landscape and of sky,
And tender to the spirit-touch
Of man's or maiden's eye:
But, to his native centre fast,
Shall into Future fuse the Past,
And the world's flowing fates in his own mould recast.
FRIENDSHIP
A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes;
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,--
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness,
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red;
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.
SPIRITUAL LAWS
The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Quarrying man's rejected hours,
Builds therewith eternal towers;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks
In reaction and recoil,
Makes flame to freeze and ice to boil;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silver seat of Innocence.
BEAUTY
Was never form and never face
So sweet to SEYD as only grace
Which did not slumber like a stone,
But hovered gleaming and was gone.
Beauty chased he everywhere,
In flame, in storm, in clouds of air.
He smote the lake to feed his eye
With the beryl beam of the broken wave;
He flung in pebbles well to hear
The moment's music which they gave.
Oft pealed for him a lofty tone
From nodding pole and belting zone.
He heard a voice none else could hear
From centred and from errant sphere.
The quaking earth did quake in rhyme,
Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime.
In dens of passion, and pits of woe,
He saw strong Eros struggling through,
To sun the dark and solve the curse,
And beam to the bounds of the universe.
While thus to love he gave his days
In loyal worship, scorning praise,
How spread their lures for him in vain
Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!
He thought it happier to be dead,
To die for Beauty, than live for bread.
MANNERS
Grace, Beauty and Caprice
Build this golden portal;
Graceful women, chosen men,
Dazzle every mortal.
Their sweet and lofty countenance
His enchanted food;
He need not go to them, their forms
Beset his solitude.
He looketh seldom in their face,
His eyes explore the ground,--
The green grass is a looking-glass
Whereon their traits are found.
Little and less he says to them,
So dances his heart in his breast;
Their tranquil mien bereaveth him
Of wit, of words, of rest.
Too weak to win, too fond to shun
The tyrants of his doom,
The much deceived Endymion
Slips behind a tomb.
ART
Give to barrows, trays and pans
Grace and glimmer of romance;
Bring the moonlight into noon
Hid in gleaming piles of stone;
On the city's paved street
Plant gardens lined with lilacs sweet;
Let spouting fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked square;
Let statue, picture, park and hall,
Ballad, flag and festival,
The past restore, the day adorn,
And make to-morrow a new morn.
So shall the drudge in dusty frock
Spy behind the city clock
Retinues of airy kings,
Skirts of angels, starry wings,
His fathers shining in bright fables,
His children fed at heavenly tables.
'T is the privilege of Art
Thus to play its cheerful part,
Man on earth to acclimate
And bend the exile to his fate,
And, moulded of one element
With the days and firmament,
Teach him on these as stairs to climb,
And live on even terms with Time;
Whilst upper life the slender rill
Of human sense doth overfill.
UNITY
Space is ample, east and west,
But two cannot go abreast,
Cannot travel in it two:
Yonder masterful cuckoo
Crowds every egg out of the nest,
Quick or dead, except its own;
A spell is laid on sod and stone,
Night and Day were tampered with,
Every quality and pith
Surcharged and sultry with a power
That works its will on age and hour.
WORSHIP
This is he, who, felled by foes,
Sprung harmless up, refreshed by blows:
He to captivity was sold,
But him no prison-bars would hold:
Though they sealed him in a rock,
Mountain chains he can unlock:
Thrown to lions for their meat,
The crouching lion kissed his feet;
Bound to the stake, no flames appalled,
But arched o'er him an honoring vault.
This is he men miscall Fate,
Threading dark ways, arriving late,
But ever coming in time to crown
The truth, and hurl wrong-doers down.
He is the oldest, and best known,
More near than aught thou call'st thy own,
Yet, greeted in another's eyes,
Disconcerts with glad surprise.
This is Jove, who, deaf to prayers,
Floods with blessings unawares.
Draw, if thou canst, the mystic line
Severing rightly his from thine,
Which is human, which divine.
PRUDENCE
Theme no poet gladly sung,
Fair to old and foul to young;
Scorn not thou the love of parts,
And the articles of arts.
Grandeur of the perfect sphere
Thanks the atoms that cohere.
NATURE
I
A subtle chain of countless rings
The next unto the farthest brings;
The eye reads omens where it goes,
And speaks all languages the rose;
And, striving to be man, the worm
Mounts through all the spires of form.
II
The rounded world is fair to see,
Nine times folded in mystery:
Though baffled seers cannot impart
The secret of its laboring heart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin;
Self-kindled every atom glows
And hints the future which it owes.
THE INFORMING SPIRIT
I
There is no great and no small
To the Soul that maketh all:
And where it cometh, all things are;
And it cometh everywhere.
II
I am owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Caesar's hand, and Plato's brain,
Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakspeare's strain.
CIRCLES
Nature centres into balls,
And her proud ephemerals,
Fast to surface and outside,
Scan the profile of the sphere;
Knew they what that signified,
A new genesis were here.
INTELLECT
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals;--
The sower scatters broad his seed;
The wheat thou strew'st be souls.
GIFTS
Gifts of one who loved me,--
'T was high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.
PROMISE
In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.
CARITAS
In the suburb, in the town,
On the railway, in the square,
Came a beam of goodness down
Doubling daylight everywhere:
Peace now each for malice takes,
Beauty for his sinful weeds,
For the angel Hope aye makes
Him an angel whom she leads.
POWER
His tongue was framed to music,
And his hand was armed with skill;
His face was the mould of beauty,
And his heart the throne of will.
WEALTH
Who shall tell what did befall,
Far away in time, when once,
Over the lifeless ball,
Hung idle stars and suns?
What god the element obeyed?
Wings of what wind the lichen bore,
Wafting the puny seeds of power,
Which, lodged in rock, the rock abrade?
And well the primal pioneer
Knew the strong task to it assigned,
Patient through Heaven's enormous year
To build in matter home for mind.
From air the creeping centuries drew
The matted thicket low and wide,
This must the leaves of ages strew
The granite slab to clothe and hide,
Ere wheat can wave its golden pride.
What smiths, and in what furnace, rolled
(In dizzy aeons dim and mute
The reeling brain can ill compute)
Copper and iron, lead and gold?
What oldest star the fame can save
Of races perishing to pave
The planet with a floor of lime?
Dust is their pyramid and mole:
Who saw what ferns and palms were pressed
Under the tumbling mountain's breast,
In the safe herbal of the coal?
But when the quarried means were piled,
All is waste and worthless, till
Arrives the wise _select_ing will,
And, out of slime and chaos, Wit
Draws the threads of fair and fit.
Then temples rose, and towns, and marts,
The shop of toil, the hall of arts;
Then flew the sail across the seas
To feed the North from tropic trees;
The storm-wind wove, the torrent span,
Where they were bid, the rivers ran;
New slaves fulfilled the poet's dream,
Galvanic wire, strong-shouldered steam.
Then docks were built, and crops were stored,
And ingots added to the hoard.
But though light-headed man forget,
Remembering Matter pays her debt:
Still, through her motes and masses, draw
Electric thrills and ties of law,
Which bind the strengths of Nature wild
To the conscience of a child.
ILLUSIONS
Flow, flow the waves hated,
Accursed, adored,
The waves of mutation;
No anchorage is.
Sleep is not, death is not;
Who seem to die live.
House you were born in,
Friends of your spring-time,
Old man and young maid,
Day's toil and its guerdon,
They are all vanishing,
Fleeing to fables,
Cannot be moored.
See the stars through them,
Through treacherous marbles.
Know the stars yonder,
The stars everlasting,
Are fugitive also,
And emulate, vaulted,
The lambent heat lightning
And fire-fly's flight.
When thou dost return
On the wave's circulation,
Behold the shimmer,
The wild dissipation,
And, out of endeavor
To change and to flow,
The gas become solid,
And phantoms and nothings
Return to be things,
And endless imbroglio
Is law and the world,--
Then first shalt thou know,
That in the wild turmoil,
Horsed on the Proteus,
Thou ridest to power,
And to endurance.
* * * * *
IV
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
* * * * *
QUATRAINS
A.H.
High was her heart, and yet was well inclined,
Her manners made of bounty well refined;
Far capitals and marble courts, her eye still seemed to see,
Minstrels and kings and high-born dames, and of the best that be.
HUSH!
Every thought is public,
Every nook is wide;
Thy gossips spread each whisper,
And the gods from side to side.
ORATOR
He who has no hands
Perforce must use his tongue;
Foxes are so cunning
Because they are not strong.
ARTIST
Quit the hut, frequent the palace,
Reck not what the people say;
For still, where'er the trees grow biggest,
Huntsmen find the easiest way.
POET
Ever the Poet _from_ the land
Steers his bark and trims his sail;
Right out to sea his courses stand,
New worlds to find in pinnace frail.
POET
To clothe the fiery thought
In simple words succeeds,
For still the craft of genius is
To mask a king in weeds.
BOTANIST
Go thou to thy learned task,
I stay with the flowers of Spring:
Do thou of the Ages ask
What me the Hours will bring.
GARDENER
True Brahmin, in the morning meadows wet,
Expound the Vedas of the violet,
Or, hid in vines, peeping through many a loop,
See the plum redden, and the beurr?stoop.
FORESTER
He took the color of his vest
From rabbit's coat or grouse's breast;
For, as the wood-kinds lurk and hide,
So walks the woodman, unespied.
NORTHMAN
The gale that wrecked you on the sand,
It helped my rowers to row;
The storm is my best galley hand
And drives me where I go.
FROM ALCUIN
The sea is the road of the bold,
Frontier of the wheat-sown plains,
The pit wherein the streams are rolled
And fountain of the rains.
EXCELSIOR
Over his head were the maple buds,
And over the tree was the moon,
And over the moon were the starry studs
That drop from the angels' shoon.
S.H.
With beams December planets dart
His cold eye truth and conduct scanned,
July was in his sunny heart,
October in his liberal hand.
BORROWING
FROM THE FRENCH
Some of your hurts you have cured,
And the sharpest you still have survived,
But what torments of grief you endured
From evils which never arrived!
NATURE
Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold,
And trains us on to slight the new, as if it were the old:
But blest is he, who, playing deep, yet haply asks not why,
Too busied with the crowded hour to fear to live or die.
FATE
Her planted eye to-day controls,
Is in the morrow most at home,
And sternly calls to being souls
That curse her when they come.
HOROSCOPE
Ere he was born, the stars of fate
Plotted to make him rich and great:
When from the womb the babe was loosed,
The gate of gifts behind him closed.
POWER
Cast the bantling on the rocks,
Suckle him with the she-wolf's teat,
Wintered with the hawk and fox,
Power and speed be hands and feet.
CLIMACTERIC
I am not wiser for my age,
Nor skilful by my grief;
Life loiters at the book's first page,--
Ah! could we turn the leaf.
HERI, CRAS, HODIE
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen,
To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between:
Future or Past no richer secret folds,
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.
MEMORY
Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall
Shadows of the thoughts of day,
And thy fortunes, as they fall,
The bias of the will betray.
LOVE
Love on his errand bound to go
Can swim the flood and wade through snow,
Where way is none, 't will creep and wind
And eat through Alps its home to find.
SACRIFICE
Though love repine, and reason chafe,
There came a voice without reply,--
''T is man's perdition to be safe,
When for the truth he ought to die.'
PERICLES
Well and wisely said the Greek,
Be thou faithful, but not fond;
To the altar's foot thy fellow seek,--
The Furies wait beyond.
CASELLA
Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove;
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore.
SHAKSPEARE
I see all human wits
Are measured but a few;
Unmeasured still my Shakspeare sits,
Lone as the blessed Jew.
HAFIZ
Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides;
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.
NATURE IN LEASTS
As sings the pine-tree in the wind,
So sings in the wind a sprig of the pine;
Her strength and soul has laughing France
Shed in each drop of wine.
[Greek: ADAKRYN NEMONTAI AIONA]
'A New commandment,' said the smiling Muse,
'I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach';--
Luther, Fox, Behmen, Swedenborg, grew pale,
And, on the instant, rosier clouds upbore
Hafiz and Shakspeare with their shining choirs.
TRANSLATIONS
SONNET OF MICHEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI
Never did sculptor's dream unfold
A form which marble doth not hold
In its white block; yet it therein shall find
Only the hand secure and bold
Which still obeys the mind.
So hide in thee, thou heavenly dame,
The ill I shun, the good I claim;
I alas! not well alive,
Miss the aim whereto I strive.
Not love, nor beauty's pride,
Nor Fortune, nor thy coldness, can I chide,
If, whilst within thy heart abide
Both death and pity, my unequal skill
Fails of the life, but draws the death and ill.
THE EXILE
FROM THE PERSIAN OF KERMANI
In Farsistan the violet spreads
Its leaves to the rival sky;
I ask how far is the Tigris flood,
And the vine that grows thereby?
Except the amber morning wind,
Not one salutes me here;
There is no lover in all Bagdat
To offer the exile cheer.
I know that thou, O morning wind!
O'er Kernan's meadow blowest,
And thou, heart-warming nightingale!
My father's orchard knowest.
The merchant hath stuffs of price,
And gems from the sea-washed strand,
And princes offer me grace
To stay in the Syrian land;
But what is gold _for_, but for gifts?
And dark, without love, is the day;
And all that I see in Bagdat
Is the Tigris to float me away.
FROM HAFIZ
I said to heaven that glowed above,
O hide yon sun-filled zone,
Hide all the stars you boast;
For, in the world of love
And estimation true,
The heaped-up harvest of the moon
Is worth one barley-corn at most,
The Pleiads' sheaf but two.
If my darling should depart,
And search the skies for prouder friends,
God forbid my angry heart
In other love should seek amends.
When the blue horizon's hoop
Me a little pinches here,
Instant to my grave I stoop,
And go find thee in the sphere.
EPITAPH
Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Mad Destiny this tender stripling played;
For a warm breast of maiden to his breast,
She laid a slab of marble on his head.
They say, through patience, chalk
Becomes a ruby stone;
Ah, yes! but by the true heart's blood
The chalk is crimson grown.
FRIENDSHIP
Thou foolish Hafiz! Say, do churls
Know the worth of Oman's pearls?
Give the gem which dims the moon
To the noblest, or to none.
Dearest, where thy shadow falls,
Beauty sits and Music calls;
Where thy form and favor come,
All good creatures have their home.
On prince or bride no diamond stone
Half so gracious ever shone,
As the light of enterprise
Beaming from a young man's eyes.
FROM OMAR KHAYYAM
Each spot where tulips prank their state
Has drunk the life-blood of the great;
The violets yon field which stain
Are moles of beauties Time hath slain.
Unbar the door, since thou the Opener art,
Show me the forward way, since thou art guide,
I put no faith in pilot or in chart,
Since they are transient, and thou dost abide.
FROM ALI BEN ABU TALEB
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.
On two days it steads not to run from thy grave,
The appointed, and the unappointed day;
On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,
Nor thee, on the second, the Universe slay.
FROM IBN JEMIN
Two things thou shalt not long for, if thou love a mind serene;--
A woman to thy wife, though she were a crowned queen;
And the second, borrowed money,--though the smiling lender say
That he will not demand the debt until the Judgment Day.
THE FLUTE
FROM HILALI
Hark, what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains,
Without tongue, yellow-cheeked, full of winds that wail and sigh;
Saying, Sweetheart! the old mystery remains,--
If I am I; thou, thou; or thou art I?
TO THE SHAH
FROM HAFIZ
Thy foes to hunt, thy enviers to strike down,
Poises Arcturus aloft morning and evening his spear.
TO THE SHAH
FROM ENWERI
Not in their houses stand the stars,
But o'er the pinnacles of thine!
TO THE SHAH
FROM ENWERI
From thy worth and weight the stars gravitate,
And the equipoise of heaven is thy house's equipoise.
SONG OF SEYD NIMETOLLAH OF KUHISTAN
[Among the religious customs of the dervishes is an astronomical
dance, in which the dervish imitates the movements of the heavenly
bodies, by spinning on his own axis, whilst at the same time he
revolves round the Sheikh in the centre, representing the sun; and,
as he spins, he sings the Song of Seyd Nimetollah of Kuhistan.]
Spin the ball! I reel, I burn,
Nor head from foot can I discern,
Nor my heart from love of mine,
Nor the wine-cup from the wine.
All my doing, all my leaving,
Reaches not to my perceiving;
Lost in whirling spheres I rove,
And know only that I love.
I am seeker of the stone,
Living gem of Solomon;
From the shore of souls arrived,
In the sea of sense I dived;
But what is land, or what is wave,
To me who only jewels crave?
Love is the air-fed fire intense,
And my heart the frankincense;
As the rich aloes flames, I glow,
Yet the censer cannot know.
I'm all-knowing, yet unknowing;
Stand not, pause not, in my going.
Ask not me, as Muftis can,
To recite the Alcoran;
Well I love the meaning sweet,--
I tread the book beneath my feet.
Lo! the God's love blazes higher,
Till all difference expire.
What are Moslems? what are Giaours?
All are Love's, and all are ours.
I embrace the true believers,
But I reck not of deceivers.
Firm to Heaven my bosom clings,
Heedless of inferior things;
Down on earth there, underfoot,
What men chatter know I not.
* * * * *
V
APPENDIX
* * * * *
THE POET
I
Right upward on the road of fame
With sounding steps the poet came;
Born and nourished in miracles,
His feet were shod with golden bells,
Or where he stepped the soil did peal
As if the dust were glass and steel.
The gallant child where'er he came
Threw to each fact a tuneful name.
The things whereon he cast his eyes
Could not the nations rebaptize,
Nor Time's snows hide the names he set,
Nor last posterity forget.
Yet every scroll whereon he wrote
In latent fire his secret thought,
Fell unregarded to the ground,
Unseen by such as stood around.
The pious wind took it away,
The reverent darkness hid the lay.
Methought like water-haunting birds
Divers or dippers were his words,
And idle clowns beside the mere
At the new vision gape and jeer.
But when the noisy scorn was past,
Emerge the wing鑔 words in haste.
New-bathed, new-trimmed, on healthy wing,
Right to the heaven they steer and sing.
A Brother of the world, his song
Sounded like a tempest strong
Which tore from oaks their branches broad,
And stars from the ecliptic road.
Times wore he as his clothing-weeds,
He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.
As melts the iceberg in the seas,
As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze,
As snow-banks thaw in April's beam,
The solid kingdoms like a dream
Resist in vain his motive strain,
They totter now and float amain.
For the Muse gave special charge
His learning should be deep and large,
And his training should not scant
The deepest lore of wealth or want:
His flesh should feel, his eyes should read
Every maxim of dreadful Need;
In its fulness he should taste
Life's honeycomb, but not too fast;
Full fed, but not intoxicated;
He should be loved; he should be hated;
A blooming child to children dear,
His heart should palpitate with fear.
And well he loved to quit his home
And, Calmuck, in his wagon roam
To read new landscapes and old skies;--
But oh, to see his solar eyes
Like meteors which chose their way
And rived the dark like a new day!
Not lazy grazing on all they saw,
Each chimney-pot and cottage door,
Farm-gear and village picket-fence,
But, feeding on magnificence,
They bounded to the horizon's edge
And searched with the sun's privilege.
Landward they reached the mountains old
Where pastoral tribes their flocks infold,
Saw rivers run seaward by cities high
And the seas wash the low-hung sky;
Saw the endless rack of the firmament
And the sailing moon where the cloud was rent,
And through man and woman and sea and star
Saw the dance of Nature forward and far,
Through worlds and races and terms and times
Saw musical order and pairing rhymes.
II
The gods talk in the breath of the woods,
They talk in the shaken pine,
And fill the long reach of the old seashore
With dialogue divine;
And the poet who overhears
Some random word they say
Is the fated man of men
Whom the ages must obey:
One who having nectar drank
Into blissful orgies sank;
He takes no mark of night or day,
He cannot go, he cannot stay,
He would, yet would not, counsel keep,
But, like a walker in his sleep
With staring eye that seeth none,
Ridiculously up and down
Seeks how he may fitly tell
The heart-o'erlading miracle.
Not yet, not yet,
Impatient friend,--
A little while attend;
Not yet I sing: but I must wait,
My hand upon the silent string,
Fully until the end.
I see the coming light,
I see the scattered gleams,
Aloft, beneath, on left and right
The stars' own ether beams;
These are but seeds of days,
Not yet a steadfast morn,
An intermittent blaze,
An embryo god unborn.
How all things sparkle,
The dust is alive,
To the birth they arrive:
I snuff the breath of my morning afar,
I see the pale lustres condense to a star:
The fading colors fix,
The vanishing are seen,
And the world that shall be
Twins the world that has been.
I know the appointed hour,
I greet my office well,
Never faster, never slower
Revolves the fatal wheel!
The Fairest enchants me,
The Mighty commands me,
Saying, 'Stand in thy place;
Up and eastward turn thy face;
As mountains for the morning wait,
Coming early, coming late,
So thou attend the enriching Fate
Which none can stay, and none accelerate.
I am neither faint nor weary,
Fill thy will, O faultless heart!
Here from youth to age I tarry,--
Count it flight of bird or dart.
My heart at the heart of things
Heeds no longer lapse of time,
Rushing ages moult their wings,
Bathing in thy day sublime.
The sun set, but set not his hope:--
Stars rose, his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye,
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of Time.
Beside his hut and shading oak,
Thus to himself the poet spoke,
'I have supped to-night with gods,
I will not go under a wooden roof:
As I walked among the hills
In the love which Nature fills,
The great stars did not shine aloof,
They hurried down from their deep abodes
And hemmed me in their glittering troop.
'Divine Inviters! I accept
The courtesy ye have shown and kept
From ancient ages for the bard,
To modulate
With finer fate
A fortune harsh and hard.
With aim like yours
I watch your course,
Who never break your lawful dance
By error or intemperance.
O birds of ether without wings!
O heavenly ships without a sail!
O fire of fire! O best of things!
O mariners who never fail!
Sail swiftly through your amber vault,
An animated law, a presence to exalt.'
Ah, happy if a sun or star
Could chain the wheel of Fortune's car,
And give to hold an even state,
Neither dejected nor elate,
That haply man upraised might keep
The height of Fancy's far-eyed steep.
In vain: the stars are glowing wheels,
Giddy with motion Nature reels,
Sun, moon, man, undulate and stream,
The mountains flow, the solids seem,
Change acts, reacts; back, forward hurled,
And pause were palsy to the world.--
The morn is come: the starry crowds
Are hid behind the thrice-piled clouds;
The new day lowers, and equal odds
Have changed not less the guest of gods;
Discrowned and timid, thoughtless, worn,
The child of genius sits forlorn:
Between two sleeps a short day's stealth,
'Mid many ails a brittle health,
A cripple of God, half true, half formed,
And by great sparks Promethean warmed,
Constrained by impotence to adjourn
To infinite time his eager turn,
His lot of action at the urn.
He by false usage pinned about
No breath therein, no passage out,
Cast wishful glances at the stars
And wishful saw the Ocean stream:--
'Merge me in the brute universe,
Or lift to a diviner dream!'
Beside him sat enduring love,
Upon him noble eyes did rest,
Which, for the Genius that there strove.
The follies bore that it invest.
They spoke not, for their earnest sense
Outran the craft of eloquence.
He whom God had thus preferred,--
To whom sweet angels ministered,
Saluted him each morn as brother,
And bragged his virtues to each other,--
Alas! how were they so beguiled,
And they so pure? He, foolish child,
A facile, reckless, wandering will,
Eager for good, not hating ill,
Thanked Nature for each stroke she dealt;
On his tense chords all strokes were felt,
The good, the bad with equal zeal,
He asked, he only asked, to feel.
Timid, self-pleasing, sensitive,
With Gods, with fools, content to live;
Bended to fops who bent to him;
Surface with surfaces did swim.
'Sorrow, sorrow!' the angels cried,
'Is this dear Nature's manly pride?
Call hither thy mortal enemy,
Make him glad thy fall to see!
Yon waterflag, yon sighing osier,
A drop can shake, a breath can fan;
Maidens laugh and weep; Composure
Is the pudency of man,'
Again by night the poet went
From the lighted halls
Beneath the darkling firmament
To the seashore, to the old seawalls,
Out shone a star beneath the cloud,
The constellation glittered soon,--
You have no lapse; so have ye glowed
But once in your dominion.
And yet, dear stars, I know ye shine
Only by needs and loves of mine;
Light-loving, light-asking life in me
Feeds those eternal lamps I see.
And I to whom your light has spoken,
I, pining to be one of you,
I fall, my faith is broken,
Ye scorn me from your deeps of blue.
Or if perchance, ye orbs of Fate,
Your ne'er averted glance
Beams with a will compassionate
On sons of time and chance,
Then clothe these hands with power
In just proportion,
Nor plant immense designs
Where equal means are none.'
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
Means, dear brother, ask them not;
Soul's desire is means enow,
Pure content is angel's lot,
Thine own theatre art thou.
Gentler far than falls the snow
In the woodwalks still and low
Fell the lesson on his heart
And woke the fear lest angels part.
POET
I see your forms with deep content,
I know that ye are excellent,
But will ye stay?
I hear the rustle of wings,
Ye meditate what to say
Ere ye go to quit me for ever and aye.
SPIRITS
Brother, we are no phantom band;
Brother, accept this fatal hand.
Aches thine unbelieving heart
With the fear that we must part?
See, all we are rooted here
By one thought to one same sphere;
From thyself thou canst not flee,--
From thyself no more can we.
POET
Suns and stars their courses keep,
But not angels of the deep:
Day and night their turn observe,
But the day of day may swerve.
Is there warrant that the waves
Of thought in their mysterious caves
Will heap in me their highest tide,
In me therewith beatified?
Unsure the ebb and flood of thought,
The moon comes back,--the Spirit not.
SPIRITS
Brother, sweeter is the Law
Than all the grace Love ever saw;
We are its suppliants. By it, we
Draw the breath of Eternity;
Serve thou it not for daily bread,--
Serve it for pain and fear and need.
Love it, though it hide its light;
By love behold the sun at night.
If the Law should thee forget,
More enamoured serve it yet;
Though it hate thee, suffer long;
Put the Spirit in the wrong;
Brother, no decrepitude
Chills the limbs of Time;
As fleet his feet, his hands as good,
His vision as sublime:
On Nature's wheels there is no rust;
Nor less on man's enchanted dust
Beauty and Force alight.
FRAGMENTS ON THE POET AND THE POETIC GIFT
I
There are beggars in Iran and Araby,
SAID was hungrier than all;
Hafiz said he was a fly
That came to every festival.
He came a pilgrim to the Mosque
On trail of camel and caravan,
Knew every temple and kiosk
Out from Mecca to Ispahan;
Northward he went to the snowy hills,
At court he sat in the grave Divan.
His music was the south-wind's sigh,
His lamp, the maiden's downcast eye,
And ever the spell of beauty came
And turned the drowsy world to flame.
By lake and stream and gleaming hall
And modest copse and the forest tall,
Where'er he went, the magic guide
Kept its place by the poet's side.
Said melted the days like cups of pearl,
Served high and low, the lord and the churl,
Loved harebells nodding on a rock,
A cabin hung with curling smoke,
Ring of axe or hum of wheel
Or gleam which use can paint on steel,
And huts and tents; nor loved he less
Stately lords in palaces,
Princely women hard to please,
Fenced by form and ceremony,
Decked by courtly rites and dress
And etiquette of gentilesse.
But when the mate of the snow and wind,
He left each civil scale behind:
Him wood-gods fed with honey wild
And of his memory beguiled.
He loved to watch and wake
When the wing of the south-wind whipt the lake
And the glassy surface in ripples brake
And fled in pretty frowns away
Like the flitting boreal lights,
Rippling roses in northern nights,
Or like the thrill of Aeolian strings
In which the sudden wind-god rings.
In caves and hollow trees he crept
And near the wolf and panther slept.
He came to the green ocean's brim
And saw the wheeling sea-birds skim,
Summer and winter, o'er the wave,
Like creatures of a skiey mould,
Impassible to heat or cold.
He stood before the tumbling main
With joy too tense for sober brain;
He shared the life of the element,
The tie of blood and home was rent:
As if in him the welkin walked,
The winds took flesh, the mountains talked,
And he the bard, a crystal soul
Sphered and concentric with the whole.
II
The Dervish whined to Said,
"Thou didst not tarry while I prayed.
Beware the fire that Eblis burned,"
But Saadi coldly thus returned,
"Once with manlike love and fear
I gave thee for an hour my ear,
I kept the sun and stars at bay,
And love, for words thy tongue could say.
I cannot sell my heaven again
For all that rattles in thy brain."
III
Said Saadi, "When I stood before
Hassan the camel-driver's door,
I scorned the fame of Timour brave;
Timour, to Hassan, was a slave.
In every glance of Hassan's eye
I read great years of victory,
And I, who cower mean and small
In the frequent interval
When wisdom not with me resides,
Worship Toil's wisdom that abides.
I shunned his eyes, that faithful man's,
I shunned the toiling Hassan's glance."
IV
The civil world will much forgive
To bards who from its maxims live,
But if, grown bold, the poet dare
Bend his practice to his prayer
And following his mighty heart
Shame the times and live apart,--
_Vae solis!_ I found this,
That of goods I could not miss
If I fell within the line,
Once a member, all was mine,
Houses, banquets, gardens, fountains,
Fortune's delectable mountains;
But if I would walk alone,
Was neither cloak nor crumb my own.
And thus the high Muse treated me,
Directly never greeted me,
But when she spread her dearest spells,
Feigned to speak to some one else.
I was free to overhear,
Or I might at will forbear;
Yet mark me well, that idle word
Thus at random overheard
Was the symphony of spheres,
And proverb of a thousand years,
The light wherewith all planets shone,
The livery all events put on,
It fell in rain, it grew in grain,
It put on flesh in friendly form,
Frowned in my foe and growled in storm,
It spoke in Tullius Cicero,
In Milton and in Angelo:
I travelled and found it at Rome;
Eastward it filled all Heathendom
And it lay on my hearth when I came home.
V
Mask thy wisdom with delight,
Toy with the bow, yet hit the white,
As Jelaleddin old and gray;
He seemed to bask, to dream and play
Without remoter hope or fear
Than still to entertain his ear
And pass the burning summer-time
In the palm-grove with a rhyme;
Heedless that each cunning word
Tribes and ages overheard:
Those idle catches told the laws
Holding Nature to her cause.
God only knew how Saadi dined;
Roses he ate, and drank the wind;
He freelier breathed beside the pine,
In cities he was low and mean;
The mountain waters washed him clean
And by the sea-waves he was strong;
He heard their medicinal song,
Asked no physician but the wave,
No palace but his sea-beat cave.
Saadi held the Muse in awe,
She was his mistress and his law;
A twelvemonth he could silence hold,
Nor ran to speak till she him told;
He felt the flame, the fanning wings,
Nor offered words till they were things,
Glad when the solid mountain swims
In music and uplifting hymns.
Charmed from fagot and from steel,
Harvests grew upon his tongue,
Past and future must reveal
All their heart when Saadi sung;
Sun and moon must fall amain
Like sower's seeds into his brain,
There quickened to be born again.
The free winds told him what they knew,
Discoursed of fortune as they blew;
Omens and signs that filled the air
To him authentic witness bare;
The birds brought auguries on their wings,
And carolled undeceiving things
Him to beckon, him to warn;
Well might then the poet scorn
To learn of scribe or courier
Things writ in vaster character;
And on his mind at dawn of day
Soft shadows of the evening lay.
* * *
Pale genius roves alone,
No scout can track his way,
None credits him till he have shown
His diamonds to the day.
Not his the feaster's wine,
Nor land, nor gold, nor power,
By want and pain God screeneth him
Till his elected hour.
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals:--
The sower scatters broad his seed,
The wheat thou strew'st be souls.
I grieve that better souls than mine
Docile read my measured line:
High destined youths and holy maids
Hallow these my orchard shades;
Environ me and me baptize
With light that streams from gracious eyes.
I dare not be beloved and known,
I ungrateful, I alone.
Ever find me dim regards,
Love of ladies, love of bards,
Marked forbearance, compliments,
Tokens of benevolence.
What then, can I love myself?
Fame is profitless as pelf,
A good in Nature not allowed
They love me, as I love a cloud
Sailing falsely in the sphere,
Hated mist if it come near.
For thought, and not praise;
Thought is the wages
For which I sell days,
Will gladly sell ages
And willing grow old
Deaf, and dumb, and blind, and cold,
Melting matter into dreams,
Panoramas which I saw
And whatever glows or seems
Into substance, into Law.
For Fancy's gift
Can mountains lift;
The Muse can knit
What is past, what is done,
With the web that's just begun;
Making free with time and size,
Dwindles here, there magnifies,
Swells a rain-drop to a tun;
So to repeat
No word or feat
Crowds in a day the sum of ages,
And blushing Love outwits the sages.
Try the might the Muse affords
And the balm of thoughtful words;
Bring music to the desolate;
Hang roses on the stony fate.
But over all his crowning grace,
Wherefor thanks God his daily praise,
Is the purging of his eye
To see the people of the sky:
From blue mount and headland dim
Friendly hands stretch forth to him,
Him they beckon, him advise
Of heavenlier prosperities
And a more excelling grace
And a truer bosom-glow
Than the wine-fed feasters know.
They turn his heart from lovely maids,
And make the darlings of the earth
Swainish, coarse and nothing worth:
Teach him gladly to postpone
Pleasures to another stage
Beyond the scope of human age,
Freely as task at eve undone
Waits unblamed to-morrow's sun.
By thoughts I lead
Bards to say what nations need;
What imports, what irks and what behooves,
Framed afar as Fates and Loves.
And as the light divides the dark
Through with living swords,
So shall thou pierce the distant age
With adamantine words.
I framed his tongue to music,
I armed his hand with skill,
I moulded his face to beauty
And his heart the throne of Will.
For every God
Obeys the hymn, obeys the ode.
For art, for music over-thrilled,
The wine-cup shakes, the wine is spilled.
Hold of the Maker, not the Made;
Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad.
That book is good
Which puts me in a working mood.
Unless to Thought is added Will,
Apollo is an imbecile.
What parts, what gems, what colors shine,--
Ah, but I miss the grand design.
Like vaulters in a circus round
Who leap from horse to horse, but never touch the ground.
For Genius made his cabin wide,
And Love led Gods therein to bide.
The atom displaces all atoms beside,
And Genius unspheres all souls that abide.
To transmute crime to wisdom, so to stem
The vice of Japhet by the thought of Shem.
He could condense cerulean ether
Into the very best sole-leather.
Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread,
In mercy, on one little head.
I have no brothers and no peers,
And the dearest interferes:
When I would spend a lonely day,
Sun and moon are in my way.
The brook sings on, but sings in vain
Wanting the echo in my brain.
He planted where the deluge ploughed.
His hired hands were wind and cloud;
His eyes detect the Gods concealed
In the hummock of the field.
For what need I of book or priest,
Or sibyl from the mummied East,
When every star is Bethlehem star?
I count as many as there are
Cinquefoils or violets in the grass,
So many saints and saviors,
So many high behaviors
Salute the bard who is alive
And only sees what he doth give.
Coin the day-dawn into lines
In which its proper splendor shines;
Coin the moonlight into verse
Which all its marvel shall rehearse,
Chasing with words fast-flowing things; nor try
To plant thy shrivelled pedantry
On the shoulders of the sky.
Ah, not to me those dreams belong!
A better voice peals through my song.
The Muse's hill by Fear is guarded,
A bolder foot is still rewarded.
His instant thought a poet spoke,
And filled the age his fame;
An inch of ground the lightning strook
But lit the sky with flame.
If bright the sun, he tarries,
All day his song is heard;
And when he goes he carries
No more baggage than a bird.
The Asmodean feat is mine,
To spin my sand-heap into twine.
Slighted Minerva's learn鑔 tongue,
But leaped with joy when on the wind
The shell of Clio rung.
FRAGMENTS ON NATURE AND LIFE
NATURE
The patient Pan,
Drunken with nectar,
Sleeps or feigns slumber,
Drowsily humming
Music to the march of time.
This poor tooting, creaking cricket,
Pan, half asleep, rolling over
His great body in the grass,
Tooting, creaking,
Feigns to sleep, sleeping never;
'T is his manner,
Well he knows his own affair,
Piling mountain chains of phlegm
On the nervous brain of man,
As he holds down central fires
Under Alps and Andes cold;
Haply else we could not live,
Life would be too wild an ode.
Come search the wood for flowers,--
Wild tea and wild pea,
Grapevine and succory,
Coreopsis
And liatris,
Flaunting in their bowers;
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern and agrimony;
Forest full of essences
Fit for fairy presences,
Peppermint and sassafras,
Sweet fern, mint and vernal grass,
Panax, black birch, sugar maple,
Sweet and scent for Dian's table,
Elder-blow, sarsaparilla,
Wild rose, lily, dry vanilla,--
Spices in the plants that run
To bring their first fruits to the sun.
Earliest heats that follow frore
Nerv鑔 leaf of hellebore,
Sweet willow, checkerberry red,
With its savory leaf for bread.
Silver birch and black
With the selfsame spice
Found in polygala root and rind,
Sassafras, fern, benz鰅ne,
Mouse-ear, cowslip, wintergreen,
Which by aroma may compel
The frost to spare, what scents so well.
Where the fungus broad and red
Lifts its head,
Like poisoned loaf of elfin bread,
Where the aster grew
With the social goldenrod,
In a chapel, which the dew
Made beautiful for God:--
O what would Nature say?
She spared no speech to-day:
The fungus and the bulrush spoke,
Answered the pine-tree and the oak,
The wizard South blew down the glen,
Filled the straits and filled the wide,
Each maple leaf turned up its silver side.
All things shine in his smoky ray,
And all we see are pictures high;
Many a high hillside,
While oaks of pride
Climb to their tops,
And boys run out upon their leafy ropes.
The maple street
In the houseless wood,
Voices followed after,
Every shrub and grape leaf
Rang with fairy laughter.
I have heard them fall
Like the strain of all
King Oberon's minstrelsy.
Would hear the everlasting
And know the only strong?
You must worship fasting,
You must listen long.
Words of the air
Which birds of the air
Carry aloft, below, around,
To the isles of the deep,
To the snow-capped steep,
To the thundercloud.
For Nature, true and like in every place,
Will hint her secret in a garden patch,
Or in lone corners of a doleful heath,
As in the Andes watched by fleets at sea,
Or the sky-piercing horns of Himmaleh;
And, when I would recall the scenes I dreamed
On Adirondac steeps, I know
Small need have I of Turner or Daguerre,
Assured to find the token once again
In silver lakes that unexhausted gleam
And peaceful woods beside my cottage door.
What all the books of ages paint, I have.
What prayers and dreams of youthful genius feign,
I daily dwell in, and am not so blind
But I can see the elastic tent of day
Belike has wider hospitality
Than my few needs exhaust, and bids me read
The quaint devices on its mornings gay.
Yet Nature will not be in full possessed,
And they who truliest love her, heralds are
And harbingers of a majestic race,
Who, having more absorbed, more largely yield,
And walk on earth as the sun walks in the sphere.
But never yet the man was found
Who could the mystery expound,
Though Adam, born when oaks were young,
Endured, the Bible says, as long;
But when at last the patriarch died
The Gordian noose was still untied.
He left, though goodly centuries old,
Meek Nature's secret still untold.
Atom from atom yawns as far
As moon from earth, or star from star.
When all their blooms the meadows flaunt
To deck the morning of the year,
Why tinge thy lustres jubilant
With forecast or with fear?
Teach me your mood, O patient stars!
Who climb each night the ancient sky,
Leaving on space no shade, no scars,
No trace of age, no fear to die.
The sun athwart the cloud thought it no sin
To use my land to put his rainbows in.
For joy and beauty planted it,
With faerie gardens cheered,
And boding Fancy haunted it
With men and women weird.
What central flowing forces, say,
Make up thy splendor, matchless day?
Day by day for her darlings to her much she added more;
In her hundred-gated Thebes every chamber was a door,
A door to something grander,--loftier walls, and vaster floor.
She paints with white and red the moors
To draw the nations out of doors.
A score of airy miles will smooth
Rough Monadnoc to a gem.
THE EARTH
Our eyeless bark sails free
Though with boom and spar
Andes, Alp or Himmalee,
Strikes never moon or star.
THE HEAVENS
Wisp and meteor nightly falling,
But the Stars of God remain.
TRANSITION
See yonder leafless trees against the sky,
How they diffuse themselves into the air,
And, ever subdividing, separate
Limbs into branches, branches into twigs.
As if they loved the element, and hasted
To dissipate their being into it.
Parks and ponds are good by day;
I do not delight
In black acres of the night,
Nor my unseasoned step disturbs
The sleeps of trees or dreams of herbs.
In Walden wood the chickadee
Runs round the pine and maple tree
Intent on insect slaughter:
O tufted entomologist!
Devour as many as you list,
Then drink in Walden water.
The low December vault in June be lifted high,
And largest clouds be flakes of down in that enormous sky.
THE GARDEN
Many things the garden shows,
And pleased I stray
From tree to tree
Watching the white pear-bloom,
Bee-infested quince or plum.
I could walk days, years, away
Till the slow ripening, secular tree
Had reached its fruiting-time,
Nor think it long.
Solar insect on the wing
In the garden murmuring,
Soothing with thy summer horn
Swains by winter pinched and worn.
BIRDS
Darlings of children and of bard,
Perfect kinds by vice unmarred,
All of worth and beauty set
Gems in Nature's cabinet;
These the fables she esteems
Reality most like to dreams.
Welcome back, you little nations,
Far-travelled in the south plantations;
Bring your music and rhythmic flight,
Your colors for our eyes' delight:
Freely nestle in our roof,
Weave your chamber weatherproof;
And your enchanting manners bring
And your autumnal gathering.
Exchange in conclave general
Greetings kind to each and all,
Conscious each of duty done
And unstain鑔 as the sun.
WATER
The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
NAHANT
All day the waves assailed the rock,
I heard no church-bell chime,
The sea-beat scorns the minster clock
And breaks the glass of Time.
SUNRISE
Would you know what joy is hid
In our green Musketaquid,
And for travelled eyes what charms
Draw us to these meadow farms,
Come and I will show you all
Makes each day a festival.
Stand upon this pasture hill,
Face the eastern star until
The slow eye of heaven shall show
The world above, the world below.
Behold the miracle!
Thou saw'st but now the twilight sad
And stood beneath the firmament,
A watchman in a dark gray tent,
Waiting till God create the earth,--
Behold the new majestic birth!
The mottled clouds, like scraps of wool,
Steeped in the light are beautiful.
What majestic stillness broods
Over these colored solitudes.
Sleeps the vast East in pleas鑔 peace,
Up the far mountain walls the streams increase
Inundating the heaven
With spouting streams and waves of light
Which round the floating isles unite:--
See the world below
Baptized with the pure element,
A clear and glorious firmament
Touched with life by every beam.
I share the good with every flower,
I drink the nectar of the hour:--
This is not the ancient earth
Whereof old chronicles relate
The tragic tales of crime and fate;
But rather, like its beads of dew
And dew-bent violets, fresh and new,
An exhalation of the time.
* * *
NIGHT IN JUNE
I left my dreary page and sallied forth,
Received the fair inscriptions of the night;
The moon was making amber of the world,
Glittered with silver every cottage pane,
The trees were rich, yet ominous with gloom.
The meadows broad
From ferns and grapes and from the folded flowers
Sent a nocturnal fragrance; harlot flies
Flashed their small fires in air, or held their court
In fairy groves of herds-grass.
He lives not who can refuse me;
All my force saith, Come and use me:
A gleam of sun, a summer rain,
And all the zone is green again.
Seems, though the soft sheen all enchants,
Cheers the rough crag and mournful dell,
As if on such stern forms and haunts
A wintry storm more fitly fell.
Put in, drive home the sightless wedges
And split to flakes the crystal ledges.
MAIA
Illusion works impenetrable,
Weaving webs innumerable,
Her gay pictures never fail,
Crowds each on other, veil on veil,
Charmer who will be believed
By man who thirsts to be deceived.
Illusions like the tints of pearl,
Or changing colors of the sky,
Or ribbons of a dancing girl
That mend her beauty to the eye.
The cold gray down upon the quinces lieth
And the poor spinners weave their webs thereon
To share the sunshine that so spicy is.
Samson stark, at Dagon's knee,
Gropes for columns strong as he;
When his ringlets grew and curled,
Groped for axle of the world.
But Nature whistled with all her winds,
Did as she pleased and went her way.
LIFE
A train of gay and clouded days
Dappled with joy and grief and praise,
Beauty to fire us, saints to save,
Escort us to a little grave.
No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low,
For God hath writ all dooms magnificent,
So guilt not traverses his tender will.
Around the man who seeks a noble end,
Not angels but divinities attend.
From high to higher forces
The scale of power uprears,
The heroes on their horses,
The gods upon their spheres.
This shining moment is an edifice
Which the Omnipotent cannot rebuild.
Roomy Eternity
Casts her schemes rarely,
And an aeon allows
For each quality and part
Of the multitudinous
And many-chambered heart.
The beggar begs by God's command,
And gifts awake when givers sleep,
Swords cannot cut the giving hand
Nor stab the love that orphans keep.
In the chamber, on the stairs,
Lurking dumb,
Go and come
Lemurs and Lars.
Such another peerless queen
Only could her mirror show.
Easy to match what others do,
Perform the feat as well as they;
Hard to out-do the brave, the true,
And find a loftier way:
The school decays, the learning spoils
Because of the sons of wine;
How snatch the stripling from their toils?--
Yet can one ray of truth divine
The blaze of revellers' feasts outshine.
Of all wit's uses the main one
Is to live well with who has none.
The tongue is prone to lose the way,
Not so the pen, for in a letter
We have not better things to say,
But surely say them better.
She walked in flowers around my field
As June herself around the sphere.
Friends to me are frozen wine;
I wait the sun on them should shine.
You shall not love me for what daily spends;
You shall not know me in the noisy street,
Where I, as others, follow petty ends;
Nor when in fair saloons we chance to meet;
Nor when I'm jaded, sick, anxious or mean.
But love me then and only, when you know
Me for the channel of the rivers of God
From deep ideal fontal heavens that flow.
To and fro the Genius flies,
A light which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.
Of her faults I take no note,
Fault and folly are not mine;
Comes the Genius,--all's forgot,
Replunged again into that upper sphere
He scatters wide and wild its lustres here.
Love
Asks nought his brother cannot give;
Asks nothing, but does all receive.
Love calls not to his aid events;
He to his wants can well suffice:
Asks not of others soft consents,
Nor kind occasion without eyes;
Nor plots to ope or bolt a gate,
Nor heeds Condition's iron walls,--
Where he goes, goes before him Fate;
Whom he uniteth, God installs;
Instant and perfect his access
To the dear object of his thought,
Though foes and land and seas between
Himself and his love intervene.
The brave Empedocles, defying fools,
Pronounced the word that mortals hate to hear--
"I am divine, I am not mortal made;
I am superior to my human weeds."
Not Sense but Reason is the Judge of truth;
Reason's twofold, part human, part divine;
That human part may be described and taught,
The other portion language cannot speak.
Tell men what they knew before;
Paint the prospect from their door.
Him strong Genius urged to roam,
Stronger Custom brought him home.
That each should in his house abide.
Therefore was the world so wide.
Thou shalt make thy house
The temple of a nation's vows.
Spirits of a higher strain
Who sought thee once shall seek again.
I detected many a god
Forth already on the road,
Ancestors of beauty come
In thy breast to make a home.
The archangel Hope
Looks to the azure cope,
Waits through dark ages for the morn,
Defeated day by day, but unto victory born.
As the drop feeds its fated flower,
As finds its Alp the snowy shower,
Child of the omnific Need,
Hurled into life to do a deed,
Man drinks the water, drinks the light.
Ever the Rock of Ages melts
Into the mineral air,
To be the quarry whence to build
Thought and its mansions fair.
Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower,
Go match thee with thy seeming peers;
I will wait Heaven's perfect hour
Through the innumerable years.
Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken
Shall his own sorrow seem impertinent,
A thing that takes no more root in the world
Than doth the traveller's shadow on the rock.
But if thou do thy best,
Without remission, without rest,
And invite the sunbeam,
And abhor to feign or seem
Even to those who thee should love
And thy behavior approve;
If thou go in thine own likeness,
Be it health, or be it sickness;
If thou go as thy father's son,
If thou wear no mask or lie,
Dealing purely and nakedly,--
* * *
Ascending thorough just degrees
To a consummate holiness,
As angel blind to trespass done,
And bleaching all souls like the sun.
From the stores of eldest matter,
The deep-eyed flame, obedient water,
Transparent air, all-feeding earth,
He took the flower of all their worth,
And, best with best in sweet consent,
Combined a new temperament.
REX
The bard and mystic held me for their own,
I filled the dream of sad, poetic maids,
I took the friendly noble by the hand,
I was the trustee of the hand-cart man,
The brother of the fisher, porter, swain,
And these from the crowd's edge well pleased beheld
The service done to me as done to them.
With the key of the secret he marches faster,
From strength to strength, and for night brings day;
While classes or tribes, too weak to master
The flowing conditions of life, give way.
SUUM CUIQUE
Wilt thou seal up the avenues of ill?
Pay every debt as if God wrote the bill.
If curses be the wage of love,
Hide in thy skies, thou fruitless Jove,
Not to be named:
It is clear
Why the gods will not appear;
They are ashamed.
When wrath and terror changed Jove's regal port,
And the rash-leaping thunderbolt fell short.
Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift,
Sit still and Truth is near:
Suddenly it will uplift
Your eyelids to the sphere:
Wait a little, you shall see
The portraiture of things to be.
The rules to men made evident
By Him who built the day,
The columns of the firmament
Not firmer based than they.
On bravely through the sunshine and the showers!
Time hath his work to do and we have ours.
THE BOHEMIAN HYMN
In many forms we try
To utter God's infinity,
But the boundless hath no form,
And the Universal Friend
Doth as far transcend
An angel as a worm.
The great Idea baffles wit,
Language falters under it,
It leaves the learned in the lurch;
Nor art, nor power, nor toil can find
The measure of the eternal Mind,
Nor hymn, nor prayer, nor church.
GRACE
How much, preventing God, how much I owe
To the defences thou hast round me set;
Example, custom, fear, occasion slow,--
These scorned bondmen were my parapet.
I dare not peep over this parapet
To gauge with glance the roaring gulf below,
The depths of sin to which I had descended,
Had not these me against myself defended.
INSIGHT
Power that by obedience grows,
Knowledge which its source not knows,
Wave which severs whom it bears
From the things which he compares,
Adding wings through things to range,
To his own blood harsh and strange.
PAN
O what are heroes, prophets, men,
But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow
A momentary music. Being's tide
Swells hitherward, and myriads of forms
Live, robed with beauty, painted by the sun;
Their dust, pervaded by the nerves of God,
Throbs with an overmastering energy
Knowing and doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie
White hollow shells upon the desert shore,
But not the less the eternal wave rolls on
To animate new millions, and exhale
Races and planets, its enchanted foam.
MONADNOC FROM AFAR
Dark flower of Cheshire garden,
Red evening duly dyes
Thy sombre head with rosy hues
To fix far-gazing eyes.
Well the Planter knew how strongly
Works thy form on human thought;
I muse what secret purpose had he
To draw all fancies to this spot.
SEPTEMBER
In the turbulent beauty
Of a gusty Autumn day,
Poet on a sunny headland
Sighed his soul away.
Farms the sunny landscape dappled,
Swandown clouds dappled the farms,
Cattle lowed in mellow distance
Where far oaks outstretched their arms.
Sudden gusts came full of meaning,
All too much to him they said,
Oh, south winds have long memories,
Of that be none afraid.
I cannot tell rude listeners
Half the tell-tale South-wind said,--
'T would bring the blushes of yon maples
To a man and to a maid.
EROS
They put their finger on their lip,
The Powers above:
The seas their islands clip,
The moons in ocean dip,
They love, but name not love.
OCTOBER
October woods wherein
The boy's dream comes to pass,
And Nature squanders on the boy her pomp,
And crowns him with a more than royal crown,
And unimagined splendor waits his steps.
The gazing urchin walks through tents of gold,
Through crimson chambers, porphyry and pearl,
Pavilion on pavilion, garlanded,
Incensed and starred with lights and airs and shapes,
Color and sound, music to eye and ear,
Beyond the best conceit of pomp or power.
PETER'S FIELD
[Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?]
That field by spirits bad and good,
By Hell and Heaven is haunted,
And every rood in the hemlock wood
I know is ground enchanted.
[In the long sunny afternoon
The plain was full of ghosts:
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.]
For in those lonely grounds the sun
Shines not as on the town,
In nearer arcs his journeys run,
And nearer stoops the moon.
There in a moment I have seen
The buried Past arise;
The fields of Thessaly grew green,
Old gods forsook the skies.
I cannot publish in my rhyme
What pranks the greenwood played;
It was the Carnival of time,
And Ages went or stayed.
To me that spectral nook appeared
The mustering Day of Doom,
And round me swarmed in shadowy troop
Things past and things to come.
The darkness haunteth me elsewhere;
There I am full of light;
In every whispering leaf I hear
More sense than sages write.
Underwoods were full of pleasance,
All to each in kindness bend,
And every flower made obeisance
As a man unto his friend.
Far seen, the river glides below,
Tossing one sparkle to the eyes:
I catch thy meaning, wizard wave;
The River of my Life replies.
MUSIC
Let me go where'er I will,
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.
'T is not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.
THE WALK
A Queen rejoices in her peers,
And wary Nature knows her own
By court and city, dale and down,
And like a lover volunteers,
And to her son will treasures more
And more to purpose freely pour
In one wood walk, than learned men
Can find with glass in ten times ten.
COSMOS
Who saw the hid beginnings
When Chaos and Order strove,
Or who can date the morning.
The purple flaming of love?
I saw the hid beginnings
When Chaos and Order strove,
And I can date the morning prime
And purple flame of love.
Song breathed from all the forest,
The total air was fame;
It seemed the world was all torches
That suddenly caught the flame.
* * *
Is there never a retroscope mirror
In the realms and corners of space
That can give us a glimpse of the battle
And the soldiers face to face?
Sit here on the basalt courses
Where twisted hills betray
The seat of the world-old Forces
Who wrestled here on a day.
* * *
When the purple flame shoots up,
And Love ascends his throne,
I cannot hear your songs, O birds,
For the witchery of my own.
And every human heart
Still keeps that golden day
And rings the bells of jubilee
On its own First of May.
THE MIRACLE
I have trod this path a hundred times
With idle footsteps, crooning rhymes.
I know each nest and web-worm's tent,
The fox-hole which the woodchucks rent,
Maple and oak, the old Divan
Self-planted twice, like the banian.
I know not why I came again
Unless to learn it ten times ten.
To read the sense the woods impart
You must bring the throbbing heart.
Love is aye the counterforce,--
Terror and Hope and wild Remorse,
Newest knowledge, fiery thought,
Or Duty to grand purpose wrought.
Wandering yester morn the brake,
I reached this heath beside the lake,
And oh, the wonder of the power,
The deeper secret of the hour!
Nature, the supplement of man,
His hidden sense interpret can;--
What friend to friend cannot convey
Shall the dumb bird instructed say.
Passing yonder oak, I heard
Sharp accents of my woodland bird;
I watched the singer with delight,--
But mark what changed my joy to fright,--
When that bird sang, I gave the theme;
That wood-bird sang my last night's dream,
A brown wren was the Daniel
That pierced my trance its drift to tell,
Knew my quarrel, how and why,
Published it to lake and sky,
Told every word and syllable
In his flippant chirping babble,
All my wrath and all my shames,
Nay, God is witness, gave the names.
THE WATERFALL
A patch of meadow upland
Reached by a mile of road,
Soothed by the voice of waters,
With birds and flowers bestowed.
Hither I come for strength
Which well it can supply,
For Love draws might from terrene force
And potencies of sky.
The tremulous battery Earth
Responds to the touch of man;
It thrills to the antipodes,
From Boston to Japan.
The planets' child the planet knows
And to his joy replies;
To the lark's trill unfolds the rose,
Clouds flush their gayest dyes.
When Ali prayed and loved
Where Syrian waters roll,
Upward the ninth heaven thrilled and moved;
At the tread of the jubilant soul.
WALDEN
In my garden three ways meet,
Thrice the spot is blest;
Hermit-thrush comes there to build,
Carrier-doves to nest.
There broad-armed oaks, the copses' maze,
The cold sea-wind detain;
Here sultry Summer overstays
When Autumn chills the plain.
Self-sown my stately garden grows;
The winds and wind-blown seed,
Cold April rain and colder snows
My hedges plant and feed.
From mountains far and valleys near
The harvests sown to-day
Thrive in all weathers without fear,--
Wild planters, plant away!
In cities high the careful crowds
Of woe-worn mortals darkling go,
But in these sunny solitudes
My quiet roses blow.
Methought the sky looked scornful down
On all was base in man,
And airy tongues did taunt the town,
'Achieve our peace who can!'
What need I holier dew
Than Walden's haunted wave,
Distilled from heaven's alembic blue,
Steeped in each forest cave?
[If Thought unlock her mysteries,
If Friendship on me smile,
I walk in marble galleries,
I talk with kings the while.]
How drearily in College hall
The Doctor stretched the hours,
But in each pause we heard the call
Of robins out of doors.
The air is wise, the wind thinks well,
And all through which it blows,
If plants or brain, if egg or shell,
Or bird or biped knows;
And oft at home 'mid tasks I heed,
I heed how wears the day;
We must not halt while fiercely speed
The spans of life away.
What boots it here of Thebes or Rome
Or lands of Eastern day?
In forests I am still at home
And there I cannot stray.
THE ENCHANTER
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells;
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,
Scent, form and color; to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,
And crowds a history into a glance;
Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,
Spies oversea the fires of the mountain;
When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOETHE
Six thankful weeks,--and let it be
A meter of prosperity,--
In my coat I bore this book,
And seldom therein could I look,
For I had too much to think,
Heaven and earth to eat and drink.
Is he hapless who can spare
In his plenty things so rare?
RICHES
Have ye seen the caterpillar
Foully warking in his nest?
'T is the poor man getting siller,
Without cleanness, without rest.
Have ye seen the butterfly
In braw claithing drest?
'T is the poor man gotten rich,
In rings and painted vest.
The poor man crawls in web of rags
And sore bested with woes.
But when he flees on riches' wings,
He laugheth at his foes.
PHILOSOPHER
Philosophers are lined with eyes within,
And, being so, the sage unmakes the man.
In love, he cannot therefore cease his trade;
Scarce the first blush has overspread his cheek,
He feels it, introverts his learned eye
To catch the unconscious heart in the very act.
His mother died,--the only friend he had,--
Some tears escaped, but his philosophy
Couched like a cat sat watching close behind
And throttled all his passion. Is't not like
That devil-spider that devours her mate
Scarce freed from her embraces?
INTELLECT
Gravely it broods apart on joy,
And, truth to tell, amused by pain.
LIMITS
Who knows this or that?
Hark in the wall to the rat:
Since the world was, he has gnawed;
Of his wisdom, of his fraud
What dost thou know?
In the wretched little beast
Is life and heart,
Child and parent,
Not without relation
To fruitful field and sun and moon.
What art thou? His wicked eye
Is cruel to thy cruelty.
INSCRIPTION FOR A WELL IN MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF THE WAR
Fall, stream, from Heaven to bless; return as well;
So did our sons; Heaven met them as they fell.
THE EXILE
(AFTER TALIESSIN)
The heavy blue chain
Of the boundless main
Didst thou, just man, endure.
I have an arrow that will find its mark,
A mastiff that will bite without a hark.
* * * * *
VI
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
1823-1834
* * * * *
THE BELL
I love thy music, mellow bell,
I love thine iron chime,
To life or death, to heaven or hell,
Which calls the sons of Time.
Thy voice upon the deep
The home-bound sea-boy hails,
It charms his cares to sleep,
It cheers him as he sails.
To house of God and heavenly joys
Thy summons called our sires,
And good men thought thy sacred voice
Disarmed the thunder's fires.
And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
Shall lift its notes once more,
And mix my requiem with the wind
That sweeps my native shore.
1823.
THOUGHT
I am not poor, but I am proud,
Of one inalienable right,
Above the envy of the crowd,--
Thought's holy light.
Better it is than gems or gold,
And oh! it cannot die,
But thought will glow when the sun grows cold,
And mix with Deity.
BOSTON, 1823.
PRAYER
When success exalts thy lot,
God for thy virtue lays a plot:
And all thy life is for thy own,
Then for mankind's instruction shown;
And though thy knees were never bent,
To Heaven thy hourly prayers are sent,
And whether formed for good or ill,
Are registered and answered still.
1826 [?].
I bear in youth the sad infirmities
That use to undo the limb and sense of age;
It hath pleased Heaven to break the dream of bliss
Which lit my onward way with bright presage,
And my unserviceable limbs forego.
The sweet delight I found in fields and farms,
On windy hills, whose tops with morning glow,
And lakes, smooth mirrors of Aurora's charms.
Yet I think on them in the silent night,
Still breaks that morn, though dim, to Memory's eye,
And the firm soul does the pale train defy
Of grim Disease, that would her peace affright.
Please God, I'll wrap me in mine innocence,
And bid each awful Muse drive the damned harpies hence.
CAMBRIDGE, 1827.
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly
Serve that low whisper thou hast served; for know,
God hath a _select_ family of sons
Now scattered wide thro' earth, and each alone,
Who are thy spiritual kindred, and each one
By constant service to, that inward law,
Is weaving the sublime proportions
Of a true monarch's soul. Beauty and strength,
The riches of a spotless memory,
The eloquence of truth, the wisdom got
By searching of a clear and loving eye
That seeth as God seeth. These are their gifts,
And Time, who keeps God's word, brings on the day
To seal the marriage of these minds with thine,
Thine everlasting lovers. Ye shall be
The salt of all the elements, world of the world.
TO-DAY
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide
The resurrection of departed pride.
Safe in their ancient crannies, dark and deep,
Let kings and conquerors, saints and soldiers sleep--
Late in the world,--too late perchance for fame,
Just late enough to reap abundant blame,--
I choose a novel theme, a bold abuse
Of critic charters, an unlaurelled Muse.
Old mouldy men and books and names and lands
Disgust my reason and defile my hands.
I had as lief respect an ancient shoe,
As love old things _for age_, and hate the new.
I spurn the Past, my mind disdains its nod,
Nor kneels in homage to so mean a God.
I laugh at those who, while they gape and gaze,
The bald antiquity of China praise.
Youth is (whatever cynic tubs pretend)
The fault that boys and nations soonest mend.
1824.
FAME
Ah Fate, cannot a man
Be wise without a beard?
East, West, from Beer to Dan,
Say, was it never heard
That wisdom might in youth be gotten,
Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?
He pays too high a price
For knowledge and for fame
Who sells his sinews to be wise,
His teeth and bones to buy a name,
And crawls through life a paralytic
To earn the praise of bard and critic.
Were it not better done,
To dine and sleep through forty years;
Be loved by few; be feared by none;
Laugh life away; have wine for tears;
And take the mortal leap undaunted,
Content that all we asked was granted?
But Fate will not permit
The seed of gods to die,
Nor suffer sense to win from wit
Its guerdon in the sky,
Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure,
The world's light underneath a measure.
Go then, sad youth, and shine;
Go, sacrifice to Fame;
Put youth, joy, health upon the shrine,
And life to fan the flame;
Being for Seeming bravely barter
And die to Fame a happy martyr.
1824.
THE SUMMONS
A sterner errand to the silken troop
Has quenched the uneasy blush that warmed my cheek;
I am commissioned in my day of joy
To leave my woods and streams and the sweet sloth
Of prayer and song that were my dear delight,
To leave the rudeness of my woodland life,
Sweet twilight walks and midnight solitude
And kind acquaintance with the morning stars
And the glad hey-day of my household hours,
The innocent mirth which sweetens daily bread,
Railing in love to those who rail again,
By mind's industry sharpening the love of life--
Books, Muses, Study, fireside, friends and love,
I loved ye with true love, so fare ye well!
I was a boy; boyhood slid gayly by
And the impatient years that trod on it
Taught me new lessons in the lore of life.
I've learned the sum of that sad history
All woman-born do know, that hoped-for days,
Days that come dancing on fraught with delights,
Dash our blown hopes as they limp heavily by.
But I, the bantling of a country Muse,
Abandon all those toys with speed to obey
The King whose meek ambassador I go.
1826.
THE RIVER
And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,--
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed
The fragrant flag-roots in my father's fields,
And where thereafter in the world he went.
Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now
He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales
With his redundant waves.
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,--and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly
A blooming hunter of a fairy fine.
And hark! where overhead the ancient crows
Hold their sour conversation in the sky:--
These are the same, but I am not the same,
But wiser than I was, and wise enough
Not to regret the changes, tho' they cost
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind,
That rustles down the well-known forest road--
It hath a sound more eloquent than speech.
The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind,
All of them utter sounds of 'monishment
And grave parental love.
They are not of our race, they seem to say,
And yet have knowledge of our moral race,
And somewhat of majestic sympathy,
Something of pity for the puny clay,
That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind.
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country's primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.
CONCORD, June, 1827.
GOOD HOPE
The cup of life is not so shallow
That we have drained the best,
That all the wine at once we swallow
And lees make all the rest.
Maids of as soft a bloom shall marry
As Hymen yet hath blessed,
And fairer forms are in the quarry
Than Phidias released.
1827.
LINES TO ELLEN
Tell me, maiden, dost thou use
Thyself thro' Nature to diffuse?
All the angles of the coast
Were tenanted by thy sweet ghost,
Bore thy colors every flower,
Thine each leaf and berry bore;
All wore thy badges and thy favors
In their scent or in their savors,
Every moth with painted wing,
Every bird in carolling,
The wood-boughs with thy manners waved,
The rocks uphold thy name engraved,
The sod throbbed friendly to my feet,
And the sweet air with thee was sweet.
The saffron cloud that floated warm
Studied thy motion, took thy form,
And in his airy road benign
Recalled thy skill in bold design,
Or seemed to use his privilege
To gaze o'er the horizon's edge,
To search where now thy beauty glowed,
Or made what other purlieus proud.
1829.
SECURITY
Though her eye seek other forms
And a glad delight below,
Yet the love the world that warms
Bids for me her bosom glow.
She must love me till she find
Another heart as large and true.
Her soul is frank as the ocean wind,
And the world has only two.
If Nature hold another heart
That knows a purer flame than me,
I too therein could challenge part
And learn of love a new degree.
1829.
A dull uncertain brain,
But gifted yet to know
That God has cherubim who go
Singing an immortal strain,
Immortal here below.
I know the mighty bards,
I listen when they sing,
And now I know
The secret store
Which these explore
When they with torch of genius pierce
The tenfold clouds that cover
The riches of the universe
From God's adoring lover.
And if to me it is not given
To fetch one ingot thence
Of the unfading gold of Heaven
His merchants may dispense,
Yet well I know the royal mine,
And know the sparkle of its ore,
Know Heaven's truth from lies that shine--
Explored they teach us to explore.
1831.
A MOUNTAIN GRAVE
Why fear to die
And let thy body lie
Under the flowers of June,
Thy body food
For the ground-worms' brood
And thy grave smiled on by the visiting moon.
Amid great Nature's halls
Girt in by mountain walls
And washed with waterfalls
It would please me to die,
Where every wind that swept my tomb
Goes loaded with a free perfume
Dealt out with a God's charity.
I should like to die in sweets,
A hill's leaves for winding-sheets,
And the searching sun to see
That I am laid with decency.
And the commissioned wind to sing
His mighty psalm from fall to spring
And annual tunes commemorate
Of Nature's child the common fate.
WILLIAMSTOWN, VERMONT, 1 June, 1831.
A LETTER
Dear brother, would you know the life,
Please God, that I would lead?
On the first wheels that quit this weary town
Over yon western bridges I would ride
And with a cheerful benison forsake
Each street and spire and roof, incontinent.
Then would I seek where God might guide my steps,
Deep in a woodland tract, a sunny farm,
Amid the mountain counties, Hants, Franklin, Berks,
Where down the rock ravine a river roars,
Even from a brook, and where old woods
Not tamed and cleared cumber the ground
With their centennial wrecks.
Find me a slope where I can feel the sun
And mark the rising of the early stars.
There will I bring my books,--my household gods,
The reliquaries of my dead saint, and dwell
In the sweet odor of her memory.
Then in the uncouth solitude unlock
My stock of art, plant dials in the grass,
Hang in the air a bright thermometer
And aim a telescope at the inviolate sun.
CHARDON ST., BOSTON, 1831.
Day by day returns
The everlasting sun,
Replenishing material urns
With God's unspared donation;
But the day of day,
The orb within the mind,
Creating fair and good alway,
Shines not as once it shined.
* * *
Vast the realm of Being is,
In the waste one nook is his;
Whatsoever hap befalls
In his vision's narrow walls
He is here to testify.
1831.
HYMN
There is in all the sons of men
A love that in the spirit dwells,
That panteth after things unseen,
And tidings of the future tells.
And God hath built his altar here
To keep this fire of faith alive,
And sent his priests in holy fear
To speak the truth--for truth to strive.
And hither come the pensive train
Of rich and poor, of young and old,
Of ardent youth untouched by pain,
Of thoughtful maids and manhood bold.
They seek a friend to speak the word
Already trembling on their tongue,
To touch with prophet's hand the chord
Which God in human hearts hath strung.
To speak the plain reproof of sin
That sounded in the soul before,
And bid you let the angels in
That knock at meek contrition's door.
A friend to lift the curtain up
That hides from man the mortal goal,
And with glad thoughts of faith and hope
Surprise the exulting soul.
Sole source of light and hope assured,
O touch thy servant's lips with power,
So shall he speak to us the word
Thyself dost give forever more.
June, 1831.
SELF-RELIANCE
Henceforth, please God, forever I forego
The yoke of men's opinions. I will be
Light-hearted as a bird, and live with God.
I find him in the bottom of my heart,
I hear continually his voice therein.
* * *
The little needle always knows the North,
The little bird remembereth his note,
And this wise Seer within me never errs.
I never taught it what it teaches me;
I only follow, when I act aright.
October 9, 1832.
And when I am entombed in my place,
Be it remembered of a single man,
He never, though he dearly loved his race,
For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship
Of minds that each can stand against the world
By its own meek and incorruptible will?
The days pass over me
And I am still the same;
The aroma of my life is gone
With the flower with which it came.
1833.
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
We are what we are made; each following day
Is the Creator of our human mould
Not less than was the first; the all-wise God
Gilds a few points in every several life,
And as each flower upon the fresh hillside,
And every colored petal of each flower,
Is sketched and dyed, each with a new design,
Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown,
So each man's life shall have its proper lights,
And a few joys, a few peculiar charms,
For him round in the melancholy hours
And reconcile him to the common days.
Not many men see beauty in the fogs
Of close low pine-woods in a river town;
Yet unto me not morn's magnificence,
Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve,
Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls
Of rich men blazing hospitable light,
Nor wit, nor eloquence,--no, nor even the song
Of any woman that is now alive,--
Hath such a soul, such divine influence,
Such resurrection of the happy past,
As is to me when I behold the morn
Ope in such law moist roadside, and beneath
Peep the blue violets out of the black loam,
Pathetic silent poets that sing to me
Thine elegy, sweet singer, sainted wife.
March, 1833.
WRITTEN AT ROME
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too;--
Besides, you need not be alone; the soul
Shall have society of its own rank.
Be great, be true, and all the Scipios,
The Catos, the wise patriots of Rome,
Shall flock to you and tarry by your side,
And comfort you with their high company.
Virtue alone is sweet society,
It keeps the key to all heroic hearts,
And opens you a welcome in them all.
You must be like them if you desire them,
Scorn trifles and embrace a better aim
Than wine or sleep or praise;
Hunt knowledge as the lover wooes a maid,
And ever in the strife of your own thoughts
Obey the nobler impulse; that is Rome:
That shall command a senate to your side;
For there is no might in the universe
That can contend with love. It reigns forever.
Wait then, sad friend, wait in majestic peace
The hour of heaven. Generously trust
Thy fortune's web to the beneficent hand
That until now has put his world in fee
To thee. He watches for thee still. His love
Broods over thee, and as God lives in heaven,
However long thou walkest solitary,
The hour of heaven shall come, the man appear.
1833.
WEBSTER
1831
Let Webster's lofty face
Ever on thousands shine,
A beacon set that Freedom's race
Might gather omens from that radiant sign.
FROM THE PHI BETA KAPPA POEM
1834
Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
For living brows; ill fits them to receive:
And yet, if virtue abrogate the law,
One portrait--fact or fancy--we may draw;
A form which Nature cast in the heroic mould
Of them who rescued liberty of old;
He, when the rising storm of party roared,
Brought his great forehead to the council board,
There, while hot heads perplexed with fears the state,
Calm as the morn the manly patriot sate;
Seemed, when at last his clarion accents broke,
As if the conscience of the country spoke.
Not on its base Monadnoc surer stood,
Than he to common sense and common good:
No mimic; from his breast his counsel drew,
Believed the eloquent was aye the true;
He bridged the gulf from th' alway good and wise
To that within the vision of small eyes.
Self-centred; when he launched the genuine word
It shook or captivated all who heard,
Ran from his mouth to mountains and the sea,
And burned in noble hearts proverb and prophecy.
1854
Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail?
He wrote on Nature's grandest brow, _For Sale_.
* * * * *
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A dull uncertain brain
"A new commandment," said the smiling Muse
A patch of meadow upland
A queen rejoices in her peers
A ruddy drop of manly blood
A score of airy miles will smooth
A sterner errand to the silken troop
A subtle chain of countless rings
A train of gay and clouded days
Ah Fate, cannot a man
Ah, not to me those dreams belong!
All day the waves assailed the rock
Alone in Rome. Why, Rome is lonely too
Already blushes on thy cheek
And as the light divides the dark
And Ellen, when the graybeard years
And I behold once more
And when I am entombed in my place
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
Around the man who seeks a noble end
Ascending thorough just degrees
Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay?'
As sings the pine-tree in the wind
As sunbeams stream through liberal space
As the drop feeds its fated flower
Atom from atom yawns as far
Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly
Because I was content with these poor fields
Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Blooms the laurel which belongs
Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint
Burly, dozing humble-bee
But God said
But if thou do thy best
But Nature whistled with all her winds
But never yet the man was found
But over all his crowning grace
By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
By the rude bridge that arched the flood
By thoughts I lead
Can rules or tutors educate
Cast the bantling on the rocks
Coin the day dawn into lines
Dark flower of Cheshire garden
Darlings of children and of bard
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days
Day by day for her darlings to her much she added more
Day by day returns
Day! hast thou two faces
Dear brother, would you know the life
Dearest, where thy shadow falls
Deep in the man sits fast his fate
Each spot where tulips prank their state
Each the herald is who wrote
Easy to match what others do
Ere he was born, the stars of fate
Ever the Poet _from_ the land
Ever the Rock of Ages melts
Every day brings a ship
Every thought is public
Fall, stream, from Heaven to bless; return as well
Farewell, ye lofty spires
Flow, flow the waves hated
For art, for music over-thrilled
For every God
For Fancy's gift
For Genius made his cabin wide
For joy and beauty planted it
For Nature, true and like in every place
For thought, and not praise
For what need I of book or priest
Forbore the ant-hill, shunned to tread
Freedom all winged expands
Friends to me are frozen wine
From fall to spring, the russet acorn
From high to higher forces
From the stores of eldest matter
From thy worth and weight the stars gravitate
Gifts of one who loved me
Give all to love
Give me truths
Give to barrows, trays and pans
Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower
Go speed the stars of Thought
Go thou to thy learned task
Gold and iron are good
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home
Grace, Beauty and Caprice
Gravely it broods apart on joy
Hark what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
Have ye seen the caterpillar
He could condense cerulean ether
He lives not who can refuse me
He planted where the deluge ploughed
He took the color of his vest
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare
He who has no hands
Hear what British Merlin sung
Henceforth, please God, forever I forego
Her passions the shy violet
Her planted eye to-day controls
High was her heart, and yet was well inclined
Him strong Genius urged to roam
His instant thought a poet spoke
His tongue was framed to music
Hold of the Maker, not the Made
How much, preventing God, how much I owe
I, Alphonso, live and learn
I am not poor but I am proud
I am not wiser for my age
I am the Muse who sung alway
I bear in youth and sad infirmities
I cannot spare water or wine
I do not count the hours I spend
I framed his tongue to music
I grieve that better souls than mine
I have an arrow that will find its mark
I have no brothers and no peers
I have trod this path a hundred times
I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea
I hung my verses in the wind
I left my dreary page and sallied forth
I like a church; I like a cowl
I love thy music, mellow bell
I mourn upon this battle-field
I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide
I reached the middle of the mount
I said to heaven that glowed above
I see all human wits
I serve you not, if you I follow
If bright the sun, he tarries
If curses be the wage of love
If I could put my woods in song
If my darling should depart
If the red slayer think he slays
Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave
Illusions like the tints of pearl
Illusion works impenetrable
In an age of fops and toys
In countless upward-striving waves
In Farsistan the violet spreads
In many forms we try
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
In my garden three ways meet
In the chamber, on the stairs
In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
In the suburb, in the town
In the turbulent beauty
In Walden wood the chickadee
It fell in the ancient periods
It is time to be old
Knows he who tills this lonely field
Let me go where'er I will
Let Webster's lofty face
Like vaulters in a circus round
Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Long I followed happy guides
Love asks nought his brother cannot give
Love on his errand bound to go
Love scatters oil
Low and mournful be the strain
Man was made of social earth
Many things the garden shows
May be true what I had heard
Mine and yours
Mine are the night and morning
Mortal mixed of middle clay
Nature centres into balls
Never did sculptor's dream unfold
Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall
No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low
Not in their houses stand the stars
October woods wherein
O fair and stately maid, whose eyes
O pity that I pause!
O tenderly the haughty day
O well for the fortunate soul
O what are heroes, prophets, men
Of all wit's uses the main one
Of Merlin wise I learned a song
Oh what is Heaven but the fellowship
On a mound an Arab lay
On bravely through the sunshine and the showers
On prince or bride no diamond stone
On two days it steads not to run from thy grave
Once I wished I might rehearse
One musician is sure
Our eyeless bark sails free
Over his head were the maple buds
Pale genius roves alone
Parks and ponds are good by day
Philosophers are lined with eyes within
Power that by obedience grows
Put in, drive home the sightless wedges
Quit the hut, frequent the palace
Right upward on the road of fame
Roomy Eternity
Roving, roving, as it seems
Ruby wine is drunk by knaves
Samson stark at Dagon's knee
See yonder leafless trees against the sky
Seek not the spirit, if it hide
Seems, though the soft sheen all enchants
Set not thy foot on graves
She is gamesome and good
She paints with white and red the moors
She walked in flowers around my field
Shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
Shun passion, fold the hands of thrift
Six thankful weeks,--and let it be
Slighted Minerva's learn鑔 tongue
Soft and softlier hold me, friends!
Solar insect on the wing
Some of your hurts you have cured
Space is ample, east and west
Spin the ball! I reel, I burn
Such another peerless queen
Sudden gusts came full of meaning
Tell me, maiden, dost thou use
Tell men what they knew before
Test of the poet is knowledge of love
Thanks to the morning light
That book is good
That each should in his house abide
That you are fair or wise is vain
The April winds are magical
The archangel Hope
The Asmodean feat is mine
The atom displaces all atoms beside
The bard and mystic held me for their own
The beggar begs by God's command
The brave Empedocles, defying fools
The brook sings on, but sings in vain
The cold gray down upon the quinces lieth
The cup of life is not so shallow
The days pass over me
The debt is paid
The gale that wrecked you on the sand
The green grass is bowing
The heavy blue chain
The living Heaven thy prayers respect
The lords of life, the lords of life
The low December vault in June be lifted high
Theme no poet gladly sung
The mountain and the squirrel
The Muse's hill by Fear is guarded
The patient Pan
The prosperous and beautiful
The rhyme of the poet
The rocky nook with hilltops three
The rules to men made evident
The sea is the road of the bold
The sense of the world is short
The solid, solid universe
The South-wind brings
The Sphinx is drowsy
The sun athwart the cloud thought it no sin
The sun goes down, and with him takes
The sun set, but set not his hope
The tongue is prone to lose the way
The water understands
The wings of Time are black and white
The word of the Lord by night
The yesterday doth never smile
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes
There are beggars in Iran and Araby
There is in all the sons of men
There is no great and no small
There is no architect
They brought me rubies from the mine
They put their finger on their lips
They say, through patience, chalk
Thine eyes still shined for me, though far
Think me not unkind and rude
This is he, who, felled by foes
This shining moment is an edifice
Thou foolish Hafiz! Say, do churls
Thou shalt make thy house
Though her eyes seek other forms
Though loath to grieve
Though love repine and reason chafe
Thousand minstrels woke within me
Thy foes to hunt, thy enviers to strike down
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit
Thy trivial harp will never please
To and fro the Genius flies
To clothe the fiery thought
To transmute crime to wisdom, so to stem
Trees in groves
True Brahmin, in the morning meadows wet
Try the might the Muse affords
Two things thou shalt not long for, if thou love a mind serene
Two well-assorted travellers use
Unbar the door, since thou the Opener art
Venus, when her son was lost
Was never form and never face
We are what we are made; each following day
We crossed Champlain to Keeseville with our friends
We love the venerable house
Well and wisely said the Greek
What all the books of ages paint, I have
What care I, so they stand the same
What central flowing forces, say
When all their blooms the meadows flaunt
When I was born
When success exalts thy lot
When the pine tosses its cones
When wrath and terror changed Jove's regal port
Who gave thee, O Beauty
Who knows this or that? 375.
Who saw the hid beginnings
Who shall tell what did befall
Why did all manly gifts in Webster fail?
Why fear to die
Why lingerest thou, pale violet, to see the dying year
Why should I keep holiday
Wilt thou seal up the avenues of ill?
Winters know
Wise and polite,--and if I drew
Wisp and meteor nightly falling
With beams December planets dart
With the key of the secret he marches faster
Would you know what joy is hid
Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken
You shall not be overbold
You shall not love me for what daily spends
Your picture smiles as first it smiled
* * * * *
INDEX OF TITLES
[The titles in small capital letters are those of the principal
divisions of the work; those in lower case are of single poems, or the
subdivisions of long poems.]
A.H.
[Greek: Adakryn nemontai Aiona]
Adirondacs, The
Alcuin, From
Ali Ben Abu Taleb, From
Alphonso of Castile
Amulet, The
Apology, The
April
Art
Artist
Astraea
Bacchus
Beauty
Bell, The
Berrying
Birds
Blight
Bo閏e, 蓆ienne de la
Bohemian Hymn, The
Borrowing
Boston
Boston Hymn, read in Music Hall, January 1, 1863
Botanist
Brahma
Caritas
Casella
Celestial Love, The
Channing, W.H., Ode inscribed to
Character
Chartist's Complaint, The
Circles
Climacteric
Compensation
Concord Hymn
Concord, Ode Sung in the Town Hall, July 4, 1857
Cosmos
Culture
Cupido
Daemonic Love, The
Day's Ration, The
Days
Destiny
Dirge
Each and All
Earth, The
Earth-Song
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
Ellen, To
Ellen, Lines to
Enchanter, The
Epitaph
Eros
Eva, To
Excelsior
Exile, The
Experience
Fable
Fame
Fate
Flute, The
Forbearance
Forerunners
Forester
Fragments on Nature and Life
Fragments on the Poet and the Poetic Gift
Freedom
Friendship
Garden, The
Garden, My
Gardener
Gifts
Give all to Love
Good-bye
Good Hope
Grace
Guy
Hafiz
Hafiz, From
Hamatreya
Harp, The
Heavens, The
Heri, Cras, Hodie
Hermione
Heroism
Holidays
Horoscope
House, The
Humble-Bee, The
Hush!
Hymn
Hymn sung at the Second Church, Boston, at the Ordination of
Rev. Chandler Robbins
Ibn Jemin, From
Illusions
Informing Spirit, The
In Memoriam
Initial, Daemonic and Celestial Love
Initial Love, The
Inscription for a Well in Memory of the Martyrs of the War
Insight
Intellect
J.W., To
Last Farewell, The
Letter, A
Letters
Life
Limits
Lines by Ellen Louise Tucker
Lines to Ellen
Love
Love and Thought
Maia
Maiden Speech of the Aeolian Harp
Manners
MAY-DAY AND OTHER PIECES
May-Day
Memory
Merlin
Merlin's Song
Merops
Miracle, The
Mithridates
Monadnoc
Monadnoc from afar
Mountain Grave, A
Music
Musketaquid
My Garden
Nahant
Nature
Nature in Leasts
Nemesis
Night in June
Northman
Nun's Aspiration, The
October
Ode, inscribed to W.H. Channing
Ode, sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857
Ode to Beauty
Omar Khayyam, From
Orator
Pan
Park, The
Past, The
Pericles
Peter's Field
Phi Beta Kappa Poem, From the
Philosopher
POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD
Poet
Poet, The
Politics
Power
Prayer
Problem, The
Promise
Prudence
QUATRAINS AND TRANSLATIONS
Rex
Rhea, To
Rhodora, The
Riches
River, The
Romany Girl, The
Rubies
S.H.
Saadi
Sacrifice
Seashore
Security
September
Shah, To the
Shakspeare
Snow-Storm, The
Solution
Song of Nature
Song of Seyd Nimetollah of Kuhistan
Sonnet of Michel Angelo Buonarotti
Sphinx, The
Spiritual Laws
Summons, The
Sunrise
Sursum Corda
"Suum Cuique"
Terminus
Test, The
Thine Eyes still Shined
Thought
Threnody
Titmouse, The
To-Day
To Ellen at the South
To Ellen
To Eva
To J.W.
To Rhea
To the Shah
Transition
Translations
Two Rivers
Una
Unity
Uriel
Violet, The
Visit, The
Voluntaries
Waldeinsamkeit
Walden
Walk, The
Water
Waterfall, The
Wealth
Webster
Woodnotes
World-Soul, The
Worship
Written at Rome, 1883
Written in a Volume of Goethe
Written in Naples, March, 1883
Xenophanes
我听见美国在歌唱
我听见美国在歌唱，我听见各种各样的歌，
那些机械工人的歌，每个人都唱着他那理所当然地快乐而又
雄伟的歌，
木匠一面衡量着他的木板或房梁，一面唱着他的歌，
泥水匠在准备开始工作或离开工作的时候唱着他的歌，
船夫在他的船上唱着属于他的歌，舱面水手在汽船甲板上唱
歌，
鞋匠坐在他的凳子上唱歌，做帽子的人站着唱歌，
伐木者的歌，牵引耕畜的孩子在早晨、午休或日落时走在路上
唱的歌，
母亲或年轻的妻子在工作时，或者姑娘在缝纫或洗衣裳时甜
美地唱着的歌，
每个人都唱着属于他或她而不属于任何其他人的歌，
白天唱着属于白天的歌——晚上这一群体格健壮、友好相处
的年轻小伙子，
就放开嗓子唱起他们那雄伟而又悦耳的歌。
（邹绛译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛，
我注意它孤立地站在小小的海岬上．
注意它怎样勘测周围的茫茫空虚，
它射出了丝，丝，丝，从它自己之小，
不断地从纱绽放丝，不倦地加快速率。
而你——我的心灵啊，你站在何处，
被包围被孤立在无限空间的海洋里，
不停地沉思、探险、投射、寻求可以连结的地方，
直到架起你需要的桥，直到下定你韧性的锚，
直到你抛出的游丝抓住了某处，我的心灵啊！
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
哦．船长，我的船长！
哦．船长，我的船长！我们险恶的航程已经告终，
我们的船安渡过惊涛骇浪，我们寻求的奖赏已赢得手中。
港口已经不远，钟声我已听见，万千人众在欢呼呐喊，
目迎着我们的船从容返航，我们的船威严而且勇敢。
可是，心啊！心啊！心啊！
哦．殷红的血滴流泻，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
哦，船长，我的船长！起来吧，请听听这钟声，
起来，——旌旗，为你招展——号角，为你长鸣。
为你．岸上挤满了人群——为你，无数花束、彩带、花环。
为你，熙攘的群众在呼唤，转动着多少殷切的脸。
这里，船长！亲爱的父亲！
你头颅下边是我的手臂！
这是甲板上的一场梦啊，
你已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
我们的船长不作回答，他的双唇惨白、寂静，
我的父亲不能感觉我的手臂，他已没有脉搏、没有生命，
我们的船已安全抛锚碇泊，航行已完成，已告终，
胜利的船从险恶的旅途归来，我们寻求的已赢得手中。
欢呼，哦，海岸！轰鸣，哦，洪钟！
可是，我却轻移悲伤的步履，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
（江枫译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长，
它独自屹立着，树枝上垂着苔藓，
没有任何伴侣，它在那儿长着，进发出暗绿色的欢乐的树
叶，
它的气度粗鲁，刚宜，健壮，使我联想起自己，
但我惊讶于它如何能孤独屹立附近没有一个朋友而仍能
进发出欢乐的树叶，因为我明知我做不到，
于是我折下一根小枝上面带有若干叶子．并给它缠上一
点苔藓，
带走了它，插在我房间里在我眼界内．
我对我亲爱的朋友们的思念并不需要提醒，
（因为我相信近来我对他们的思念压倒了一切，）
但这树枝对我仍然是一个奇妙的象征，它使我想到
男子气概的爱；
尽管啊，尽管这棵栎树在路易斯安那孤独屹立在一片辽
阔中闪烁发光，
附近没有一个朋友一个情侣而一辈子不停地进发出欢乐
的树叶，
而我明知我做不到。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
眼泪
眼泪！眼泪！眼泪！
黑夜中独自落下的眼泪，
在苍白的海岸上滴落，滴落，滴落，任沙粒吸净，
眼泪，星光一丝不见，四下一片荒凉和漆黑，
潮湿的泪，从遮盖着的眼眶中飘坠下来，
啊，那个鬼影是谁？那黑暗中流泪的形象？
那在沙上弯着腰，抱头跌坐的一大堆是什么？
泉涌的泪，呜咽的泪，为哭号所哽塞的痛苦，
啊，暴风雨已然成形，高涨，沿着海岸飞奔疾走？
啊，阴惨狂暴的夜雨，夹着暴风，啊，滂沱，乖戾！
啊，白日里那么沉着和端庄，状貌安详，步履均匀，
可是当你隐没在茫茫黑夜，没有人看见时——啊，
这时泛滥有如海水，蕴蓄着无限的
眼泪！眼泪！眼泪！
（林以亮译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
黑夜里在海滩上
黑夜里在海滩上，
一个小女孩和她父亲一起站着
望着东方，望着秋天的长空。
从黑暗的高空中，
从淹留在东方的一片透明的天空．
当埋葬一切的乌云正在黑压压地撒下，
越来越低，迅速地从上面横扫下来．
升起了那巨大的，宁静的主星——木星，
而在他的近处，就在他上面一点，
闪烁着纤秀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群。
在海滩上，这小女孩拉着她父亲的手，
眼看着那埋葬一切的云，气势凌人地压下来，
立刻就要吞灭一切，
默默地啜泣起来。
别哭，孩子
别哭，我的宝贝，
让我来吻干你的眼泪，
这阵可怕的乌云不会永久气盛凌人的，
它们不会长久霸占天空，吞灭星星只不过是幻象，
耐心的等吧，过一晚，木星一定又会出现，
贝丽亚特斯星群也会出现，
它们是不朽的，所有这些发金光和银光的星星都会
重新发光，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
硕大的不朽的大阳和永久存在、沉思的月亮都会重新
发光。
那么，亲爱的孩子，难道你单单为木星还会悲伤7
难道你单单为了乌云埋葬星星着想？
有些东西，
（我用我的嘴唇亲你，并且低低告诉你，
我给你暗示．告诉你问题和侧面的答复，）
有些东西甚至比星星还要不朽，
（多少个星星被埋葬了，多少个日夜逝去了，再也
不回，)
有些东西甚至比光辉的木星存在得更久，
比太阳或任何环绕转动着的卫星，
或光芒闪耀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群，存在得还要长久！
（林以亮译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
从滚滚的人海中
从滚滚的人海中，一滴水温柔地向我低语：
"我爱你，我不久就要死去；
我曾经旅行了迢遥的长途，只是为的来看你，和你亲近，
因为除非见到了你，我不能死去，
因为我怕以后会失去了你。"
现在我们已经相会了，我们看见了，我们很平安，
我爱，和平地归回到海洋里去吧，
我爱，我也是海洋的一部分，我们并非隔得很远，
看哪，伟大的宇宙，万物的联系，何等的完美！
只是为着我，为着你，这不可抗拒的海，
分隔了我们，
只是在一小时，使我们分离，但不能使我们永久地分离，
别焦急，－－等一会－－你知道我向空气，海洋和大地敬礼，
每天在日落的时候，为着你，我亲爱的缘故。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一小时的狂热和喜悦
来一小时的狂热和喜悦吧！猛烈些，不要限制我呀！
（那在大雷雨中把我解放的是什么呢？
我在狂风闪电中的叫喊意味着什么呢？）
我比谁都更深地沉醉在神秘的亢奋中吧！
这些野性的温柔的疼痛啊！（我把它们遗赠给你们，我的孩子们，
我以某些理由把它们告诉给你们，新郎和新娘啊！）
我完全委身于你无论什么人，你也不顾一切地委身于我！
回到天堂去啊，腼腆而娇柔的人哟！
把你拉到我身边来，给你头一次印上一个坚实的男人的吻。
啊，那困惑，那打了三道的结，那幽暗的深潭，全都解开了，照亮了！
啊，向那个有足够空隙和空气的地方最后挺进！
摆脱从前的束缚和习俗，我摆脱我的，你摆脱你的！
采取一种新的从设想到过的对世上一切都漠不关心的态度！
把口箝从人的嘴上摘掉！
要今天或任何一天都感觉到象现在这样我已经够了。
啊，有的东西还不曾证实，有的东西还恍惚如梦！
要绝对避免别人的支撑和掌握！
要自由地驰骋！自由地爱！无所顾忌地狠狠地猛冲！
让毁灭来吧，给它以嘲弄，发出邀请！
向那个给我指出了的爱之乐园上升、跳跃！
带着我的酒醉的灵魂向那里飞腾！
如果必要的话，就让给毁掉吧！
飨给生命的余年以一个小时的满足和自由啊！
给以短短一个小时的癫狂和豪兴！
李野光 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我自己的歌（节选）
一
我赞美我自己，歌唱我自己，
我承担的你也将承担，
因为属于我的每一个原子也同样属于你。
我闲步，还邀请了我的灵魂，
我俯身悠然观察着一片夏日的草叶。
我的舌，我血液的每个原子，是在这片土壤、这个空气里形成的，
是这里的父母生下的，父母的父母也是在这里生下的，他们的父母也一样，
我，现在三十七岁，一生下身体就十分健康，
希望永远如此，直到死去。
信条和学派暂时不论，
且后退一步，明了它们当前的情况已足，但也决不是忘记，
不论我从善从恶，我允许随意发表意见，
顺乎自然，保持原始的活力。
二
屋里、室内充满了芳香，书架上也挤满了芳香，
我自己呼吸了香味，认识了它也喜欢它，
其精华也会使我陶醉，但我不容许这样。
大气层不是一种芳香，没有香料的味道，它是无气味的，
它永远供我口用，我热爱它，
我要去林畔的河岸那里，脱去伪装，赤条条地，
我狂热地要它和我接触。
我自己呼吸的云雾，
回声，细浪，窃窃私语，爱根，丝线，枝橙和藤蔓，
我的呼和吸，我心脏的跳动，通过我肺部畅流的血液和空气，
嗅到绿叶和枯叶、海岸和黑色的海边岩石和谷仓里的干草，
我喉咙里迸出辞句的声音飘散在风的旋涡里，
几次轻吻，几次拥抱，伸出两臂想搂住什么，
树枝的柔条摆动时光和影在树上的游戏，
独居，在闹市或沿着田地和山坡一带的乐趣，
健康之感，正午时的颤音，我从床上起来迎接太阳时唱的歌。
你认为一千亩就很多了吗？你认为地球就很大了吗？
为了学会读书你练习了很久吗？
因为你想努力懂得诗歌的含意就感到十分自豪吗？
今天和今晚请和我在一起，你将明了所有诗歌的来源，
你将占有大地和太阳的好处（另外还有千百万个太阳），
你将不会再第二手、第三手起接受事物，也不会借死人的
眼睛观察，或从书本中的幽灵那里汲取营养，
你也不会借我的眼睛观察，不会通过我而接受事物，
你将听取各个方面，由你自己过滤一切。
三
我曾听见过健谈者在谈话，谈论着始与终，
但是我并不谈论始与终。
过去从来未曾有过什么开始，是现在所没有的，
也无所谓青年或老年，是现在所没有的，
也决不会有十全十美，不同于现在，
也不会有天堂或地狱，不同干现在。
努力推动、推动又推动，
永远顺着世界的繁殖力而向前推动。
从昏暗中出现的对立的对等物在前进，永远是物质与增殖，
永远是性的活动，
永远是同一性的牢结，永远有区别，永远是生命的繁殖。
多说是无益的，有学问无学问的人都这样感觉。
肯定就十分肯定，垂直就绝对笔直，扣得紧，梁木之间要对携，
像骏马一样健壮，多情、傲慢，带有电力，
我与这一神秘事实就在此地站立。
我的灵魂是清澈而香甜的，不属于我灵魂的一切也是清澈而香甜的。
缺一即缺二，看不见的由看得见的证实，
看得见成为看不见时，也会照样得到证实。
指出最好的并和最坏的分开，是这一代给下一代带来的烦恼，
认识到事物的完全吻合和平衡，他们在谈论时我却保持沉
默，我走去洗个澡并欣赏我自己。
我欢迎我的每个器官和特性，也欢迎任何热情而洁净的人
——他的器官和特性，
没有一寸或一寸中的一分一厘是邪恶的，也不应该有什么
东西不及其余的那样熟悉。
我很满足——我能看见，跳舞，笑，歌唱；
彻夜在我身旁睡着的，拥抱我、热爱我的同床者，天微明
就悄悄地走了，
给我留下了几个盖着白毛巾的篮子，以它们的丰盛使屋子
也显得宽敞了，
难道我应该迟迟不接受、不觉悟而是冲着我的眼睛发火，
要它们回过头来不许它们在大路上东张西望，
并立即要求为我计算，一分钱不差地指出，
一件东西的确切价值和两件东西的确切价值，哪个处于前列？
四
过路的和问话的人们包围了我，
我遇见些什么人，我早年生活对我的影响，我住在什么地
区，什么城市或国家，
最近的几个重要日期，发现，发明，会社，新老作家，
我的伙食，服装，交流，容貌，向谁表示敬意，义务，
我所爱的某一男子或女子是否确实对我冷淡或只是我的想象，
家人或我自己患病，助长了歪风，失去或缺少银钱，灰心
丧志或得意忘形，
交锋，弟兄之间进行战争的恐怖，消息可疑而引起的不安，
时或发生而又无规律可循的事件，
这些都不分昼夜地临到我头上，又离我而去，
但这些都并非那个"我"自己。
虽然受到拉扯，我仍作为我而站立，
感到有趣，自满，怜悯，无所事事，单一，
俯视．直立，或屈臂搭在一无形而可靠的臂托上，
头转向一旁望着，好奇，不知下一桩事会是什么，
同时置身于局内与局外，观望着，猜测着。
回首当年我和语言学家和雄辩家是如何流着汗在浓雾里度
过时光的，
我既不嘲笑也不争辩，我在一旁观看而等候着。
五
我相信你，我的灵魂，那另一个我决不可向你低头，
你也决不可向他低头。
请随我在草上悠闲地漫步，拔松你喉头的堵塞吧，
我要的不是词句、音乐或韵脚，不是惯例或演讲，甚至连
最好的也不要，
我喜欢的只是暂时的安静，你那有节制的声音的低吟。
我记得我们是如何一度在这样一个明亮的夏天的早晨睡在
一起的，
你是怎样把头横在我臀部，轻柔地翻转在我身上的，
又从我胸口解开衬衣，用你的舌头直探我赤裸的心脏，
直到你摸到我的胡须，直到你抱住了我的双脚。
超越人间一切雄辩的安宁和认识立即在我四周升起并扩散，
我知道上帝的手就是我自己的许诺，
我知道上帝的精神就是我自己的兄弟，
所有世间的男子也都是我的兄弟，所有的女子都是我的姊妹和情侣，
造化用来加固龙骨的木料就是爱，
田野里直立或低头的叶子是无穷无尽的，
叶下的洞孔里是褐色的蚂蚁，
还有曲栏上苦踪的斑痕，乱石堆，接骨木，毛蕊花和商陆。
六
这些其实是各个时代、各个地区、所有人们的思想，并非我的独创，
若只是我的思想而并非又是你的，那就毫无意义，或等于毫无意义，
若既不是谜语又不是谜底，它们也将毫无意义，
若它们不是既近且远，也就毫无意义。
这就是在有土地有水的地方生长出来的青草，
这是沐浴着全球的共同空气。
七
我是肉体的诗人也是灵魂的诗人，
我占有天堂的愉快也占有地狱的苦痛，
前者我把它嫁接在自己身上使它增殖，后者我把它翻译成
一种新的语言。
我既是男子的诗人也是妇女的诗人，
我是说作为妇女和作为男子同样伟大，
我是说再没有比人们的母亲更加伟大的。
我歌颂“扩张”或“骄傲”，
我们已经低头求免得够了，
我是在说明体积只不过是发展的结果。
你已经远远超越了其余的人吗？你是总统吗？
这是微不足道的，人人会越过此点而继续前进。
我是那和温柔而渐渐昏暗的黑夜一同行走的人，
我向着那被黑夜掌握了一半的大地和海洋呼唤。
请紧紧靠拢，袒露着胸脯的夜啊——紧紧靠拢吧，富于想
力和营养的黑夜！
南风的夜——有着巨大疏星的夜！
寂静而打着瞌睡的夜———疯狂而赤身裸体的夏夜啊。
微笑吧！啊，妖娆的、气息清凉的大地！
生长着沉睡而饱含液汁的树木的大地！
夕阳已西落的大地——山巅被雾气覆盖着的大地！
满月的晶体微带蓝色的大地！
河里的潮水掩映着光照和黑暗的大地！
为了我而更加明澈的灰色云彩笼罩着的大地！
远远的高山连着平原的大地——长满苹果花的大地！
微笑吧，你的情人来了。
浪子，你给了我爱情——因此我也给你爱情！
啊，难以言传的、炽热的爱情。
你这大海啊！我也把自己交托给了你——我猜透了你的心意，
我在海滩边看到了你那曲着的、发出着邀请的手指，
我相信你没有抚摸到我是不肯回去的，
我们必须在一起周旋一回，我脱下衣服，急急远离陆地，
请用软垫托着我，请在昏昏欲睡的波浪里摇撼我，
用多情的海水泼在我身上吧，我能报答你，
有着漫无边际的巨浪的大海，
呼吸宽广而紧张吐纳的大海，
大海是生命的盐水，又是不待挖掘就随时可用的坟墓，
风暴的吹鼓手和舀取着，任性而又轻盈的大海，
我是你的组成部分，我也一样，既是一个方面又是所有方面。
我分享你潮汐的诱落，赞扬仇恨与和解，
赞扬情谊和那些睡在彼此怀抱里的人们。
我是那个同情心的见证人，
（我应否把房屋内的东西列一清单却偏去了维持这一切的房屋呢？）
我不仅是“善”的诗人，也不拒绝作“恶”的诗人。
关于美德与罪恶的这种脱口而出的空谈是怎么回事呢？
邪恶推动着我，改正邪恶也推动着我，我是不偏不倚的，
我的步法表明我既不挑剔也不否定什么，
我湿润着所有已经成长起来的根芽。
你是怕长期怀孕时得了淋巴结核症吗？
你是否在猜测神圣的法则还需要重新研究而修订？
我发现一边是某种平衡，和它对立的一边也是某种平衡，
软性的教义和稳定的教义都必然有益，
当前的思想和行动能够使我们奋起并及早起步。
经过了过去的亿万时刻而来到我跟前的此时此刻，
没有比它、比当前更完美的了。
过去行得正或今天行得正并不是什么奇迹，
永远永远使人惊奇的是天下竟会有小人或不信仰宗教者。
八
耀眼而强烈的朝阳，它会多么快就把我处死，
如果我不能在此时永远从我心上也托出一个朝阳。
我们也要像太阳似地耀眼而非凡强烈地上升，
啊，我的灵魂，我们在破晓的宁静和清凉中找到了我们自己的归宿。
我的声音追踪着我国力所不及的地方，
我的舌头一卷就接纳了大千世界和容积巨大的世界。
语言是我视觉的孪生兄弟，它自己无法估量它自己，
它永远向我挑衅，用讥讽的口吻说道：
“华尔特，你含有足够的东西，为什么不把它释放出来呢？”
好了，我不会接受你的逗弄，你把语言的表达能力看得太重，
啊，语言，难道你不知道你下面的花苞是怎样紧闭着的吗？
在昏暗中等候着，受着严霜的保护，
污垢在随着我预言家的尖叫声而退避，
我最后还是能够摆稳事物的内在原因，
我的认识是我的活跃部分，它和一切事物的含义不断保持联系，
幸福，（请听见我说话的男女今天就开始去寻找。）
我决不告诉你什么是我最大的优点，我决不泄漏我究竟是什么样的人，
请包罗万象，但切勿试图包罗我，
只要我看你一眼就能挤进你最圆滑最精采的一切。
文字和言谈不足以证明我，
我脸上摆着充足的证据和其他一切，
我的嘴唇一闭拢就使怀疑论者全然无可奈何。
九
过去和现在凋谢了——我曾经使它们饱满，又曾经使它们空虚，
还要接下去装满那在身后还将继续下去的生命。
站在那边的听者！你有什么秘密告诉我？
在我熄灭黄昏的斜照时请端详我的脸，
（说老实话吧，没有任何别人会听见你，我也只能再多待一分钟。）
我自相矛盾吗？
那好吧，我是自相矛盾的，
（我辽阔博大，我包罗万象。）
我对近物思想集中，我在门前石板上等候。
谁已经做完他一天的工作？谁能最快把晚饭吃完？
谁愿意和我一起散步？
你愿在我走之前说话吗？你会不会已经太晚？
十
那苍鹰从我身旁掠过而且责备我，他怪我饶舌，又怪我迟
迟留着不走。
我也一样一点都不驯顺，我也一样不可翻译，
我在世界的屋脊上发出了粗野的喊叫声。
白天最后的日光为我停留，
它把我的影子抛在其它影子的后面而且和其它的一样，抛
我在多黑影的旷野，
它劝诱我走向烟雾和黄昏。
我像空气一样走了，我对着那正在逃跑的太阳摇晃着我的
绺绺白发，
我把我的肉体融化在旋涡中，让它漂浮在花边状的裂缝中。
我把自己交付给秽土，让它在我心爱的草丛中成长，
如果你又需要我，请在你的靴子底下寻找我。
你会不十分清楚我是谁，我的含义是什么，
但是我对你说来，仍将有益于你的健康，
还将滤净并充实你的血液。
如果你一时找不到我，请不要灰心丧气，
一处找不到再到别处去找，
我总在某个地方等候着你。
一七
这些其实是各个时代、各个地区、所有人们的思想，并非我的独创，
若只是我的思想而并非又是你的，那就毫无意义，或等于毫无意义，
若既不是谜语又不是谜底，它们也将毫无意义，
若它们不是既近且远，也就毫无意义。
这就是在有土地有水的地方生长出来的青草，
这是沐浴着全球的共同空气。
二一
我是肉体的诗人也是灵魂的诗人，
我占有天堂的愉快也占有地狱的苦痛，
前者我把它嫁接在自己身上使它增殖，后者我把它翻译成
一种新的语言。
我既是男子的诗人也是妇女的诗人，
我是说作为妇女和作为男子同样伟大，
我是说再没有比人们的母亲更加伟大的。
我歌颂"扩张"或"骄傲"，
我们已经低头求免得够了，
我是在说明体积只不过是发展的结果。
你已经远远超越了其余的人吗？你是总统吗？
这是微不足道的，人人会越过此点而继续前进。
我是那和温柔而渐渐昏暗的黑夜一同行走的人，
我向着那被黑夜掌握了一半的大地和海洋呼唤。
请紧紧靠拢，袒露着胸脯的夜啊——紧紧靠拢吧，富于想
力和营养的黑夜！
南风的夜——有着巨大疏星的夜！
寂静而打着瞌睡的夜——-疯狂而赤身裸体的夏夜啊。
微笑吧！啊，妖娆的、气息清凉的大地！
生长着沉睡而饱含液汁的树木的大地！
夕阳已西落的大地——山巅被雾气覆盖着的大地！
满月的晶体微带蓝色的大地！
河里的潮水掩映着光照和黑暗的大地！
为了我而更加明澈的灰色云彩笼罩着的大地！
远远的高山连着平原的大地——长满苹果花的大地！
微笑吧，你的情人来了。
浪子，你给了我爱情——因此我也给你爱情！
啊，难以言传的、炽热的爱情。
你这大海啊！我也把自己交托给了你——我猜透了你的心意，
我在海滩边看到了你那曲着的、发出着邀请的手指，
我相信你没有抚摸到我是不肯回去的，
我们必须在一起周旋一回，我脱下衣服，急急远离陆地，
请用软垫托着我，请在昏昏欲睡的波浪里摇撼我，
用多情的海水泼在我身上吧，我能报答你，
有着漫无边际的巨浪的大海，
呼吸宽广而紧张吐纳的大海，
大海是生命的盐水，又是不待挖掘就随时可用的坟墓，
风暴的吹鼓手和舀取着，任性而又轻盈的大海，
我是你的组成部分，我也一样，既是一个方面又是所有方面。
我分享你潮汐的诱落，赞扬仇恨与和解，
赞扬情谊和那些睡在彼此怀抱里的人们。
我是那个同情心的见证人，
（我应否把房屋内的东西列一清单却偏去了维持这一切的房屋呢？）
我不仅是"善"的诗人，也不拒绝作"恶"的诗人。
关于美德与罪恶的这种脱口而出的空谈是怎么回事呢？
邪恶推动着我，改正邪恶也推动着我，我是不偏不倚的，
我的步法表明我既不挑剔也不否定什么，
我湿润着所有已经成长起来的根芽。
你是怕长期怀孕时得了淋巴结核症吗？
你是否在猜测神圣的法则还需要重新研究而修订？
我发现一边是某种平衡，和它对立的一边也是某种平衡，
软性的教义和稳定的教义都必然有益，
当前的思想和行动能够使我们奋起并及早起步。
经过了过去的亿万时刻而来到我跟前的此时此刻，
没有比它、比当前更完美的了。
过去行得正或今天行得正并不是什么奇迹，
永远永远使人惊奇的是天下竟会有小人或不信仰宗教者。
二五
耀眼而强烈的朝阳，它会多么快就把我处死，
如果我不能在此时永远从我心上也托出一个朝阳。
我们也要像太阳似地耀眼而非凡强烈地上升，
啊，我的灵魂，我们在破晓的宁静和清凉中找到了我们自己的归宿。
我的声音追踪着我国力所不及的地方，
我的舌头一卷就接纳了大千世界和容积巨大的世界。
语言是我视觉的孪生兄弟，它自己无法估量它自己，
它永远向我挑衅，用讥讽的口吻说道：
"华尔特，你含有足够的东西，为什么不把它释放出来呢？"
好了，我不会接受你的逗弄，你把语言的表达能力看得太重，
啊，语言，难道你不知道你下面的花苞是怎样紧闭着的吗？
在昏暗中等候着，受着严霜的保护，
污垢在随着我预言家的尖叫声而退避，
我最后还是能够摆稳事物的内在原因，
我的认识是我的活跃部分，它和一切事物的含义不断保持联系，
幸福，（请听见我说话的男女今天就开始去寻找。）
我决不告诉你什么是我最大的优点，我决不泄漏我究竟是什么样的人，
请包罗万象，但切勿试图包罗我，
只要我看你一眼就能挤进你最圆滑最精采的一切。
文字和言谈不足以证明我，
我脸上摆着充足的证据和其他一切，
我的嘴唇一闭拢就使怀疑论者全然无可奈何。
五一
过去和现在凋谢了——我曾经使它们饱满，又曾经使它们空虚，
还要接下去装满那在身后还将继续下去的生命。
站在那边的听者！你有什么秘密告诉我？
在我熄灭黄昏的斜照时请端详我的脸，
（说老实话吧，没有任何别人会听见你，我也只能再多待一分钟。）
我自相矛盾吗？
那好吧，我是自相矛盾的，
（我辽阔博大，我包罗万象。）
我对近物思想集中，我在门前石板上等候。
谁已经做完他一天的工作？谁能最快把晚饭吃完？
谁愿意和我一起散步？
你愿在我走之前说话吗？你会不会已经太晚？
五二
那苍鹰从我身旁掠过而且责备我，他怪我饶舌，又怪我迟
迟留着不走。
我也一样一点都不驯顺，我也一样不可翻译，
我在世界的屋脊上发出了粗野的喊叫声。
白天最后的日光为我停留，
它把我的影子抛在其它影子的后面而且和其它的一样，抛
我在多黑影的旷野，
它劝诱我走向烟雾和黄昏。
我像空气一样走了，我对着那正在逃跑的太阳摇晃着我的
绺绺白发，
我把我的肉体融化在旋涡中，让它漂浮在花边状的裂缝中。
我把自己交付给秽土，让它在我心爱的草丛中成长，
如果你又需要我，请在你的靴子底下寻找我。
你会不十分清楚我是谁，我的含义是什么，
但是我对你说来，仍将有益于你的健康，
还将滤净并充实你的血液。
如果你一时找不到我，请不要灰心丧气，
一处找不到再到别处去找，
我总在某个地方等候着你。
我听见美国在歌唱，我听见各种各样的歌，
那些机械工人的歌，每个人都唱着他那理所当然地快乐而又
雄伟的歌，
木匠一面衡量着他的木板或房梁，一面唱着他的歌，
泥水匠在准备开始工作或离开工作的时候唱着他的歌，
船夫在他的船上唱着属于他的歌，舱面水手在汽船甲板上唱
歌，
鞋匠坐在他的凳子上唱歌，做帽子的人站着唱歌，
伐木者的歌，牵引耕畜的孩子在早晨、午休或日落时走在路上
唱的歌，
母亲或年轻的妻子在工作时，或者姑娘在缝纫或洗衣裳时甜
美地唱着的歌，
每个人都唱着属于他或她而不属于任何其他人的歌，
白天唱着属于白天的歌——晚上这一群体格健壮、友好相处
的年轻小伙子，
就放开嗓子唱起他们那雄伟而又悦耳的歌。
（邹绛译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛
一只沉默而耐心的蜘蛛，
我注意它孤立地站在小小的海岬上．
注意它怎样勘测周围的茫茫空虚，
它射出了丝，丝，丝，从它自己之小，
不断地从纱绽放丝，不倦地加快速率。
而你——我的心灵啊，你站在何处，
被包围被孤立在无限空间的海洋里，
不停地沉思、探险、投射、寻求可以连结的地方，
直到架起你需要的桥，直到下定你韧性的锚，
直到你抛出的游丝抓住了某处，我的心灵啊！
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
哦．船长，我的船长！
哦．船长，我的船长！我们险恶的航程已经告终，
我们的船安渡过惊涛骇浪，我们寻求的奖赏已赢得手中。
港口已经不远，钟声我已听见，万千人众在欢呼呐喊，
目迎着我们的船从容返航，我们的船威严而且勇敢。
可是，心啊！心啊！心啊！
哦．殷红的血滴流泻，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
哦，船长，我的船长！起来吧，请听听这钟声，
起来，——旌旗，为你招展——号角，为你长鸣。
为你．岸上挤满了人群——为你，无数花束、彩带、花环。
为你，熙攘的群众在呼唤，转动着多少殷切的脸。
这里，船长！亲爱的父亲！
你头颅下边是我的手臂！
这是甲板上的一场梦啊，
你已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
我们的船长不作回答，他的双唇惨白、寂静，
我的父亲不能感觉我的手臂，他已没有脉搏、没有生命，
我们的船已安全抛锚碇泊，航行已完成，已告终，
胜利的船从险恶的旅途归来，我们寻求的已赢得手中。
欢呼，哦，海岸！轰鸣，哦，洪钟！
可是，我却轻移悲伤的步履，
在甲板上，那里躺着我的船长，
他已倒下，已死去，已冷却。
（江枫译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长
我在路易斯安那看见一棵栎树在生长，
它独自屹立着，树枝上垂着苔藓，
没有任何伴侣，它在那儿长着，进发出暗绿色的欢乐的树
叶，
它的气度粗鲁，刚宜，健壮，使我联想起自己，
但我惊讶于它如何能孤独屹立附近没有一个朋友而仍能
进发出欢乐的树叶，因为我明知我做不到，
于是我折下一根小枝上面带有若干叶子．并给它缠上一
点苔藓，
带走了它，插在我房间里在我眼界内．
我对我亲爱的朋友们的思念并不需要提醒，
（因为我相信近来我对他们的思念压倒了一切，）
但这树枝对我仍然是一个奇妙的象征，它使我想到
男子气概的爱；
尽管啊，尽管这棵栎树在路易斯安那孤独屹立在一片辽
阔中闪烁发光，
附近没有一个朋友一个情侣而一辈子不停地进发出欢乐
的树叶，
而我明知我做不到。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
眼泪
眼泪！眼泪！眼泪！
黑夜中独自落下的眼泪，
在苍白的海岸上滴落，滴落，滴落，任沙粒吸净，
眼泪，星光一丝不见，四下一片荒凉和漆黑，
潮湿的泪，从遮盖着的眼眶中飘坠下来，
啊，那个鬼影是谁？那黑暗中流泪的形象？
那在沙上弯着腰，抱头跌坐的一大堆是什么？
泉涌的泪，呜咽的泪，为哭号所哽塞的痛苦，
啊，暴风雨已然成形，高涨，沿着海岸飞奔疾走？
啊，阴惨狂暴的夜雨，夹着暴风，啊，滂沱，乖戾！
啊，白日里那么沉着和端庄，状貌安详，步履均匀，
可是当你隐没在茫茫黑夜，没有人看见时——啊，
这时泛滥有如海水，蕴蓄着无限的
眼泪！眼泪！眼泪！
（林以亮译）
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黑夜里在海滩上
黑夜里在海滩上，
一个小女孩和她父亲一起站着
望着东方，望着秋天的长空。
从黑暗的高空中，
从淹留在东方的一片透明的天空．
当埋葬一切的乌云正在黑压压地撒下，
越来越低，迅速地从上面横扫下来．
升起了那巨大的，宁静的主星——木星，
而在他的近处，就在他上面一点，
闪烁着纤秀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群。
在海滩上，这小女孩拉着她父亲的手，
眼看着那埋葬一切的云，气势凌人地压下来，
立刻就要吞灭一切，
默默地啜泣起来。
别哭，孩子
别哭，我的宝贝，
让我来吻干你的眼泪，
这阵可怕的乌云不会永久气盛凌人的，
它们不会长久霸占天空，吞灭星星只不过是幻象，
耐心的等吧，过一晚，木星一定又会出现，
贝丽亚特斯星群也会出现，
它们是不朽的，所有这些发金光和银光的星星都会
重新发光，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
大星星和小星星都会重新发光，它们会永久存在，
硕大的不朽的大阳和永久存在、沉思的月亮都会重新
发光。
那么，亲爱的孩子，难道你单单为木星还会悲伤7
难道你单单为了乌云埋葬星星着想？
有些东西，
（我用我的嘴唇亲你，并且低低告诉你，
我给你暗示．告诉你问题和侧面的答复，）
有些东西甚至比星星还要不朽，
（多少个星星被埋葬了，多少个日夜逝去了，再也
不回，)
有些东西甚至比光辉的木星存在得更久，
比太阳或任何环绕转动着的卫星，
或光芒闪耀的贝丽亚特斯姊妹星群，存在得还要长久！
（林以亮译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
从滚滚的人海中
从滚滚的人海中，一滴水温柔地向我低语：
"我爱你，我不久就要死去；
我曾经旅行了迢遥的长途，只是为的来看你，和你亲近，
因为除非见到了你，我不能死去，
因为我怕以后会失去了你。"
现在我们已经相会了，我们看见了，我们很平安，
我爱，和平地归回到海洋里去吧，
我爱，我也是海洋的一部分，我们并非隔得很远，
看哪，伟大的宇宙，万物的联系，何等的完美！
只是为着我，为着你，这不可抗拒的海，
分隔了我们，
只是在一小时，使我们分离，但不能使我们永久地分离，
别焦急，－－等一会－－你知道我向空气，海洋和大地敬礼，
每天在日落的时候，为着你，我亲爱的缘故。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一小时的狂热和喜悦
来一小时的狂热和喜悦吧！猛烈些，不要限制我呀！
（那在大雷雨中把我解放的是什么呢？
我在狂风闪电中的叫喊意味着什么呢？）
我比谁都更深地沉醉在神秘的亢奋中吧！
这些野性的温柔的疼痛啊！（我把它们遗赠给你们，我的孩子们，
我以某些理由把它们告诉给你们，新郎和新娘啊！）
我完全委身于你无论什么人，你也不顾一切地委身于我！
回到天堂去啊，腼腆而娇柔的人哟！
把你拉到我身边来，给你头一次印上一个坚实的男人的吻。
啊，那困惑，那打了三道的结，那幽暗的深潭，全都解开了，照亮了！
啊，向那个有足够空隙和空气的地方最后挺进！
摆脱从前的束缚和习俗，我摆脱我的，你摆脱你的！
采取一种新的从设想到过的对世上一切都漠不关心的态度！
把口箝从人的嘴上摘掉！
要今天或任何一天都感觉到象现在这样我已经够了。
啊，有的东西还不曾证实，有的东西还恍惚如梦！
要绝对避免别人的支撑和掌握！
要自由地驰骋！自由地爱！无所顾忌地狠狠地猛冲！
让毁灭来吧，给它以嘲弄，发出邀请！
向那个给我指出了的爱之乐园上升、跳跃！
带着我的酒醉的灵魂向那里飞腾！
如果必要的话，就让给毁掉吧！
飨给生命的余年以一个小时的满足和自由啊！
给以短短一个小时的癫狂和豪兴！
李野光 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我自己的歌（节选）
一
我赞美我自己，歌唱我自己，
我承担的你也将承担，
因为属于我的每一个原子也同样属于你。
我闲步，还邀请了我的灵魂，
我俯身悠然观察着一片夏日的草叶。
我的舌，我血液的每个原子，是在这片土壤、这个空气里形成的，
是这里的父母生下的，父母的父母也是在这里生下的，他们的父母也一样，
我，现在三十七岁，一生下身体就十分健康，
希望永远如此，直到死去。
信条和学派暂时不论，
且后退一步，明了它们当前的情况已足，但也决不是忘记，
不论我从善从恶，我允许随意发表意见，
顺乎自然，保持原始的活力。
二
屋里、室内充满了芳香，书架上也挤满了芳香，
我自己呼吸了香味，认识了它也喜欢它，
其精华也会使我陶醉，但我不容许这样。
大气层不是一种芳香，没有香料的味道，它是无气味的，
它永远供我口用，我热爱它，
我要去林畔的河岸那里，脱去伪装，赤条条地，
我狂热地要它和我接触。
我自己呼吸的云雾，
回声，细浪，窃窃私语，爱根，丝线，枝橙和藤蔓，
我的呼和吸，我心脏的跳动，通过我肺部畅流的血液和空气，
嗅到绿叶和枯叶、海岸和黑色的海边岩石和谷仓里的干草，
我喉咙里迸出辞句的声音飘散在风的旋涡里，
几次轻吻，几次拥抱，伸出两臂想搂住什么，
树枝的柔条摆动时光和影在树上的游戏，
独居，在闹市或沿着田地和山坡一带的乐趣，
健康之感，正午时的颤音，我从床上起来迎接太阳时唱的歌。
你认为一千亩就很多了吗？你认为地球就很大了吗？
为了学会读书你练习了很久吗？
因为你想努力懂得诗歌的含意就感到十分自豪吗？
今天和今晚请和我在一起，你将明了所有诗歌的来源，
你将占有大地和太阳的好处（另外还有千百万个太阳），
你将不会再第二手、第三手起接受事物，也不会借死人的
眼睛观察，或从书本中的幽灵那里汲取营养，
你也不会借我的眼睛观察，不会通过我而接受事物，
你将听取各个方面，由你自己过滤一切。
三
我曾听见过健谈者在谈话，谈论着始与终，
但是我并不谈论始与终。
过去从来未曾有过什么开始，是现在所没有的，
也无所谓青年或老年，是现在所没有的，
也决不会有十全十美，不同于现在，
也不会有天堂或地狱，不同干现在。
努力推动、推动又推动，
永远顺着世界的繁殖力而向前推动。
从昏暗中出现的对立的对等物在前进，永远是物质与增殖，
永远是性的活动，
永远是同一性的牢结，永远有区别，永远是生命的繁殖。
多说是无益的，有学问无学问的人都这样感觉。
肯定就十分肯定，垂直就绝对笔直，扣得紧，梁木之间要对携，
像骏马一样健壮，多情、傲慢，带有电力，
我与这一神秘事实就在此地站立。
我的灵魂是清澈而香甜的，不属于我灵魂的一切也是清澈而香甜的。
缺一即缺二，看不见的由看得见的证实，
看得见成为看不见时，也会照样得到证实。
指出最好的并和最坏的分开，是这一代给下一代带来的烦恼，
认识到事物的完全吻合和平衡，他们在谈论时我却保持沉
默，我走去洗个澡并欣赏我自己。
我欢迎我的每个器官和特性，也欢迎任何热情而洁净的人
——他的器官和特性，
没有一寸或一寸中的一分一厘是邪恶的，也不应该有什么
东西不及其余的那样熟悉。
我很满足——我能看见，跳舞，笑，歌唱；
彻夜在我身旁睡着的，拥抱我、热爱我的同床者，天微明
就悄悄地走了，
给我留下了几个盖着白毛巾的篮子，以它们的丰盛使屋子
也显得宽敞了，
难道我应该迟迟不接受、不觉悟而是冲着我的眼睛发火，
要它们回过头来不许它们在大路上东张西望，
并立即要求为我计算，一分钱不差地指出，
一件东西的确切价值和两件东西的确切价值，哪个处于前列？
四
过路的和问话的人们包围了我，
我遇见些什么人，我早年生活对我的影响，我住在什么地
区，什么城市或国家，
最近的几个重要日期，发现，发明，会社，新老作家，
我的伙食，服装，交流，容貌，向谁表示敬意，义务，
我所爱的某一男子或女子是否确实对我冷淡或只是我的想象，
家人或我自己患病，助长了歪风，失去或缺少银钱，灰心
丧志或得意忘形，
交锋，弟兄之间进行战争的恐怖，消息可疑而引起的不安，
时或发生而又无规律可循的事件，
这些都不分昼夜地临到我头上，又离我而去，
但这些都并非那个"我"自己。
虽然受到拉扯，我仍作为我而站立，
感到有趣，自满，怜悯，无所事事，单一，
俯视．直立，或屈臂搭在一无形而可靠的臂托上，
头转向一旁望着，好奇，不知下一桩事会是什么，
同时置身于局内与局外，观望着，猜测着。
回首当年我和语言学家和雄辩家是如何流着汗在浓雾里度
过时光的，
我既不嘲笑也不争辩，我在一旁观看而等候着。
五
我相信你，我的灵魂，那另一个我决不可向你低头，
你也决不可向他低头。
请随我在草上悠闲地漫步，拔松你喉头的堵塞吧，
我要的不是词句、音乐或韵脚，不是惯例或演讲，甚至连
最好的也不要，
我喜欢的只是暂时的安静，你那有节制的声音的低吟。
我记得我们是如何一度在这样一个明亮的夏天的早晨睡在
一起的，
你是怎样把头横在我臀部，轻柔地翻转在我身上的，
又从我胸口解开衬衣，用你的舌头直探我赤裸的心脏，
直到你摸到我的胡须，直到你抱住了我的双脚。
超越人间一切雄辩的安宁和认识立即在我四周升起并扩散，
我知道上帝的手就是我自己的许诺，
我知道上帝的精神就是我自己的兄弟，
所有世间的男子也都是我的兄弟，所有的女子都是我的姊妹和情侣，
造化用来加固龙骨的木料就是爱，
田野里直立或低头的叶子是无穷无尽的，
叶下的洞孔里是褐色的蚂蚁，
还有曲栏上苦踪的斑痕，乱石堆，接骨木，毛蕊花和商陆。
六
这些其实是各个时代、各个地区、所有人们的思想，并非我的独创，
若只是我的思想而并非又是你的，那就毫无意义，或等于毫无意义，
若既不是谜语又不是谜底，它们也将毫无意义，
若它们不是既近且远，也就毫无意义。
这就是在有土地有水的地方生长出来的青草，
这是沐浴着全球的共同空气。
七
我是肉体的诗人也是灵魂的诗人，
我占有天堂的愉快也占有地狱的苦痛，
前者我把它嫁接在自己身上使它增殖，后者我把它翻译成
一种新的语言。
我既是男子的诗人也是妇女的诗人，
我是说作为妇女和作为男子同样伟大，
我是说再没有比人们的母亲更加伟大的。
我歌颂“扩张”或“骄傲”，
我们已经低头求免得够了，
我是在说明体积只不过是发展的结果。
你已经远远超越了其余的人吗？你是总统吗？
这是微不足道的，人人会越过此点而继续前进。
我是那和温柔而渐渐昏暗的黑夜一同行走的人，
我向着那被黑夜掌握了一半的大地和海洋呼唤。
请紧紧靠拢，袒露着胸脯的夜啊——紧紧靠拢吧，富于想
力和营养的黑夜！
南风的夜——有着巨大疏星的夜！
寂静而打着瞌睡的夜———疯狂而赤身裸体的夏夜啊。
微笑吧！啊，妖娆的、气息清凉的大地！
生长着沉睡而饱含液汁的树木的大地！
夕阳已西落的大地——山巅被雾气覆盖着的大地！
满月的晶体微带蓝色的大地！
河里的潮水掩映着光照和黑暗的大地！
为了我而更加明澈的灰色云彩笼罩着的大地！
远远的高山连着平原的大地——长满苹果花的大地！
微笑吧，你的情人来了。
浪子，你给了我爱情——因此我也给你爱情！
啊，难以言传的、炽热的爱情。
你这大海啊！我也把自己交托给了你——我猜透了你的心意，
我在海滩边看到了你那曲着的、发出着邀请的手指，
我相信你没有抚摸到我是不肯回去的，
我们必须在一起周旋一回，我脱下衣服，急急远离陆地，
请用软垫托着我，请在昏昏欲睡的波浪里摇撼我，
用多情的海水泼在我身上吧，我能报答你，
有着漫无边际的巨浪的大海，
呼吸宽广而紧张吐纳的大海，
大海是生命的盐水，又是不待挖掘就随时可用的坟墓，
风暴的吹鼓手和舀取着，任性而又轻盈的大海，
我是你的组成部分，我也一样，既是一个方面又是所有方面。
我分享你潮汐的诱落，赞扬仇恨与和解，
赞扬情谊和那些睡在彼此怀抱里的人们。
我是那个同情心的见证人，
（我应否把房屋内的东西列一清单却偏去了维持这一切的房屋呢？）
我不仅是“善”的诗人，也不拒绝作“恶”的诗人。
关于美德与罪恶的这种脱口而出的空谈是怎么回事呢？
邪恶推动着我，改正邪恶也推动着我，我是不偏不倚的，
我的步法表明我既不挑剔也不否定什么，
我湿润着所有已经成长起来的根芽。
你是怕长期怀孕时得了淋巴结核症吗？
你是否在猜测神圣的法则还需要重新研究而修订？
我发现一边是某种平衡，和它对立的一边也是某种平衡，
软性的教义和稳定的教义都必然有益，
当前的思想和行动能够使我们奋起并及早起步。
经过了过去的亿万时刻而来到我跟前的此时此刻，
没有比它、比当前更完美的了。
过去行得正或今天行得正并不是什么奇迹，
永远永远使人惊奇的是天下竟会有小人或不信仰宗教者。
八
耀眼而强烈的朝阳，它会多么快就把我处死，
如果我不能在此时永远从我心上也托出一个朝阳。
我们也要像太阳似地耀眼而非凡强烈地上升，
啊，我的灵魂，我们在破晓的宁静和清凉中找到了我们自己的归宿。
我的声音追踪着我国力所不及的地方，
我的舌头一卷就接纳了大千世界和容积巨大的世界。
语言是我视觉的孪生兄弟，它自己无法估量它自己，
它永远向我挑衅，用讥讽的口吻说道：
“华尔特，你含有足够的东西，为什么不把它释放出来呢？”
好了，我不会接受你的逗弄，你把语言的表达能力看得太重，
啊，语言，难道你不知道你下面的花苞是怎样紧闭着的吗？
在昏暗中等候着，受着严霜的保护，
污垢在随着我预言家的尖叫声而退避，
我最后还是能够摆稳事物的内在原因，
我的认识是我的活跃部分，它和一切事物的含义不断保持联系，
幸福，（请听见我说话的男女今天就开始去寻找。）
我决不告诉你什么是我最大的优点，我决不泄漏我究竟是什么样的人，
请包罗万象，但切勿试图包罗我，
只要我看你一眼就能挤进你最圆滑最精采的一切。
文字和言谈不足以证明我，
我脸上摆着充足的证据和其他一切，
我的嘴唇一闭拢就使怀疑论者全然无可奈何。
九
过去和现在凋谢了——我曾经使它们饱满，又曾经使它们空虚，
还要接下去装满那在身后还将继续下去的生命。
站在那边的听者！你有什么秘密告诉我？
在我熄灭黄昏的斜照时请端详我的脸，
（说老实话吧，没有任何别人会听见你，我也只能再多待一分钟。）
我自相矛盾吗？
那好吧，我是自相矛盾的，
（我辽阔博大，我包罗万象。）
我对近物思想集中，我在门前石板上等候。
谁已经做完他一天的工作？谁能最快把晚饭吃完？
谁愿意和我一起散步？
你愿在我走之前说话吗？你会不会已经太晚？
十
那苍鹰从我身旁掠过而且责备我，他怪我饶舌，又怪我迟
迟留着不走。
我也一样一点都不驯顺，我也一样不可翻译，
我在世界的屋脊上发出了粗野的喊叫声。
白天最后的日光为我停留，
它把我的影子抛在其它影子的后面而且和其它的一样，抛
我在多黑影的旷野，
它劝诱我走向烟雾和黄昏。
我像空气一样走了，我对着那正在逃跑的太阳摇晃着我的
绺绺白发，
我把我的肉体融化在旋涡中，让它漂浮在花边状的裂缝中。
我把自己交付给秽土，让它在我心爱的草丛中成长，
如果你又需要我，请在你的靴子底下寻找我。
你会不十分清楚我是谁，我的含义是什么，
但是我对你说来，仍将有益于你的健康，
还将滤净并充实你的血液。
如果你一时找不到我，请不要灰心丧气，
一处找不到再到别处去找，
我总在某个地方等候着你。
一七
这些其实是各个时代、各个地区、所有人们的思想，并非我的独创，
若只是我的思想而并非又是你的，那就毫无意义，或等于毫无意义，
若既不是谜语又不是谜底，它们也将毫无意义，
若它们不是既近且远，也就毫无意义。
这就是在有土地有水的地方生长出来的青草，
这是沐浴着全球的共同空气。
二一
我是肉体的诗人也是灵魂的诗人，
我占有天堂的愉快也占有地狱的苦痛，
前者我把它嫁接在自己身上使它增殖，后者我把它翻译成
一种新的语言。
我既是男子的诗人也是妇女的诗人，
我是说作为妇女和作为男子同样伟大，
我是说再没有比人们的母亲更加伟大的。
我歌颂"扩张"或"骄傲"，
我们已经低头求免得够了，
我是在说明体积只不过是发展的结果。
你已经远远超越了其余的人吗？你是总统吗？
这是微不足道的，人人会越过此点而继续前进。
我是那和温柔而渐渐昏暗的黑夜一同行走的人，
我向着那被黑夜掌握了一半的大地和海洋呼唤。
请紧紧靠拢，袒露着胸脯的夜啊——紧紧靠拢吧，富于想
力和营养的黑夜！
南风的夜——有着巨大疏星的夜！
寂静而打着瞌睡的夜——-疯狂而赤身裸体的夏夜啊。
微笑吧！啊，妖娆的、气息清凉的大地！
生长着沉睡而饱含液汁的树木的大地！
夕阳已西落的大地——山巅被雾气覆盖着的大地！
满月的晶体微带蓝色的大地！
河里的潮水掩映着光照和黑暗的大地！
为了我而更加明澈的灰色云彩笼罩着的大地！
远远的高山连着平原的大地——长满苹果花的大地！
微笑吧，你的情人来了。
浪子，你给了我爱情——因此我也给你爱情！
啊，难以言传的、炽热的爱情。
你这大海啊！我也把自己交托给了你——我猜透了你的心意，
我在海滩边看到了你那曲着的、发出着邀请的手指，
我相信你没有抚摸到我是不肯回去的，
我们必须在一起周旋一回，我脱下衣服，急急远离陆地，
请用软垫托着我，请在昏昏欲睡的波浪里摇撼我，
用多情的海水泼在我身上吧，我能报答你，
有着漫无边际的巨浪的大海，
呼吸宽广而紧张吐纳的大海，
大海是生命的盐水，又是不待挖掘就随时可用的坟墓，
风暴的吹鼓手和舀取着，任性而又轻盈的大海，
我是你的组成部分，我也一样，既是一个方面又是所有方面。
我分享你潮汐的诱落，赞扬仇恨与和解，
赞扬情谊和那些睡在彼此怀抱里的人们。
我是那个同情心的见证人，
（我应否把房屋内的东西列一清单却偏去了维持这一切的房屋呢？）
我不仅是"善"的诗人，也不拒绝作"恶"的诗人。
关于美德与罪恶的这种脱口而出的空谈是怎么回事呢？
邪恶推动着我，改正邪恶也推动着我，我是不偏不倚的，
我的步法表明我既不挑剔也不否定什么，
我湿润着所有已经成长起来的根芽。
你是怕长期怀孕时得了淋巴结核症吗？
你是否在猜测神圣的法则还需要重新研究而修订？
我发现一边是某种平衡，和它对立的一边也是某种平衡，
软性的教义和稳定的教义都必然有益，
当前的思想和行动能够使我们奋起并及早起步。
经过了过去的亿万时刻而来到我跟前的此时此刻，
没有比它、比当前更完美的了。
过去行得正或今天行得正并不是什么奇迹，
永远永远使人惊奇的是天下竟会有小人或不信仰宗教者。
二五
耀眼而强烈的朝阳，它会多么快就把我处死，
如果我不能在此时永远从我心上也托出一个朝阳。
我们也要像太阳似地耀眼而非凡强烈地上升，
啊，我的灵魂，我们在破晓的宁静和清凉中找到了我们自己的归宿。
我的声音追踪着我国力所不及的地方，
我的舌头一卷就接纳了大千世界和容积巨大的世界。
语言是我视觉的孪生兄弟，它自己无法估量它自己，
它永远向我挑衅，用讥讽的口吻说道：
"华尔特，你含有足够的东西，为什么不把它释放出来呢？"
好了，我不会接受你的逗弄，你把语言的表达能力看得太重，
啊，语言，难道你不知道你下面的花苞是怎样紧闭着的吗？
在昏暗中等候着，受着严霜的保护，
污垢在随着我预言家的尖叫声而退避，
我最后还是能够摆稳事物的内在原因，
我的认识是我的活跃部分，它和一切事物的含义不断保持联系，
幸福，（请听见我说话的男女今天就开始去寻找。）
我决不告诉你什么是我最大的优点，我决不泄漏我究竟是什么样的人，
请包罗万象，但切勿试图包罗我，
只要我看你一眼就能挤进你最圆滑最精采的一切。
文字和言谈不足以证明我，
我脸上摆着充足的证据和其他一切，
我的嘴唇一闭拢就使怀疑论者全然无可奈何。
五一
过去和现在凋谢了——我曾经使它们饱满，又曾经使它们空虚，
还要接下去装满那在身后还将继续下去的生命。
站在那边的听者！你有什么秘密告诉我？
在我熄灭黄昏的斜照时请端详我的脸，
（说老实话吧，没有任何别人会听见你，我也只能再多待一分钟。）
我自相矛盾吗？
那好吧，我是自相矛盾的，
（我辽阔博大，我包罗万象。）
我对近物思想集中，我在门前石板上等候。
谁已经做完他一天的工作？谁能最快把晚饭吃完？
谁愿意和我一起散步？
你愿在我走之前说话吗？你会不会已经太晚？
五二
那苍鹰从我身旁掠过而且责备我，他怪我饶舌，又怪我迟
迟留着不走。
我也一样一点都不驯顺，我也一样不可翻译，
我在世界的屋脊上发出了粗野的喊叫声。
白天最后的日光为我停留，
它把我的影子抛在其它影子的后面而且和其它的一样，抛
我在多黑影的旷野，
它劝诱我走向烟雾和黄昏。
我像空气一样走了，我对着那正在逃跑的太阳摇晃着我的
绺绺白发，
我把我的肉体融化在旋涡中，让它漂浮在花边状的裂缝中。
我把自己交付给秽土，让它在我心爱的草丛中成长，
如果你又需要我，请在你的靴子底下寻找我。
你会不十分清楚我是谁，我的含义是什么，
但是我对你说来，仍将有益于你的健康，
还将滤净并充实你的血液。
如果你一时找不到我，请不要灰心丧气，
一处找不到再到别处去找，
我总在某个地方等候着你。
诗选这是鸟儿们回来的日子——
零零落落——一只或两只——
仿佛是依依不舍。
这是天空重新明亮的日子——
似乎六月的魔术未曾离去——
荡漾着蓝色和金色。
你的诡诈不可能瞒过蜜蜂——
但你这逼真的障眼法
几乎让我深信不疑。
甚至那些种子都在为你作证——
趁着暖意，温柔地送出
一片怯生生的叶子。
啊，繁华夏日的美丽庆典，
啊，秋日雾霭里的最后圣餐——
请牵住一个孩子的手。
让她分享你神圣的符号——
让她领受你神圣的面包
和你永生的葡萄酒！
心
在荒漠，
我见到一个人，象野兽，全身赤裸，
他蹲在地上，
捧着自己的心
在嚼。
我问："好吃吗，朋友？"
"苦啊——苦，"他说，
"但是我喜欢它，
因为它苦，
因为它是我的心。"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
战争是仁慈的
别哭，姑娘，战争是仁慈的。
为了你的心上人仰面朝天撒开双手，
受惊的战马独自飞奔，
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
团队沙哑的战鼓隆隆，
小伙子们渴望斗争。
这些男子汉原本为操练和战死而生，
未经解释的荣光笼罩着他们。
伟大的是战场之神，伟大啊他的王国——
一片原野，倒伏着上千具尸身。
别哭，宝贝，战争是仁慈的。
为了你的父亲在黄土沟壕里翻滚，
满腔怒火，哽咽着了却一生。
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
团队的战旗鲜明，迎风飘扬，
雄鹰有金红的羽冠饰顶。
这些男子汉原本为操练和战死而生。
为他们指点屠戮的美好品德，
使他们认识杀人的优秀属性，
和一片原野，倒伏着上千具尸身。
你啊，以你的心作为素花，
装饰儿子辉煌殓衣的母亲，
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
瞧，那座坟
瞧，那座恶人的坟，
近旁，有一个严厉的精灵。
来了一个垂头丧气带着紫罗兰的姑娘，
但是那精灵抓住了她的臂膀。
他说："不要给他献花！"
那姑娘不禁哭泣：
"啊，我爱过他。"
但是那精灵板起脸，皱着眉：
"不要给他献花。"
嗳，事情就是这样——
如果那精灵是公正的，
这姑娘为什么哭泣？
在荒漠，
我见到一个人，象野兽，全身赤裸，
他蹲在地上，
捧着自己的心
在嚼。
我问："好吃吗，朋友？"
"苦啊——苦，"他说，
"但是我喜欢它，
因为它苦，
因为它是我的心。"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
战争是仁慈的
别哭，姑娘，战争是仁慈的。
为了你的心上人仰面朝天撒开双手，
受惊的战马独自飞奔，
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
团队沙哑的战鼓隆隆，
小伙子们渴望斗争。
这些男子汉原本为操练和战死而生，
未经解释的荣光笼罩着他们。
伟大的是战场之神，伟大啊他的王国——
一片原野，倒伏着上千具尸身。
别哭，宝贝，战争是仁慈的。
为了你的父亲在黄土沟壕里翻滚，
满腔怒火，哽咽着了却一生。
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
团队的战旗鲜明，迎风飘扬，
雄鹰有金红的羽冠饰顶。
这些男子汉原本为操练和战死而生。
为他们指点屠戮的美好品德，
使他们认识杀人的优秀属性，
和一片原野，倒伏着上千具尸身。
你啊，以你的心作为素花，
装饰儿子辉煌殓衣的母亲，
不必哭泣，
战争是仁慈的。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
瞧，那座坟
瞧，那座恶人的坟，
近旁，有一个严厉的精灵。
来了一个垂头丧气带着紫罗兰的姑娘，
但是那精灵抓住了她的臂膀。
他说："不要给他献花！"
那姑娘不禁哭泣：
"啊，我爱过他。"
但是那精灵板起脸，皱着眉：
"不要给他献花。"
嗳，事情就是这样——
如果那精灵是公正的，
这姑娘为什么哭泣？
俄国的一盘桃子
我用整个身体品尝这些桃子，
我触摸它们，闻着它们。是谁在说话？
我吸收桃子，就像安捷涅夫
吸收安鲁。我像恋人般望着桃子
像年轻的恋人望着春天的花蕾，
像黝黑的西班牙人弹着吉它。
是谁在说话？肯定是我，
那只野兽，那个俄国人，那个流放者，
教堂里的钟为我们敲响
在心中。红嫩的桃子
又圆又大，还有一层茸毛，
盈满蜜汁，桃皮柔软，
桃子盈满了我的村庄的色彩，盈满
晴朗的天气，夏天，露水，和平的色彩。
桃子所在的房间静悄悄的。
窗子敞开。阳光
洒满窗帘。甚至窗帘轻盈地飘动，
也惊扰我。我不知道
这种残忍会把一个自我
从另一个自我上摘下，像摘下这桃子。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
生命和心灵的碎片
几乎没有什么亲密温暖的事物。
仿佛我们从未作过儿童。
我们坐在屋里，在月光中，
仿佛从未年轻过，这是真的。
我们不应醒来。梦中
一个亮红色的女人将起身，
站在紫色金辉里，梳理长发。
她会沉思地说出一行诗句。
她认为我们不太会唱歌。
另外，天空这么蓝，事物会自己
为她唱歌。她倾听着
感到她的色彩是一种冥想，
最最快乐，但仍不如从前快乐。
留在这里，诉说熟悉的事情。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
十三种看乌鸫的方式
1
二十座覆盖着雪的山岭之间
唯一移动的
是乌鸫的眼睛。
2
我有三颗心，
就像一棵树上
停着三只乌鸫。
3
乌鸫在秋风中盘旋，
它是哑剧中不起眼的角色。
4
一个男人和一个女人
是一。
一个男人和一个女人和一只乌鸫
是一。
5
我不知道更喜欢哪个，
歌唱的美
或者暗示的美，
鸣叫时的乌鸫
或者鸣叫之后。
6
小冰柱在长长的窗户上
画满了野性的图案。
乌鸫的影子
在它们之间穿梭。
情绪
在影子里找到了
无法破解的原因。
7
瘦削的哈丹男人，
为什么你们只能想象金色的鸟？
难道你们没看见乌鸫
怎样绕着你们周围女人的脚
行走？
8
我知道高贵的音调
以及明晰的、注定的节奏；
但我也知道
乌鸫与我知道的
有关。
9
乌鸫在视野中消失的时候，
为众多圆圈中的一个
标明了边界。
10
看见乌鸫
在绿光中飞翔
最顾忌音韵和谐的人
也会尖叫起来。
11
他乘着一辆玻璃马车，
穿过康涅狄格。
一次，他突然感到一种恐惧，
他误把行李的影子
当成了乌鸫。
12
河流在移动
乌鸫肯定在飞翔。
13
整个下午都是晚上。
一直在下雪。
而且将要下雪。
乌鸫坐在
雪松的枝桠上。
灵石 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
雪人
人必须用冬天的心境
去注视冰霜和覆着白雪的
松树的枝桠；
必须冻过很久
才能看到挂满冰的刺柏，
和远处一月的阳光里
粗糙的云杉，才能不因为风声
以及这片土地上
叶子的声音，想到
任何悲惨的际遇，
同样的风在同样的
荒凉的地方，也为倾听者
而吹，他在雪中倾听，
完全不是他自己，看见
一切，以及一切存在中的空无。
灵石 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
绝对存在
心灵末端的那棵棕榈，
远过最后的思想，树立
在青铜色的布景中。
一只金色羽毛的鸟儿
在棕榈树上歌唱，没有人的意义，
没有人的感觉，一首异族的歌。
于是你明白并不是理智
使得我们快乐或者不快乐。
鸟儿歌唱。它的羽毛闪光。
棕榈屹立在空间的边缘。
风在枝叶间慢慢移动。
鸟儿的火焰般的羽毛纷纷摇落。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
黑色的统治
在夜里，在炉火边，
树丛的各种色彩，
落叶的各种色调，
重复出现．
在房间里翻卷，
就像树叶本身
在风中翻卷
是啊：浓密的铁杉材的色彩
大步走来。
我想起了孔雀的叫喊。
孔雀尾翎的各种色彩
也像这树叶
翻卷，在风中，
在黄昏的风中。
色彩扫过房间，
就像孔雀从铁杉树上
飞落地面。
我听到他们呼喊——这些孔雀
那呼喊是抗议暮色，
还是抗议树叶自己
在风中翻卷？
翻卷，好像火焰
在燃烧时翻卷，
翻卷，好像孔雀尾翎
在喧闹的火焰中翻卷，
高声地，好像铁杉树里
充满了孔雀的叫喊。
要不这呼城是在抗议铁杉自己？
从窗口望出去，
我看到行星聚拢，
就好像树叶
在风中翻卷。
我看到黑夜来临
大步走来，像浓密的铁杉的颜色，
我感到害怕，
我记起了孔雀的叫喊。
（赵毅衡译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
星期天早晨
一
怡然于披着晨衣，洒满阳光的椅子上
迟迟未动的咖啡和蜜橘，
地毯上一只自在的绿鹦鹉，
这种种乐事搅在一起，冲散了
耶稣殉难的神圣静穆。
她梦魂稍动，感觉到
那古老灾难的黑影逼近，
犹如水波中无声的阴影。
刺鼻的蜜橘和明晃晃的绿翼
仿佛是夹在死者行列中的东西，
蜿蜒爬过广袤的水面，杳无声息。
白昼也如广袤的水面，万籁俱寂，
好让她梦一般的双足
跨过海洋，走向寂静的巴勒斯坦，
那鲜血与坟墓的疆域。
二
她为何竟向死者馈赠礼品？
倘若神性只能在无声的阴影
和梦中显现，那算什么神性？
为什么她不能从太阳的抚慰中，
从刺鼻的蜜橘和明亮的绿翼中，
从世上其他的醇香和美丽中．
找到弥足珍贵的东西，比如天堂的思想？
神性惟能留存于她心中：
雨的欲念，落雪的心境；
孤独中的悲戚，林花怒放时
难耐的欢欣；以及秋夜湿路上
进发出来的阵阵激情；
念及盛夏的绿叶和冬的残枝
万般欢乐与痛苦便如潮般诵起。
这些才是衡量她灵魂的尺度。
三
高居云端的朱庇特绝非凡胎。
没有母亲给他哺乳，没有甜蜜的大地
给他神奇的心灵注进万般风情。
他走在我们中间，像一位低语的皇帝，
威严地走在一群红鹿中间，
直到我们贞洁的鲜血，与天国
融为一体，把这种酬劳送给欲望，
那群红鹿看到了酬劳，从一颗星中。
我们的鲜血会白流吗？或许它将成为
乐园的鲜血？这片土地
是否会变成我们想象的乐园？
那时苍天会比现在更友善，
劳作和痛苦，在名份上
仅仅次于万古长青的爱，
而不是现在这般生分而冷漠的一片蓝。
四
她说：“我心满意足，当苏醒的鸟儿
在飞翔之前，用美妙动听的询问
试探迷雾蒙蒙的田野是否实在；
但当鸟群远去，温暖的田野
也一去不返，那时．何处为乐园？”
这里再也没有预言常往之地，
再也没有出没墓地的老妖怪，
再也没有金色的地府．也没有
曼歌的仙岛，精灵们曾在那里聚集，
再也没有幻梦中的南国，在那遥远的仙山
也没有了浓荫如盖的棕榈，那棕榈
已经凋零，像四月的绿叶过了时令；
或许树叶还会泛青，像她对鸟儿的回忆
以及她对六月和黄昏的渴念，
从燕翼绝妙的比划中抖落。
五
她说：“然而．在满足中我仍然
感到需要某种不朽的赐福。”
死乃美之母；唯有自她那里
我们的梦和渴望才变得圆满。
虽然她在我们的道路上，
撒下片片遗忘的落叶，
这难堪的遗憾之路，有几段路途
胜利敲响过它黄铜般的声音，或者
爱情发出过温情脉脉的低语！
她让柳枝在阳光下悚悚颤动
为那些习惯于坐着凝视草地的
个个少女重又站起身来。
她使男孩子们在被人遗忘的
盘子里，堆满新采的梅子和梨。
少女们尝后，欣喜地去踏叶漫步。
六
乐园里难道没有死亡嬗变？
成熟的果子不落？沉甸甸的枝桠
水远沉重地悬空在完美的天空下？
其实酷似我们生生死死的尘世，
那里的河流也在寻找海洋，
却无法找到，那里也有退潮的
海滩，却永远无法感受不可言喻的痛苦？
为什么把梨摆放在河岸两旁，
或者用梅之芬芳把河岸切成两半？
啊，它们应披上我们午后的绸衣，
披上我们的绚烂的色彩，
拨动我们单调的琴弦！
死乃美之母亲，神秘的母亲，
在她炽热的怀抱中，我们让
自己尘世的母亲无眠地等待。
七
狂热的人群将在一个夏日之晨
在祭奠酒神的仪式上围成一圈
热烈而虔诚地把太阳颂赞，
不把它当作神，只当作“若神”，
裸露于他们之间，如原始生命之源
人群高唱颂歌，宛如天堂圣乐，
发自肺腑，又复归云端；
此起彼伏的歌声，颂扬着
为他们的主人喜爱的风中湖泊，
还有天使般迷人的树林．
以及歌声回荡的深谷山峦。
他们会深刻地体会到，注定一死
的人类的神圣情谊，夏晨般短暂，
他们从何处来，往何处去，
足上的露珠将使之昭然。
八
她听到在那片死寂的水面上
一个声音高喊：“巴勒斯坦的墓穴，
不是灵魂徘徊的门廊，
那是耶稣之墓，他安息的地方。”
我们生存在混乱之中，风云难测，
依存着白昼和黑夜的循环，
在荒凉无援的孤岛上被大海
围困，我们没有约束也没有逃路。
鹿群在我们的山林悠闲地漫步，
鹌鹑在我们的四周嘤嘤高鸣，
荒野上的甜草莓已经熟透；
黄昏中孤零空旷的天际
偶尔掠过队队鸽群，
起伏时划出隐约的波浪，
展开双翼，缓缓沉入黑夜茫茫。
（李力译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
坛子轶闻
我把坛子置于田纳西州
它是圆的，立在小山顶。
它使得散乱的荒野
都以此小山为中心。
荒野全都向坛子涌来，
俯伏四周，不再荒野。
坛子圆圆的，在地上
巍然耸立，风采非凡。
它统领四面八方，
这灰色无花纹的坛子
它不孳生鸟雀或树丛，
与田纳西的一切都不同。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
弹蓝色吉他的人（节选）
1
那人俯身，调校
吉他琴弦。日子青郁。
他们说：“你抱着蓝色吉他；
弹奏的事物并不真实。”
那人笑道；“蓝色吉他上
事物改变了本来的面目。”
他们又说：“你弹奏的曲调
必须既高于我们，又是我们自己，
蓝色吉他上的曲调
必须是事物本来的面目。”
2
我弹不出完整的世界，
虽然我用尽了力量。
我歌咏英雄的头颅，巨大的眼睛
古铜色的脸，但并不是一个人，
虽然我尽力弹出完整的人。
弹他时几乎傲到了这点。
如果小夜曲
和人——样重要，那么
完全可以说是小夜曲
弹奏蓝色的吉他。
3
啊，请弹作品第一号，
搅动人心中的匕首，
把大脑放到木板上，
挑出刻毒的颜色，
把思想钉在屋门上，
展翅飞向雨、雪，
放出活的音调，
敲击，敲击，把它变为真实，
敲出蓝色的音符，
敲击金属的琴弦……
4
那是生命：真实的事物？
它在蓝色吉他上行进。
一根弦上有一百万人？
所有的行为都在，
所有的行为，无论错对，
所有的行为，无论强弱？
情感疯狂地呼唤．
像秋风中苍蝇的叫声，
那么这就是生命；真实的事物
蓝色吉他的声音。
5
不要对我们讲诗的伟大，
讲地下晃动的火炬，
光点上拱顶的结构．
我们的阳光下没有影子，
白昼是欲望，夜晓是睡眠。
什么地方也没有影子。
我们的大地平担，赤裸。 ‘
近有任何影子。诗
超越音乐，必须取代
空虚的天国和颂歌，
我们自己必须在诗中就位，
即便是在你吉他的嘈切声中。
……
26
想象中世界受过浸洗，
世界是海岸，无论声音，形式
还是光明，送别的纪念物，
离歌的回响，岩石，
他的想象总复归于这些，
而后又像一行音符驰入空中，
云间尘沙堆积，巨人
与凶恶的字母搏斗：
麋集的思想，麋集的梦
梦见遥不可及的乌托邦。
山的音乐似乎
不断飘临，不断消逝。
27
海水冲白了屋顶。
大海在冬天的空气中漂流。
北方创造了大海。
大海在纷落的雪中。
这片阴郁是大海的黑暗。
地理学家和哲学家，
清注意。如果不是因为那盐水杯，
不是因为屋檐上的冰柱——
大海不过是嘲弄的形式。
一座座冰山嘲笑
不能成为自己的恶魔，
它四处游荡，改换变幻的风景。
（西蒙 水琴译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
论现代诗歌
这诗写思想在行动中寻找
令人满足的东西。却并不总需要
去寻找；布景已搭好，它重复
脚本中已有的东西。
然后剧院变成
别的什么。它的过去是一种回忆
它必须活着，学习当地的语言。
它必须面对这时代的男人，会见
这时代的女人。它必须思考战争，
寻找令人满意的东西。它必须重新
搭一个舞台。它必须站在台上
像位永不满足的演员，慢慢地，
沉思地，诵出台词，在耳朵中
在思想敏锐的耳朵中，准确地
重复它想听见的东西，一群无形的
观众，正在倾听这声音，
不是在听剧，而是听自己
在两个人的情感中得以表现，
两种情感结合为一体。演员
是黑暗中的玄学家，拨动
乐器，拨动一根金属琴弦，
发出的声音突然穿透正确，整个
包容了思想，既不低于思想，
也没超越思想的欲望。
它必须
成为令人满意的东西，可以是
滑冰的男人，跳舞的女人．
或梳头的女人，思想的行动的诗。
（西蒙 水琴译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
宣言的隐喻
二十个人走过桥梁，
进入村庄。
那是二十个人走过二十座桥梁，
进入二十座村庄。
或是一个人
走过一座桥进入一个村庄。
这是一支古老的歌
它不会宣泄它自己的意思……
二十个人走过桥梁，
进入村庄。
那是
二十个人走过一座桥
进入一个村庄。
这村庄不愿显露自己
但肯定有自己的意思……
人们的靴子踏上
桥梁的边缘，
村庄的第一座白墙
自果树丛中升起。
我在想些什么？
而意思已逃离自身。
那村庄的第一座白墙……
那果树林……
（孟猛 译）
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词语造成的人
没有情感的神话，人类的梦幻
死亡的诗歌，我们会是什么？
阉割过的朦胧月亮——生活
由有关生活的计划组成，梦幻
是一片沙漠
我们在那里精心筹划，被梦境撕裂，
被失败的可怖的符咒所撕裂
被失败和梦幻同为一体的恐惧所撕裂。
所有人是同一个诗人
记述着命运的偏执打算。
（孟猛 译）
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内心情人的最后独白
点燃夜晚的第一线光，在房间里
我们休息，为不足道的理由，思忖着
想象世界是最后的善。
因此，这是最炽烈的幽会
只有在这种思想下我们才能集中心绪，
排除一切冷漠，倾心于一件事：
在这唯一的事中，仅有一条围巾，
紧紧裹着我们，既然我们很穷，一丝温暖
一线光，一点力，都有奇迹般的影响，
现在我们互相忘却，也忘却了自己，
只感觉到一种朦胧的秩序，一个整体，
一种知识，安排了这次幽会。
在它生气勃勃的边缘，在心中
我们看见上帝和想象融为一体……
那点燃黑夜的最高烛火是多么难以攀缘。
这同一线光，这同一个心里，
我们蜗居在黑夜的空气中，
那儿，能呆在一起就是满足。
（孟猛 译）
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一个特例的过程
今天树叶在叫喊，当它们悬在枝头被风吹打，
然而冬的虚无开始一点点地减少。
到处还都是冰冷的阴影和积下的雪。
树叶叫喊……有一个人呆在旁边只是在听。
这是忙碌的叫喊，跟其他的人有关。
尽管有一个人说一是万物的一个部分，
哪里有矛盾，哪里就会有反抗；
而作为一个部分就是要努力去谢绝：
一个人感受到的生活就是这一切赋予的生活。
树叶叫喊。这不是神灵垂爱的叫喊，
不是牛皮哄哄的英雄们的吹嘘，也不是人类的叫喊。
这是从不凌驾它们自身的树叶的叫喊，
没有幻想曲上场，没有什么意义比
它们能做的更多只有耳朵最后的听闻，只有这事情
本身，直到最后，这叫喊跟任何人都完全无关。
罗池 译
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一个在它自己的生命中沉睡的孩子
在那些老人当中你知道
有一个没名字的正思索着
一切重要思想的残余。
它们什么也不是，只能纳入
个别人的心智世界。他从外部
观察它们并从内部理解它们，
这位孤单的帝王统治着那些
遥远的事物，但又切近得足以
在今夜的卧床上唤醒你的心弦。
罗池 译
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两封信
即便早已有一弯新月出现
在诸天的每一个云端，
用晶莹的月光把夜晚润湿，
有人还想要更多更多
可以返回的真实的内心，
一个与自我相对的家，一个暗处，
一份可以享受片刻生活的悠闲。
就像点着一支蜡烛，
就像趴在桌上，眯着眼睛，
听着最渴望听的故事，
仿佛我们又重新围坐在一块，
我们中有一人在说着而所有的人都相信
我们听到的话而烛光，尽管很小，已足够了。
罗池 译
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现实是最高想象力的一个活动
上个星期五在上个星期五晚上耀眼的光明中
我们从康沃尔到哈特福德开夜车回家。
这不是维也纳一家玻璃作坊的夜班开炉
也不是威尼斯在静止中收集着时间和尘埃。
这难熬的旅途上有一种力的集聚，
在西去的夜明星前方的天空下
活跃着一片灿烂剔透的光华，
事物浮现然后移动然后被溶解，
要么就在远处，变化或者什么也不做。
夏日夜晚的变换是明显的：
一个银白色的抽象渐渐成型
然后又突然把自己给否决。
固体会有一种非固态的涌动。
夜的月光湖既不是水也不是空气。
罗池 译
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橡树林下的单人牌戏
湮没于张张纸牌
一个人存在于纯然的法则。
既不是纸牌也不是树林不是空气
能像事实那样存留。这是一个遁逃，
逃向原理，逃向沉思。
一个人最终明了什么该思考
然后抛开意识去思考，
在橡树林下，全然地释放。
罗池 译
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当地对象
他知道他是一个无处栖息的灵魂，
因此，按这种理解，当地对象就变得
比最宝贵的家乡对象还要宝贵：
当地对象属于一个无处栖息的世界，
没有记得下来的过去，只有现在的过去，
或者在现在的指望中指望着的现在的未来；
对象不会像理所当然的事物那样
出现在诸天或者光明的阴暗面，
在那个天球上只有少得可怜的这种对象。
对他来说很少也是有，而这些极少的东西
总是会碰上一个新奇的名字，仿佛
是他要创造它们，让它们远离死灭，
这些极少的东西，这些供人领悟的对象，这些感觉
的融合体，这些东西主动地送上门来，
因为他渴求的是不用去知道究竟是什么，
是什么成了那些经典和美的重要性。
这些就是沉着的他一直总是在接近的
当他走向一个高于浪漫的绝对居所。
罗池 译
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明朗的一日没有回忆
没有士兵埋在风景区，
没有思想念及已经死去的人，
如同他们还在五十年前：
年轻并生活在一种鲜活的空气里，
年轻并行走在这阳光里，
穿着蓝衣服弯下腰去触碰什么东西——
今日的心境不是天气的一个部分。
今日的空气把一切事物变得明朗。
它不具备知识却只有空虚，
它弥漫了我们却毫无意义，
仿佛过去我们谁也不曾到过这里
此刻也未曾出现：在这浅显的景象中，
这无形的运动，这种感觉。
罗池 译
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七月高山
我们生活在一座星群，
夜空璀璨而又漆黑，
不是一个单一的世界，
不是在钢琴上在讲演中，
能用音乐说得动听的事情，
就像在诗歌的书页上——
思想者们对一个永在起始的宇宙
没有最后的结论。
沿路向前，当我们攀上高山，
佛蒙特把自己一蹴而就。
罗池 译
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一部神话能反映它的领地
一部神话能反映它的领地。在这儿，
康涅狄格，我们从来不曾生活在一个
神话能变为现实的时代——但倘若我们有过——
这就得提出一个形象真实性的问题。
形象必须要具有它的创造者的生命力。
它的生命力是它的创造者的增长
和提升。在重又焕然一新的青春中，它是他，
在来自他领地的那些物质中，
在他森林里的树木和从他的田地刨出的
或从他的大山下开采的石头中，它就是他。
罗池 译
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一个熟睡的老人
这两个世界睡着了，此刻，正在熟睡。
一个沉默的意识在某种肃穆中支配着它们。
自我以及土地——你的思想，你的感觉，
你的信念和怀疑，你专有的整个地块；
你泛红的栗子树上的红颜色，
河流的运动，Ｒ河*的懒洋洋的运动。
*Ｒ河，the river R，即“万河之河”（the river of rivers），参见《康涅狄格的万河之河》。
罗池 译
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爱尔兰的莫赫悬崖*
谁是我的父亲，在这世界上，在这屋子里，
在这灵魂的底部？
我父亲的父亲，和他的父亲的父亲，和他的——
风也似的片片黑影
回归到一个家长，在思想之前，在言说之前，
在往昔的前方。
他们来到莫赫悬崖，在迷雾之外，
在真实之上，
探出当前的时间和地点，高出
湿气，和绿草。
这不是风景，充满了诗歌的
幻梦**，
和大海。这是我的父亲，或许，
是他的存在，
一个相似物，诸位父亲中的一个：土地、
海和空气。
* 莫赫，Moher，爱尔兰地名，沿海有8公里长200多米高的海崖名胜。
** 幻梦，somnabulations，原指梦游。史蒂文斯诗中一般把梦幻、幻想等用作贬义。
罗池 译
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对事物的朴素认识
在树叶掉光之后，我们回归
一个对事物的朴素认识。就仿佛
我们已到达一个想象力的尽头，
无声无息地置身于一种惰性的知*。
甚至很难去挑选一个形容词
修饰这种空洞的寒冷，这种没有缘由的哀伤。
伟大的建构已变成一座次要的房子。
没有包头巾的人v会行走在那些被降格的地板。
花房从来没有如此迫切地亟待粉刷。
烟囱已经有五十年历史并倾斜向一旁。
一个幻想性的努力失败了，人和苍蝇的
反反复复中的一次反复。
然而想象力的缺乏已经
把它自己拿来想象。巨大的池塘，
对池塘的朴素认识，没有倒影，树叶，
淤泥，水像一块脏玻璃表达着某种
静寂，一只耗子探头察看的那种静寂，
巨大的池塘以及它的百合花的废墟，所有这一切
都得当作一种不可规避的知识来想象，
当作一种必需的要求，来要求。
* 知，savoir，法文。
罗池 译
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一首诗替代了一座高山的位置
这就是一首诗，逐字逐句地，
替代了一座高山的位置。
他呼吸它的氧气，
哪怕这本书在他桌面的尘土中翻身扑腾。
这让他想起他曾多么迫切地需要
一个按他自己的方向去抵达的地方，
他曾多么严重地改组松树林，
更换岩石并在云雾中挑拣他的路，
只为了看见那顺理成章的风景，
在那里他将实现一种无法解释的完成：
在确切的岩石上他的不确切
将发现，最终，眼睛只能观察有边缘的事物，
他可以在那里躺卧，向下凝视着大海，
辨认他独一的独自的家。
罗池 译
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望过原野看鸟群飞起
在那些更为恼人的次要理念中
洪堡先生*从他的旅途返回
事物边缘的康科德**老家，他的主要理念是：
要放得下那些草地，树林，云朵，
不要把它们转换成另外的事物，
这不过是太阳每一天的工作，
直到我们对自己说也许会有
一个苦思冥想的自然，一个机械的
并且有点可恶的操作对象***，不像
人的魂灵，尽管有点相似但要更大，
没有他的文学也没有他的神明……
但我们很可能超越了自己，生活在空气里，
在一种并不是为我们预备的生存环境里，
难道能说这是我们为自己预备的吗，太夸张了吧，
一件事物并不是为比喻或信仰安排下来的，
它不是我们惯于编造的那些阳性神话中的一个，
而是一个透明体，在其中有燕子穿梭，
没有任何形体或任何形体之感。
我们所知在于我们所见****，我们所感在于
我们所闻，而我们的所在，超出神秘主义者的论调，
在于融合体*****的一片喧哗，在天国之外，
至于我们的所思，风也似的一个瞬间，
一个运动中的一个运动部分，一个发现
中的一个发现部分，一个变化中的一个变化部分，
是色彩中的一股同时也是它的一部分。
这午后显然是一个源头，
太广阔，太多彩，会多过平静，
太近于思考会少于思想，
最隐晦的家长，最隐晦的教主，
一个来自沉思的日常的至尊，
在它特有的静寂中来临然后远去。
我们在思考，不管太阳照耀或者不照。
我们在思考如同风掠过一口池塘一片田野
或者我们用斗蓬蒙住我们的言辞因为
那同样的风，飞扬又飞扬，发出的声响
就像冬季结束时的最后一段弱音。
一个新的学者替代一个老的思索着
这首幻想曲的一个片断。他寻求
一个能让人说得明白的人。
灵魂来自于这个世界的这种肉体，
兴许洪堡先生想的是：肉体所来自的那个世界
它迟钝的律法造成了心智的一种做作******，
大自然的风格*******被一块玻璃捕捉
然后这成为一个灵魂的风格，
一块玻璃挤满事物，它们能去多远就去多远。
* 包头巾的人，turban，原指阿拉伯头巾，诗中指伊斯兰或其他宗教的教士、教徒。
** 洪堡先生，Mr. Homburg，人名，出处不详。
*** 康科德，Concord，地名，同名城市很多，诗中所指不详。字面有“和谐、一致”的意思，诗中强调的是这个。
**** 参见《我们所见即我们所思》。
***** 融合体，integrations，这是晚期史蒂文斯常用的一个概念，大意指种种所见所闻所知所感等融合（或综合、总合、整合、集成、统合）为一个和谐的整体，从客观事物到主观感知最终都通过某种仪式性的沉思或冥想（meditation）而达到合一、和谐的高级形态。与中期史蒂文斯的“风琴”概念（harmonium，即和谐美妙的组合体）相比，“融合体”更高，更大，是一架架风琴的融合，是一整个风琴。参见《当地对象》。
****** 做作，affectation，“心智的做作”在史蒂文斯的概念中一般指思考（think）。另，“affectation”的词形与“affection”（影响）相近。
******* 风格，mannerism，这里尤指矫揉造作的风格、癖好。
罗池 译
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沉思中的世界
小提琴练习很浪费时间，跟旅行一样。而训练对于
作曲家是必不可少的——就像沉思——我从来没有
中断过……我拧紧一个不变的梦想，不管白天黑夜
从不停止。*
——乔治斯·厄内斯库**
从东方前来的那人是不是尤利西斯，
那个没完没了的冒险家？树木得到改善。
严冬被冲洗干净。那人正移动
在地平线上并托举着他自身。
一团火的形状映上珀涅罗珀***的大花布，
它野性十足的姿态把她栖居的世界唤醒。
这些年，她已经安顿****好一个要将他迎候的自我，
在她的想象中，替她与他的自我相伴，
以及深深的隐蔽处中的两个，朋友和亲爱的朋友。
树木已经得到改善，就像一个必不可少的训练
在一种非人的沉思中，比她自己的更重大。
夜里没有风会像狗一样监视着她。
她不想要他不能给她带来的任何东西。
她不想要迷人。他的臂膀就是她的项链
和她的腰带，是它们渴望的最大财富。
但那是尤利西斯吗？或者那只是温暖的阳光
照在她的枕上？这些念头在她体内扑打就像她的心。
它们两个同时扑打着。这就是日子*****。
那是尤利西斯、那不是。但它们相遇了，
朋友和亲爱的朋友以及星球的怂恿。
这个野蛮的力决不会在她体内减弱。
梳头的时候她会告诉她自己，
用坚毅的音节重复着他的名字，
决不忘记他每时每刻都会来到近旁。
* 引文为法文，出处不详。
** 乔治斯·厄内斯库，Georges Enesco，罗马尼亚籍音乐家、小提琴家，1881-1955.
*** 珀涅罗珀，Penelope，尤利西斯（奥德修斯）的妻子。
**** 安顿，composed，有构成、编写、安抚、镇静等意思。
***** 这就是日子，it was only day。
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一种平静的正常生活
当他坐下来当他思考，他的位置并不在
他构想的任何事物之中，如此脆弱，
如此缺少光照，如此阴蔽和空虚，
例如，作为其中的一个世界，就像雪，
他成为一个居民，顺从着
寒冷地区的堂皇观念。
就在这儿。这就是年月发生的
地点和时间。这儿，在他屋里在他房中，
在他的椅子上，最镇静的思想渐渐憔悴
而最年老最火热的心被刺破
在黑暗地区的堂皇观念之下——
全都在夜里独自地，在蟋蟀的和声上，
咿咿呀呀的，一个个的，唱着各自的独一性。
没有形式卓越的狂暴。
但他真实的蜡烛绽放着技艺。
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内心情人的终场独白
点亮傍晚的第一道光，走进一个房间
让我们歇息，并由这个小小前提，推断
那个想象的世界才是终极的善。
由此可知，这是一个最动情的约会。
正是按这种思路我们才能集中精力，
抛开所有冷漠，进入一件事物：
就在这唯一的事物中，一条唯一的披巾
紧紧地把我们包裹，我们是卑微的，一丝暖，
一线光，一股劲，都带来奇迹般的效应。
此时，此地，我们忘记了彼此以及自身。
我们感到某种隐晦，它来自一种秩序，一种整体，
一种认知，在它生机勃勃的疆域，在心智中，
正是它们安排了这次约会。
我们说上帝和这个想象是一体……
无上崇高啊，最高的烛台照亮了黑暗。
在同一道光之外，在心智的中枢之外，
我们在傍晚的空中建一个居所，
能一起呆在那儿就满足了。
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作为征象的诗 *
用树叶把岩石覆盖还不够。
我们必须对它进行治疗，用土地的灵药
或者用我们自身的灵药，这等同于土地
的灵药，一种超越健忘的治疗。
然而这些树叶，如果它们冒出嫩芽，
如果它们冒出花朵，如果它们挂满水果，
并且如果我们从它们新鲜的杂质中
吃下那些初生的颜料就可以成为土地的灵药。
* 这是组诗《岩石》第二章的节选。
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摆在桌面上的行星
爱丽尔*很高兴他已经写好他的诗。
它们要有一段值得纪念的时间
或者他乐意看到的事物。
太阳的其它创造
是废物和垃圾堆
以及纠缠不清的灌木丛。
他的自我与太阳是一体
而他的诗，尽管是他自我的创造，
却不亚于太阳的创造。
它们是否存留并不重要。
要紧的是它们应传承
某种脸型或者性格，
以及某种富裕，但愿能稍微显露，
在它们的词汇的贫乏，
它们作为其部分的行星的贫乏中。
* 爱丽尔，Ariel，莎士比亚戏剧《暴风雨》中淘气的精灵。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
康涅狄格的万河之河
有一条巨大的河在冥河*的此岸
在一个人到达第一道黑色瀑布
和缺乏树木之灵的树林**之前。
在这条河中，在遥远的冥河此岸，
就连水的流动也是一种欢乐，
在阳光里闪烁着闪烁着。在它两旁，
没有阴影在行走。这条河是宿命的，
就像后者。但这里没有人摆渡。
他不能征服它滚滚向前的力量。
在将它讲述的表象之下它从不
为人所见。法明顿***的尖塔
在波光中屹立而哈达姆****闪耀着摇曳着。
它是与阳光和空气并列的第三个公共物产，
一个课业，一种活力，一个当地的抽象……
呼唤它，再一次，一条河，一条无名的水流，
被空间充满，映照着季节，每一种知觉的
民间文学；呼唤它，一遍一遍，
这条流向乌有的河，就像一个海。
* 冥河，Stygia，不是标准写法，出处不详。
** 缺乏树木之灵的树林，trees that lack the intelligence of trees，指《神曲》中描述的“黑树林”。
*** 法明顿，Farmington，地名，哈特福德西南的一个小镇，在史蒂文斯家附近。
**** 哈达姆，Haddam，地名，参见《观察一只乌鸫的十三种方法》。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
不是关于事物的理念而是事物本身
在冬季刚刚结束的时候，
三月里，屋外传来一声干涩的*啼鸣
仿佛是一个来自他内心的声音。
他相信他听见了这个声音，
一只鸟的啼鸣，在拂晓或更早，
在三月初的风里。
太阳六点钟升起，
不再是雪地上一顶皱巴巴的羽绒帽……
它应该已经照到屋外。
这声音不是来自没边际的腹语术**，
这里也不是在长眠中褪色的纸浆模型***……
太阳从屋外照进来。
那一声干涩的啼鸣——它是
一个合唱团员，它的Ｃ音高过了合唱团。
它是庞大的****太阳的一部分，
被簇拥在合唱团的队伍中，
甚至更广。它就像是
对现实的一个新的理解。
* 干涩的，scrawny，原意是瘦骨嶙峋。另，“scrawny”的词形与“scream”、“screak”（尖叫、刺耳）相近，诗中用意不详。
** 腹语术，ventriloquism，诗中可能指打呼噜，或者回音。
*** 纸浆模型，papier-mache，法文，诗中可能指幻想的空中楼阁。
**** 庞大的，colossal，威严、崇高、令人敬畏的那种巨大。诗中是相对“腹语术”的“没边际的”（vast）而言。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大键琴上的彼得·昆
Ⅰ
正如我的手指在键盘上
奏出音乐，这同一个声音
也在我的灵魂上奏出音乐。
音乐是感觉，不是声音；
因此它是我之所感，在这儿，
在这房间里，欲想着你。
想着你蓝色阴影的丝绸衣服，
是音乐。就像那长者心中
被苏珊娜唤醒的曲调；
绿色的黄昏，清澈而温暖，
她在静寂的花园沐浴，而眼珠
血红的长者正在窥看，感到他们
生命的低音在巫魅的和弦中
悸动，稀薄的血液
搏动"和撒那"的弹拨曲。
Ⅱ
绿色的水中，清澈而温暖，
苏珊娜静卧。
她搜索
春天的触摸，
找到
隐秘的想象。
她叹息，
为如此多的乐音。
在堤岸之上，她站立
在耗尽的情绪的
清凉之中。
在树叶中，她感到
苍老的恋慕的
水露。
她在草地上行走，
仍在微颤。
风是她的女仆，
有着怯生生的脚步，
带给她摇曳不定的
编织围巾。
手上的一丝呼吸
哑默了这暗夜。
她转身--
钹音碎裂，
在喇叭的咆啸中。
Ⅲ
立时，在小手鼓的鼓音中，
她的拜占庭随从出现。
他们惊诧于苏珊娜
反抗身旁长者的惊叫。
当他们低语，重复的乐句
如柳树为雨水拂过。
紧接着，他们高举的灯火
照见苏珊娜，还有她的羞辱。
然后，这些拜占庭人假笑着
散去，在小手鼓的鼓音中。
Ⅳ
美是心灵中的瞬刻--
灵魂出口的断续显迹，
但在肉体中，它不朽。
肉体死亡；肉体的美依然留存。
黄昏亦死亡，在它们的绿色中逝去，
一丝波浪，永无止尽地流淌。
花园亦死亡，它们温顺的气息嗅感
冬日的僧衣，在忏悔中了结。
少女亦死亡，去向少女合唱队
玫瑰色的庆典。
苏珊娜的音乐触动白人长者
淫荡的心弦；但她逃去，
只余下死亡讽刺的刮擦。
如今，在它的不朽中，
以她记忆的清亮的六弦提琴
持续地弹奏出赞颂的圣礼。
方目 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
齐维斯特的秩序观念
她歌唱，超越着大海的天赋。
海水从未形成过思想或声音，
有如全然肉体的肉体，挥动着
空空的衣袖；然而它模仿的运动
造出持续的喊声，持续地发出
那不是我们的却能为我们理解的
名副其实的大海的非人的叫喊。
大海不是面具。她也不再是。
那并非歌声与水声杂烩的混响，
即使她之所唱乃是她之所听。
既然她之所唱乃是逐字逐词的所唱，
在她所有的句词中想必会搅动起
碾压的海水与喘息的海风；但我们
听到的绝非大海而是她之所唱。
因为她是这歌声的造主。
这永恒罩盖、手势悲凉的大海
仅仅是她且行且歌的所在。
这是谁的精魂？我们如此言道，因为
我们知道这是我们探寻的精魂，亦知
这会是歌唱中我们不断的追问。
如果那升起的仅仅是大海的黑色
嗓音，或即便添有波浪的色泽；
如果那仅仅是天与云的外在的嗓音，
或属于海水壁围的珊瑚暗礁，
无论如何清亮，那也只是深沉的空气，
空气鼓动的言辞，一个夏日的声音
在无有终结的夏日里不断重复，
并且仅仅是声音。但那远不止于此，
甚至超过了她的嗓音，我们的嗓音，
在水与风无意义的抛掷中，
在引人注目的远方，在高高的
海平线上堆积的青铜色阴影
与海天之间如山的大气中。
是她的歌声，在黄昏消逝前
让天空变得锐利无比。
向着此刻她量出它的孤寂。
这歌于其间的世界，她是其
唯一的建造者。她歌唱，这无论
曾有何等样自我的大海遂化为
其歌声的自我，因为她乃是这造主。
当看到她阔步独行于海边，我们
于是悟到，于她从未有过世界
除了她歌唱并在歌声中创造的那个。
雷蒙．费尔南德，告诉我，如果
你知道为何，当歌声终止我们转向
市镇，当黄昏降临空气中夜色倾斜，
为何在海边停泊的渔船的灯火，
这玻璃般的灯火雄踞夜晚，并将
大海划归其外，厘定了
发亮的地带和火焰之柱，
安置着、深化着、魅惑着夜晚。
哦，秩序的神圣激情！苍白的雷蒙，
这造主的激情朝向大海的秩序的言辞，
朦胧星光中芬芳的入口的言辞，
这歌哭的声音关乎我们自己和
我们的起源，更多属于幽灵的界阈。
方目 译
我用整个身体品尝这些桃子，
我触摸它们，闻着它们。是谁在说话？
我吸收桃子，就像安捷涅夫
吸收安鲁。我像恋人般望着桃子
像年轻的恋人望着春天的花蕾，
像黝黑的西班牙人弹着吉它。
是谁在说话？肯定是我，
那只野兽，那个俄国人，那个流放者，
教堂里的钟为我们敲响
在心中。红嫩的桃子
又圆又大，还有一层茸毛，
盈满蜜汁，桃皮柔软，
桃子盈满了我的村庄的色彩，盈满
晴朗的天气，夏天，露水，和平的色彩。
桃子所在的房间静悄悄的。
窗子敞开。阳光
洒满窗帘。甚至窗帘轻盈地飘动，
也惊扰我。我不知道
这种残忍会把一个自我
从另一个自我上摘下，像摘下这桃子。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
生命和心灵的碎片
几乎没有什么亲密温暖的事物。
仿佛我们从未作过儿童。
我们坐在屋里，在月光中，
仿佛从未年轻过，这是真的。
我们不应醒来。梦中
一个亮红色的女人将起身，
站在紫色金辉里，梳理长发。
她会沉思地说出一行诗句。
她认为我们不太会唱歌。
另外，天空这么蓝，事物会自己
为她唱歌。她倾听着
感到她的色彩是一种冥想，
最最快乐，但仍不如从前快乐。
留在这里，诉说熟悉的事情。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
十三种看乌鸫的方式
1
二十座覆盖着雪的山岭之间
唯一移动的
是乌鸫的眼睛。
2
我有三颗心，
就像一棵树上
停着三只乌鸫。
3
乌鸫在秋风中盘旋，
它是哑剧中不起眼的角色。
4
一个男人和一个女人
是一。
一个男人和一个女人和一只乌鸫
是一。
5
我不知道更喜欢哪个，
歌唱的美
或者暗示的美，
鸣叫时的乌鸫
或者鸣叫之后。
6
小冰柱在长长的窗户上
画满了野性的图案。
乌鸫的影子
在它们之间穿梭。
情绪
在影子里找到了
无法破解的原因。
7
瘦削的哈丹男人，
为什么你们只能想象金色的鸟？
难道你们没看见乌鸫
怎样绕着你们周围女人的脚
行走？
8
我知道高贵的音调
以及明晰的、注定的节奏；
但我也知道
乌鸫与我知道的
有关。
9
乌鸫在视野中消失的时候，
为众多圆圈中的一个
标明了边界。
10
看见乌鸫
在绿光中飞翔
最顾忌音韵和谐的人
也会尖叫起来。
11
他乘着一辆玻璃马车，
穿过康涅狄格。
一次，他突然感到一种恐惧，
他误把行李的影子
当成了乌鸫。
12
河流在移动
乌鸫肯定在飞翔。
13
整个下午都是晚上。
一直在下雪。
而且将要下雪。
乌鸫坐在
雪松的枝桠上。
灵石 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
雪人
人必须用冬天的心境
去注视冰霜和覆着白雪的
松树的枝桠；
必须冻过很久
才能看到挂满冰的刺柏，
和远处一月的阳光里
粗糙的云杉，才能不因为风声
以及这片土地上
叶子的声音，想到
任何悲惨的际遇，
同样的风在同样的
荒凉的地方，也为倾听者
而吹，他在雪中倾听，
完全不是他自己，看见
一切，以及一切存在中的空无。
灵石 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
绝对存在
心灵末端的那棵棕榈，
远过最后的思想，树立
在青铜色的布景中。
一只金色羽毛的鸟儿
在棕榈树上歌唱，没有人的意义，
没有人的感觉，一首异族的歌。
于是你明白并不是理智
使得我们快乐或者不快乐。
鸟儿歌唱。它的羽毛闪光。
棕榈屹立在空间的边缘。
风在枝叶间慢慢移动。
鸟儿的火焰般的羽毛纷纷摇落。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
黑色的统治
在夜里，在炉火边，
树丛的各种色彩，
落叶的各种色调，
重复出现．
在房间里翻卷，
就像树叶本身
在风中翻卷
是啊：浓密的铁杉材的色彩
大步走来。
我想起了孔雀的叫喊。
孔雀尾翎的各种色彩
也像这树叶
翻卷，在风中，
在黄昏的风中。
色彩扫过房间，
就像孔雀从铁杉树上
飞落地面。
我听到他们呼喊——这些孔雀
那呼喊是抗议暮色，
还是抗议树叶自己
在风中翻卷？
翻卷，好像火焰
在燃烧时翻卷，
翻卷，好像孔雀尾翎
在喧闹的火焰中翻卷，
高声地，好像铁杉树里
充满了孔雀的叫喊。
要不这呼城是在抗议铁杉自己？
从窗口望出去，
我看到行星聚拢，
就好像树叶
在风中翻卷。
我看到黑夜来临
大步走来，像浓密的铁杉的颜色，
我感到害怕，
我记起了孔雀的叫喊。
（赵毅衡译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
星期天早晨
一
怡然于披着晨衣，洒满阳光的椅子上
迟迟未动的咖啡和蜜橘，
地毯上一只自在的绿鹦鹉，
这种种乐事搅在一起，冲散了
耶稣殉难的神圣静穆。
她梦魂稍动，感觉到
那古老灾难的黑影逼近，
犹如水波中无声的阴影。
刺鼻的蜜橘和明晃晃的绿翼
仿佛是夹在死者行列中的东西，
蜿蜒爬过广袤的水面，杳无声息。
白昼也如广袤的水面，万籁俱寂，
好让她梦一般的双足
跨过海洋，走向寂静的巴勒斯坦，
那鲜血与坟墓的疆域。
二
她为何竟向死者馈赠礼品？
倘若神性只能在无声的阴影
和梦中显现，那算什么神性？
为什么她不能从太阳的抚慰中，
从刺鼻的蜜橘和明亮的绿翼中，
从世上其他的醇香和美丽中．
找到弥足珍贵的东西，比如天堂的思想？
神性惟能留存于她心中：
雨的欲念，落雪的心境；
孤独中的悲戚，林花怒放时
难耐的欢欣；以及秋夜湿路上
进发出来的阵阵激情；
念及盛夏的绿叶和冬的残枝
万般欢乐与痛苦便如潮般诵起。
这些才是衡量她灵魂的尺度。
三
高居云端的朱庇特绝非凡胎。
没有母亲给他哺乳，没有甜蜜的大地
给他神奇的心灵注进万般风情。
他走在我们中间，像一位低语的皇帝，
威严地走在一群红鹿中间，
直到我们贞洁的鲜血，与天国
融为一体，把这种酬劳送给欲望，
那群红鹿看到了酬劳，从一颗星中。
我们的鲜血会白流吗？或许它将成为
乐园的鲜血？这片土地
是否会变成我们想象的乐园？
那时苍天会比现在更友善，
劳作和痛苦，在名份上
仅仅次于万古长青的爱，
而不是现在这般生分而冷漠的一片蓝。
四
她说：“我心满意足，当苏醒的鸟儿
在飞翔之前，用美妙动听的询问
试探迷雾蒙蒙的田野是否实在；
但当鸟群远去，温暖的田野
也一去不返，那时．何处为乐园？”
这里再也没有预言常往之地，
再也没有出没墓地的老妖怪，
再也没有金色的地府．也没有
曼歌的仙岛，精灵们曾在那里聚集，
再也没有幻梦中的南国，在那遥远的仙山
也没有了浓荫如盖的棕榈，那棕榈
已经凋零，像四月的绿叶过了时令；
或许树叶还会泛青，像她对鸟儿的回忆
以及她对六月和黄昏的渴念，
从燕翼绝妙的比划中抖落。
五
她说：“然而．在满足中我仍然
感到需要某种不朽的赐福。”
死乃美之母；唯有自她那里
我们的梦和渴望才变得圆满。
虽然她在我们的道路上，
撒下片片遗忘的落叶，
这难堪的遗憾之路，有几段路途
胜利敲响过它黄铜般的声音，或者
爱情发出过温情脉脉的低语！
她让柳枝在阳光下悚悚颤动
为那些习惯于坐着凝视草地的
个个少女重又站起身来。
她使男孩子们在被人遗忘的
盘子里，堆满新采的梅子和梨。
少女们尝后，欣喜地去踏叶漫步。
六
乐园里难道没有死亡嬗变？
成熟的果子不落？沉甸甸的枝桠
水远沉重地悬空在完美的天空下？
其实酷似我们生生死死的尘世，
那里的河流也在寻找海洋，
却无法找到，那里也有退潮的
海滩，却永远无法感受不可言喻的痛苦？
为什么把梨摆放在河岸两旁，
或者用梅之芬芳把河岸切成两半？
啊，它们应披上我们午后的绸衣，
披上我们的绚烂的色彩，
拨动我们单调的琴弦！
死乃美之母亲，神秘的母亲，
在她炽热的怀抱中，我们让
自己尘世的母亲无眠地等待。
七
狂热的人群将在一个夏日之晨
在祭奠酒神的仪式上围成一圈
热烈而虔诚地把太阳颂赞，
不把它当作神，只当作“若神”，
裸露于他们之间，如原始生命之源
人群高唱颂歌，宛如天堂圣乐，
发自肺腑，又复归云端；
此起彼伏的歌声，颂扬着
为他们的主人喜爱的风中湖泊，
还有天使般迷人的树林．
以及歌声回荡的深谷山峦。
他们会深刻地体会到，注定一死
的人类的神圣情谊，夏晨般短暂，
他们从何处来，往何处去，
足上的露珠将使之昭然。
八
她听到在那片死寂的水面上
一个声音高喊：“巴勒斯坦的墓穴，
不是灵魂徘徊的门廊，
那是耶稣之墓，他安息的地方。”
我们生存在混乱之中，风云难测，
依存着白昼和黑夜的循环，
在荒凉无援的孤岛上被大海
围困，我们没有约束也没有逃路。
鹿群在我们的山林悠闲地漫步，
鹌鹑在我们的四周嘤嘤高鸣，
荒野上的甜草莓已经熟透；
黄昏中孤零空旷的天际
偶尔掠过队队鸽群，
起伏时划出隐约的波浪，
展开双翼，缓缓沉入黑夜茫茫。
（李力译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
坛子轶闻
我把坛子置于田纳西州
它是圆的，立在小山顶。
它使得散乱的荒野
都以此小山为中心。
荒野全都向坛子涌来，
俯伏四周，不再荒野。
坛子圆圆的，在地上
巍然耸立，风采非凡。
它统领四面八方，
这灰色无花纹的坛子
它不孳生鸟雀或树丛，
与田纳西的一切都不同。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
弹蓝色吉他的人（节选）
1
那人俯身，调校
吉他琴弦。日子青郁。
他们说：“你抱着蓝色吉他；
弹奏的事物并不真实。”
那人笑道；“蓝色吉他上
事物改变了本来的面目。”
他们又说：“你弹奏的曲调
必须既高于我们，又是我们自己，
蓝色吉他上的曲调
必须是事物本来的面目。”
2
我弹不出完整的世界，
虽然我用尽了力量。
我歌咏英雄的头颅，巨大的眼睛
古铜色的脸，但并不是一个人，
虽然我尽力弹出完整的人。
弹他时几乎傲到了这点。
如果小夜曲
和人——样重要，那么
完全可以说是小夜曲
弹奏蓝色的吉他。
3
啊，请弹作品第一号，
搅动人心中的匕首，
把大脑放到木板上，
挑出刻毒的颜色，
把思想钉在屋门上，
展翅飞向雨、雪，
放出活的音调，
敲击，敲击，把它变为真实，
敲出蓝色的音符，
敲击金属的琴弦……
4
那是生命：真实的事物？
它在蓝色吉他上行进。
一根弦上有一百万人？
所有的行为都在，
所有的行为，无论错对，
所有的行为，无论强弱？
情感疯狂地呼唤．
像秋风中苍蝇的叫声，
那么这就是生命；真实的事物
蓝色吉他的声音。
5
不要对我们讲诗的伟大，
讲地下晃动的火炬，
光点上拱顶的结构．
我们的阳光下没有影子，
白昼是欲望，夜晓是睡眠。
什么地方也没有影子。
我们的大地平担，赤裸。 ‘
近有任何影子。诗
超越音乐，必须取代
空虚的天国和颂歌，
我们自己必须在诗中就位，
即便是在你吉他的嘈切声中。
……
26
想象中世界受过浸洗，
世界是海岸，无论声音，形式
还是光明，送别的纪念物，
离歌的回响，岩石，
他的想象总复归于这些，
而后又像一行音符驰入空中，
云间尘沙堆积，巨人
与凶恶的字母搏斗：
麋集的思想，麋集的梦
梦见遥不可及的乌托邦。
山的音乐似乎
不断飘临，不断消逝。
27
海水冲白了屋顶。
大海在冬天的空气中漂流。
北方创造了大海。
大海在纷落的雪中。
这片阴郁是大海的黑暗。
地理学家和哲学家，
清注意。如果不是因为那盐水杯，
不是因为屋檐上的冰柱——
大海不过是嘲弄的形式。
一座座冰山嘲笑
不能成为自己的恶魔，
它四处游荡，改换变幻的风景。
（西蒙 水琴译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
论现代诗歌
这诗写思想在行动中寻找
令人满足的东西。却并不总需要
去寻找；布景已搭好，它重复
脚本中已有的东西。
然后剧院变成
别的什么。它的过去是一种回忆
它必须活着，学习当地的语言。
它必须面对这时代的男人，会见
这时代的女人。它必须思考战争，
寻找令人满意的东西。它必须重新
搭一个舞台。它必须站在台上
像位永不满足的演员，慢慢地，
沉思地，诵出台词，在耳朵中
在思想敏锐的耳朵中，准确地
重复它想听见的东西，一群无形的
观众，正在倾听这声音，
不是在听剧，而是听自己
在两个人的情感中得以表现，
两种情感结合为一体。演员
是黑暗中的玄学家，拨动
乐器，拨动一根金属琴弦，
发出的声音突然穿透正确，整个
包容了思想，既不低于思想，
也没超越思想的欲望。
它必须
成为令人满意的东西，可以是
滑冰的男人，跳舞的女人．
或梳头的女人，思想的行动的诗。
（西蒙 水琴译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
宣言的隐喻
二十个人走过桥梁，
进入村庄。
那是二十个人走过二十座桥梁，
进入二十座村庄。
或是一个人
走过一座桥进入一个村庄。
这是一支古老的歌
它不会宣泄它自己的意思……
二十个人走过桥梁，
进入村庄。
那是
二十个人走过一座桥
进入一个村庄。
这村庄不愿显露自己
但肯定有自己的意思……
人们的靴子踏上
桥梁的边缘，
村庄的第一座白墙
自果树丛中升起。
我在想些什么？
而意思已逃离自身。
那村庄的第一座白墙……
那果树林……
（孟猛 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
词语造成的人
没有情感的神话，人类的梦幻
死亡的诗歌，我们会是什么？
阉割过的朦胧月亮——生活
由有关生活的计划组成，梦幻
是一片沙漠
我们在那里精心筹划，被梦境撕裂，
被失败的可怖的符咒所撕裂
被失败和梦幻同为一体的恐惧所撕裂。
所有人是同一个诗人
记述着命运的偏执打算。
（孟猛 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
内心情人的最后独白
点燃夜晚的第一线光，在房间里
我们休息，为不足道的理由，思忖着
想象世界是最后的善。
因此，这是最炽烈的幽会
只有在这种思想下我们才能集中心绪，
排除一切冷漠，倾心于一件事：
在这唯一的事中，仅有一条围巾，
紧紧裹着我们，既然我们很穷，一丝温暖
一线光，一点力，都有奇迹般的影响，
现在我们互相忘却，也忘却了自己，
只感觉到一种朦胧的秩序，一个整体，
一种知识，安排了这次幽会。
在它生气勃勃的边缘，在心中
我们看见上帝和想象融为一体……
那点燃黑夜的最高烛火是多么难以攀缘。
这同一线光，这同一个心里，
我们蜗居在黑夜的空气中，
那儿，能呆在一起就是满足。
（孟猛 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一个特例的过程
今天树叶在叫喊，当它们悬在枝头被风吹打，
然而冬的虚无开始一点点地减少。
到处还都是冰冷的阴影和积下的雪。
树叶叫喊……有一个人呆在旁边只是在听。
这是忙碌的叫喊，跟其他的人有关。
尽管有一个人说一是万物的一个部分，
哪里有矛盾，哪里就会有反抗；
而作为一个部分就是要努力去谢绝：
一个人感受到的生活就是这一切赋予的生活。
树叶叫喊。这不是神灵垂爱的叫喊，
不是牛皮哄哄的英雄们的吹嘘，也不是人类的叫喊。
这是从不凌驾它们自身的树叶的叫喊，
没有幻想曲上场，没有什么意义比
它们能做的更多只有耳朵最后的听闻，只有这事情
本身，直到最后，这叫喊跟任何人都完全无关。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一个在它自己的生命中沉睡的孩子
在那些老人当中你知道
有一个没名字的正思索着
一切重要思想的残余。
它们什么也不是，只能纳入
个别人的心智世界。他从外部
观察它们并从内部理解它们，
这位孤单的帝王统治着那些
遥远的事物，但又切近得足以
在今夜的卧床上唤醒你的心弦。
罗池 译
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两封信
即便早已有一弯新月出现
在诸天的每一个云端，
用晶莹的月光把夜晚润湿，
有人还想要更多更多
可以返回的真实的内心，
一个与自我相对的家，一个暗处，
一份可以享受片刻生活的悠闲。
就像点着一支蜡烛，
就像趴在桌上，眯着眼睛，
听着最渴望听的故事，
仿佛我们又重新围坐在一块，
我们中有一人在说着而所有的人都相信
我们听到的话而烛光，尽管很小，已足够了。
罗池 译
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现实是最高想象力的一个活动
上个星期五在上个星期五晚上耀眼的光明中
我们从康沃尔到哈特福德开夜车回家。
这不是维也纳一家玻璃作坊的夜班开炉
也不是威尼斯在静止中收集着时间和尘埃。
这难熬的旅途上有一种力的集聚，
在西去的夜明星前方的天空下
活跃着一片灿烂剔透的光华，
事物浮现然后移动然后被溶解，
要么就在远处，变化或者什么也不做。
夏日夜晚的变换是明显的：
一个银白色的抽象渐渐成型
然后又突然把自己给否决。
固体会有一种非固态的涌动。
夜的月光湖既不是水也不是空气。
罗池 译
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橡树林下的单人牌戏
湮没于张张纸牌
一个人存在于纯然的法则。
既不是纸牌也不是树林不是空气
能像事实那样存留。这是一个遁逃，
逃向原理，逃向沉思。
一个人最终明了什么该思考
然后抛开意识去思考，
在橡树林下，全然地释放。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
当地对象
他知道他是一个无处栖息的灵魂，
因此，按这种理解，当地对象就变得
比最宝贵的家乡对象还要宝贵：
当地对象属于一个无处栖息的世界，
没有记得下来的过去，只有现在的过去，
或者在现在的指望中指望着的现在的未来；
对象不会像理所当然的事物那样
出现在诸天或者光明的阴暗面，
在那个天球上只有少得可怜的这种对象。
对他来说很少也是有，而这些极少的东西
总是会碰上一个新奇的名字，仿佛
是他要创造它们，让它们远离死灭，
这些极少的东西，这些供人领悟的对象，这些感觉
的融合体，这些东西主动地送上门来，
因为他渴求的是不用去知道究竟是什么，
是什么成了那些经典和美的重要性。
这些就是沉着的他一直总是在接近的
当他走向一个高于浪漫的绝对居所。
罗池 译
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明朗的一日没有回忆
没有士兵埋在风景区，
没有思想念及已经死去的人，
如同他们还在五十年前：
年轻并生活在一种鲜活的空气里，
年轻并行走在这阳光里，
穿着蓝衣服弯下腰去触碰什么东西——
今日的心境不是天气的一个部分。
今日的空气把一切事物变得明朗。
它不具备知识却只有空虚，
它弥漫了我们却毫无意义，
仿佛过去我们谁也不曾到过这里
此刻也未曾出现：在这浅显的景象中，
这无形的运动，这种感觉。
罗池 译
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七月高山
我们生活在一座星群，
夜空璀璨而又漆黑，
不是一个单一的世界，
不是在钢琴上在讲演中，
能用音乐说得动听的事情，
就像在诗歌的书页上——
思想者们对一个永在起始的宇宙
没有最后的结论。
沿路向前，当我们攀上高山，
佛蒙特把自己一蹴而就。
罗池 译
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一部神话能反映它的领地
一部神话能反映它的领地。在这儿，
康涅狄格，我们从来不曾生活在一个
神话能变为现实的时代——但倘若我们有过——
这就得提出一个形象真实性的问题。
形象必须要具有它的创造者的生命力。
它的生命力是它的创造者的增长
和提升。在重又焕然一新的青春中，它是他，
在来自他领地的那些物质中，
在他森林里的树木和从他的田地刨出的
或从他的大山下开采的石头中，它就是他。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一个熟睡的老人
这两个世界睡着了，此刻，正在熟睡。
一个沉默的意识在某种肃穆中支配着它们。
自我以及土地——你的思想，你的感觉，
你的信念和怀疑，你专有的整个地块；
你泛红的栗子树上的红颜色，
河流的运动，Ｒ河*的懒洋洋的运动。
*Ｒ河，the river R，即“万河之河”（the river of rivers），参见《康涅狄格的万河之河》。
罗池 译
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爱尔兰的莫赫悬崖*
谁是我的父亲，在这世界上，在这屋子里，
在这灵魂的底部？
我父亲的父亲，和他的父亲的父亲，和他的——
风也似的片片黑影
回归到一个家长，在思想之前，在言说之前，
在往昔的前方。
他们来到莫赫悬崖，在迷雾之外，
在真实之上，
探出当前的时间和地点，高出
湿气，和绿草。
这不是风景，充满了诗歌的
幻梦**，
和大海。这是我的父亲，或许，
是他的存在，
一个相似物，诸位父亲中的一个：土地、
海和空气。
* 莫赫，Moher，爱尔兰地名，沿海有8公里长200多米高的海崖名胜。
** 幻梦，somnabulations，原指梦游。史蒂文斯诗中一般把梦幻、幻想等用作贬义。
罗池 译
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对事物的朴素认识
在树叶掉光之后，我们回归
一个对事物的朴素认识。就仿佛
我们已到达一个想象力的尽头，
无声无息地置身于一种惰性的知*。
甚至很难去挑选一个形容词
修饰这种空洞的寒冷，这种没有缘由的哀伤。
伟大的建构已变成一座次要的房子。
没有包头巾的人v会行走在那些被降格的地板。
花房从来没有如此迫切地亟待粉刷。
烟囱已经有五十年历史并倾斜向一旁。
一个幻想性的努力失败了，人和苍蝇的
反反复复中的一次反复。
然而想象力的缺乏已经
把它自己拿来想象。巨大的池塘，
对池塘的朴素认识，没有倒影，树叶，
淤泥，水像一块脏玻璃表达着某种
静寂，一只耗子探头察看的那种静寂，
巨大的池塘以及它的百合花的废墟，所有这一切
都得当作一种不可规避的知识来想象，
当作一种必需的要求，来要求。
* 知，savoir，法文。
罗池 译
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一首诗替代了一座高山的位置
这就是一首诗，逐字逐句地，
替代了一座高山的位置。
他呼吸它的氧气，
哪怕这本书在他桌面的尘土中翻身扑腾。
这让他想起他曾多么迫切地需要
一个按他自己的方向去抵达的地方，
他曾多么严重地改组松树林，
更换岩石并在云雾中挑拣他的路，
只为了看见那顺理成章的风景，
在那里他将实现一种无法解释的完成：
在确切的岩石上他的不确切
将发现，最终，眼睛只能观察有边缘的事物，
他可以在那里躺卧，向下凝视着大海，
辨认他独一的独自的家。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
望过原野看鸟群飞起
在那些更为恼人的次要理念中
洪堡先生*从他的旅途返回
事物边缘的康科德**老家，他的主要理念是：
要放得下那些草地，树林，云朵，
不要把它们转换成另外的事物，
这不过是太阳每一天的工作，
直到我们对自己说也许会有
一个苦思冥想的自然，一个机械的
并且有点可恶的操作对象***，不像
人的魂灵，尽管有点相似但要更大，
没有他的文学也没有他的神明……
但我们很可能超越了自己，生活在空气里，
在一种并不是为我们预备的生存环境里，
难道能说这是我们为自己预备的吗，太夸张了吧，
一件事物并不是为比喻或信仰安排下来的，
它不是我们惯于编造的那些阳性神话中的一个，
而是一个透明体，在其中有燕子穿梭，
没有任何形体或任何形体之感。
我们所知在于我们所见****，我们所感在于
我们所闻，而我们的所在，超出神秘主义者的论调，
在于融合体*****的一片喧哗，在天国之外，
至于我们的所思，风也似的一个瞬间，
一个运动中的一个运动部分，一个发现
中的一个发现部分，一个变化中的一个变化部分，
是色彩中的一股同时也是它的一部分。
这午后显然是一个源头，
太广阔，太多彩，会多过平静，
太近于思考会少于思想，
最隐晦的家长，最隐晦的教主，
一个来自沉思的日常的至尊，
在它特有的静寂中来临然后远去。
我们在思考，不管太阳照耀或者不照。
我们在思考如同风掠过一口池塘一片田野
或者我们用斗蓬蒙住我们的言辞因为
那同样的风，飞扬又飞扬，发出的声响
就像冬季结束时的最后一段弱音。
一个新的学者替代一个老的思索着
这首幻想曲的一个片断。他寻求
一个能让人说得明白的人。
灵魂来自于这个世界的这种肉体，
兴许洪堡先生想的是：肉体所来自的那个世界
它迟钝的律法造成了心智的一种做作******，
大自然的风格*******被一块玻璃捕捉
然后这成为一个灵魂的风格，
一块玻璃挤满事物，它们能去多远就去多远。
* 包头巾的人，turban，原指阿拉伯头巾，诗中指伊斯兰或其他宗教的教士、教徒。
** 洪堡先生，Mr. Homburg，人名，出处不详。
*** 康科德，Concord，地名，同名城市很多，诗中所指不详。字面有“和谐、一致”的意思，诗中强调的是这个。
**** 参见《我们所见即我们所思》。
***** 融合体，integrations，这是晚期史蒂文斯常用的一个概念，大意指种种所见所闻所知所感等融合（或综合、总合、整合、集成、统合）为一个和谐的整体，从客观事物到主观感知最终都通过某种仪式性的沉思或冥想（meditation）而达到合一、和谐的高级形态。与中期史蒂文斯的“风琴”概念（harmonium，即和谐美妙的组合体）相比，“融合体”更高，更大，是一架架风琴的融合，是一整个风琴。参见《当地对象》。
****** 做作，affectation，“心智的做作”在史蒂文斯的概念中一般指思考（think）。另，“affectation”的词形与“affection”（影响）相近。
******* 风格，mannerism，这里尤指矫揉造作的风格、癖好。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
沉思中的世界
小提琴练习很浪费时间，跟旅行一样。而训练对于
作曲家是必不可少的——就像沉思——我从来没有
中断过……我拧紧一个不变的梦想，不管白天黑夜
从不停止。*
——乔治斯·厄内斯库**
从东方前来的那人是不是尤利西斯，
那个没完没了的冒险家？树木得到改善。
严冬被冲洗干净。那人正移动
在地平线上并托举着他自身。
一团火的形状映上珀涅罗珀***的大花布，
它野性十足的姿态把她栖居的世界唤醒。
这些年，她已经安顿****好一个要将他迎候的自我，
在她的想象中，替她与他的自我相伴，
以及深深的隐蔽处中的两个，朋友和亲爱的朋友。
树木已经得到改善，就像一个必不可少的训练
在一种非人的沉思中，比她自己的更重大。
夜里没有风会像狗一样监视着她。
她不想要他不能给她带来的任何东西。
她不想要迷人。他的臂膀就是她的项链
和她的腰带，是它们渴望的最大财富。
但那是尤利西斯吗？或者那只是温暖的阳光
照在她的枕上？这些念头在她体内扑打就像她的心。
它们两个同时扑打着。这就是日子*****。
那是尤利西斯、那不是。但它们相遇了，
朋友和亲爱的朋友以及星球的怂恿。
这个野蛮的力决不会在她体内减弱。
梳头的时候她会告诉她自己，
用坚毅的音节重复着他的名字，
决不忘记他每时每刻都会来到近旁。
* 引文为法文，出处不详。
** 乔治斯·厄内斯库，Georges Enesco，罗马尼亚籍音乐家、小提琴家，1881-1955.
*** 珀涅罗珀，Penelope，尤利西斯（奥德修斯）的妻子。
**** 安顿，composed，有构成、编写、安抚、镇静等意思。
***** 这就是日子，it was only day。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一种平静的正常生活
当他坐下来当他思考，他的位置并不在
他构想的任何事物之中，如此脆弱，
如此缺少光照，如此阴蔽和空虚，
例如，作为其中的一个世界，就像雪，
他成为一个居民，顺从着
寒冷地区的堂皇观念。
就在这儿。这就是年月发生的
地点和时间。这儿，在他屋里在他房中，
在他的椅子上，最镇静的思想渐渐憔悴
而最年老最火热的心被刺破
在黑暗地区的堂皇观念之下——
全都在夜里独自地，在蟋蟀的和声上，
咿咿呀呀的，一个个的，唱着各自的独一性。
没有形式卓越的狂暴。
但他真实的蜡烛绽放着技艺。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
内心情人的终场独白
点亮傍晚的第一道光，走进一个房间
让我们歇息，并由这个小小前提，推断
那个想象的世界才是终极的善。
由此可知，这是一个最动情的约会。
正是按这种思路我们才能集中精力，
抛开所有冷漠，进入一件事物：
就在这唯一的事物中，一条唯一的披巾
紧紧地把我们包裹，我们是卑微的，一丝暖，
一线光，一股劲，都带来奇迹般的效应。
此时，此地，我们忘记了彼此以及自身。
我们感到某种隐晦，它来自一种秩序，一种整体，
一种认知，在它生机勃勃的疆域，在心智中，
正是它们安排了这次约会。
我们说上帝和这个想象是一体……
无上崇高啊，最高的烛台照亮了黑暗。
在同一道光之外，在心智的中枢之外，
我们在傍晚的空中建一个居所，
能一起呆在那儿就满足了。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
作为征象的诗 *
用树叶把岩石覆盖还不够。
我们必须对它进行治疗，用土地的灵药
或者用我们自身的灵药，这等同于土地
的灵药，一种超越健忘的治疗。
然而这些树叶，如果它们冒出嫩芽，
如果它们冒出花朵，如果它们挂满水果，
并且如果我们从它们新鲜的杂质中
吃下那些初生的颜料就可以成为土地的灵药。
* 这是组诗《岩石》第二章的节选。
罗池 译
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摆在桌面上的行星
爱丽尔*很高兴他已经写好他的诗。
它们要有一段值得纪念的时间
或者他乐意看到的事物。
太阳的其它创造
是废物和垃圾堆
以及纠缠不清的灌木丛。
他的自我与太阳是一体
而他的诗，尽管是他自我的创造，
却不亚于太阳的创造。
它们是否存留并不重要。
要紧的是它们应传承
某种脸型或者性格，
以及某种富裕，但愿能稍微显露，
在它们的词汇的贫乏，
它们作为其部分的行星的贫乏中。
* 爱丽尔，Ariel，莎士比亚戏剧《暴风雨》中淘气的精灵。
罗池 译
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康涅狄格的万河之河
有一条巨大的河在冥河*的此岸
在一个人到达第一道黑色瀑布
和缺乏树木之灵的树林**之前。
在这条河中，在遥远的冥河此岸，
就连水的流动也是一种欢乐，
在阳光里闪烁着闪烁着。在它两旁，
没有阴影在行走。这条河是宿命的，
就像后者。但这里没有人摆渡。
他不能征服它滚滚向前的力量。
在将它讲述的表象之下它从不
为人所见。法明顿***的尖塔
在波光中屹立而哈达姆****闪耀着摇曳着。
它是与阳光和空气并列的第三个公共物产，
一个课业，一种活力，一个当地的抽象……
呼唤它，再一次，一条河，一条无名的水流，
被空间充满，映照着季节，每一种知觉的
民间文学；呼唤它，一遍一遍，
这条流向乌有的河，就像一个海。
* 冥河，Stygia，不是标准写法，出处不详。
** 缺乏树木之灵的树林，trees that lack the intelligence of trees，指《神曲》中描述的“黑树林”。
*** 法明顿，Farmington，地名，哈特福德西南的一个小镇，在史蒂文斯家附近。
**** 哈达姆，Haddam，地名，参见《观察一只乌鸫的十三种方法》。
罗池 译
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不是关于事物的理念而是事物本身
在冬季刚刚结束的时候，
三月里，屋外传来一声干涩的*啼鸣
仿佛是一个来自他内心的声音。
他相信他听见了这个声音，
一只鸟的啼鸣，在拂晓或更早，
在三月初的风里。
太阳六点钟升起，
不再是雪地上一顶皱巴巴的羽绒帽……
它应该已经照到屋外。
这声音不是来自没边际的腹语术**，
这里也不是在长眠中褪色的纸浆模型***……
太阳从屋外照进来。
那一声干涩的啼鸣——它是
一个合唱团员，它的Ｃ音高过了合唱团。
它是庞大的****太阳的一部分，
被簇拥在合唱团的队伍中，
甚至更广。它就像是
对现实的一个新的理解。
* 干涩的，scrawny，原意是瘦骨嶙峋。另，“scrawny”的词形与“scream”、“screak”（尖叫、刺耳）相近，诗中用意不详。
** 腹语术，ventriloquism，诗中可能指打呼噜，或者回音。
*** 纸浆模型，papier-mache，法文，诗中可能指幻想的空中楼阁。
**** 庞大的，colossal，威严、崇高、令人敬畏的那种巨大。诗中是相对“腹语术”的“没边际的”（vast）而言。
罗池 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大键琴上的彼得·昆
Ⅰ
正如我的手指在键盘上
奏出音乐，这同一个声音
也在我的灵魂上奏出音乐。
音乐是感觉，不是声音；
因此它是我之所感，在这儿，
在这房间里，欲想着你。
想着你蓝色阴影的丝绸衣服，
是音乐。就像那长者心中
被苏珊娜唤醒的曲调；
绿色的黄昏，清澈而温暖，
她在静寂的花园沐浴，而眼珠
血红的长者正在窥看，感到他们
生命的低音在巫魅的和弦中
悸动，稀薄的血液
搏动"和撒那"的弹拨曲。
Ⅱ
绿色的水中，清澈而温暖，
苏珊娜静卧。
她搜索
春天的触摸，
找到
隐秘的想象。
她叹息，
为如此多的乐音。
在堤岸之上，她站立
在耗尽的情绪的
清凉之中。
在树叶中，她感到
苍老的恋慕的
水露。
她在草地上行走，
仍在微颤。
风是她的女仆，
有着怯生生的脚步，
带给她摇曳不定的
编织围巾。
手上的一丝呼吸
哑默了这暗夜。
她转身--
钹音碎裂，
在喇叭的咆啸中。
Ⅲ
立时，在小手鼓的鼓音中，
她的拜占庭随从出现。
他们惊诧于苏珊娜
反抗身旁长者的惊叫。
当他们低语，重复的乐句
如柳树为雨水拂过。
紧接着，他们高举的灯火
照见苏珊娜，还有她的羞辱。
然后，这些拜占庭人假笑着
散去，在小手鼓的鼓音中。
Ⅳ
美是心灵中的瞬刻--
灵魂出口的断续显迹，
但在肉体中，它不朽。
肉体死亡；肉体的美依然留存。
黄昏亦死亡，在它们的绿色中逝去，
一丝波浪，永无止尽地流淌。
花园亦死亡，它们温顺的气息嗅感
冬日的僧衣，在忏悔中了结。
少女亦死亡，去向少女合唱队
玫瑰色的庆典。
苏珊娜的音乐触动白人长者
淫荡的心弦；但她逃去，
只余下死亡讽刺的刮擦。
如今，在它的不朽中，
以她记忆的清亮的六弦提琴
持续地弹奏出赞颂的圣礼。
方目 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
齐维斯特的秩序观念
她歌唱，超越着大海的天赋。
海水从未形成过思想或声音，
有如全然肉体的肉体，挥动着
空空的衣袖；然而它模仿的运动
造出持续的喊声，持续地发出
那不是我们的却能为我们理解的
名副其实的大海的非人的叫喊。
大海不是面具。她也不再是。
那并非歌声与水声杂烩的混响，
即使她之所唱乃是她之所听。
既然她之所唱乃是逐字逐词的所唱，
在她所有的句词中想必会搅动起
碾压的海水与喘息的海风；但我们
听到的绝非大海而是她之所唱。
因为她是这歌声的造主。
这永恒罩盖、手势悲凉的大海
仅仅是她且行且歌的所在。
这是谁的精魂？我们如此言道，因为
我们知道这是我们探寻的精魂，亦知
这会是歌唱中我们不断的追问。
如果那升起的仅仅是大海的黑色
嗓音，或即便添有波浪的色泽；
如果那仅仅是天与云的外在的嗓音，
或属于海水壁围的珊瑚暗礁，
无论如何清亮，那也只是深沉的空气，
空气鼓动的言辞，一个夏日的声音
在无有终结的夏日里不断重复，
并且仅仅是声音。但那远不止于此，
甚至超过了她的嗓音，我们的嗓音，
在水与风无意义的抛掷中，
在引人注目的远方，在高高的
海平线上堆积的青铜色阴影
与海天之间如山的大气中。
是她的歌声，在黄昏消逝前
让天空变得锐利无比。
向着此刻她量出它的孤寂。
这歌于其间的世界，她是其
唯一的建造者。她歌唱，这无论
曾有何等样自我的大海遂化为
其歌声的自我，因为她乃是这造主。
当看到她阔步独行于海边，我们
于是悟到，于她从未有过世界
除了她歌唱并在歌声中创造的那个。
雷蒙．费尔南德，告诉我，如果
你知道为何，当歌声终止我们转向
市镇，当黄昏降临空气中夜色倾斜，
为何在海边停泊的渔船的灯火，
这玻璃般的灯火雄踞夜晚，并将
大海划归其外，厘定了
发亮的地带和火焰之柱，
安置着、深化着、魅惑着夜晚。
哦，秩序的神圣激情！苍白的雷蒙，
这造主的激情朝向大海的秩序的言辞，
朦胧星光中芬芳的入口的言辞，
这歌哭的声音关乎我们自己和
我们的起源，更多属于幽灵的界阈。
方目 译
弗罗斯特诗选刘尔威 译
译者简介：刘尔威，男，1992年出生。湖北武汉人，现居北京。他于1岁开始画画，参加过国内外举办的少儿书画赛，并现场画画表演。作品多次获奖。他1岁开始识字，2-3岁即开始阅读名著。7岁开始动笔写小说，诗歌……2005年5月，他的第一部长篇小说《我是一只浣熊》由长江文艺出版社出版，并自配此书的内封设计与插图。他学习英语，俄语，西班牙语，爱好弹钢琴、吉它，以及多项球类运动。新浪网的专题介绍见http://kid.sina.com.cn/2005-05-24/17387932.html。
目录
泥泞时候的两个流浪者
花丛…………………………………………………………
一片陈雪……………………………………………………
树脂收集者…………………………………………………
越橘…………………………………………………………
一只小鸟……………………………………………………
鬼屋…………………………………………………………
城中小溪……………………………………………………
进攻…………………………………………………………
对暖和的风…………………………………………………
泥泞时候的两个流浪者……………………………………
花船…………………………………………………………
在伍德沃的花园
在伍德沃的花园……………………………………………
星星破裂者…………………………………………………
冬天的伊甸…………………………………………………
山……………………………………………………………
丧失…………………………………………………………
复仇…………………………………………………………
消失着的红色………………………………………………
一个孤独的罢工者…………………………………………
无限的一瞬间
无限的一瞬间………………………………………………
启示…………………………………………………………
传达坏消息的人……………………………………………
桦树…………………………………………………………
沙丘…………………………………………………………
出生地………………………………………………………
雪……………………………………………………………
电话…………………………………………………………
春之池塘……………………………………………………
原则…………………………………………………………
野葡萄
野葡萄………………………………………………………
收割…………………………………………………………
修补墙壁……………………………………………………
恐惧…………………………………………………………
保罗的妻子…………………………………………………
布朗下山……………………………………………………
家庭墓地……………………………………………………
爱和一个问题………………………………………………
一个老人的冬天夜晚………………………………………
库斯的女巫
花园里的萤火虫……………………………………………
投资…………………………………………………………
门口的轮廓…………………………………………………
致一个年轻的坏家伙………………………………………
柴堆…………………………………………………………
一百个衣领…………………………………………………
库斯的女巫…………………………………………………
一片废弃的墓地……………………………………………
小山妻子……………………………………………………
糖槭园中的傍晚……………………………………………
找水…………………………………………………………
雨蛙溪
风暴之歌……………………………………………………
雨蛙溪………………………………………………………
雇工的死亡…………………………………………………
向西流动的溪水……………………………………………
谈话时间……………………………………………………
黄蜂…………………………………………………………
人口统计者…………………………………………………
女管家………………………………………………………
泥泞时候的两个流浪者
花丛
有一次在清晨的露珠中的那个人
割完草，我便去翻晒它。
看到这平整的景色之前
使镰刀刃片锋利的露珠已消散。
我绕到树林的后面观察他，
在风中听着他磨刀石的声音。
但他离开了，草割完了，
而我应像他刚才一样——是孤独的，
“全部都该是孤独的，”我在心里说，
“不管他们是否工作在一起。”
正这样说的时候，一只被迷惑的蝴蝶
藉着无声的翅膀迅速掠过，
与夜间模糊的记忆一同寻找
昨日欢乐的静止之花。
当我注意它那旋转的飞行，
那里花朵在地上枯萎了。
然后它远飞到我的视力所及之处，
又随着颤抖的翅膀回到我这里。
我思考着这没有答案的问题，
正要翻晒捋动那草，使它变干；
它却先飞回来了，把我的视野
带到了小溪边高大的花丛，
镰刀赤裸着在芦苇丛生的溪水边
不伤害那花朵跳跃的言语。
我起身藉着名字了解它们，
我一到就去寻找它们这蝴蝶草。
在繁荣中留下它们，不是为我们，
露珠中的割草人也如此爱这些，
他还没有将我们的一个想法吸引，
纯然是为着早晨在边缘上的欢欣。
我和蝴蝶落下，
不过，来自黎明的信息，
让我听到醒来的鸟儿围绕，
以及他那长镰刀对大地的耳语，
我感觉到了一个与自己相近的灵魂，
因此今后我不再是孤独地工作了；
与他同乐，我的工作有他做帮手，
中午疲倦了，我就和他一起去找树荫；
好似在梦中，像兄弟一般交谈，
而我从前却没有指望能与他沟通。
“人们一起工作，”我心里告诉他，
“不管他们是否工作在一起。”
一片陈雪
角落里有一片陈雪
我猜它会是
一张被雨水冲着，想在那里
休息一下的报纸。
它有着污浊的斑点如同
被不大的印字布满了，
一天的新闻我忘记了——
如果我曾经读过。
树脂收集者
在那里追上了我然后让我加入与他
一起下山的行列，清晨我们大步行走着，
和我一起走的那五英里路
比起我乘坐什么都要好得多，
他有着个装载东西且摇摆的包
那包的一半缠绕着他的手。
我们沿着水面的嘈杂声走着
且喊叫一样地谈话。
我告诉他我去了哪里
以及住在山脉地带的哪里
而现正走着回家的路线，
他告诉了我一些关于他的事情。
他来自很高很高的山地
在那里新开始的溪流冲洗着
从山丘裂开的一块块石头——
那看上去足够令人绝望
因岩石的风化层不能施肥于小草。
（那是它对苔藓的方法。）
在那里他建起了一间小木屋。
那是间低矮的木屋
因为对火焰与毁灭的恐惧
而经常打扰伐木工人的睡眠：
梦里世界一半的景象烧焦成了黑色
太阳在烟雾中收缩而变黄。
我们知道当有人来到城镇时
会把莓子放在马车座位下面，
或者把一篮子鸡蛋放在他们的双脚之间；
这人放在棉花袋里带来的
是树脂，山上云杉的树脂。
他给我看了几块有香味的原料
如同未雕琢的宝石，钝而且粗糙。
它来到市场是金黄褐色的；
但在牙齿间转为粉红。
我告诉他这样活着很愉快
将你的胸膛放在树皮上
那样你整天的悲观都会被放下，
然后伸起一把小刀，
松开树脂然后采下来
当你满足了就将它带到市场上去。
越橘
“你应该看到我在去村子的路上
所看到的，就在今天我穿过帕特森牧场：
越橘如同你大拇指根一样大，
纯天蓝色，沉的，并且准备着
在第一个到来的凹桶中打鼓！
都在一起成熟，并不是一部分青绿
一部分成熟！你真该看看！”
“我不知道你所说的是牧场的哪个地方。”
“要知道他们在那里砍伐树木——让我想想——
是两年前——或者不是！——不会比那更长
了？——而接下来的一个秋天
除了墙壁，火势的蔓延将那里全都烧光。”
“哦，那里还没来得及让灌木长起来。
尽管那条路，总会随风长满越橘：
可现在，任何松树的影子下，也看不到
一点点它们的迹象，
要是没有松树的话，你就是将
整个牧场烧干净，直到不剩一片蕨类
或草叶，更别提一根树枝，
可很快，它们就会出现在你周围
如同魔术师的把戏一样变得深奥难解。”
“它们一定站在木炭上好让自己果实肥硕。
有时就尝到了煤烟的味道。
毕竟它们真是被黑檀树皮包裹着：
那蓝色来自风呼吸的薄雾，
但如你伸手一碰，那蓝色就黯淡无泽，
远不如棕褐色摘采者的那棕褐。”
“你认为帕特森他知道有这回事吗？”
“也许吧，但他不会去关心，因而
留红眼鸟去采它们——你知道他这人。
他当然不会真这样从而弄出一个
将我们这些外人排斥的理由。”
“我想你没有留意洛伦吧。”
“我当然留意他了。你知道吗，
我正要穿过田野的越橘
然后越过围墙，走上大道，
看见他正赶着轻便马车经过，
装着唠叨不停的洛伦一家子，
但是洛伦，这父亲，他下车来为的是赶车。”
“然后他看见你了？他做什么了？他不高兴了吗？”
“他只是不停地对我上下点头。
你知道他每次经过都那么有礼貌。
但他显然思考着一个大问题，
——我能从他眼里看出来——就是这眼神：
‘我把莓子留到那里了，我猜它们
已经熟了很久。我理该为这事受责备。’”
“他比我的那些能够叫出名字来的人更节俭。”
“他看起来节俭；这当然必要了，
有那么些需要喂养的小洛伦的嘴？
人们说他喂给他们的都是野莓子，
像喂鸟。他家在远处还堆积了许多。
他们整年都吃这些，而那吃不了的
他就在商店卖掉然后为他们买鞋子。”
“谁会在意别人说什么？那是个好活法，
仅仅获得造物主所愿意给予的，
而不强迫他去耙地，和犁田。”
“我希望你能看见他不停地哈腰——
还有那些孩子的表情！他们中没一个转身，
他们看上去那么严肃而且荒谬。”
“我希望我能知道他们所知道的一半，
就是全部莓子和其它东西都在哪里生长，
酸果蔓在沼泽，黑莓则在
有卵石的山顶，看到底什么时候可以采摘。
有一天我见到他们，他们每个人把花
插进那如同阵雨一样新鲜的莓子里；
那是些奇怪的品种——他们告诉我说它没有名字。”
“我告诉过你我们来后不久，
我几乎使可怜的洛伦快乐了起来，
那次我单单去了他那里，
问他知不知道有什么野果子
可以采摘。这家伙，他说如果他知道的话
就会很乐意地说出来的。只是年头不好。
那里曾经有一些——但现在全死了。
他没有说它们在哪里。他继续说：
‘我确定——我确定’——尽可能礼貌。
他对屋里的妻子说，‘让我想想，
哎，我们知道结莓子的好地方吗？’
那就是他保有一张正直脸所做的全部。”
“如果他认为所有野果子都是为他生长的，
那就是他弄错了。看我的，
今年我们就在帕特森家牧场摘果子。
我们在早上出发，如果天气放晴，
阳光暖暖照着：否则衣服就会打湿。
已经有很久没采摘了，我甚至忘了
我们以前是怎样采的：我们总是
让一个人四下张望，然后另一个如秘密转轮消失，
互相看不见，听不到任何声音，
除非当你说我使鸟儿
远离它的窝，我又说那是你干的。
‘好，反正是我们中的一个。’因为抱怨
它在我们周围打着转。然后我们摘了
一会儿莓子，直到我担心你走远了，
我想是我弄丢你了。因我们的远距离
我高声喊叫着，声音在往外传，
但当你回答的时候，声音低低地
如同在说话——因你就在我旁边，记得吗？”
“或许我们并没有享受到在那里的乐趣——
不太可能，要是洛伦的孩子都在那里。
他们明天将会去那儿，甚至就在今晚。
他们不会很友好——但也许会很客气——
因为在他们眼中人们没有权力
去采他们要采的果子。但我们就无所谓了。
你该看看它们在雨中是怎样的，
在层层叶子中果子与水混合着，
如同两种珠宝，所给予小偷的一瞬。”
一只小鸟
我希望一只鸟能够飞开，
它便不会在我的房子旁整天歌唱；
我一旦似乎不能再承受时
就会从门口向它拍拍手。
过错有几分是在我这里。
为着鸟自己的曲调它无可指责。
当然，希望使歌声停止
这里面一定有什么是错的。
鬼屋
我住在一个多年以前就已
消失了的孤独小屋，只除了
地下室的墙壁，没有其它任何痕迹，
而地下室有白天的光线照射，
有着紫茎的野黑莓生长着。
栅栏毁坏以后葡萄树保护着
在草丛里复苏的木头；
园里的果树长成了一个
新树林，那些老树被啄木鸟啄着；
到达水井的小路复原了。
我带着奇怪的心脏痛，住在
那消失很久的住所
废弃和被遗忘的路上
不再有为蛤蟆扬起的满天尘土。
夜晚来临；黑色的蝙蝠仓惶蹿动；
夜鹰就要来喊叫
或静或动，拍翅在周围环绕：
我听见它在够远的地方
就开始一遍一遍地叫喊起来
直到最后全部畅所欲言了。
这是夏天渐渐模糊的星空下。
我不知这无语的邻居到底是谁
虽然和我同享这无光的地方——
那些石头在矮树丛下
刻着的名字被苔藓盖住。
它们不知疲劳，但令人伤感，
最近两个，是少女和少年——
对于他们，倒没什么可传唱的，
但是，考虑到世上有很多事情，
他们还能算一对甜蜜伙伴。
城中小溪
农场还在那儿，虽不希望与
城市街道相同，但它不得不让自己
戴上一个门牌号码。那像肘状
环绕着房子的小溪怎样了呢？
我如同一个了解小溪的人问着，
我了解它的力量与冲动，我曾将手指
伸进溪水，使它从我指节间流过，
曾将花朵扔进去测试它的水流。
还在生长的蓝草，或许被水泥
固定在城镇中的人行道上；
苹果树被送到炉底的火焰中。
湿木材会同样服务于溪水吗？
此外会怎样处置那不再需要的
永久力量？将许多余渣倾倒
在其源头，使其止住？溪流翻落
进入石头下面深处的地下水道
在臭气与黑暗中依然存活，且流动着——
它做这些或许全都不为着
什么，只是为了忘记恐惧。
除了远古地图没有任何人知道
这小溪的流水。但我想弄明白
它是否想永久呆在地下，而不可能
有重见天日的想法，以让这新建的
城市，既不能工作也没办法入眠。
进攻
总是同样地，在一个宿命的夜晚
最后聚集起的雪花落下，使
黑色的树林显得洁白，伴随一首
整个冬天不会再响的歌声。
嘶嘶声掠过那依然显露在外的地面，
我四下张望，几乎不想再做什么，
如同那个被死亡追赶上的人
放弃了他的使命，听任死亡
在自己所在之地降临，他没做过
什么坏事，生命中也没有任何重要的事情发生，
简直如同生命从来没有开始过。
然而所有的先例都站在我这边：
我知道那种想将死亡带到地面的冬天
每次都经历着失败：在漫长的暴风雪中
雪花可以堆积四英尺深，风吹它不动，
能压住枫树、桦树、和橡树，
却不能阻止小鸟清脆的歌声；
我会看见那些雪全部落下山
掉进四月里纤细的溪流水中，
那闪光的尾部穿过去年枯萎的荆棘
和死亡的野草，像条消失不见的蛇。
除了这桦树并没有什么会留下白色，
因那里有一座房屋，一间教堂。
对暖和的风
和雨一起到来，哦高声的西南风！
带来那歌唱家，带来那农夫；
给那埋葬了的花一个梦；
使那下陷的雪堤蒸发；
发现褐色在白色下面；
但不管你今晚做什么，
你得清洗我的窗户，使它流动，
如同雪要离开一样融化它；
融化玻璃，好留下窗框子，
如同隐士的十字架一样融化；
然后在我狭窄的房间突然显现；
摇摆着墙壁上的图画；
匆匆看看那些发出声响的书页；
让诗歌在地板上分散；
把诗人从屋内驱逐。
泥泞时候的两个流浪者
两个陌生人从泥浆里走出来
发觉我在院子里劈木头。
其中的一个用快活的打招呼声将
我的注意转移了“努力劈开它们！”
我几乎知道为什么他留在后面
而让另一个上了路。
我几乎知道了他的打算：
因为薪水他想在我这里获得工作。
上等山毛榉木块是我劈开的，
大约和砧板一样大；
每一片我直角地劈开
如同分裂的石头一样变得不会碎裂。
自制的生命或许会将劈材
所耗的精力节省下来，为着服务于
公共利益，但那天我却劈着琐碎的木头，
为给我的灵魂一个解放。
太阳温暖但风却寒冷。
你知道在四月的日子里
当太阳出现风却静止时是怎样的，
你提前了一个月，来到了五月中间。
但如果你敢于那么说，
一片乌云就会来到阳光的亮拱，
一阵风从冻结的山顶下来，
你又退后了两个月，回到了三月。
一只北上的蓝知更鸟温和落下
在风的面前将羽毛弄平
他的歌声定了调似乎不想使
一株即将单独开放的花朵激动。
雪片降下：它当然知道
冬天只是在装睡。
虽然是蓝色但很快乐，
它也不会建议哪一样东西开花。
我们或许会用巫婆的短丈
在夏季去探探水源，
可现在每条车辙都成了小溪，
每个蹄印也成了池塘。
要为有水而感到高兴，但不要忘记
那在地球之下潜伏的严霜
会在太阳落山之后偷偷出来
然后在水上展示它那水晶状的牙齿。
当我做着我喜爱的工作的时候
那两人却用想挣工资的问话
使我更加热爱我的工作。
可以说我以前从来没有感觉到
在高处悬着斧子顶部的重量，
展开的双脚抓紧地面，
柔软光滑的肌肉流着汗，
有着在青春热度里的活力与节奏。
两个人沉重的脚步来自林区。
（天知道昨晚他俩在哪里睡觉，
但肯定离木材营不远）
他们认为他们有权利砍伐。
樵夫和伐木工人们，
他们评价人就凭拿手的工具。
对于那拿斧子的人，
他们一眼就能识别好手和傻子。
他们哪一个都没说什么。
他们相信只要停在自己所在的地方
他们全部的逻辑就会充满我的头脑：
似乎我没有权利这样和其他
为着赚钱而工作的人闹着玩。
我的权利也许是兴趣，而他们的是需求。
当两个并存的时候
他们的权利当然优先——都会这样认为。
那么屈从于他们的这种分裂？
我活着的目标就是要结合
爱好与职业，这就像
我的两只眼睛合成了一个视界。
只有将喜爱和需求结合，
将工作当作投资的游戏，
那就会是为着上天和人类的将来
曾经真正所做成的工作。
花船
渔夫在村庄理发店那里一边
理发一边与理发师聊天，
而房屋和谷仓的角落上
他的渔船也早已寻找到海港。
停靠在向阳的草地上
当风吹起时它曾从乔治的堤岸
与鳕鱼一起转回它家
满船的花草都已长到舷缘。
我从那像天堂的货物判断
它们需要的是狂暴的天气，
渔船与主人会靠运气出航
一起去寻找那快乐的岛屿。
在伍德沃的花园
在伍德沃的花园
一个男孩，滥用着他的智慧，
有一次向笼子里的两只小猴子
炫耀它们并不了解的取火镜
它们绝对不可能了解。
用词都不好，应该说是一片
能够聚集太阳光的凹镜：也不怎么好。
让他显示这武器是怎样运转的。
他把太阳光线聚到第一只
的鼻子上，然后聚到了另一只
直到它们的两只眼睛昏眩
即使眨着眼面前也是一片模糊。
它们竖着胳膊，在栅栏攀爬，
接着交换的是无法看清时事的一瞥。
有一个用沉思的样子将手放在
鼻子上，好像想起了什么——或者可能
是一百万年前的一个主意。
他的紫色小指节刺痛。
那早已显明的，再一次
被这场心理学上的实验加以证明，
要不是那男孩靠近笼子太近，或者时间太长，
所宣告的就只是这调查结果。
一次攫取，一只猴子伸出胳膊，
火镜成了猴子的，而不再是男孩的。
它们猛地回到笼子里
然后进行它们的调查
研究，虽然没有所需要的洞察力。
它们居然咬了咬玻璃，然后倾听其滋味。
它们打破了手柄，和它的镶边。
因为没发现什么，就坦然放弃了，
将它藏在用作被子的干草里
用来打发这囚禁日子里的无聊，
然后又枯燥地来到栅栏前
自己为自己作答：谁说
猴子了解、或不了解什么都很要紧？
它们也许不明白一片取火镜。
它们也许不明白太阳本身。
可要知道的是该怎样做有价值的事。
星星破裂者
“你知道猎户座经常从路头上来。
先是一条腿穿过我们栅栏似的群山，
然后升起手臂，它看着我
用灯笼光在户外忙碌于某些
我该在白天完成的
什么事情。确实，
大地结冻后，我则是做它结冻
之前应完成的，阵风将一些
无用的落叶丢进我冒烟的
灯罩，取笑我所做事情的方式，
或取笑猎户座让我着迷了。
我应该问问，一个人，难道
没有权利关心这些冥冥的影响力？”
那么布雷·麦克罗林轻率地把
空中的星星与杂乱的农事混合，
直到不再做那杂乱的农事，
他为着火灾保险金将房子全部烧毁了
然后用得来的钱买了台望远镜
以此满足我们在无穷宇宙之中
所在之地里的——毕生好奇心。
“你想要那该死的东西干什么？”
我预先问他，“你不是有一个！”
“不要把它叫该死；没有什么
比起在我们人类打斗中所用的武器
更为无过失，”他说，
“如果我卖掉农场我就要买一个。”
在那里他为着耕地而搬走了石块
且在他所不能搬动的石块之间耕着，
农场几乎不好转手；他花费了时间
想卖掉自己的农场却卖不掉，
他便为着火灾保险将房子全部烧毁
然后用所得的买了台望远镜。
有几个人都听他这样说：
“在我们这儿最美的事就是观看；
最让我们看得远的东西就是
望远镜。似乎每个城镇都应该
有人，来给城镇弄到一个。
在利特尔顿的人还是我最好。”
在这样大开口后他烧毁了自己的房子
并且做了他想做的，这实在没什么惊奇。
可那天冷笑声在城镇里四处走动
而让他知道我们一点也没受骗，
他就等着吧——我们明天要注意他。
但第二天早晨我们首先所想的
就是一个人最小的过失，
若是我们一个接一个地数点，
那么很快我们就会形只影单。
因为要彼此来往就要变得仁慈。
我们的盗贼，那个从我们那里偷窃的，
我们没有拒绝他来教堂参加圣餐仪式，
但为着所丢失的我们会到他那里去索取。
如若东西依然没被吃，没有弄坏，
或者没有处理掉，他会迅速地将它归还。
所以不要因为布雷的望远镜
而对他太刻薄。毕竟他超过了
得到这样一份圣诞礼物的年龄，
他要用自己所知道的最好方法
给自己提供一个。好，我们所要说的就是
他以为这件奇怪的事情已蒙混过关。
有人将同情浪费在了那房屋上，
是一幢不错的古老的原木房屋；
但它没有感情；房屋不会
有任何感觉。如果它有，
为什么不把当看作如同祭品一样的呢，
一个过时的火祭，
取代了新式的亏本拍卖？
在房屋外面同样在农场外面
一划（一根火柴），布雷转到
了要靠在康科德铁路谋生，
例如在他工作车站的地下
做车票代理，当他不卖车票了，
他就开始到处追看星星，不像是
在农场上忙碌，而是追看行星，晚星
从红色到绿色地改变着颜色。
他用六百美元得到了个好镜子。
新工作给了他注视星星的空闲。
他经常欢迎我来看一看
那黄铜色的圆筒，内面是柔软的黑色，
另一端对着星星震动着。
我回想了一晚上那破裂的云朵
和在脚下融化成冰的雪花，
在风中更远地融化成了泥土。
布拉德福和我一起用着望远镜。
我们伸展开双脚如同伸展开它的三根支架，
让我们的想法对着它所对着的方向，
在空闲时间中站立直到黎明到来，
并谈着那些我们从来没有说过的事情。
那望远镜被命名为星星破裂者，
因为它除了使星星如同
在你手中的水银小球一样
从中间裂开而分成
两三块以外，它不做任何事情。
如果曾经存在的话它就是星星破裂者
若破裂星星是件可以与砍木材
相比较的事情那它也应算做了些好事。
我们看了又看，但我们终究在哪里？
我们能更好地知道我们在哪里吗，
它今晚是怎样立在夜晚
和那有着冒烟灯笼的灯罩之间？
与它曾经的站立方式会有多大有变化？
冬天的伊甸
冬天的园林在桤木的湿地中，
兔子出来在那里晒着太阳，并嬉闹着，
尽其可能，它靠近天堂
雪没有融化，树木仍在冬眠。
它将存在提升到雪面上
比下面的陆地又高了一层，
并且离上面的天空更近了，
去年的莓子正闪耀着鲜红色。
它提升了一头憔悴的奢侈野兽
在那个高度，它能伸延并抓住
野苹果树鲜嫩树皮的最高美食，
这证实了那一年最高的围绕记号。
靠近天堂时，所有成对的动物静止了：
无爱的鸟如同冬天的伙伴在这里集聚着
并满足于检查蓓蕾。它们假定
说蓓蕾哪些要开，哪些要长成叶子。
一个羽毛的锤子，产生了两倍的敲击。
这伊甸的一天在两点时刻完成了。
要使生命醒来运动一会儿
这冬天里的一小时似乎太短，而不值一提。
山
山如同暗中支撑着城镇一样。
有一次我在那里睡觉前看了那么久的山脉：
我注意到因它那黑色的身躯插进天空，
使我错过了西方的星星。
它似乎离我很近：我感觉它如同
身后的一面墙在风中保护着我。
黎明时当我为着看见新事物而向前走，
我发现山与城镇之间，
有田野，一条河，以及远处，更多的田野。
河流那时已快干涸，
泛泛地在鹅卵石上哗哗地流着；
但是从迹象仍可看到它春天的上涨：
不错的草地开了沟，在草里
堆着沙子，浮木被剥去了树皮。
我穿过了河流转向了那山。
在那里我遇见了个人带着头面容苍白
拉着沉重车子的公牛且很慢地移动，
总之让他停下来也没事儿。
“这儿是什么城镇？”我问。
“这儿？卢嫩堡。”
那么我错了：我逗留的城镇，
是在桥那边，倒不是山，
只是在晚上我能感觉它朦胧的存在。
“你的村子在哪儿？离这儿很远？”
“那里没有村子——只有分散的农庄。
上次选举中我们只有六十个投票者。
我们的人数不能自然增加到一个数量：
那东西占了很大的空间！”移了移他的刺棒。
他指着立在那里的山。
山腰上的牧场往上延伸了一小段，
然后是那里的一排树木的树干；
在那之后只有树木的顶端，和悬崖
没有彻底隐蔽在树叶之中。
主枝下面形成的那条干涸溪谷
直到那牧场。
“那看上去像条路。
就是从这里到达山顶的路吗？——
今天早晨不行，但其他时间：
我现在要回去吃早餐了。”
“我不建议你试着在这边上山。
没有真正的路，那些
上过山的人都是从拉德家开始往上爬。
往后走五英里。你可不能错过那地方：
他们在上个冬天把远处的有些树木伐掉了。
我想带着你，可惜我要走其它路。”
“你从来没有爬过它？”
“我去过山腰
打鹿以及钓鲑鱼。有条小溪
的源头就在那里的什么地方——我听说
在正顶端，最高点——是件另人好奇的事情。
但这小溪使你感兴趣的地方就是，
在夏天溪水总是冷的，而冬天是暖的。
冬天看见它的水汽如同
公牛的呼吸，这也是最伟大景观之一，
水汽顺着堤岸的灌木丛使它们有
一英寸厚的霜状棘刺和毛发——
你知道那样式。然后就让阳光照在上面！”
“那应该成为是这样一座山上的
世界风景——若一直到山顶都不是
繁茂树木的话。”我透过树叶茂盛的遮帘
看见大块花岗岩在阳光与阴影中成了台地，
攀爬时膝盖可以靠在那个倾斜面——
身后肯定有一百英尺来高；
或者转动身子且坐在上面向外俯视，
肘部就可以挨着裂缝里长出的蕨类。
“至于那个我不敢说。但泉水是存在的，
正好在山顶，几乎像一个喷泉。
那应该很值得看。”
“如果真的在那儿。
你从来没见过？”
“我想它存在于那里的
事实是不会有疑惑的。我从来没见过。
它也许不会在绝对的顶端：
我想从山间的河源不必一定要从
最上面那么长一路下来，
从那么远爬上来的人或许不会注意
一条从不近不远的距离流下来的溪水。
有一次我请一个正在攀爬的人
去看看然后再告诉我那是什么样子的。”
“他说了什么？”
“他告诉我说在爱尔兰
什么地方的山顶上有片湖。”
“但湖就是不一样。泉水呢？”
“他还没登上足够他可以看见的高度呢。
那就是为什么我不建议你在这边爬山。
他试过这边。我总想自己过去
然后亲眼看看，但你知道是怎么一回事：
去攀爬一座山几乎没有什么意义
因为你已经在这山麓周围工作一辈子了。
我上山做什么？要我穿着工作裤，
拿着根大棍子，如同奶牛在
挤奶时没有回到栅栏里一样？
或者为着遇见迷路的黑熊而拿着杆猎枪？
看上去似乎不是真为爬上去而爬呢。”
“如果我不想上去我也不会爬——
不是因为爬山本身的缘故。那山叫什么？”
“我们叫它霍：我不知道那对不对。”
“一个人能绕着它走吗？会很远吗？”
“你能在周围开车但要保持是在卢嫩堡境内，
不过你所能做的就这些，
它的边界线近近地贴着山脚。
霍就是镇区，镇区就是霍——
少许房屋散布在山脚周围，
如同巨石折断了上面的悬崖，
比起那静止不动的滚出了一点点远。”
“在十二月暖和，六月寒冷，你说的？”
“我根本不认为是水在改变。
你和我都很明白说它暖和
只是与寒冷的相比，寒冷呢是与暖和。
而所有乐趣就是你怎样说出一件事情。”
“你一辈子都在这里生活？”
“自从霍
的大小还不如一个——”说的什么，我没听到。
他用细长的刺棒轻轻触碰着公牛的鼻子与
后面的胁腹，将绳子朝自己拉了过来，
发出了几声吆喝，然后慢慢向远处移走。
丧失
我曾在哪里听到过这风声
像这样变成的深刻嚎叫？
它会怎样看待我站在那里，
握住一扇打开且难以控制的门，
并俯视那浅浅的海岸？
夏天与白昼结束了。
昏暗的云朵在西边聚集。
外面走廊上都是下陷的地面，
树叶缠绕起来，发出嘶嘶声，
它们盲目地碰我的膝盖，却未碰到。
语气中那险恶的东西
告诉我，我的秘密一定会被人知道：
说出我是独自在房间里
并以某种方式让消息传播，
说出我独自在我的生命中，
说出除了神外，没有什么可以留下。
复仇
你喜欢听人说到金子的故事。
有一个国王用各种样式的金子
填满了他的监狱
填满到房间不能容纳的地步
它们一直延伸到墙顶。
那些是要将他从死亡赎回来的。
但赎金还是不够。
他的逮捕者全部受了这金子，
都并没有释放那国王。
他们把他派去号召他的国民
以聚集更多黄金来献给他们。
他的臣民从神殿、宫殿和店铺
找着所有能够找到的东西。
但当那里似乎不再有什么的时候，
他的逮捕者就藉着他曾经
发起过的一场战争而宣告他有罪，
用细绳绞死了这不幸的人。
但说真的那些金子都没有
一个国王所希望的一半那么多——
不到一半，不到三分之一，不到十分之一。
可当那国王刚在绞绳下断气，
仇恨就发出了可怕的笑声，
如同通往地狱所打开的入口。
如果金子能够取悦征服者，
那么金子就要成为征服者
从此所要缺少的东西。
他们没有更多思索国王的事。
全都加入到了掩藏金子的游戏。
他们发誓要所有金子都回到
它们所来自的地底深处。
他们的思想在裂缝上不断运转。
都参与了这场发疯的游戏。
那故事依然夸耀地讲述着
那些在黑暗中不知去向
却面对敌人扑灭了自己亮光的
宝藏的名字。
那自我劫掠与倾覆，
是自从森林中的日耳曼人
洗劫罗马、且将金烛台带走以来
最壮丽的劫掠与倾覆了。
一个在拷问架上的印加王子，
在他生命的最后时刻，
告诉了征服者在哪片湖潜水
就能找到他们所想要找的。
他们潜水了，但什么也没有找到。
他是要他们潜水直到溺死。
那群残酷的征服者
搜寻过，折磨过，并最后发出了狂怒。
那里有太阳的故事，与
调查深入巴西的自吹自擂
他们的舌头不能够平息。
但那被征服的人慢慢地
变得温顺，而且静下来了。
他们持守着藏金的秘密死去，
并且怀有一种敌意的满足。
每个人都知道在部落的洞穴底部
的那埋葬口，
在深厚的骨灰木炭
和那盛宴上盛宴中的垃圾，
在人与野兽的破碎的骨头下面，
人们最想要的伟大宝藏，
盘卷在它最后休眠的坟墓里。
那千百个连起的金链，
每个链环有着不少的重量，
它曾经在柱子和柱子之间
（在倾斜着的拉紧状态中）
来回连结了十次，
它就这样装饰如同宫殿的大门。
有些人说它被带到了海岸，
有些人说越过了东边的安第山脉，
有些人说运进了北边的丛林，
并在许多的纵队后面，
由太阳祭司命令着，
长排的金链环闪着的阳光
与灰尘一同升起。
不管人们会怎么说
（说法从来就没有停止过）
它就在这污秽的亮光里躺下了
它因生锈和腐朽而失去了光泽。
这便成了所有掠夺者的灾祸。
“最好最狠的复仇方式就是
找到仇敌所需要的，
不用担心有什么实际价值，
只让那些从地球上消灭就行。
让他们因为不满足的贪欲而死，
让他们无法炫耀贪爱，奢侈，
无法高贵，清洁，也无法达到
他们的理想。
将他们的华丽外表拿走。
让他们经历那落到现实里的
饥饿与死亡。”
消失着的红色
据说他是阿克顿最后的一个
印第安人。据说磨坊主嘲笑过他——
如果你愿意把那种声音叫做笑声的话。
但他没有给其他任何人发笑的许可。
因为他会突然变得低沉好像在说，
“关谁的事——如果我把它揽下，
关谁的事——为什么众人要议论——
只是我容忍着让那件事完成。”
你不能回到那个时候像他那样看见此事。
那是个太长的故事现在不能阐述。
除非你曾经在那里并且经历一切。
然后你不会仅仅把它看作
两个种族之间是谁先动了手。
当时那印第安人穿过磨坊窥视着
那非常巨大的正在转动的磨石
他大声大气发出了一些惊讶的叫喊
如同来自一个没有权利大声叫喊的人
磨坊主自然地对他起了厌烦。
“来，约翰，”他说，“你想看轮子的槽吗？”
他把他带到轮坑的一个横椽下面，
然后从地板上的检查孔，给他看了看那槽，
里面不顾一切的水流如同疯狂的鱼，
鲑鱼和鲟鱼的尾巴不停地摆动着。
然后他关上了系着铃铛的活门
铃铛的响声甚至超过了普通的噪音，
他就独自上楼了——发出那笑声，
对一个拿着玉米粉袋的人说了什么
而拿玉米粉袋的人并没有听见——然后。
哦，是的，他是给约翰看了看轮子的槽。
一个孤独的罢工者
赶时髦的磨坊时钟改变了它
鸣钟的速度如同一道道催命符，
虽然那迟到的在拼命奔跑，
他靠近了那禁闭的大门但还是没赶上。
有条神或人的法律
对那些迟到了的人
他会被锁在外面达半小时，
他要扣除工作时间，工资也要扣。
要被老板斥责还要被辞掉。
条例太多的磨坊开始了震动。
磨坊有许多窗户，
但全都高深莫测而不透明；
所以他不能向里看看是否
有着被遗弃的工具因为
他的缘故而空闲地立在那里。
（他不希望它会伤心。）
他仍然认为他看见了那场面：
空气中满是羊毛的灰尘。
成千上万的纱线被纺出，
但纺得那样慢，就这样编织着，
整天从线轴到更小的线轴，
很少使出它们的全力运转；
它们安全地变成了很细的长度。
如果其中一根碰巧断了，
纺纱工人就在一瞥中看见。
纺纱工人却依然在那里纺纱。
这就是那人依然被使用的原因：
她熟练的手与戒指一起在如同
竖琴一样分散的细线中表演着。
她抓住碎片首尾相接
然后，用那从没失败的技巧，
没有怎么打结便使它们融合了。
人的灵巧真是巧夺了天工。
他站立在那地方清楚地看见了，
也发现了这样的事很容易抗拒。
他知道另外一个地方，一片树林，
在里面，同树一样高大的，是悬崖；
如果他站在悬崖上，
那就会是在树顶之中了，
上面的树枝花环似地围绕他，
它们的呼吸与他的呼吸相混合。
如果——如果他站着！太多如果！
他知道一条需要走下去的道路；
他知道一汪需要饮用的泉水；
一个需要有更远思索的想法；
一个需要再次更新的爱。
这也不仅仅是一个不付出
他的行动代价的谈话方式。
对他而言它预示的是实际行动。
工厂非常好；
他希望它全是现代的速度。
然而，毕竟，它不是神圣的，
那就是说，那不是一个教堂。
他从来不会去设想自己会成为
任何公共机构所需要的。
但他当时说过并且依然会说
如果有那么一天到来了：
因为他曾经对工厂置之不顾
而使它可能要破产
或者因为渴望得到他的承认
甚至现在看起来好像一蹶不振，
那来这里找他吧——他们知道他在哪儿。
无限的一瞬间
无限的一瞬间
他在风中停住，然后——那是什么
在远处枫木中，那苍白色的，不是鬼魂？
他站在那里，将三月带进他的沉思，
然而却很难相信，眼睛所看见的这一切。
“哦，那是盛开的天堂，”我说；
而且对于花朵来说，它实在太美丽了
但我们可以假设在三月
它这么白，只是为着在所准备的五月繁茂。
我们在一个陌生世界站了一个瞬间，
我自己也像他那样自称被骗；
然后我说出了事实（我们继续前进着）。
一株未成熟的山毛榉附着它去年的树叶。
启示
我们在那些取笑与轻视
的言语后，总会留点余地
但哦，要是什么人真正懂了
我们，我们心里就会有些焦急。
可这又很可惜：若情况需要
（我们这么假定）我们会在最后
逐字逐句地说出谜底以让朋友
能够完全理解。
但尽管，从玩着捉谜藏的孩子
到那在远处的神，
那些躲藏得很好的
必须发声并告诉我们他们在哪里。
传达坏消息的人
传达坏消息的人，
他在到这里的半路上，
想起传达坏消息
是一件危险的事。
他来到一个岔路
那里一条通往王座
一条经过山脉
然后通向未知荒野，
他选择了去山脉的那条路。
跑着穿过克什米尔山谷，
跑着穿过杜鹃花
一直到帕米尔人的高地。
在那里，在悬崖深谷
他碰到一个和他一样大的女孩
她把他带到了她的凉亭，
否则他或许还会流浪。
她告诉了他自己部落的宗教：
很久很久以前
一个中国公主
在和一个波斯王子结婚
的路上怀了孕；她的卫队
不得不中止前进。
虽然这孩子的父亲是一个神
也没人认为公主有什么不是的
他们在那里逗留着
既不前进，也不退回。
他们留了下来，并且驻扎在
有牦牛出没的一个村庄。
出生于那公主的孩子
因而确立了一条皇家家系，
他的命令必须留心
因为他的出生是神圣的。
那就是为什么有人住在
喜玛拉雅的一个山谷；
传达坏消息的人听完这话
自己就决定要留在那里。
至少他和他们对所作的选择
有一个共同点：
他们有他们在自己
想停下的地方停下的原因。
至于他要送的那个坏消息，
就是伯沙撒要被颠覆，
为什么要急着告诉伯沙撒
他马上就会知道的事情？
桦树
当我看见桦树左右弯曲
穿过更为笔直且黑暗的树木行列，
我爱想着是一个男孩在那里摇荡。
虽然摇荡不会使它们弯曲，像冰暴
所做的那样。你会经常看到它
在雨后晴朗的冬天早晨负载
着的冰凌。当微风升起时它们自己
身上发出咔嗒声，表面的珐琅
也出现了裂纹，变得色彩斑斓。
很快太阳的温暖使它们脱落结晶似的外壳
并在冻结的雪地上摔得粉碎——
你若要扫除这么多破碎的玻璃
你会以为是天堂的殿宇落下来。
因为重压它们被带到了枯萎蕨菜旁，
但它们似乎不会折断；虽然它们曾经长久地
弯得那么低，也从来没有将自己摆正过：
很多年以后你可以看见它们的主干在
树木中弯曲，将它们的叶子蔓延到地上
如同女孩子用手和膝盖撑着地
将头发甩过头顶让阳光晒干。
但我要说当真相大白
桦树弯曲是因为冰暴
我却宁愿让一个男孩在他进进出出
牵着母牛的时候弄弯它们——
有些男孩因离城镇太远而没法学打棒球，
他唯一玩耍的就是自己的发现，
夏天还是冬天，他就能独自地玩。
他一次又一次地骑在树上
直到夺取了树木的强硬
这样一个个地他征服了父亲的树，
没有一个不是柔软地垂下，也没有一个
还能留给他征服。他在那里学到的
全部，就是爬树时不要太快
那样就不会使树弯曲到地面。
他总是让自己保持着平衡，仔细
地攀爬到桦树顶端
与你将杯子倒满啤酒直到边缘，
甚至溢出，有着同样努力。
然后他向外摆动脚，带着嗖嗖声，
踢着两腿从半空将自己滑落到地面。
我曾经也是一个荡树的人。
因此我梦想回到那个时辰。
那是当我厌倦了思考的时候。
生命太像一座没路的森林
在那里你的脸因碰到蜘蛛网而发痒
发烧，你有一只眼在流泪
因一根嫩枝在它睁开时碰了它。
我真想离开人世一会儿
回来后再重新开始。
愿命运不再故意误解我
然后部分地成全我的希望，把我迅速
拿开而不送回。人世是个适合爱的地方：
我不知道还要去哪里会更好。
我会爬着一棵桦树而去，
从黑色的树枝攀爬到那向着天空的雪白
树干，直到那树已不再能够承受我，
并弯下自己的树梢再次把我送回来。
不管是离去还是返回我都会愉快。
可有人会比摆动桦树更加恶劣。
沙丘
海浪是绿色而潮湿的，
但从它们平息的地方
依然卷着其它更大的浪，
但这些是褐色的而且干燥。
它们是沙海变成的陆地
涌进这捕鱼的城镇，
想用固体的沙子掩埋
海水所不能淹死的人们。
海或许了解海湾与海角，
但它却希望按照那变化
的样子，从它的思想里
永远地抹去人类。
人们留给了它一条船使其沉没：
同样也能让一座小屋淹没；
他们会更加自由地想着
再一次抛弃那无用的外壳。
出生地
和那远处的山坡相比
这儿似乎没有过任何的希望，
父亲建造小屋，拢起了泉水，
用围墙般的锁链围住所有东西。
周围的地面不只长荒草，
还维持了我们各自的生命。
我们有十二个女孩和男孩。
高山似乎喜欢这热闹，
用很短的时间就了解了我们——
它的微笑总像含着什么，
也许到今天它还是不知道我们的名字。
（当然没有一个女孩保持着原样。）
高山使我们从它的怀里离开，
而现在它的山坳满是树木。
雪
三个人站立着，听风一阵猛吹
片刻间它卷着雪碰到了房子，
而后又自由吹着——科尔夫妇
上床睡觉了，但衣服头发都还很凌乱，
梅泽夫因身上的高贵皮衣而变矮。
梅泽夫是首先说话的。他用
烟斗管从肩头往后指了指，说，
“你正好可以看见它擦过屋顶
向天空制造了一个大的卷形物，
其长度足够把我们的名字记录上去——
我觉得我应该给妻子打个电话，告诉她
我在这里——现在——等一会儿再出发吧。
我只会叫铃响两下，如果她明智的话并且
早已入睡，她就不必醒来接。”
他只摇了三次，然后拿起来倾听。
“喂，列托，还醒着？列托，我在科尔家。我弄晚了。
我只是想到对你说早上好之前
在这里对你说晚安——
我想我会——我知道，但是，列托——我知道——
我会，可那是什么感觉？其余的路
不会很糟糕——为着它再给我一小时吧——嗬，嗬，
三个小时就到了这里！但那是上坡；
其它的就是下坡了——为什么，不，一点也不颠簸：
马从容地前进，压根儿也没有慌张，
如同好玩一样。它们现在在棚子里。——
我亲爱的，我还是会回去。我打电话
可不是请你邀请我回家的——”
他等着她不可能说出的那两个字，
后来是他自己说了，“晚安，”那边
还是没有回答，他就挂断了电话。
那三个人绕着桌子，站在灯光里
低垂着眼光，直等到他说，
“我这就去看看马匹，怎么样？”
“好，去吧。”
科尔夫妇一起说。科尔夫人
又补充：“你看过后才可更好地判断——
你在这儿陪我吧，佛瑞德。把他留下。
梅泽夫兄弟，你认得穿过这儿
去棚子的路吧。”
“我想我认得，
我能在那里找到我的名字
它雕刻在棚子里，这样的话，要是我不知道
我在哪里，它会告诉我我是谁的。我常常
这么玩——”
“你料理完马后就回来。
佛瑞德·科尔，你要让他走？”
“为什么不，你呢？
你能让他留下来？”
“我只叫他兄弟。
我为什么那样叫他？”
“那是很自然的。
因为你听见这里的人都这么叫他。
他倒倒忘了他的教名了。”
“可我觉得那样叫，有一种基督徒的味道。
可他没有注意到，是吗？那好，我至少
不是出于爱他而那样叫，
上天知道。我一想到他，和他有十个
十岁以下孩子这件事，就很厌恶。
我也憎恨他的那个小得可怜的教派，
我曾听说的，那个教派就那个样子。
但也不好说——看，佛瑞德·科尔，十二点了，
不是吗？他在这里呆了半小时了。
他说他是九点钟离开村庄商店的。
三小时走完四英里——一英里一小时
或者稍稍多一点。这是为什么，似乎
一个男人不可能走得那么慢的。
想一想，他在这段时间里一定走得很卖劲。
可现在，还有另外的三英里路要走！”
“就不要让他走。
留下他，海伦。让他回答你的问题。
那种人说话直率，从他谈自己
的一件什么事来看，他总没完没了，对
其他人说的所有话充耳不闻。
当然，我该想到，你能让他听你说。”
“他这样一个晚上在外面呆着干什么？
他为什么不能呆在家里？”
“他必须布道。”
“没有晚上不在家的。”
“他也许卑微，
也许敬虔，但有一件事是肯定的，他很坚韧。”
“有浓浓的烟草味道。”
“他会克服困难的。”
“你只是这么说说。从这个地方
到他们家，不会再有另外的避身处。
我想我该再给他的妻子打个电话。”
“等等，他会打的。让我们看看他到底怎么做。
也看看他会不会又一次想到她。
可我又怀疑他只会想到他自己。
他不会把这天气看作一回事。”
“他不能走——你看！”
“是晚上，我亲爱的。”
“有件事：他没有把神拖进去。”
“你也这么想，是吗？你不知道这性质。
他一定想在这会儿创造个奇迹。
秘密地——对他自己，现在，他在想
如果成功了，那就证明了一种关系，
但如果失败了，他就保持沉默吧。”
“一直都保持沉默。
他会被冻死——然后被埋葬。”
“严重啦！
不过如果那样的话，就会使一些
道貌岸然的无赖汉表现他们
假装的虔诚。但我还是有许多理由
不在乎他会发生什么事。”
“那是谬论！你应当希望看到他平平安安。”
“你喜欢这个矮子。”
“你不也是这样吗？”
“好嘛，
我不喜欢他所做的事，而这正是
你所喜欢的，所以你喜欢他。”
“哦，那应该是。
你像其它人一样，喜欢有趣的事；
只有你们女人要装出这种姿势
来给男人好印象。你让我们作为
男人而感到羞愧，以致我们看见
两个男孩打斗也觉得自己有义务要阻止它。
让那男人的一只或两只耳朵冻掉吧，我说——
他来这儿了。我把他交给你。去
救他的命吧——好，进来，梅泽夫。
坐，坐下。你的马匹怎么样？”
“不错，不错。”
“准备好要走吗？我妻子在这儿
她说你不能这样。你最好也放弃吧。”
“能这样吗？请！如果我说请？
梅泽夫先生，我会把这决定让给你妻子。
你妻子在电话里说了什么？”
除了灯，和它附近的什么东西外
梅泽夫似乎没有再留意什么。
他的手放在膝盖上如同
一只白色弄皱的蜘蛛，他藉着伸直的
胳膊，然后举起食指，指着灯下说：
“在你打开的书里，看那页书！它刚刚
动了，我想。它一直那样立着的，
在桌子上，自从我来以后。
它却试图向后，或者向前翻动自己，
我把注意力放在它身上，是想看看结果；
如果向前，那么它就有朋友的焦急——
你看我知道——是要你继续读另一些
它想看看你怎样来感受，如果向后
那是为着那些你翻过了、又没能读到的
好处而感到遗憾。别介意，
在我们明白事情之前，它们会很多次
向我们展现——我就不说
有多少次了——那要看情况而定。
有一种谎言总在说：任何事
都只在我们面前出现一次。
如果是那样的话我们最终会在哪里？
我们真正的生命依靠着万物
的循环，直到我们在内心里回答。
第一千次或许能证明那魔力——那书页！
它需要风的帮助。它能翻到任何一边。
但如果它已经移动，风就不会去移动它。
它自己移动了。因为这儿没有风。
风不能煽得像那东西一样敏感。
它不可能到灯里让火苗喷出黑色的烟雾，
或者将牧羊狗的衣服吹出皱褶。
你们使这一块正方形的空气
安静，明快，而温暖，不顾
无边无际的黑暗、寒冷和暴风雨。
是藉着这样的举动，你们才引起了身旁的
这三样：灯，狗，和书页，保持了它们自身的平静；
也许所有人都会说，这平静
就是你们没有的东西，然而你们给予了。
我们所没有的不能给予，这是错误的；
话说一千遍就正确，那也是错误的。
我去翻页了，如果没有人要去翻它。
它不会倒下。那么让它直立吧。谁在乎呢？”
“我不该催促你，梅泽夫，
但如果你要走——就说你会留下吧。
让我拉开窗帘，你会看到
面前的雪是怎样在阻止你。
你看见那冰天雪地里的一片雪白了吧？
问问海伦，自从我们刚看过之后
窗框的雪又攀爬上去，堆很高。”
“那看起来像
一些灰白的东西，正在压平它的容貌
它的眼睛也过于急切地一同关上了
为着去看看人们互相发现的那
有趣事，又由于它自己缺乏了解和
愚蠢而入睡了，
或者折断它那白色蘑菇般的
短脖子，然后在窗玻璃前死去了。”
“梅泽夫兄弟，当心，这噩梦般的谈话
会惊吓你自己，远远超过惊吓我们。
与它有关系的是你，因为是你
必须独自一个走出去，而后进入它。”
“让他说，海伦，也许他会留下。”
“你放下窗帘之前——我突然想起：
你想起了那个男孩在一个冬天跑出来
到这里来呼吸空气吗——住到艾弗里家
的那个男孩？是的，那是暴风雨后的
一个晴朗早晨，他路过我们的住所
发现我正用雪，护着我们的房子。
为着暖和，我在深处挖着，
一直将它们堆积到窗台上面。
堆靠着窗户的雪，引起了他的注意。
‘嗨，是个好主意’——这是他的原话。
‘当你暖暖地坐在室内，研究均衡分配，
就可以想象外面六英尺深的积雪，
是冬天了，你却感觉不到冬天。’
这些就是他所说的。然后他就回家了
但在艾弗里的窗户外，他用雪挡住了白昼。
现在你们和我都不会做这种事了。
同时你不能否认，我们三个，坐在这儿，
发挥我们的想象力，来让雪线上升
高过外面的玻璃窗格，这并不会使天气变得
更糟糕，一点也不。在那茫茫然
的冰天雪地中有一种隧道
相比隧道它更像个洞——往下的
最里面你看见有一种震动和轰动
如同风冲击的巷道磨损的边缘
所发出来的。我喜欢——我喜欢。
好，现在我要离开你们了，朋友。”
“来，梅泽夫，
我们以为你决定不走了呢——
你刚刚用那种方式说你在这个地方
舒服。你是希望留下来的。”
“我得承认下这场雪已经足够冷了。
而你们坐的这间房，这整幢房子
被冻结得似乎就要碎掉。如果你们认为风声
在走远，那不是因为它会消失；
雪下得越深——没有别的了——
就越感觉不到它。听听柔软的雪弹
它在烟囱口和屋檐上对着我们爆裂。
比起外面，我更喜欢
屋里。但马匹都休息了
而且也到要说晚安的时候了，
你们回床上去歇息吧。晚安，
抱歉打断了你们的睡眠。”
“愿你因你所做的幸运。愿你
在半路上，把我们家当作休息的地方而
幸运。如果你是那种留意女人意见
的人，你最好采纳我的建议
并且为着你家人的缘故，而留下来不走。
但我这样一遍又一遍地说这些有什么用呢？
你所做的超过了你权利范围内你能
做的——刚才。你知道
你继续走，这是要冒风险的。”
“我们这儿的暴风雪不会将人置于
死地，虽然我宁可是那个藏在它下面
冬眠的野兽，洞口的门被密封，又被掩埋，
也不愿成一个在上面与雪打斗的人，
可是想想小鸟也是栖息在树枝上，而不是在
巢里。我会比它们更不如吗？
就在今晚，它们被雪弄湿，但很快
就会成为冻结的岩石。然而明天
它们会这树那树地跳跃，直到发芽的树枝
然后摆动它们的翅膀，唱出好听的歌，
似乎还不能了解我们所说的这些是什么意思。”
“但为什么呢，当无人希望你继续？
你的妻子——她不希望你。我们也不，
你自己也不希望。还有其它谁希望？”
“让我们不要被女人的问话陷入绝境。
好，那儿还有”——她后来告诉佛瑞德在
他的那个停顿之后，她以为他会说
一个令人感到畏惧的词，“神。”
却不，他只是说“好，那儿还有——暴风雨，
它说我必须走。如果它来了
它希望我对于它，如同一个战争的力量。
问问任何其它男人吧。”
他丢下了最后一句话，这使她
苦恼，直到他出门。
他让科尔和他在一起去棚子为他送行。
当科尔返回，他发现他的妻子依然
站在桌子边打开的书页旁，
没有读它。
“那么，你认为他是
哪一种人？”她说。
“他有语言
的天赋，或者应该说，他能说会道？”
“这样的人从来就爱考虑相似的情况吗？”
“或者漠视人们所提的世俗问题——
什么？我们在一个小时内对他的了解
比看见他从路上经过一千次
还要多。如果那就是他布道的方式！
毕竟你不曾想你会留住他。
哦，我不是在责备你。他没有
给你说话的机会，但我感到高兴
因为我们不必陪他一整个晚上。如果他留下
他也不会睡觉。最小的事情都会使他感到兴奋。
他一走，这里就如同没有他的教堂一样安静。”
“如果是那样的话，我们的境况又能好多少？
我们会一直坐在这里，直等到他安全到家。”
“好吧，我猜你会这样，但我不会。
他知道他能做什么，不然他不会尝试。
我说上床吧，然后休息一下。
他不会转回来的，如果他打来电话，
也是在一或两个小时之后。”
“那么。我想
我们坐在这里陪他越过暴风雪
是对他不会有任何帮助的。”
***
科尔一直在暗处打着电话。
科尔夫人的声音从里面的房间传出来：
“她给你打的，还是你给她打的？”
“她打给我的。
你最好穿上衣服：要是你不想再回到床上。
我们早该入睡了：你看现在三点多了。”
“她说的长吗？我去
把睡衣拿来。我想和她说几句。”
“她就说，
他还没有到，问他是否真的动身了。”
“她知道他动身了，就在两个小时以前。”
“他带着铲子。他得铲雪开路。”
“为什么我刚才要让他离开这房子！”
“不要那样。你尽了你最大的努力
来留他——不过你也许没有彻底
隐藏，你倒是希望看见他用勇气来
违反你。他的妻子会责怪你的。”
“佛瑞德，毕竟我说过！你无论如何
不要拆开我的原话而随便理解。
她刚才说话的时候透露了说
她要责怪我吗？”
“我对她说‘走了，’
她说，‘那，’接着又‘那’——像恐吓。
然后慢慢地说：‘哦，你们，你们
为什么让他走了？’”
“问我们为什么让他走？
你让我去。我去告诉她为什么让他走。
他在的时候，她还不说什么。
他们的号码是——二十一？电话不通。
有人让话筒搁下来了。这摇柄难弄。
顽固的家伙，它会弄伤你的胳膊！
通了。她让它从手上落下，然后就离开了。”
“试着说说吧。说‘喂！’
“喂。喂。””
“你听到什么了？”
“听到了间空房子——
你知道——是那样的。是的，我听见——
我觉得有钟声——有窗户在卡嗒卡嗒地响，
但没有脚步声。如果她在那里，也是坐下的。”
“喊一下，她或许会听到你的。”
“喊叫无益。”
“那就继续喊话。”
“喂。喂。喂。
你不猜猜——？她会不会是出门了？”
“我当然害怕，那她可能会这样做的。”
“离开孩子们？”
“等一等，然后再叫。
你都听不到她是否把门敞开了
然后让风吹熄了灯，炉火也灭了
房间里又黑又冷？”
“只有这两样：她要么上床了，
要么出门了。”
“哪种情形都不好办。
你见过她长什么样吗？你认识她吗？
她不想和我们说话，这实在奇怪。”
“佛瑞德，看看你能不能听到我所听到的。来。”
“大概是钟。”
“你没听到其他什么吗？”
“不是说话。”
“不是。”
“啊，是的，我听见了——那是什么？”
“你说是什么？”
“一个婴孩的哭声！
听起来很凶，虽然仿佛时隐时现的。
他母亲不会让他那么哭的，除非
她不在那里。”
“你对这点怎么解释？”
“只有一种可能，
那就是——她已经出去了。
不过当然，她还是没有。”他们都无助地
坐下了。“天亮以前我们都没有任何办法。”
“佛瑞德，我不要你想外出的事。”
“打住。”电话铃开始叫了。
他们站了起来。佛瑞德拿起电话。
“喂，梅泽夫。那，你到了——你妻子呢？
好的！为什么我问这个——刚才她似乎不接电话。
他说她去棚子接他了——
我们都很高兴。哦，不要再谈这个了，伙计。
欢迎你路过的时候再顺便看看我们。”
“好的，
她终于拥有他了，虽然我没有看到
她为什么不能缺少他。”
“可能不是为着她自己。
也许只是为着孩子们，而需要他。”
“看来这整个忙乱都没有落到实处。
是什么破坏了我们一整个晚上，仅仅为了让他好笑？
他进来是为什么——谈话与拜访？
不过，他打过电话，为着告诉我们说在下雪。
如果他想把我们家变成城镇
和任何地方中途的一个咖啡厅——”
“我倒是认为，你应该察觉到你刚才太过关心了。”
“刚才你自己就没有关心？”
“如果你是说他不太顾及别人
而是要我们在午夜为他着想
然后又不采纳我们的建议，
我同意你。但是让我们原谅他吧。
我们已经参与了他一生中的一个夜晚。
你敢打赌他不会在某个时候再打电话过来？”
电话
“我今天正好可以用步行的方式
去要去的那远方，
有一小时
的安静时辰
当我的头对一朵花倾斜时
我听见你在说话。
不要说我没有，因为我听到了——
你从那花朵旁边的窗台上说——
你记得你说了什么吗？”
“先告诉我你感觉你听到的是什么。”
“我发现了花朵并赶走了蜜蜂，
斜着我的头，
托着它那茎，
我听到了并且我想我听清楚了——
那是什么？你叫我的名字？
或者你说——
有什么人说‘来’——我弯下腰时听到的。”
“我也许这样想过，但没大声叫出。”
“是的，所以我就来了。”
春之池塘
这些池塘，虽然在森林中，却依然
映着那整个几乎没有任何缺点的天空，
并且像身旁的花朵，寒冷且颤抖，
也像另一些很快要枯干的花朵，
然而它不会通过溪水或河流到外边，
却由根立起，而使那黑暗之叶生长。
那些在新的蓓蕾中吸水的树木
郁郁葱葱地，即将成为夏天的繁茂——
在它们用力喝光这水，使它枯干之前
先可以让它们考虑两次：
好似花朵的湖水，含水的花朵，
是那只会在昨日所融化的雪。
原则
在小溪旁的牧场里有三个人
他们正收集干草，并堆成锥形干草垛，
视线总是朝向西边
那里有片镶着金边的不规则的云
移动着，在乌云内部
一直横放着一柄闪烁匕首。突然
一个工人，将干草叉插进地面，
离开田园，回了家。还有一个留了下来。
那城里长大的农场主不能理解。
“有什么不对吗？”
“就是你方才说的那话。”
“我说了什么？”
“关于我们是否要更努力。”
“使点劲儿，把干草堆成草垛——因为要下雨了？
差不多是半小时前说的。
我对我自己也同样这么说。”
“你不知道。詹姆斯是个大傻瓜。
他认为你是在他的工作中找刺。
他是按普通农场主所做的那样理解。
詹姆斯会慢慢想明白的，当然，在行动之前
他总是仔细想：他只是想着话里面的意思。”
“若按他所理解我的方式，那他真是个傻瓜。”
“不要让这件事烦你。你知道就行了。
要是懂了这行业的雇员，你就不会吩咐他
把工作做得更快或更好——就这两样。
我和所有人一样，也是苛刻的：
很可能我会同样地为你服务。
因我知道，你不太了解我们的情形。
你只是把你心里所想的讲出来，
至于我们心里所想的，你却没暗示。
告诉你一个曾经发生过的故事吧：
我在塞伦，那儿有一个叫桑德斯的人
我和四五个人
在堆干草。没有人喜欢那老板。
他是那种被叫做蜘蛛的变种，
瘦长的胳膊和腿，从他那
饼干一样大的驼背身体里摇摆着展开。
但工作！那人能工作，特别是
他的工作能够使他的雇工
更努力工作。我不否认
他对自己非常严格。我发现
他任何时候都是准时的——不是为着他自己。
日光和灯笼光对他是一样东西：
我听见他整夜在谷仓里苦干。
可他总喜欢对雇工鼓劲。
对那些他带不动的人，他就在后面
催逼，你会那种方式。在牧草地——
在他们的脚后跟，他以把割掉腿威胁他们。
我看足了他那公牛般的把戏
（我们把那叫公牛般的）。我对他有防范。
所以有一次，当他和我一对在干草地
装担子时，我就想，有麻烦了。
我堆完担子；老桑德斯
用耙子梳下来，说了声‘好’
一切都进展得顺利，当我们到达谷仓
我们进到那里的一个隔仓。
你知道那些慢慢搭起来的干草堆，
要卸的时候，只需最上面的人
把干草大规模丢下来。
很轻松，一车草很快就卸光了。
你不会认为在那种环境下一个人
还会需要很多催促吧，你现在会吗？
可那个老傻瓜用双手抓住他的叉子，
满是胡须的脸从深坑里探出来，看着外面，
如同军队的统帅一样喊着，‘让他妈的来！’
我是想，他真是指那个意思？‘那就是你所说的？’
我大声问了，这样就不会有理解的错误，
‘你是说让他妈来？’‘是的，让他妈的来。’
他重复了一遍，但柔和许多。
你就绝不会对雇工那样说话，
不管他认为自己是谁。天哪，我真想尽早
除掉他，以及他那一张脏嘴。
是我堆的草堆，我知道怎样卸它。
我先想着轻轻用叉子，叉出
两三捆草，然后我又叉了进去
将整车的草倾倒在他身上。
在灰尘中，我瞥见他如同溺水的人踩着水
头从那里探出来，只见他像被夹的老鼠尖叫着。
‘你是活该，’我说，‘是报应！’
很快他就既没了身影，也没了叫声。
我扫了扫干草架，然后走到外面让自己平静下来。
坐下来，将脖子上的干草种子擦掉，
一定程度上我是等着被人询问，
其中有一个人大声喊着，‘那老家伙在哪？’
‘我把他留在谷仓的干草下了。
如果你想见他，你现在就可以把他挖出来。’
他们从我擦脖子的方式，了解到
肯定发生了什么不该发生的事。
他们前往谷仓；我留在原地。
他们后来告诉我，他们先将干草叉起来，
有很多，放到谷仓的地面。
什么都没有！他们倾听着，一点声音也没有。
我猜他们认为我已刺穿他的
脑袋，不然我不会将它埋在干草底下。
他们又挖了一些。‘别让他的妻子
进到谷仓这边来了。’有人从窗户看见，
妈妈的，他居然沉坐在厨房椅子上
双脚靠着炉子，尽管
那是那年夏天最热的一天。
从他后面仍能看出他气得没有办法
没有人敢惊动他，甚至
不敢让他知道他正被人偷看着。
显然我没有埋葬他
（我可能把他击倒了）；但我设法
埋葬他这一点，倒是伤了他的尊严。
他回到那房子，是为了不再看到我。
整个下午他都远远躲着我们。
我们仍然看管着他的干草。后来
我们看见他在花园里摘了一会儿豌豆：
他总不能停下来，而不做任何事。”
“当发现他没有死，你有没有松一口气？”
“不！那时还不好说——那很难说。
我当时的确很想杀他。”
“你选择了条笨路。他解雇你了没有？”
“解雇我？没有！他知道我做事是有原则的。”
野葡萄
野葡萄
什么树不能采集无花果？
难道葡萄不能从桦树采集？
那就是你所了解的葡萄、或桦树的全部了。
如同一个秋天，一个女孩
曾把自己挂在葡萄树上，又从桦树上摘下来
我应该知道葡萄会在哪些树上结果子。
我出生了，我猜想，如同任何人一样，
然后长成一个有点男孩子气的女孩
我的哥哥不能总把我留在家里。
但我挂在葡萄树上摇摆的那天
我这段身世因害怕而消灭了，
后来正如欧律狄刻一样，被寻的人找到
然后安全地从半空落到地面；
那么我现在生活的就是一条额外的生命
我可以在我喜欢的任何人身上把它浪费掉。
那你是否知道我庆祝两个生日，
也让我拥有两个不同的年龄，
其中的一个比我看起来要小五岁——
有一天我哥哥把我带到林间空地
他知道那里有一棵孤独的桦树，
叶子尖端的薄头饰，
沉浸在它后面繁重的头发里，
一串葡萄饰物，挂上了它的脖子。
自从去年见到它们我就了解了葡萄。
开始是一串，然后是一串串
围绕着我生长在白桦树里，
就像它们在幸运的里夫四周长成；
大部分都长在我手所不能及的那边，
如同我小时候心中的月亮，想拥有它
也只能自由攀爬。
我哥哥爬上去了；最开始
他将葡萄扔给我，可全都分散在了地上
所以我必须在芳香的蕨木和绣线菊中寻找；
这就给了他自己一些在树上吃的时间，
但也不长，或许不如男孩子需要的。
为了让我完全自立，他依然
爬得高高的，然后将树弯到地上，
并放进我手里，让我采摘自己的葡萄。
“快，抓住树梢，我会放下另一个的。
当我放开的时候你要用所有力来抓牢。”
我说我抓紧树了。那不是真的。
相反才是真的。是树抓紧了我。
就在我哥哥松开手时，树突然
钓起了我，如同我是鱼
而它是钓鱼杆。于是我听到
哥哥的声声呼喊变成了大叫“放开！
你都不知道吗，你这女孩？放开！”
而我，那婴孩一样紧握的本性
就在这树上获得了遗传
那远比现在还要鲁莽的远古的鲁莽母亲
曾让婴孩用手吊在树枝上
或为弄干，或为弄湿，或晒黑，我不知道
哪样是她们想达到的（你去问问进化论者）——
我不想对生命本身发任何怨言。
我哥哥试图使我发笑，来帮助我。
“你在葡萄那里做什么？
不用害怕。几个不会伤害你的。
我是说，如果你不摘它们，它们也不会摘你。”
我摘这些东西真是太危险了！
那次我几乎简化了
对挂和让挂的达观。
“现在你该知道它的滋味了，”我哥哥说，
“如同人们说到一串酸葡萄那样，当它认为
它逃离了狐狸，是因为长到了
它不该生长的地方——桦树上，
狐狸根本不会认为它会在那里而去找它——
即使看见并发现了，它也够不着——
可就在这时，你和我来采集了。
对葡萄来说，某一方面你会比它
有优势：它只有一根，你却有两只手
来攀爬，说它摘下你，这实在不那么容易。”
一个接一个，我丢下帽子，和鞋子，
可我依然吊在那棵树上。我昂起头，
闭眼对着太阳，耳朵也不想听
哥哥毫无意义的话。“下来，”他说，
“我会用手抓住你的。一点都不高。”
（照他的身高应该不算高。）
“下来吧，要不然我会摇树，把你摇下来。”
我没有吭气，我的身子也下沉了些，
我细小的手腕拉伸着，看上去就像五弦琴。
“为什么，要是她不这么认真
紧握，可我应该想到我该怎么做。
我会把树压弯，然后让你从上面下来。”
那时是如何下来的，我并不太知道；
我一旦感觉到地面和我穿着袜子的脚
地球似乎重新旋转了起来，
在弄直我上倾的手指，并刷去树皮渣之前，
我久久地盯着它们，并打量着。
我哥哥说，“你没有想着用脑子想一想吗？
下次遇到这种情况就不能这样，免得你
因为那树枝，又被甩入空中。”
那不是因为我没动脑子
如同不是因为我对这个世界还不懂一样——
虽然哥哥从来就比我懂得多。
在知识上，我还是没有迈出第一步；
我还没有学会用手放开，
同样，我也没有学会和内心一起，
而且从不希望和它一起——也不需要，
我能意识到这点。思想——不是内心。
我仍能活着，如同我知道其他人活着，
徒然希望抛开那些烦人的思想——
这样就能在晚上安然睡觉；但是没有什么告诉我
需要学习把心放开。
收割
除它以外在木头边从来不会发出声音，
就只有我的长镰对着大地耳语。
它在说什么？我自己不是很清楚；
或许是些关于太阳热度的问题，
也许，是关于缺少声音——
那就是为什么它在耳语而没有说话。
不梦想会得到那些不劳而获的礼物，
或仙女与小妖精施舍出的黄金：
任何超出了事实的事情似乎都过于薄弱
就说在几行洼地中割草的诚挚的爱，
很可能对准的是虚弱而被刺穿的花朵
（苍白的红门兰），并惊吓了伶俐的青蛇。
事实乃是那最甜蜜的梦只有劳动才知道。
我的长镰耳语过后就离开了要整理的干草。
修补墙壁
有一种东西不喜欢墙壁，
它使冻结的地面在墙壁下膨胀，
在阳光中倒出地表的大石头；
甚至使裂纹超过了两人并起的肩膀。
猎人毁墙则是另一件事情：
我要跟在他们后面修复他们经过
且不把石头放回原处的地方，
他们还会让兔子不再躲藏，
以取悦那吠叫的狗。我所说的裂纹，
没有人看见或听见它们怎样形成，
但在春天修补的时候便会看到千疮百孔。
我约了那位山那边的邻居；
在某天我们走到那断墙并见了面
又一次将墙壁搁置在了我们中间。
我们边走边把破的墙补上，
用落向各自墙角的所有石头。
有些如同面包片有些则类似球形
我们要用一段符咒来使它们平衡：
“我们转身之前，请留在你所在的位置！”
处理它们使我们的手磨得粗糙。
哦，像是另一种户外游戏，
一个站一边。有点感觉了：
其实这里是我们不需墙壁的地方：
他那儿全都是松树而我的是苹果园。
我告诉他，我的苹果树绝不会
穿越过去在他的松树下吃松果。
他只说，“只有好栅栏才能促成好邻居。”
在我心里春天是个危害，我在想
我能否在他脑中放置这样一个想法：
“为什么栅栏能促成好邻居？难道它
不该竖在有奶牛的地方？但是这儿没奶牛。
在我建墙壁之前我就该知道
我做围墙是想围住以及隔开什么，
我又可能会得罪谁。
有些东西不喜欢墙壁，
希望墙壁倒下。”我会对他说那是“小精灵”，
但正确说那不是，我宁可
让他自己说那是什么。我看他在那里
用双手尖紧紧抓着
块石头，像原始人的石器武装。
在我看来他在黑暗中移动，
不止是木头还有树木的阴影。
他不会去探究父辈所说的话，
他倒喜欢想起这一句所以会又
说，“只有好栅栏才能促成好邻居。”
恐惧
灯笼从牲口棚的深处变亮
照在屋内的一个男人和一个女人身上
将他们东倒西歪的影子投到附近的
一幢房子，房子的窗户全都黑黢黢。
马蹄叩着那发出空洞响声的地板，
他们所靠的那辆轻便马车的尾部
动了一下。男人抓着一个轮子，
女人尖声大叫，“遏，停住！
我看见它如同白盘子一样发亮，”
她说，“就在前面挡泥板的光反射
到路旁的灌木丛——一个男人的脸。
你肯定也看见了。”
“我没有看见它。
你确定吗——”
“是的，我确定！”
“——那是一张脸吗？”
“约耳，我只好去看了。我不能进屋，
我不能让一件令人不安的事情留下。
门锁上了，窗帘拉上了，这说明不了什么。
每当我们夜里回家，我总对那个
空了很久的暗房子感到陌生，
在锁孔里大声咔吱响的钥匙
似乎在警告某些人赶快离开
我们进入一扇门的话，他就会从另一扇。
假若我的感觉是对的，有些人总是——
哦不要拽紧我的手臂！”
“我是说有人经过。”
“照你说这好像是条旅行道。
你忘记我们在哪里了。再说是在
半晚，这样的一个时候，
谁会或去或来，而且是步行？
那他为什么仍会站在灌木丛中？”
“不是很晚——只是天黑了。
这里也许跟你想要说的不一样。
他只是看起来像——？”
“他像任何人。
除非我把这件事弄清楚了，不然我今晚绝不休息。
把灯笼给我。”
“你并非想要灯笼。”
她从他身边挤过去，自己用手拿到了它。
“你不要来，”她说，“这是我的事情。
如果解决的时候到了，我就是
那个解决者。让他永远不敢再——
听着！他踢了块石头。听啊，听！
他朝我们走过来了。约耳，进去——请。
听！——现在我听不见他了。请进去。”
“首先你不能让我相信那是——”
“那是——或者他派其他什么人来监视了。
要是我们能够明确知道他在哪儿
现在就是和他讲个清楚明白的时候了。
让他走掉，他就会埋伏在我们周围的
任何地方，以至我踏出房门之前
都得注意一下树和灌木丛。
我不能忍受这点。约耳，让我去！”
“你认为他会如此关注你，这真荒谬。”
“你是说你不能了解他为什么这样关注，
哦，他还没有关注个够呢——
约耳，我不想——我不想——我答应你。
我们都不能这样说话。你也不能。”
“如果果真有人要去那儿，应该是我，
但是你因为这灯笼，还倒给了他便利。
我们在亮的地方，他就可以干任何事了！
要是他只是想来看一看，
他早就明白了一切，并且也已离开。”
他似乎忘了要守住他的位置，
而是当她穿越草坪的时候，就跟随着她。
“你想干什么？”她对黑暗喊。
她昂然伸出手来，忘了手里还提着灯笼
灯笼罩的炎热逆挨着她的裙子。
“这里没有人；你肯定弄错了，”他说。
“这里有。
你想干什么？”她叫道，然后
被一声真正到来的回答给吓住了。
“没干什么。”声音来自路边。
她伸出一只手抓住约耳，她很想站稳：
绒衣烤焦的气味使她发晕。
“你半晚绕这房子转干什么？”
“没干什么。”后来就没说什么了。
然后那声音又说：“似乎你们害怕了。
我刚刚看到你们猛抽马匹。
我自己就走到灯笼光下
好让你们看见我。”
“好，看见了——约耳，回去吧！”
她面对走来的脚步声站稳了，
可她的身体还是抖动了一下。
“你看见我了？”那声音说。
“哦。”她看了又看。
“你没看见——我手边还有个孩子。
一个强盗不会让他的全家呆在身边。”
“半晚带孩子出来干什么——？”
“到外面来走一走。我想每个孩子都应该至少
有一次睡觉很久以后外出散步的经历。
什么，孩子？”
“那你是否在寻找一个
散步的地方——”
“碰巧上了这马路——
我们在迪安家做客，要呆两星期。”
“原来这样啊——约耳——你知道了——
你不要再想别的。知道了吗？
你知道我们应该小心。
这是一个非常、非常偏僻的地方。
约耳。” 她说话好像不能转头一样。
摇晃的灯笼延伸到地面，
它磕碰着，撞击着，发出咔嗒咔嗒的声音离开了。
保罗的妻子
要想把保罗赶出这一带的任何
伐木营，只需对他说，
“妻子好吗，保罗？”——他便会立即消失。
有人说那是因他没有妻子，
所以讨厌被这个事儿嘲笑。
有人说因为他差点结婚，就在
拥有妻子的前一两天，被抛弃了。
有人说因他曾有个妻子，很不错的妻子，
但和其他什么人跑了，离开了他。
又有人依然认为，他现在有妻子
只是他需要时刻提醒——
马上，他就会负起妻子的全部责任：
而后便会立刻跑过去找她，
似乎说，“是啊，我妻子好吗？
我真希望她这时候没有捣乱啊。”
没有任何人担心这样做，是要摆脱保罗。
从某个时刻起他就成了山营的英雄，
所以，只要向他们证实：他曾在四月的
一个星期天，在牧场干涸的小溪旁，
剥开了一整棵落叶松的树皮，
如同小男孩摘柳枝做成的口哨一样干净。
他们问他似乎只是想看看他离开，
“妻子好吗，保罗？”于是他离开了。
他从没有想杀害任何
问他这个问题的人。他只是突然消失——
没有人知道他朝哪个方向，
虽然他们听说这同一个保罗以同一的
旧伐木技巧，到新的营里
要不了多长时间。
所有人的置疑都是，保罗为什么
拒绝回答一个民事问题——
一个人除了恶言恶语以外
你几乎能够说任何话。这时你就有答案了。
所以另有一种说法认为保罗不公平：
保罗和一个与他不相称的妻子结了婚。
保罗为她羞耻。来配一个英雄，
她应该是一个女英雄才是，而不
应是一个混血印第安女人。
但如果墨菲讲的那个故事是正确的，
她就没什么可让自己感到自己是羞耻的了。
你知道保罗实在会制造奇迹。所有人
都听说他是怎样胜过一匹驮着东西
而无法移动的马匹的，他只要大伙儿
从装载的地方，将生牛皮马具拉到营里，
保罗就会告诉老板，说装载的东西不会有什么问题，
“太阳会带回你的货物。”——果真——
他就借着了生牛皮回缩到普通长度这回事。
那就是我们称之为的延伸器。但是我猜
那次他自己的双脚立刻跳起
碰着了天花板，又同样着地了，
然后又安全在正面着陆，
回到地板上，那就是事实，或者靠近某种事实。
这真是个奇谈。保罗从白松木
里将他妻子锯了出来。墨菲就在那里，
然后，就像你可能知道的，他将这女士锯出生了。
保罗从事伐木的所有事情。
他搬木板时很努力
因为——我忘记了——那最后一个有野心的锯木匠
想发现他是否能够在保罗身上
堆木材，一直堆到他求饶：
他们将一块粗大的根段原木切成片，
锯木匠猛推滑架的后部
让其一端向前，逆着锯齿猛一推。
当他们顺便想看看这木材质量到底怎样时，
他们看见圆木发生了一件事，
他们肯定内疚地期待着
随着那些巨响，将会有什么东西要离开。
可新木头上留下的是宽阔的黑色油脂痕迹
或许，只除了圆木两末端各一尺。
但当保罗将他的手指放进油脂里，
那根本不是油脂，而是长长的狭缝，
圆木是空心的。他们在锯松树。
“这是我第一次看到空心松树。
那是因为保罗在这块地方。
给我把它拿开，”锯木匠说。
所有人不得不朝它看一眼，
然后告诉保罗，他应该怎么对付它。
（他们把它当保罗的了。）“你拿把折叠刀，
把口子弄大，你要把能挖出的
全部挖出来，然后坐到里面去捕鱼。”对保罗来说
那空洞是那么坚实，干净，而均匀
不会曾经是鸟兽或蜜蜂的房屋吧。
况且也没有让它们进入的入口。
对他来说，那有几分像是一种新的空洞
他觉得最好还是藉助折叠刀。
那天晚上工作结束后，他回来了
用足够亮的亮光照着它，并且割开
来看了看，它是否真是空的。在那里他辨认出了
细长的木髓，或者那是木髓吗？
它也许是竖立在树的末端
而留下来的脱落的蛇皮，
一百年了，这树肯定长了一百年。
割得越多，他两手便都是这些东西，
接着，穿过它就看到了附近的池塘，
保罗想知道它会对水有什么反应。
没有一丝微风，但仅仅是他慢慢
走向沙滩，而制造出来的空气气息
要将它从手上吹走，且几乎要折断了。
保罗把它放在能吸水的边缘。
起先吸水时，它发出沙沙声，并且变柔软了。
又过了一会儿，它就不见了。
保罗用手指拖拽着它的影子，
便想着，它一定熔化了。消失了。
圆木挤压栅栏的远处水面，
因为小虫飞舞而变得模糊，
它慢慢升起，成了一个人，一个女孩，
她湿透的头发重得如同头盔，
那人，正靠着圆木转身看着保罗。
这使得保罗转过头来看
自己后面，是不是有别的什么人
而她正看的是那个人，而不是自己。
墨菲始终在附近，在他们
看不到的工棚偷看着。
在那女孩伴着喘息声呼出第一口气与笑声之前，
她似乎过于浸透而不能存活，
而使她出生的那一刻
显得不安起来。她起身慢慢走动，
对她自己或保罗说了一会儿话
然后穿过那些如同鳄鱼后背的圆木离开了，
保罗围绕着池塘，追赶着她。
第二天傍晚，墨菲和其他人
去喝酒，跟踪这一对去了野猫山，
从那空旷的山顶，有着能看到
幽谷在群山对面所穿过的视界。
在那儿的黄昏到来之后，按墨菲的叙述，
他们看见保罗与他的创造物正一同住着。
自从墨菲看见保罗和她在黎明的
水池相爱，这是
唯一的一次有人看见保罗和他妻子。
穿过荒原一英里之外，
他们一起坐在了半路悬崖上
的一个小洞，那个女孩
看起来明亮，如同一颗星星在那里玩耍，
保罗是暗的，像她的影子。全部的亮光
都源自女孩本身，尽管不是源自一颗星星，
接下来发生的事，就如同猜测一样了。
那群大恶棍们一起址起喉咙，
发出高声呼喊，扔过去了一个瓶子，
以作为他们对美的那种粗野赞颂。
当然那个瓶子还无法达到一英里，
可叫声达到了女孩那里，并且立即将她的光亮熄灭。
她就像萤火虫一样离开了。
就这样，有些人证明保罗结婚了，
而且他在任何人前都没有必要再感到羞耻。
每个人在评论保罗时都弄错了。
墨菲告诉我保罗在他妻子
问题上的装腔作势是为了保守她的秘密。
保罗就是我们所说的铁公鸡。
拥有妻子就意味着拥有她整个的人，
她与其他任何人都没有关系，
要么称赞她，要么多叫她，
他多么感谢没有人在想她。
墨菲的意思就是，像保罗这样的人
不会用世界所知道的
任何方式让人对他说起自己的妻子。
布朗下山
或者：不由自主滑动
布朗住在位置高高的农场里
每个人在几英里之外都能
看见当他在冬天三点半
后做工作时的灯笼。
很多人肯定看见了有一天
晚上他疯狂地从山上冲下来
越过耕地，越过墙壁，越过所有这一切，
灯笼在手中有着戒指光环。
那时他在房屋和谷仓之间
拿东西大风突然刮来
把他吹向那包着地面的寒冰外壳，
于是他冲下来了！
墙壁全被雪掩埋了，树木所剩无几：
他看出除非用脚后跟在什么地方
弄一个洞否则就没有支撑的。
可虽然他再三努力
顿足并且自言自语说着什么，
可有时候似乎只能顺其自然，
他没有立足处，可继续着
他从田地到田地滑行的旅途。
有时他伸展开那如同翅膀
的手臂，他瘦长的身躯就像一根
长轴，他旋转舞似地滑行，
并且还有一些尊严与风度。
更快或更慢则看他的机遇，
坐着或站立他可以自己选择，
不知他是否为保住衣服
而用思想或脖子去冒冒险。
他从没有让灯笼脱手。
有些人声称曾在远处看见
他用灯光发出求救信号，
“我在想布朗的那些信号
在那样一个晚上是做什么的！
他是在庆祝什么特别的事吧。
我在想他是不是出售掉了他的农场，
或者成为了格里基分会的主席。”
他旋转，倾斜，摆动，停止；
他倒下的灯笼发出咔嗒声
（他设法保住光亮不让它熄灭。）
而在半山腰他还在那里挣扎，
不相信自己有那么坏的运气。
然后变得接受这倒霉事似的，
他放弃了为着停下所作的任何努力
如同一个滑行的孩子下山了。
“好的——我——是——”那就是他说的，
当他滑过冰冻的河道，
他回头看了看那光滑的斜坡
（有两英里）一直到他的住处。
我是一个汽车方面的专家，
有时候我被询问是否
我们的股价已彻底垮掉，
这就是我真诚的答复：
我们北方人一直是从前那样。
不要认为布朗曾经因为他
不能攀爬那光滑的斜坡而
放弃过再次回家；
或者甚至想着他会站在那里
一直到一月的解冻会
融化掉地壳上的磨光。
他优雅体面地顺从了自然规律，
然后按着股价上升的样式
步行着一路向山上攀升，
没有必要对那些人过分关心，
在那段特殊的时间里，
他们一定看上去很好仿佛
他们面对的根本不是
他们所行走的——
没有必要对他们过分关心，我说；
不然就不会成为一个男人——
一个有空闲季节的政治家。
当我用理由投资布朗时
我使他站立在寒冷里；
他的眼睛突然发亮了三次；
然后摇动他的灯笼，说，“
上路吧！”然后选择了那条
几英里远的公路，回了家。
家庭墓地
在被她看到之前，他在楼梯下
看到了她。她正准备下楼，
又转过头看看有什么可怕的东西。
迈着疑惑的步子，又收回去
她踮脚又看了一次。他先
对她说话了：“你一直站在上面
看什么——因为我想知道。”
她转过身来，垂坐在裙子上，
脸色从害怕，变成暗淡。
为了拖延时间，他说：“你在看什么？”
便爬上楼梯，看她仍然蜷缩。
“我会知道的——但你必须告诉我，亲爱的。”
她，坐在原地，僵硬地扭着
脖子，不声不响地拒绝了他的搀扶。
她让他看，当然什么也看不见，
这睁眼瞎；好一会儿了，他还是没看见。
最后他咕噜道，“哦，”接着又咕噜了一遍，“哦。”
“看到了什么——什么？”她问。
“我看见了。”
“你没有，”她挑战道，“告诉我那是什么。”
“奇怪的是我并没有能够一眼看到。
在这里，我从来没有注意过它。
我一定习惯了——就是原因。
我家人所在的那个小小墓地！
太小了以至窗户构成了这视野的全部。
不比卧室大多少，是吗？
那里有三块板岩，和一块大理石，
阳光下，是那个侧面有肩膀宽的
小石板。我们没有照看那些。
但我了解：那不是石头，
而是我孩子的坟堆——”
“不，不，不要，”她叫了起来。
她从他那在楼梯扶栏休息的手臂下面
缩回身子，并悄悄下了楼；
她一脸沮丧，转头看他，
在回过神来之前，他一连说了两次：
“难道一个男人不能提他夭折的孩子？”
“你不能！哦，我的帽子在哪？哦，我用不着它！
我必须离开这里。必须出去透透气。
我真不知道男人能不能提。”
“艾米！你这次不要去别的地方了。
听我说。我不会下楼的。”
他坐下来了，用两手托着下巴。
“有一件事我想问你，亲爱的。”
“可你不知道怎样来问。”
“那么，帮帮我。”
她的指头移向了门锁就是所有回答。
“我说的话几乎总是冒犯你。
我真不知道怎样说一些使你高兴的
事情。但我想我或许可以学会。
虽然不能说我怎样才算学会了。
与女人一起，就某种程度来说
男人要学会放弃。但我们可以商量一下，
那样的话，我就可保证
不会再提你特别在意的一些事情了。
虽然我不太喜欢在所爱的人之间是这个样子。
两个不爱的人住在一起，就不能没有商量。
但相爱的两个人这样的话，就没法过。”
她移动了一下门锁。“不要——不要走。
你这次不要把心事带到其它地方。
如果是能说的东西就告诉我。
让我知晓你的悲痛。我不是跟其它人
那么不一样的，就是你站在那里
所认为的。给我一次机会吧。
虽然我认为，你稍微做得有些过火了。
是什么让你在面对爱情时总是要想
那使你作母亲丢失的头一个孩子，
并且如此伤心。
你认为想他就可以让你心满意足了——”
“你现在去嘲笑吧！”
“没有，我没有！
你让我生气了。我要下来跟你谈。
天哪，好一个女人！竟然到了这地步，
一个男人不能提他死去的孩子。”
“你不能，因你不知道怎样提。
要是你懂感情该多好，那你就用自己的手
去挖——你怎能这样——他那小小的坟墓吧；
我就是从那个窗口看到的你，
你使砂砾在空中飞扬，跳跃，
飞啊跳啊，像那样，极为轻巧地着陆
然后滚回到洞旁的坟堆。
我在想，那个男人是谁？我不认识。
我悄悄下楼梯，又上了楼
为着能够再看一次，依然是你举起铁锹。
后来你进来了。我听见你在厨房
咕隆隆说什么。我也不知为什么想
靠近厨房，亲眼来瞧这是怎么回事。
你可以坐在那儿，让鞋子沾着
自己孩子坟墓上的新土，
大谈你每天的日常事务。
你已让铁锹靠着了外面的墙
就在外面入口，我都看见了。”
“真是感到好笑极了，天哪，
要是我不信我倒霉的话，那我还要倒霉。”
“我能完全重复你那时的话。
‘三个浓雾的早晨外加一个雨天
就能腐烂一个人建造的最好桦树栅栏。’
想想，在那种时候说那种话！
用多长时间使桦树腐烂
这与家里办丧事有什么关联？
你毫不关心！最亲的人本可
伴着任何一个已死的人，你那个样子
倒不如根本就不去墓地呢。
是的，自从有人因病要亡，
他就是孤独的了，而且死后会更孤独。
朋友们伪装跟随到坟地，
人入土之前，他们的心早飞了，
想着快点回到那活人中间，
去做他们认为是合适的事。
啊邪恶的世道。如果我能改变它
就不会如此悲伤。哦，就不会，不会！”
“是啊，你把它说出来，就会感觉好些了。
你现在不要走。你哭吧。关上门。
心事已经说出来了：为什么还悲伤呢？
艾米！有人来了，已经到了路上！”
“你——哦，你认为我说说就好了。我得走——
到房子外面随便某个地方。我怎样才能使你——”
“如果——你——那么做！”她把门打得大开。
“你想去哪儿？得先告诉我是哪个地方。
我会跟着你，并把你拽回来。我会的——”
爱与一个问题
一个陌生人黄昏时来到门前，
开始对新郎彬彬有礼地讲话。
在他手上有根淡绿色的棍子，
以及有着的沉重、与顾虑。
比起嘴唇他更多地是用眼睛
寻求一个夜晚的避身处，
他转身远远看着路上
没有窗户的亮光。
新郎出来来到走廊上
说“让我们看看天空，
想想这晚上天气会怎样，
然后你和我再继续商量。”
忍冬的叶子铺满院子，
忍冬果是蓝色的，
秋天，是的，已有冬天在风中；
“陌生人，我希望我能知道。”
在屋里，新娘独自在黄昏
俯身靠近温暖火焰，
她玫瑰红的脸与那炽热的煤炭
对着她心里害羞的欲望。
新郎看着那使人困倦的道路，
然而看到的是屋里的她，
他真希望她的心装进金子的容器
用银子的别针扣上。
新郎不在乎施舍面包，
金钱，一个为着
穷人而对神真诚的祈祷，
或对富人的诅咒；
但有人要打扰新婚
之夜，让房间里隐匿灾难，
对于这样的事情
新郎希望他也能知晓。
一个老人的冬天夜晚
外面所有一切都穿过那空房间
薄雾朦胧的窗格玻璃，
穿过几乎呈星形分开的凝霜窥看他，
是那在手上朝眼睛倾斜的灯光
使他没有反看回去。
是年龄使他不能再记起把自己
带到那摇摇欲坠房间的原因。
他与围绕自己的桶站在一起——不知所措。
他用沉重的脚步吓唬脚底
的地下室，又用脚步将它
吓了一跳；——又惊吓外面
那有着它声音的夜晚，那声音熟悉得
如同树枝破裂，但更像击打盒子。
他其实是仅仅照着他自己的灯，那个
现在坐着的，与他所了解有关的
轻微灯光，甚至连灯都谈不上。
他委托月亮，虽然是像他那样
那么晚起来，那么残缺不全的月亮，
但要它让他的雪花在屋顶上，
让冰柱围绕墙，任何时候它的
这种保管的职责都比太阳强，
这时他睡着了。那炉子里的圆木
移动了一下，似乎打扰了他，他也动了一下，
放松了他那沉重的呼吸，但他依然沉睡。
一个年老的人——一个人——不能看守一间房子，
一个农场，一个农村，或者即使他能够，
也是因为他在一个冬天夜晚所能做的。
库斯的女巫
花园里的萤火虫
真正的星星来填补那上面的天空，
而在地上到来的是与其竞争的昆虫，
虽然它们从来在大小上都比不上，
（它们本来不是真正的星星）
可有时却能达到和星星极为相像。
当然，它们不过并不能一直这样维持。
投资
回到他们的生命如同停住了的那里
（“你不能把它叫做生活，因为它不是”），
那有座很旧、很旧的房子藉着粉刷更新了，
里面有一架钢琴大声演奏着。
外面的耕地一个挖掘者在寒冷中，
在挖出的土豆前站立不动，
数算着冬天的晚餐，将它们堆积起来，
用一半的心思感受着有活力的钢琴。
那些钢琴和新粉刷后的旧房
是因为突然发了一笔横财吗？
或者因为奢侈的年轻人的爱？
还是旧爱人一时的冲动而不在意这钱——
不是因为受不了成为丈夫或妻子而倒下，
但要在生命里获得一点色和音乐？
门口的轮廓
我们的火车越过了山区高处
眼前几乎看不到什么景色
只有矮小的橡树生长在那不厚的
泥土，因被阻止而成了大树。
我们在无聊的单调中跑着，
来到一个有活人的地方。
他巨大而憔悴的轮廓堵在小屋门口，
要是他向后倒在地上，
他一定可以测量更远的那面墙。
但我们经过那里没有看见他倒下。
他远离尘世来到这荒野地方
显然全都是他能力所能承受的。
他不动摇地站立，虽然有些憔悴，
那不一定是因物质贫乏所造成。
他有橡木供他照明与取暖。
有母鸡，在不远处有头猪。
有口井，有可以接下的雨。
有十到二十小块圆地。
也不缺少普通娱乐。
我猜想那就是我们经过的意义。
他能够看见我们在那里吃饭，
他挥动展开的手臂在问候我们。
致一个年轻的坏家伙
你拿父亲的斧子高兴得像拿他的枪——
鱼杆一样——去打猎——钓鱼。
你在我的云杉上刻痕直到它的纤维破裂，
那树放弃直立便瑟瑟作响倒下。
你将手臂挽在它的树枝上，然后你穿过
细微的雪花将有着自然香味的它拖回家。
我能够给你买来同样良好的树木
在烛光焰中让它卷曲树脂，
那么为此节约对我来说就是吝啬的。
但施舍得到的树木却与远征
探险得到的树木完全不一。
我不能用悔恨弄糟了你的圣诞日子。
是你的圣诞节反对着我的木头。
但就是这样的反对也会引起扼杀，
比起善意与恶意的冲突
他们更多地被视为善的对立；
是什么使战神看上去与傻瓜没什么特别
就是因为他一直同时作战在两边。
虽然在丝织的链条和玉米绳中，
我的树木作为一个俘虏在你的窗户
已经失去它在我山坡上的立足
并失去天上的星星，让，哦，让
那有信仰的星星升起直到你的天花板
帮助我接受它在圣诞节的命运。
柴堆
暗淡的一天外出走在冻结的沼泽，
我停住了，说，“我要从这里往回走。
不，我要继续走得更远——我们就看到了。”
冻结住的雪花绊着我，除了那偶尔
有人经过的痕迹。景色是一致的
前面与后面看到的都是
整齐的细长树木以至不能标志
或者命名一个地方来确定
我是在这里还是其他
什么地方：我只知道离家很远。
一只小鸟在我面前飞过。当其
降落时小心地将树隔在我们之间，
没有说任何话来告诉我它是谁
而我是那么愚蠢地想着它所应想的。
那鸟儿认为我是因着它的羽毛而跟在后面——
它尾巴后那根白色的；如同一个
把所有东西都说成是自己的人。
其实它只要飞到外面就会全都明白。
然后是一堆柴因为它我
忘记了鸟且让它的微弱害怕
将它从我要经过的路上带走，
都没有和它道一声晚安。
为着获得最后的立足地它转到后面。
那是一考得枫木，切开劈开
然后堆起来——四乘四乘八立方地测量着。
我没见到其它这个样子的柴堆。
在它周围的雪地没有任何奔跑过的痕迹。
它肯定不是今年劈的，
或者不是去年或前年劈的。
木材是灰色的而树皮剥开了
那柴堆稍微有些下陷。克莱曼蒂斯
像包裹一样用细绳缠着它。
虽然有一端是正在生长的树木
支持着它，有一端靠的是斜桩与竖桩，
这两根树桩快要倒下。我在想
只有那些生活在不断转换新任务的人
才能忘记自己耗尽精力的劳动，
忘记自己，斧子，与劳力，
然后让柴堆远离火炉，尽其可能
用那缓缓的无烟而腐朽的燃烧
去温暖冰冷的沼泽。
一百个衣领
他是在兰开斯特出生的——那个小城镇，
这样一个伟大的人。近年来不常
见到他，虽然他保留着古老的家宅
并在夏天让孩子们与他们的母亲
一起去那里放风——一点点地放肆。
有时他加入他们一两天
且去看望一些不知怎么不能变亲密的老友。
他们晚上会在普通商店碰面，
而脑子却被可怕的邮件占据着，
他说话时他们仍在迅速翻阅信件。
他们似乎有顾虑。他本不想那样：
可他是个伟大的学者，是个民主党人，
即使不在内心，但也至少在原则上。
近来北上到兰开斯特的时候，
他的火车晚点了，他错过了另一班列车
因而晚上十一点之后要在伍兹维站
等待四小时。因为太疲劳
而不想坐在那里受煎熬，
他便来到旅馆去寻找床铺。
“没有房间，”夜晚的服务员说。“除非——”
伍兹维是一个充满喊声与游动灯光
以及汽车轰鸣的地方——有一间旅馆。
“你说‘除非。’”
“除非你不介意和其他
什么人共享一间房。”
“是谁？”
“一个男人。”
“那么我想也是。是个怎样的男人？”
“我认识他：不错。就是一个男人。
当然了，是分开的床铺，这你应了解。”
晚班的服务员挑战地对他眨着眼。
“那个睡在办公椅上的人是谁？
他拒绝了我这个机会吗？”
“他害怕被抢劫，或被谋杀。
你呢？”
“我还是要张床。”
晚班服务员把他带上三段楼梯
然后穿过满是房间的狭窄通道，
他敲响了其中一扇门，并进入了。
“雷夫，这里有人想和你共住一房。”
“这样告诉他。我不害怕他。
我没有喝醉到我不能照顾自己的地步。”
晚班服务员用脚拍打了一下床架。
“这就是你的了。晚安，”说完，离开了。
“我想，雷夫就是你的名字？”
“是的，雷夫叶特。
你听一次就明白了。你的名字呢？”
“马古。
马古博士。”
“一个博士？”
“嗯，一个教授。”
“挖空心思东想西想的教授？
等一下，有些事情我一直想询问
询问第一个我偶然碰见的人
不过我现在记不起来了。
晚些时候我会问你的——不要让我忘了。”
博士看了看雷夫然后把脸转过去。
一个男人？大老粗。腰部上全赤裸着，
醉醺醺坐在亮光中，有些刺眼，
手摸索着在解衬衣的纽扣。
“我要换件大号衬衫。
我近来感觉不舒服；但不知道为什么。
我今晚才发现这其中的原因：
我就像那苗圃中长得太大而不适合
金属带和名字标签的树木一样憋闷。
我曾用最新咒语谴责我们这儿的热天气。
那其实没什么只是我这愚蠢的背，
不想坦白地承认说我长胖了。
这是十八号。你穿多少号的？”
博士痉挛性地扼住咽喉。
“哦——哈——十四——十四。”
“十四！你这么说！
我还能记起当我穿着十四号的时候。
想一想我家里一定还有
一百多个衣领，十四号的。
浪费的话太可惜了。你该拥有它们。
它们是你的了；让我把它们寄给你。
为什么你一条腿那样站在那里？
凯克走后你就一直站在老地方。
你这行动似乎表示你根本不想进来。
坐下，或躺下，朋友；你使我紧张了。”
博士屈服地冲了过去，
走投无路似地用枕头支撑自己。
“不能那样，不能穿鞋子在凯克的白床单上。
你不能那样休息。我把你的鞋子脱下吧。”
“请不要碰我——我是说，请不要碰我。
我不会让你来帮我上床的，我的先生。”
“请便吧。你自己想怎样就怎样。
‘我的先生’是吗？你说话就像教授。
谈到谁怕谁，无论如何，
如果碰巧出了什么差错的话
我想我比你损失的更多。
谁想要砍断你那穿十四号衣领的喉咙！
让我们来表明一下这
诚信。这里有九十美元。
过来，如果你不害怕。”
“我不害怕。
这是五美元：我就这些了。”
“我能搜身吗？
你想挪到哪里？别动。
你最好把钱藏在身体下
并且睡在上面，我经常那样做
夜晚与人们在一起时我不信任他们。”
“如果我将它就放在床单上
你会相信我吗——我相信你？”
“你会那么说，先生。——我是个收款员。
我那九十美元不是我的——你不会想到。
为《新闻周报》在乡村
我每次对每个人收一美元，
那报在堡出版。你知道这报纸吗？”
“我打小就知道了。”
“那么你就知道我了。
我们现在相处融洽了——谈谈话。
我做着为那个刊物在前线的工作。
所要做的就是要了解读者需要什么：
他们付钱，所以他们就应该拥有它。
费尔班克斯，他对我说——他是编辑——
‘要摸清公众的情感’——他说。
说实在的，我还有不错的待遇。
唯一的麻烦就是我们在政治上看法
不一致：我是佛蒙特的民主党人——
你知道那是什么，是彻头彻尾；
而《新闻周报》总是共和主义的。
费尔班克斯，他对我说，‘今年帮帮我们，’
意思是指要我们的选票。‘不，’我说，
‘我不能也不会那样。你们在台上已经那么久了：
是该你转过来支持一下我们的时候了。
如果希望我选比尔·塔夫脱
你一星期就得付我十多美元。
无论如何我也要怀疑我是否真会那么做。’”
“你似乎可以决定那报纸的政策。”
“你看我和所有人相处都很好，我了解他们。
我几乎如同他们一样了解他们的农场。”
“你到处跑？那一定是份令人愉快的工作。”
“那是生意，但我不能说那没有意思。
我最喜欢的就是不同农场的位置，
在伸展开的树林上显露出来，
有时翻越小山或转过一道弯，
我喜欢发现人们在春天出门，
扫过庭院，在房子旁工作。
随后他们便去更远的田地。
有时除了谷仓其它都关上门；
整个家庭都出门去了后面的草地
装载着的干草过来了——当时候一到，
他们就会全因冬天而回了屋：
牧场被除成了草坪，小块菜园
变成了赤裸的土地，枫树
也只剩下杆与枝。没有人在附近。
不过，那烟囱，依然轻快地冒着烟。
我仰靠着骑在马上。只有当
有人来到时我才拿着缰绳，那母马
在自己愿意时停下：我知道它什么时候该走。
我用许多方式宠坏了杰迈玛。
它变得好像有些曲腿似的
一见到房屋就拐弯，
不管我在那里有没有差事。
它认为我很随和。也许我是。
尽管除了进餐我很少下来。
人们从厨房的门阶招待我，
往往是整个家庭，小至最小的儿子。”
“可以猜想他们见到你也许没有
你见到他们那么高兴。”
“哦，
因为我想要他们的美元？我不想要
任何他们没有的。我从来不催讨。
我就在那里，如果他们喜欢他们可以付我钱。
我去任何地方都没有意图收钱：我只是路过。
抱歉这儿没有杯子，给你喝点什么。
我把瓶子里的都喝完了——不是你的风格。
你不需要吗——？”
“不，不，谢谢你。”
“就按你所说的。你自己多保重——
现在我要离开你一会儿。
也许，我离开后你会睡得安稳些——
躺下——尽情地躺下睡觉吧。
但首先——让我看看——我要问你什么？
那些衣领——我该将它们寄你什么地址，
假若当我回来你还没有醒来？”
“真的，朋友，我不能要。你——也许需要它们。”
“除非我缩小，那时它们早就不时髦了。”
“但我真的——我有很多衣领。”
“我不知道我让谁拥有它们会更好。
它们只是在所在的地方发黄，
如同你所说的一样你是博士。
我来熄灯。你别等我：
我的夜晚刚刚开始。你睡一会儿。
当我回来时我会这样敲打两下门
然后你就知道敲门的人是谁了。
没什么只是我怕吓着别人了。
我不希望你一枪就击中我这脑袋。
我带走这酒瓶子，我这是在干什么？
好啦，你睡一会儿吧。”
他关上门，
博士从枕头上往下滑了一点点。
库斯的女巫
这个安静的晚上，我在山后的农场
借宿，与一个母亲和一个儿子，
两个老迷信。他们一直说着话。
母亲。人们认为，一个能召唤精灵
却不能将它召来过冬的女巫
应该在火刑柱、或其它什么地方被烧死。
她召集精灵时不说“纽扣，纽扣，
谁有纽扣，”我只想让他们知道这点。
儿子。母亲能使一张普通桌子竖起
然后如同军队的骡子，用两只脚踢。
母亲。我那样做，算做了什么好事呢？
与其为你弄翻桌子，不如让我
告诉你，那个苏人管理者拉里从前所告诉我的。
他说死者有灵魂，但当我问
那怎么可能——我认为死者就是灵魂，
他打断了我。难道你不为此生疑；
因为死者还会留有一些东西的
是的，死者还会留有一些东西。
儿子。你为什么不告诉他在我们家
阁楼里发生的那些事，母亲？
母亲。尸体——一个骨架。
儿子。但是母亲，那张床的床头板
挡着阁楼的门：门被定死了。
可那是没用的。在晚上，你听见它
犹豫而困惑地在门板、和
床头板后面。它所要的就是
回到它所来自的地下室。
母亲。我们决不允许它们回去，会吗，儿子！绝不！
儿子。四十年前，它离开了地下室
而后，又如一堆器皿
飞上了一层，来到厨房，
然后又从厨房，飞到卧室，
又从卧室，飞上那个阁楼，
从父亲和母亲那里经过，可他们没能拦住它。
父亲上楼了；母亲在楼下。
我那时还是个婴孩：不知那时我在哪儿。
母亲。丈夫在我身上找到的唯一错误——
就是上床之前我会入睡，
特别是在冬天，当床铺
如同冰一样冷，衣服像雪。
就在骨架来到地下室的那晚
托夫勒丢下我，自己上了床，
他开了一扇门，想使厨房变冷
他这样做，在某种程度上是想要我醒来。
就在我慢慢醒来，
想着这寒冷是从哪里来的时，
我听见托夫勒在楼上卧室
又听见他下楼，来到地下室。
春天的地下室有积水
为了不打湿鞋子，我们铺上了板子
板子正在撞击地下室底部。有人
开始上楼，一节楼梯两个步子
上来的，是独脚拄拐杖的人，或
小孩一样的走路方式。那不是托夫勒：
那里不可能有任何人。
鼓胀得紧紧的；埋在雪里的
两层门，用两把锁锁上了。
鼓胀得紧紧的；埋在雪里的
地下室窗户前堆满了木屑。
是那骨架。我认识它们——且有个好理由。
我的第一冲动是冲到门把手那里
把住门。但是骨架没想到
开门；它们无助地在平台上停下，
等待着发生一些有利于它们的事情。
不安宁的虚弱沙沙声不停地从它们那里发出。
我那想看看它们怎样往上走的愿望
要不是如此强烈
我就不会做我后来所做的那些事。
我看见一堆骨头在一起
不像人，而像一个树枝形吊灯。
我突地冲开他头顶上的门。
片刻间他因激动将自己平衡了一下，
可似乎有些难以自制。（火之舌
勃然伸出，吞噬着他的上排牙齿。
烟雾在他深陷的眼孔里翻滚。）
之后他伸出一只手，朝我走了过来，
他活着的时候也是这种方式；但这次
我击断了他那只手，让它在地板上碎裂，
我便从他那儿后退，倒在地板上。
指骨到处滑动。
（最近我似乎在哪里见过这些碎片？
把纽扣盒递给我——它一定在那里。）
我坐在地板上大喊，“托夫勒，
它上到你那儿去了。”它正在作选择：
是通往地下室，还是进大厅门。
它选择了大厅的门，因为对它是新奇的。
如此笨的东西敏捷动身了，
因我刚才所给它的一击，
它在道路相会处的各个方向乱窜，
它看上去如同闪电，或潦草字。
在我追上它而做一些其它事之前，
我听见它差不多爬完了楼梯
从大厅，来到了那唯一完美的卧室；
我于是边跑边喊，“关上卧室的门，
托夫勒，快点！”“有谁来了？”他说，
“我不想起来；我在床上很暖和。”
我无力地匍匐在楼梯扶手上
以便将自己推上楼，亮光中
（厨房是暗的）我承认这时
我什么也没看见。“托夫勒，我看不到它了。
可它和我们都在这间屋里。就是那骨架。”
“什么骨架？”“阁楼里的骨架——从坟墓里来的。”
托夫勒赤裸的腿伸出被子
他坐在我身旁，并紧紧抓住了我。
我想熄灯，来看看
自己能否再见到它，要不就伸出双臂，
在面前膝盖的高度挥来挥去，
以便把白骨挥倒。“我会告诉你的——
它正在找另一扇门，并试着想打开。
这不寻常的厚雪使他想起了
他的那首老歌，《殖民地的野孩子》，
过去他常常在马车行走的路旁独自哼唱。
他想经过一扇打开的门，走到室外。
我们把通往阁楼的那门打开，以作他的陷阱。”
托夫勒同意了，并且果然，
就在阁楼门打开的那一瞬，
脚步开始爬向阁楼了。
我听见了。托夫勒似乎没有听见。
“快！”我砰地关上门，并握住了门把手。
“托夫勒，拿钉子来，”我让他将门钉死，
再用床头板挡在那地方。
然后我们彼此问询起来，在阁楼
有没有我们再次需要使用的东西。
比起地下室，阁楼对我们倒没什么。
如果那骨架喜欢它，就将它让给它们吧。
让它们呆在阁楼上。当某一个夜晚
它们从阁楼上走下，困惑地
站在门和床头板后面，
用它们白垩的手指擦着白垩的头骨，
发出如同干燥的百叶窗所发出的嘎吱声，
那就是我坐在黑暗里所要说的——
自托夫勒死后，我没有对任何人说。
它们去阁楼了，就让它们呆在那里。
我答应过托夫勒要对它们残酷无情
可如果帮助它们，就是对托夫勒残酷无情了。
儿子。我认为它们在地下室肯定有个坟墓。
母亲。我知道它们在地下室有个坟墓。
儿子。我们永远不可能查出它们是谁的骨头。
母亲。不，我们能，儿子。让我说出事实来吧，
因为有一次他父亲为我杀了一个男人。
我的意思是，他杀了那人，而不是我。
至少我所能做的，是帮它们挖坟墓。
一天晚上，我们就在地下室挖起来了。
我儿子知道这个故事：假设
说的时候已到，当然不能由他说出了。
儿子看上去对我不再撒谎而感到惊讶
这些年来，我们之间的那谎言
是对外人随时准备好了的。
可今晚我一点也不想再撒谎了——
我记不得为什么我曾经会那样。
我相信，托夫勒，如果他还在，
他也不能告诉你为什么他也曾经那样过……
她没有在她的衣兜纽扣中
找到她想要的那指骨。
第二天早上我核实了这个名字：托夫勒，
乡下的信箱这样写着：托夫勒·拉维。
一片废弃的墓地
活人带着踏了草的鞋底到来
朗读着小山上的墓碑；
墓地依然吸引活人，
却不再有死人会再去那里。
墓碑上的诗句千篇一律：
“那活着的人今日来到
念出那碑文，随后离开
明日死亡之后，将会来这里。”
对死亡这么确定的无情诗句，
仍然不得不一直留心
为什么不再有死人来到这里。
人们回避的，到底是什么？
可以很简单，也很聪明地
告诉墓碑：人们讨厌死亡
所以现在停止了死亡，直至永远。
我想它们对这个谎言会相信。
小山妻子
孤独
（她的话）
一个人不该关心那么多
如同你和我在鸟儿来到
房子周围似乎说再见
之时所关心的；
或者当它们回来唱着
我们不懂的歌那样关心；
真理就是我们为一件事
感到过于高兴而这里
为另一件事而悲伤——
鸟儿的胸怀所填满的就是
彼此与它们自己
以及它们那建造或离开的
鸟巢。
害怕房屋
害怕——我告诉你他们所学的——
当他们在晚上从远处返回
那未被灯火照亮而炉火
也熄灭的偏僻房屋，
他们学会了让锁与钥匙发出声响
给予那任何可能碰巧存在的人
警告和逃离的时间：
但更喜欢那户外——而非屋内——的夜晚，
他们学会了让房屋的门敞开
直到他们在屋内点亮了灯。
微笑
（她的话）
我不喜欢他走开的方式。
那窃笑！他决不是因愉快。
直到他窃笑了——你看见他了吗？——我肯定！
或许因为我们只给了他面包
而那个家伙从那里看出我们的穷困。
或许因为他让我们的给予
代替了他本来的夺取。
或许因为结婚而嘲笑我们，
或许因为年轻（他乐意于
看到我们的衰老与死亡的景象）。
我在想他走的那条路有多远。
他很可能仍然从树林那边注视着。
常重复的梦
她没有恰当地说出
那灰暗松树的灰暗
它永远在他们睡觉的房间里
尝试拔去窗户的插销。
那不知疲倦而无效的手掌
每个无用的变化
使大树在神秘玻璃前
如同小鸟！
它从来没有进到屋里，
只有两个人中的一个
害怕那在常重复的梦中
树木可能做的。
刺激
她在那里太孤独了，
也太荒凉了，
自他们两个在那里以来，
她也没有孩子，
在房屋中工作的时间也很少，
她自由自在地，
跟着他直到耕过的土地，
或伐断的树。
她在圆木上休息并扔开
那些新碎片，
唱一首停在唇上的只对
着自己的歌。
但她曾经去裂开一株黑色
桤木的主枝。
她待在远处几乎都没有听到
他叫着自己——
没回答——没说话——
也没返回。
她站着，然后跑开并躲在
蕨类之中。
他没有发现她，虽然看遍了
所有地方，
然后去了她母亲家里询问
她会在哪儿。
突然间迅速且轻盈地如同
那结松开了，
然后他在坟墓旁知道了
那结尾。
糖槭园中的傍晚
那个三月，我选择了一个晚上
静静地在制糖场外面闲逛，
我谨慎地喊了下司炉工
吩咐他离开平锅，并在炉盖那里加些燃料：
“哦司炉工，再给那火加燃料吧，
使火花升得更高，让烟囱冒出烟雾。”
我想少许火花会像以前那样缠在一起，
在赤裸的槭树枝之中，在山上
那稀薄的空气中不断散发着，
然后添加进上方的月光。
月光，虽然有些轻微，但它足够
照出在所有树木上盖着的吊桶，
和黑呼呼土地上的雪花熊皮毯。
火花没有试图成为月亮。
它们喜欢将树木扮演成
狮子座，猎户座，和昴宿星。
而那些树枝配合得十分迅速。
找水
门旁的井干枯了，
因此我们带着桶
穿过房子后面的田野
寻找溪流是否依然流动；
很愿意有这理由而去，
因为这秋天的黄昏很美
（虽然寒冷），因为这田野是我们的，
我们的树林在溪水旁。
我们奔跑着如同要与月亮相遇
那缓慢的黎明在树后，
不结果的树枝没有叶子，
没有鸟儿，也没有微风。
一旦在树林中，我们就停住了
如同土地神将我们在月亮前隐蔽，
当它很快发现
我们便准备带着笑声跑开重新躲藏。
我们互相抓着对方使其停下
先倾听我们想看见的，
在我们一起制造的安静中
听见了，我们知道自己听见了小溪。
一份来自孤独地方的记录，
微弱铃铛声的落下使
漂浮在水面的水滴
如同珍珠，而现在犹如银色刃片。
雨蛙溪
风暴之歌
带着风暴的云的碎片迅速漂浮着，
那条路整日都被遗弃，
无数块雪白的石英石抬起，
蹄印也消失不见了。
那路旁的花朵，对于蜜蜂过于潮湿，
徒劳地消耗着它们的开花时季。
穿过山川吧，与我一起去遥远的地方，
在雨中成为我的爱情。
比起现在这些喧哗了无数年的精灵
在树林世界被撕裂的绝望，
鸟儿的歌声少得要停止，
虽然他们仍然栖息在那里：
所有树林之歌都如同一些野生
而轻易落花的玫瑰被粉碎了。
来，在潮湿树林中成为我的爱情，来，
那里当风吹动时树枝落着雨。
大风在后面推动
散布着我们的歌声，
浅水在风中飘动
从那里折皱了你的长袍。
即使我们一直走到西边又怎样，
即使让鞋子湿透？
新雨后的秋麒麟
那野生的胸针会弄湿你前胸——
哦，这从来没被压倒的东风猛吹
但它似乎如同大海回到了
蕨类时代之前
那留下贝壳的远古土地；
这似乎也是对我们的爱疑惑
之后突然苏醒的时刻。
哦，进到那暴风雨中击溃它
并在雨中成为我的爱！
雨蛙溪
我们的溪水在六月没有歌声与速度。
那个时候之后如果你大量寻找，就会发现
它要么在地下摸索着流动
（在一个月前呼喊着的
全部雨蛙品种与溪水在一起，
如同雪橇铃灵魂在积雪灵魂之中）——
要么活跃地出现于凤仙花中，
那妖弱的植物弯下了腰
向着逆着水流的路线。
溪流的河床仿佛一张褪色的纸
由因高温而粘在一起的枯叶构成——
一条溪水只为长久记住它的人。
这溪水看上去要比其他被
带到别处的歌声的溪水更为遥远。
我们爱着那东西是因为其本身。
雇工的死亡
玛丽沉思地坐在桌旁的灯光中
等着沃伦。当听到他的脚步声，
她踮起脚尖跑进黑暗中的通道
怀着一个好消息在门口与他见了面
以让他有所提防。“赛拉斯回去了。”
与自己一起把他向门外推出去
然后把身后的门关上。“仁慈一些，”她说。
从沃伦手上拿走从市场上买来的东西
将它们放在走廊上，然后把他拉到
自己身旁坐在木头阶梯上。
“除了对他仁慈我何时做过其他事？
但我不会让那人回来，”他说。
“上次堆干草时我这么告诉他的，我没有吗？
‘如果他离开，’我说。‘就结束了。’
他有什么好的？谁会为着
他那年纪和那少许能做的工作而包庇他？
他有什么用，根本不能雇用。
总是在需要的时候就离开了。
‘他认为应该得到一份工资，
至少多到能够买烟，
那样的话他就不会因讨点烟而欠人情。’
‘好，’我说，‘虽然我希望自己能付。
但我不能给你提供任何固定工资。’
‘但其他人能。’‘那你让其他人去付吧。’
如果他那样是抬高一下自己
我就不该介意。你能确定，
当他开始那样，就有什么人
在他那里试着用零用钱去哄他——
割干草的时候，那时正缺乏干活的。
冬天他回到我们这里，可我们已经干完了。”
“嘘！别太大声：他会听到的，” 玛丽说。
“我希望他会：他迟早要听到。”
“他疲倦了。睡在炉子旁。
当我从罗那里过来我发现他在那里，
挤着谷仓大门很快睡着了，
一个可怜的景象，也令人恐惧——
你不要笑——我都没有能够认出他——
我没想到是他——他变了。
等一会儿你自己去看看吧。”
“你说他去过哪里？”
“他没有说。我把他拖进房子，
给他茶水并让他吸了烟。
我试着想让他讲一讲他的旅程。
什么都不能够进行：他只在打盹。”
“他说了什么？他有说什么吗？”
“很少。”
“随便什么的？玛丽，应该说
他是想为我的牧场挖挖排水沟。”
“沃伦！”
“他没有吗？我只是想知道。”
“他当然说了。你想让他说什么？
你肯定不会不允许用一种谦虚方式
来保持那位可怜老人的自尊心。
他加了句，如果你真想知道，
他也想要清扫上面的牧场。
听起来像是你从前听到过那些？
沃伦，我希望你能看看他
胡言乱语时的情形。我停下来观看了他
两三次——他使我感觉奇怪——
想看看他是否是睡觉时在说梦话。
他说到了哈罗德·威尔逊——你记得的——
四年前你让他从事割干草的那男孩。
他念完书，现在在大学里教书。
赛拉斯声称你会把他找回来。
他说他们两个会成为努力干活的配搭：
在那时他们会把这农场布置得很平整！
用他与其他东西的方法相处。
他觉得年轻的威尔逊是个可靠的少年，虽然
痴迷于求学——你知道他们
在七月那火辣的太阳下怎样地斗嘴，
赛拉斯那时在车上装货物，
而哈罗德在旁边叉草。”
“是的，我力争不让我的听觉参与进去。”
“嗯，那日子如同梦一样折磨着赛拉斯。
你不会想到他们那样。一些事总是难以忘掉！
哈罗德的那种大学生的自信使他很生气。
过了这么多年他依然在寻找
看上去或许会在那时用得更好的论点。
我有同感。我知道对应该说出的
话想得太晚，那感受到底是怎样的。
他总想着把哈罗德与拉丁语连在一起。
他问我对哈罗德说自己学拉丁语
如同学小提琴一样这话有什么看法
因为喜欢学吧——那是个理由！
他说自己不能使男孩相信
他能够用榛树的尖头寻找水——
那说明学校给他带来了很多好处。
他想再考虑一次。特别是
他考虑自己是否能另有一次机会
来教他怎样来堆干草——”
“我知道，那是赛拉斯的一个绝活。
在原来的地方他捆扎起每一叉的份量，
就像为着以后的查询加上标签，记上号，
那样他就能在卸载时轻易找到它。
赛拉斯做得很好。
他一捆捆地卸草像取那巨大飞鸟的巢穴。
你决不会看不见他站在干草堆上
他努力着举手，尽力抬得很高。”
“他想如果能够教给哈罗德，也许是对
世界上的一些人做了好事。
他讨厌看见那无知于书本的男孩。
可怜的赛拉斯，那么关心其他人，
却没有什么事可以让他自豪地回忆，
也没有什么事可以充满期待的希望，
似乎永远不会有任何变化。”
月亮的一部分在西边落下，
把整个天空拖曳直至小山。
它的亮光柔软地倾注在她的腿上。她看见了
然后对着那光展开自己的围裙。在那如同
竖琴一样的牵牛花线中她伸出手，
从花园地基到屋檐，全都因露珠而拉紧了，
她好像是晚上演奏着的那未被听到的
柔和曲调，就在自己身旁影响着他。
“沃伦，”她说，“他是回家来死的：
你不用担心这次他还会离开你。”
“回家，”他文雅地嘲笑着。
“是的，除了回家还有什么？
那完全取决于你心中对回家的意义。
当然他对我们没什么，和
曾从树林中来到的那只陌生猎犬相比
实在没多少区别，因它在路上疲乏了。”
“家就是个，何时你要去那里它
都要接待你的地方。”
“我该称它
为一样不一定非要接受的东西。”
沃伦探出身子迈了一两步，
捡起了根小棍子，带回去
在手中折断然后丢在旁边。
“你认为赛拉斯觉得在我们这儿
会更好而不必去找他的兄弟？短短的十三英里
就说路上的风都能将他带到他兄弟门前。
赛拉斯今天无疑也走了那么远。
他为什么不去那里？他的兄弟很富有。
一个有身份的人——银行的主管。”
“他从来没有告诉过我们。”
“虽然我们知道。”
“当然，我认为他的兄弟应帮助他。
如果有必要我会留意这事的。他该
正当地收留他，并且愿意——
他肯定会比外观看上去要好些。
我有些同情赛拉斯。你认为他在声言
与兄弟的亲属关系上如果有自豪
或者他指望从他那里得到什么东西，
那他赛拉斯会这样一直保持沉默吗？”
“我在想他们之间怎么了。”
“我能告诉你。
赛拉斯就是赛拉斯——我们不会介意他——
但他是那种亲属不能容忍的人。
他从没有做过很坏的事。
他也不知道为什么自己全然没有其他人
那么好。虽然他无用，
但他不会羞耻地讨好他兄弟。”
“我不能想象赛曾经伤害过什么人。”
“不，他躺下的方式伤了我的心。
在那锋利椅子后背滚动他年老的脑袋。
他又不让我把他放到躺椅上。
你必须进去看看，看你能为他做什么。
今晚我在那里为他把床拼凑起来。
你会惊讶的——他像垮掉了似的。
他工作的日子结束了；我肯定。”
“我不会轻易那么说。”
“我也不会。去，看看，你自己看看。
但，沃伦，请记住那是怎样的：
他是来帮助你为牧场挖排水沟的。
他有个计划。你不能笑他。
他不会谈那计划，但也许会。
我会坐着看看那升起的小片云朵会
碰到还是会错过月亮。”
它碰到月亮了。
那么在那里就有了三个，暗淡的一排，
月亮，那银色的小片云朵，和她。
沃伦返回了——对她来说，似乎太早了，
滑到了她那边，抓住她的手等待着。
“沃伦？”她问。
“死了，”这是他这个时候的全部回答。
向西流动的溪水
“佛瑞德，北边在哪儿？”
“北？那是北边，亲爱的。
溪水是向西流动的。”
“那我们就叫它向西流动的溪水吧，”
（人们至今都把它叫向西流动的溪水。）
“当所有其他国家的溪水都向东流动
而延伸至各个海洋时它会怎样看待自己的
向西流动？那一定是条相信自己
走着一条相反道路的溪水，如同我
和你在一起的方式——你也和我在一起——
因为我们是——我们是——我不知道我们是什么人。
我们是什么人？”
“年轻人或新人？”
“我们一定是什么人。
我说我们两个。让我们改成我们三个。
就如同你我互相结婚那样，
我们都将与溪水结婚，我们会建造
自己的桥梁并穿越它，那桥就是
我们抛开的手臂，在溪水旁熟睡着。
看，看，它用波浪向我们挥手示意了
好让我们知道它听到我了。”
“为什么，我亲爱的，
那波浪在避开这突出的岸——”
（黑色的溪流，被一块暗礁挡住了，
向后回流时涌起一阵白色波浪，
白色的水花永远乘着那黑色水流翻着，
没有获得也不会遗失，如同
一只鸟儿胸前的白色羽毛与那
黑暗溪流和那在其下方的更黑水面
搏斗，最后变得褶皱
使远处海岸的桤木像戴着白色围巾。）
“那波浪在避开这突出的岸
我是要说，自河流
从天底下成形时，它就不是在对我们挥手。”
“它不是，你说它是。如果不是对你
就是对我——是在宣告什么。”
“哦，如果你把它带到女人国，
与亚马逊人的那个国家一样
我们男人只能目送你们到达边界
然后把你们留在那里，我们自己禁止进入——
那是你的溪水！我没什么可说的了。”
“不，你也有。继续说。你在想什么。”
“谈到背道而驰，看看那溪水怎样在
白色波浪中朝相反方向流动。
它来自我们在很久，很久以前
还是什么生物之前所来自的水。
此时我们，在急躁的脚步声中，
回到了开端的开端，
那流走的万物之河。
有些如同皮罗，有些如同皮罗蒂
一样存在着，永远在一个地方，
站立不动而舞蹈着，但生存本身流逝了，
它认真地，悲伤地，用空虚
填满那深渊里的空间。
它在我身旁的这溪水之中流动着，
但它穿过了我们。在我们之间流动
在那惊慌的一瞬间又将我们分开了。
它在我们之间，漫过我们，与我们一起流动着。
那是时间，力量，声音，亮光，生命和爱——
甚至是无实质的物质流失；
那世界的死亡瀑布
用尽至虚无——没有抵抗，
除非由自己内面的特别抵抗所挽回，
不是偏斜一边，而是回溯，
好像曾经在自己心里的神圣惋惜。
它在自己身上有这种回溯
所以它大部分的落下总是
举起一点什么，抬起一点什么。
我们的生命为着使时钟升起而落下。
溪水为着使我们的生命升起而落下。
太阳为着使溪水升起而落下。
有什么使太阳升起，
那就是对着水源的回溯动作，
对着溪流，我们大多才在自己身上看见
那水源中的水流供品。
我们大多是来自那样的源头。
我们几乎都是的。”
“今天将会是
你这么说的日子。”
“不，今天将会是你把
那溪水叫做向西流动的溪水的日子。”
“今天将会是我们双方说这些事的日子。”
谈话时间
当一个朋友从路上叫我
并减慢了自己的马匹意味深长的步伐，
在那我还没有耕完的小山上
我并没有站立不动而四处张望，
而是在那里叫喊，“干什么？”
不，那里没有谈话的时间。
我将锄头插进松土中，
刃底立起了有五英尺高，
但还是缓慢地走开了：因为一次友好的谈话
我要上到那石墙那里去。
黄蜂
平滑的金属线极为艺术地弯曲着，
它昂首挺胸傲然立在那里。
它整洁的翅膀自我肯定地翘起。
它那串螫针气势汹汹摇动着。
可怜的自我中心者，它决不了解
它与其他人其实并没有什么不同。
人口统计者
我在一个疾风吹云的傍晚奉命来到了
一栋板层楼房，那房子涂着黑色
有一个房间一扇窗户和一扇门，
那是在山中方圆一百平方英里之内
被砍光了树木的荒野地的唯一住处：
没有男人也没有女人在那里居住。
（虽然，它从来没有被女人居住过，
那我所感到的悲哀是什么呢？）
作为人口统计者为着统计人口
来到这荒野但一个人也没有找到，
一百英里之内一个人也没有，没人在房子里，
这里是我抱着最后的希望来到的地方，因
我在几小时之前曾从悬崖
跳望这个只剩光秃秃石头的空屋。
我没有找到任何敢于露面的人，
似乎没有一个不躲藏着外面的眼神。
这时候是秋天了，但当所有树木
都落下叶子没留下其它什么，
只有树桩用树脂中的糖分
显示出圆环
你怎能说出那是一年里的哪个季节；
所有树木用枯朽的树干站立
没有一片叶子能在秋天献出来。
也没有落叶后迎风的枝
因为少了有气息的树木帮助
风更能说出是在一年的哪一季或一天
的哪个时辰，它摇摆着
那永远虚掩着的门的方式
好像有砍伐树木的人
穿过了门而又砰地关上了让
在他后面的下一个为自己打开。
我在使第十个穿过门口之前
（但这只是空想而非正式统计）
我统计了我没有权利统计的九个。
我的晚餐在哪里？所有人的晚餐在哪里？
灯没有点亮。桌子上什么也没有。
炉子是冷的——炉子与烟囱是分开的，
下面有一边缺了腿。
那些人吵闹地穿过门
只能听见却不能看见。
他们没有把胳膊肘放在桌子上。
他们没有在架子或铺位上睡觉。
在那里我看不见任何人或他们的骨头。
为了防止这些骨头对我攻击，我
从覆盖着地面的干草灰上拣起
漆黑残材的斧头手柄。
不是骨头，而是不合格的窗户在作响。
门是安静的因为当我想着要怎样做
才能做完时我抓住了并关上了它——
对着那房子——对不在这里的人们。
房子一年里变得腐朽与房子
在一万年毁坏对我是同样的悲伤
一万年亚洲可以让非洲挤离欧洲。
我不知道还有什么留下可做
除了发现没有人在那里
然后对远得没有回声的悬崖宣布，
“这地方荒芜人烟，若有潜伏在
安静中的人，因我的话而受了委屈，
现在就请打破寂静不然就永远保持寂静。
快说我为什么不能那么声明。”
要数点逐年来变得越来越少
的人口，这使我感到忧郁，当
人口在那里减少到了根本没有
人这时就会变极端。
那一定是因为我希望生命继续活着。
女管家
我让自己进入了那厨房的门。
“是你，”她说。“我不能起来。原谅我
没有答应你敲门。我不会请他们
进来，就像我不能不让人进来。
我告诉他们我老得不行了。
我的用处就是我的手指还能忙活
也让我从中得些安慰。我能够缝补：
我能帮人家做珠饰活。”
“你用珠装饰的是对小舞鞋吧。
是谁的？”
“你是指？——哦，一个小姐。
我不能老跟在人家的女儿后面了解她们。
那多好啊，如果我能想到是谁
穿着我打扮的鞋子去跳舞！”
“那约翰在哪里？”
“你没看见他吗？当他去你那里时
我奇怪是什么使你动身来到了他的屋子。
你们不会错过吧。我知道原因了：
他一定改变了主意然后去了加兰家
若是那样他不会呆很久。你可以等一等。
可你或任何人在这里还会起什么作用呢——
太晚了。你听说过了？埃丝特尔离开了。”
“是的，为什么？她什么时候走的？”
“两星期以前。”
“看来，她是认真的。”
“我敢肯定她不会回来了。她藏在什么地方了。
我自己不知道在哪里。而约翰认为我知道。
他认为我只须对她说些话，
她就会回来。但，哎，虽说我是她母亲——
我却不能和她谈话，而且，嗯，希望我能！”
“那会使约翰为难。他会怎么做？
他找不到任何人能够取代她的位置。”
“哦，如果你问我，他会怎样做？
他吃了一些面包房的膳食，并且并着一餐吃。
和我坐下然后告诉他所有事情，
想要什么，是多少，以及在哪里。
但当我离开了——当然我不能留在这里：
埃丝特尔定居下来后她得带走我。
他和我只是互相碍眼。
虽然，我告诉他们不能赶我出门：
我在这里如同一个巨大教堂机构的一部分。
我们在这儿十五年了。”
“那是很长的一段时间
住在一起然后分开。
你看你们离开之后他会怎样生活？
你们两人离开会留下间空荡的房屋。”
“我看他也没有多少年日子了，
除了家具这里不会留下任何什么。
当我们离开后我讨厌再想起这个地方，
以及那穿过院子的小溪，
除了在附近叫喊的母鸡没有人会在这里。
真希望他能卖掉这地方，不过，他不能：
没有人会住在这里。
这里太衰败了。这就是结局。
我认为他要做的，就是结束那些东西。
他多少诅咒着时间离去。他很可怕！
我从没有看到一个人让家庭中的烦恼
在他男人的事务中制造出了那么多分歧。
他只是放下所有东西。像小孩一样。
我要责备的是：他是被母亲教育出来的。
他让干草堆淋过了三次雨水。
昨天为我锄了一小会儿地：
我认为那些种植的事会对他有好处。
有什么出错了。我看他用双手把
锄头扔得极高。我现在都能看见——
来这里——我给你看看——在苹果树那里。
对人们来说决不会在他那个年纪那么做：
他五十五了，要是他还有过得意的一天。”
“你不是害怕他吧？那把枪是干什么的？”
“哦，是小鸡生出时用来猎鹰的。
约翰·霍尔会碰我！除非他不了解自己的朋友。
我要为他这么说，约翰像有些男人一样
毫无威胁。没有人害怕他；
可问题是，他拿定主意而不愿承担
他所应承担的。”
“埃丝特尔在哪里？
没人和她谈谈话吗？她说了什么？
你说你不知道她在哪里。”
“也不想知道！
她认为与他住在一起实在不好，
那离开他一定是正确的了。”
“那是错的！”
“是的，他本来是要和她结婚的。”
“我知道。”
“这几年这样拖着她感觉疲惫了：
我不能用其他方式来说这事。
有的男人不同，至少约翰不同：
他知道自己比一般男人亲切。
要像结了婚一样好也应该比结了婚
还好——那是他经常说的。
我知道他是怎样的感觉——可全都照旧！”
“我在想为什么约翰没有和她结婚
就结束了。”
“现在太晚了：她不会要他了。
他给了些时间让她思考这些事。
那是他的错误。我那亲爱的知道我所关心的
就是保持不让这个家庭破裂。
这是个好家庭：我不要求更好。
但当我说，‘你们为什么不结婚，’
他会说，‘为什么要？’然后不再说话。”
“究竟为什么要结婚？我保证
约翰是公平的。他有的也总是她的。
在财产上没有争论。”
“原因很充分，根本没有财产。
几乎是一两个朋友拥有了那农场，
事实就是这样。它不值抵押。”
“我是说埃丝特尔总管着钱包。”
“这一事实更难理解。
我认为是埃丝特尔和我装满了那钱包。
是我们让他拥有钱的，而不是他让我们。
约翰不是个好农民。我不是指责他。
年复一年，他没有收获多少。
我们来到这里是为着一个家，你知道，
埃丝特尔为着我们两个的伙食费
做着家务。但看看事情是怎样变化着的：
她似乎包揽了所有家务，此外
还有一半室外的工作，虽然关于这些，
他说她做得多是因为她喜欢。
你会看见我们值钱的东西都在室外。
与像我们这样有副业的人相比
我们的母鸡奶牛和猪是最好的。
在周围比我们处境好两倍的农夫们
却没有我们的那么好。他们没法配合农场。
但有件关于约翰的事你不得不喜欢，
他喜爱美好的事物——甚至可以说，他太喜欢了。
埃丝特尔也不抱怨：她喜欢他这点。
她希望我们的母鸡成为最好的。
你知道在展览会之前从来不会看见
这房间满是分开的鸡笼
和半浸的，瘦削的，修饰过的，发抖的鸡，
与在热气中潮湿的羽毛气味！
你说住在约翰家不安全。
你不知道我们是多么和善：
我们都不会伤害母鸡！你该看看我们
从一个到另一个地方搬动大群母鸡的情形。
我们不允许把它们弄得乱七八糟，
我们只能把它们的双脚抓起来。
规定就是一次两只，一只手一只，
不管我们走多远和
多少次。”
“你是说那是约翰的主意。”
“总之我们做到了；否则我不知道
他会有怎样的孩子脾气。
他设法管理自己的农场。
他是老板。但关于母鸡：
我们用栅栏把花朵围住而让母鸡走来走去。
没什么比它们还值钱。我们称为值。
约翰喜欢人们所说的那个价，
这公鸡二十，那个二十五。
他从来不卖。除非它们值得
卖那么多钱，它们同样值得保存。
虽然，全都是支出。把我
在食橱架上的小锡盒子拿下来，
上面的那层，锡盒子。那个。
我给你看看。给。”
“这是什么？”
“一张票据——
五十美圆买的一只狼山鸡——
已经收到了。那公鸡在院子里。”
“那它就不在玻璃箱子里了？”
“它需要个高的：
它能从地上吃掉一桶。
以前在玻璃箱子里，就像你所说的，
是在伦敦水晶宫殿。进口货。
约翰买的，然后我们用珠子的钱付了帐——
贝壳串珠，我那么叫它。注意，我们不埋怨。
但你看，不是吗，我们得照顾它。”
“并且也喜欢。它使事情变得更糟了。”
“似乎是那样。但不是全部：他那
无能时的情形我几乎不能告诉你。
有时他疯狂地记账
看看那些钱都这么快地用在了哪里。
你知道人会变得有多么可笑。
那只是他自己苦恼方式的可笑——
若现在他不修边幅，又会怎么样呢——”
“那会让事情都变得更糟。你只能闭着眼别看。”
“那是埃丝特尔。你不需要对我说起这事。”
“你和我不能找一找根源吗？
真正的麻烦是什么？什么会使她满意？”
“正如我所说的：埃丝特尔离开了他，就是这样。”
“但为什么，当她处境不错的时候？是因邻居，
或因为没有了朋友？”
“我们有我们的朋友。
不是那样。人们不怕与我们来往。”
“她曾让其困扰过自己。你却不管，
你是她的母亲。”
“但我并非一直都是。
最开始我就不喜欢这样。
但我习惯了。此外——
约翰说我要孙子，那也太老了点。
但事到这个地步谈这些有什么用呢？
她不会回来——更糟的是——她不能。”
“为什么你这样说啊？你知道什么？
你的意思是什么？——她伤害了自己？”
“我是指她结婚了——与其他什么人结婚了。”
“哦，哦！”
“你不相信我。”
“不，我信，
只是太好了。我就知道有什么！
这就是原因啊。她实在坏，就这样。”
“当她遇到机会而去结婚不好吗？”
“荒谬！看看她做了什么！但那人是谁，谁——”
“谁会在这样混乱的家中与她结婚？
明白地说吧——是她母亲也不要紧。
她找到的那人。我最好不提姓名。
约翰自己也不会想到他是谁。”
“那么结束了。我想我也该离开了。
你等等约翰。我同情埃丝特尔；
我想她也应该受到同情。
你应该拥有那厨房
告诉他这点。他就会得到那工作。”
“你不用考虑你要离开的事。
约翰就要到了。我看见什么人
从赖安山上下来了。我认为是他。
他到了。这个盒子！把它放好。
和这票据。”
“急什么？他还要卸马。”
“不，他都不会。他只会丢下缰绳
然后让多尔带着全部车具自己去牧场。
在轮子挂在什么东西上之前它不会
走远——没关系。看，他来了！
啊，他看上去好像已经听说什么了！”
约翰把门大大地打开却没有进去。
“你好吗，邻居？正好我要找你呢。
这里是地狱吗，”他说。“我想知道。
如果你想听我们谈话就出来吧。
然后呢，我就要和你谈一谈，老太婆。
我得到了些也许不是新闻的新闻。
他们在试着对我做什么，这两个人？”
“和他一起去，快别让他大喊大叫。”
她对着关闭的门提起了声音：
“谁想听你的新闻，你——可怕的白痴？”
罗伯特·弗罗斯特生平和创作年表
1874年
生于加利福尼亚的圣弗朗西斯科。
1876年
随母亲去东部，妹妹珍妮·弗罗斯特出生。
1877-1878年
接受母亲的宗教启蒙，开始上主日学校。
1879年
上了一天幼儿园，因病没有再上。
1880年
上公立小学一年级，同样因病退学。
1881年
就读小学二年级，在教堂接受洗礼。
1882年
因病再次退学，在家接受教育。
1884年
当报童，为父亲的竞选市收税官而跑退。
1885年
父亲病逝，全家陷入经济困局。
1886年
全家搬至新罕布什尔州塞勒姆迪波，并在母亲所教的学校上学。
1890年
随母亲迁回劳伦斯市。处女作《伤心之夜》发表。
1891年
通过哈佛大学入学预考。
1892年
与同校同学埃莉诺·米里娅姆·怀特订婚。
1894年
开始教小学一至六年级。
1895年
为劳伦斯市的《美国人日报》和《哨兵报》当记者。年底与埃莉诺·怀特结婚。
1896年
受神经失调与胃病折磨。儿子埃利奥特出生。
1897年
通过哈佛大学入学考试，进入哈佛大学就读。
1899年
因身体原因离开哈佛，开始在家办家禽饲养场。女儿莱斯得出生。
1900年
儿子埃利奥特死于霍乱。同年母亲病逝。
1902年
儿子卡罗尔出生。
1903年
发表短篇小说《自闭式产蛋箱》。女儿伊尔玛出生。
1905年
女儿玛乔丽出生。
1906年
发表《花丛》一诗。并任一中学教师。
1907年
女儿埃莉诺·贝蒂纳出生，不久夭亡。
1909年
把家从农场搬至附近德里村的一套公寓。指导学生办文学杂志《平克顿评论家》。
1911年
接受州立师范学校邀请到该校任校。
1912年
辞去教职，携家人去英国。
1913年
认识埃拉兹·庞德。《少年的心愿》于同年出版。
1914年
《波士顿以北》在英国出版，好评如潮。
1915年
携家人离开英国，返回美国。得知《波士顿以北》在美国出版，艾米·洛威尔写了一篇称赞《波士顿以北》的评论。同年，《少年的心愿》也在美出版，同样好评如潮。在新罕布什州买了一家农场。
1916年
《山间低地》出版。
1918年
接受麻萨诸塞州阿默斯特学院授予的荣誉文科硕士学位，被任命为英语教授。
1921年
与儿子卡罗尔一起种植苹果园和松树林。
1922年
获密歇根大学荣誉文科硕士学位。
1923年
《诗选集》出版。儿子卡罗尔结婚。配有插图的《新罕布什尔》出版。
1924年
《新罕布什尔》获普利策奖。接受米德尔伯里学院和耶鲁大学授予的荣誉文学博士学位。并接受密歇根大学的终身聘任，成为该校无教学义务的文学研究员。
1928年
携妻子与女儿玛乔丽去法国，随后去英国，只身探望叶芝，不久与T·S·艾略特相遇。同年返美。配有插图的《小河西流》出版。
1930年
《诗合集》出版。当选为美国文学艺术学会学员。
1931年
《诗合集》获普利策奖。并接受全美文学艺术学会授予的拉塞尔·洛伊尼斯诗歌奖。
1932年
搬进在阿默斯特买的新居。
1936年
《山外有山》出版。
1937年
《山外有山》获普利策奖。当选为美国哲学学会学员。
1938年
妻子埃莉诺病逝。被选哈佛大学管理委员会。
1942年
《见证树》出版。
1943年
《见证树》获普利策奖。
1945年
《理性假面剧》出版。
1947年
《绒毛绣线菊》出版。年底出版《仁慈假面剧》。
1949年
《弗罗斯特诗全集》出版。
1954年
《旧作新编》出版。
1958年
应艾森豪威尔总统邀请到白宫做客。同年被任命为国会图书馆诗歌顾问，接受美国艺术和科学研究院授予的“爱默生—梭罗奖章”。
1960年
当选总统约翰·肯尼迪邀请他参加就职典礼。
1963年
获“波林根诗歌奖”。同年1月29日去世。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
摘罢苹果
长梯穿过树顶，竖起两个尖端
刺向沉静的天穹。
梯子脚下，有一只木桶，
我还没给装满，也许
还有两三个苹果留在枝头
我还没摘下。不过这会儿，
我算是把摘苹果这活干完了。
夜晚在散发着冬眠的气息
——那扑鼻的苹果香；
我是在打磕睡啦。
我揉揉眼睛，
却揉不掉眼前的奇怪——
这怪景像来自今天早晨，
我从饮水槽里揭起一层冰——
像一块窗玻璃，隔窗望向
一个草枯霜重的世界。
冰溶了，我由它掉下．碎掉。
可是它还没落地，我早就
膘膘肪脆，快掉进了睡乡。
我还说得出，我的梦
会是怎么样一个形状。
膨胀得好大的苹果，忽隐忽现，
一头是梗枝，一头是花儿，
红褐色的斑点，全看得请。
好酸疼哪．我的脚底板．
可还得使劲吃住梯子档的分量，
我感到那梯子
随着弯倒的树枝，在摇晃。
耳边只听得不断的隆隆声——
一桶又一捅苹果往地窖里送。
摘这么些苹果，
尽够我受了；我本是盼望
来个大丰收，可这会儿已累坏了，
有千千万万的苹果你得去碰，
得轻轻地去拿，轻轻地去放．
不能往地上掉。只要一掉地，
即使没碰伤，也没叫草梗扎破，
只好全都堆在一边，去做苹果酒，
算是不值一钱。
你看吧，打扰我睡一觉的是什么，
且不提这算不算睡一觉。
如果土拨鼠没有走开，
听我讲睡梦怎样来到我身边，
那它就可以说，
这跟它的冬眠倒有些像，
或者说，这不过是人类的冬眠。
（方平译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
补墙
有一点什么，它大概是不喜欢墙，
它使得墙脚下的冻地涨得隆起，
大白天的把墙头石块弄得纷纷落：
使得墙裂了缝，二人并肩都走得过。
士绅们行猎时又是另一番糟蹋：
他们要掀开每块石头上的石头，
我总是跟在他们后面去修补，
但是他们要把兔子从隐处赶出来，
讨好那群汪汪叫的狗。我说的墙缝
是怎么生的，谁也没看见，谁也没听见
但是到了春季补墙时，就看见在那里。
我通知了住在山那边的邻居；
有一天我们约会好，巡视地界一番，
在我们两家之间再把墙重新砌起。
我们走的时候，中间隔着一垛墙。
我们走的时候，中间隔着一垛培。
落在各边的石头，由各自去料理。
有些是长块的，有些几乎圆得像球．
需要一点魔术才能把它们放稳当：
“老实呆在那里，等我们转过身再落下！”
我们搬弄石头．把手指都磨粗了。
啊！这不过又是一种户外游戏，
一个人站在一边。此外没有多少用处：
在墙那地方，我们根本不需要墙：
他那边全是松树，我这边是苹果园。
我的苹果树永远也不会踱过去
吃掉他松树下的松球，我对他说。
他只是说：“好篱笆造出好邻家。”
春天在我心里作祟，我在悬想
能不能把一个念头注入他的脑里：
“为什么好篱笆造出好邻家？是否指着
有牛的人家？可是我们此地又没有牛。
我在造墙之前．先要弄个清楚，
圈进来的是什么，圈出去的是什么，
并且我可能开罪的是些什么人家，
有一点什么，它不喜欢墙，
它要推倒它。”我可以对他说这是“鬼”。
但严格说也不是鬼．我想这事还是
由他自己决定吧。我看见他在那里
搬一块石头，两手紧抓着石头的上端，
像一个旧石器时代的武装的野蛮人。
我觉得他是在黑暗中摸索，
这黑暗不仅是来自深林与树荫。
他不肯探究他父亲传给他的格言
他想到这句格言，便如此的喜欢，
于是再说一遍，“好篱笆造出好邻家”。
（梁实秋译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
白桦树
挺直、黑黑的树排列成行，只见
白桦树却弯下身子，向左，也向右，
我总以为有个孩子把白样“荡”弯了
可是“荡”一下不会叫它们一躬到底
再也起不来。这可是冰干的事。
下过一场冬雨，第二天，太阳出来，
你准会看到白桦上结满了冰。
一阵风吹起，树枝就咯喇喇响，
闪射出五彩缤纷，原来这一颤动，
冰块坼裂成瓷瓶上的无数细纹。
阳光的温暖接着使那水晶的硬壳
从树枝上崩落，一齐倾泻在雪地上——
这么一大堆碎玻璃尽够你打扫，
你还以为是天顶的华盖塌了下来。
压不起那么些重量的树枝，硬是给
按下去，直到贴近那贴地的枯草，
但并没折断；虽然压得这么低、这么久
那枝条再也抬不起头来。几年后
你会在森林里看到那些白桦树
弯曲着树身，树叶在地面上拖扫，
好像趴在地上的女孩子把一头长发
兜过头去．好让太阳把头发晒干。
方才我说到了哪里？是那雨后的冰柱
岔开了我的话头——我原是想说：
我宁可以为是个放牛的农家孩子
来回走过的时候把白话弄弯了。
这孩子．离城太远，没人教棒球，
他只能自个儿想出玩意儿来玩，
自个儿跟自个儿玩，不管夏天冬天，
他一株一株地征服他父亲的树，
一次又一次地把它们骑在胯下，
直到把树的倔强劲儿完全制服：
一株又一株都垂头丧气地低下来——
直到他再没有用武之地。他学会了
所有的花招：不立刻腾身跳出去，
免得一下子把树干扳到了地面。
他始终稳住身子，不摇不晃地，
直到那高高的顶枝上一一小心翼翼地
往上爬，那全神贯注的样儿．就像
把一杯水倒满，满到了杯口，
甚至满过了边缘。然后．纵身一跳，
他两脚先伸出去，在空中乱踢乱舞，
于是飕的一声，降落到地面。
当年，我自己也是“荡桦树”的能手，
现在还梦想着再去荡一回桦树，
那是每逢我厌倦于操心世事，
而人生太像一片没有小径的森林，
在里面摸索，一头撞在蛛网上，
只感到验上又热辣、又痒痒；
忽然，一根嫩枝迎面打来，
那一只给打中了的眼睛疼得直掉泪。
我真想暂时离开人世一会儿，
然后再回来，重新干它一番。可是，
别来个命运之神，故意曲解我，
只成全我愿望的一半，把我卷了走，
一去不返。你要爱，就扔不开人世。
我想不出还有哪儿是更好的去处。
我真想去爬白桦树，沿着雪白的树干
爬上乌黑的树枝，爬向那天心，
直到树身再支撑不住，树梢碰着地，
把我放下来。去去又回来，那该有多好
比“荡桦树”更没有意思的事．可有的是。
（方平译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
火与冰
有人说世界将毁灭于火，
有人说毁灭于冰。
根据我对于欲望的体验，
我同意毁灭于火的观点。
但如果它必须毁灭两次．
则我想我对于恨有足够的认识
可以说在破坏一方面，冰
也同样伟大，
且能够胜任。
（余光中译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
雪夜林边小立
我想我认识树林的主人
他家住在林边的农村；
他不会看见我暂停此地，
欣赏他披上雪装的树林。
我的小马准抱着个疑团：
干嘛停在这儿，不见人烟，
在一年中最黑的晚上，
停在树林和冰湖之间。
它摇了摇颈上的铃铎，
想问问主人有没有弄错。
除此之外唯一的声音
是风飘绒雪轻轻拂过。
树林真可爱，既深又黑，
但我有许多诺言不能违背，
还要赶多少路才能安睡，
还要赶多少路才能安睡。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
熟悉黑夜
我早就已经熟悉这种黑夜。
我冒雨出去——又冒雨归来，
我已经越出街灯照亮的边界。
我看到这城里最惨的小巷。
我经过敲钟的守夜人身边，
我低垂下眼睛，不愿多讲。
我站定，我的脚步再听不见，
打另一条街翻过屋顶传来
远处一声被人打断的叫喊，
但那不是叫我回去，也不是再见，
在更远处，在远离人间的高处．
有一樽发光的钟悬在天边。
它宣称时间既不错误又不正确，
但我早就已经熟悉这种黑夜。
（赵毅衡译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
指令
离开现在我们难以对付的世界，
返回到去掉繁文缛节的纯朴年代，
像墓园中饱受日晒雨淋的石像
颓败、暴裂、折断了的年代，
在一座不再是城镇的城镇里
在一座不再是农场的农场上
有一间不再是房屋的房屋。
通往那里的小路蜿蜒曲折，
向导也难以指示你走出迷阵，
老城似乎本是一个采石工场——
很早就放弃了掩盖土地的愿望，
露出了巨石的膝头。
有一本书，记载着它的故事：
除大石上马车铁轮留下的道道辙痕，
突兀的岩石上条条印纹伸向四面八方，
表明是巨大的冰川留下的杰作，
冰川把双脚蹬在北极上。
你不必介意他的某种寒意，
至今还出没于黑豹山麓的这边；
你也不必介意来自四十个窟窿的监视，
像四十只小木桶张开的眼睛，
不必介意这一连串挫折与考验。
至于说，树林的一阵骚动，响起
一阵沙沙声，急匆匆地传给叶子，
这阵骚动只是出于莽撞与无知。
就在十多年前，这片树林曾在何方？
它们今天却过多地考虑
把几棵盎然生气的老苹果树遮蔽。
请你亲手谱一曲动听的歌儿吧，
歌唱这曾是某人下班回家的小路，
他或许刚好徒手走在你的前面，
或者推着一辆吱吱作响的载粮小车。
探险历程的终点，即是行动和知识的起点，
两种乡村文化曾在那里
交汇，如今全不见了踪影。
如果你现在陷入迷津，找不到自我，
请你紧紧拉住身后的梯级小路，
高举“关”的标牌，拒绝世人除了我。
于是，你就会舒适怡然．安闲自在。
如今剩下的唯一的地盘，只有一小块。
早先，这里是孩子们搭起的小屋，
玩具小房里堆着的玩具
不过是松树下摔碎的瓷盘。
叹息吧，这些小玩意儿竟使他们快乐！
后来，这房屋不再是一间房屋，
只剩下一个长满紫丁香的窟窿，
在慢慢地合拢，像面团上一个小洞。
这不是玩具小房，而是一间真正的房子。
你的目的和命运的小溪
正是这间房屋的水池，
它像凛冽的清泉刚刚离开泉眼，
太高太远，难能流向远方。
（我知道，山谷下奔腾的溪水
会在荆枝上留下串串水珠。）
我还保存着一只坏了的高脚酒杯，
藏在水边一颗老树的树跟下面，
像受了符咒的圣杯，邪恶的人找不到，
像圣马可所说，他们因此也不能得救。
（我是从孩子们的小屋里偷来的酒杯）
这儿就是你的溪水，你滋润的水泽，
喝吧，你会超度混乱，重获新生。
（李力译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
爱和一个问题
在黄昏，一个陌生人来到门前，
嘴里叫着漂亮的新郎。
他手里抓住一根绿色班驳的拐杖
小心翼翼，那是他全部的负担。
他更多地用眼神而不是用嘴唇
请求一个躲避黑夜的庇护所，
当他转身，看着远处的道路
那里没有一扇亮灯的窗户。
新郎出现在门廊上
“让我们仰望夜空，
并且想一想这个夜晚是什么，
陌生人，你和我。”
忍冬树的落叶铺满了院子，
忍冬的果实暗蓝，
那是秋天，可是冬天已经来到风中；
“陌生人，我多么希望我能知道。”
门内，是薄暮中孤独的新娘
她弯身向着敞开的炉火，
她的脸被燃烧的煤映得通红
更因为她想到内心里的愿望。
新郎注视着疲惫的道路，
却又看见里面的新娘，
多么希望她的心盛在一盆金子中
并且被银色的别针别住。
新郎想着是否应该
给予一片施舍的面包，一个钱包
或者一个真诚的祈祷，为上帝的
贫穷，也为了一个咒语的富有；
可是一个男人是不是应该被要求
损害两人之间的爱
通过把悲哀隐藏在新婚的房间里，
新郎多么希望他能够知道。
薛舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
迟到的散步
当我沿路穿过收获的田野，
那些被收割后没了头颅的庄稼，
平坦地躺着，好象露水打湿了茅草屋顶，
几乎遮没花园里的小径。
当我来到花园中的空地，
肃穆的鸟的呼呼声
从枯草的混乱之上传来
要比任何话语都悲伤。
在墙的一边，一棵树赤裸地站立，
只有一片逗留的叶子仍然保持着褐色，
我不怀疑它受到我的思索的打扰，
轻轻地飘落，伴随着簌簌的声音。
在不远的地方，我停了下来
拣一片最后的紫苑花
把它褪色的蓝
再一次带到你的面前。
薛舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
繁星
在我们喧嚣的雪地之上
他们聚集成无限，
刺骨的寒风在吹
他们以树的形式在涌动——
仿佛给我们的命运带来敏锐，
我们蹒跚的脚步很少落在
白色的空隙，一个休息的位置
在拂晓时不被看见，——
然而既没有爱也没有恨，
那些星如同白雪一样的
女神密涅瓦大理石般雪白的眼睛
只是没有视觉的天赋。
薛舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
风和一棵窗前花
爱人们，请忘记你们的爱情，
来把他们的爱罗列，
她，窗前的一棵花，
而他是一阵冬天的微风。
当霜冻的窗帘
在正午融化，
笼子里黄色的鸟
和谐地在她身上悬挂。
透过窗户格，他为她做下标记，
他只能凭借这标记
好在黑暗时再度来临，
现在他只有一闪而过。
他是冬季里的风，
与冰雪有关，
还有枯死的野草和孤单的鸟，
以及他所知道的少许的爱。
可是他在窗台上留下叹息，
他把窗棱轻轻晃动，
目睹里面的一切
那一夜是什么人在清醒地躺着。
偶尔他也能成功地
在飞行中赢得她的注意
通过零乱的火焰
和窗边火炉的温暖的光芒。
可是那花却斜依向一旁
想来是没有什么话好对他说，
当她在早晨发现那阵微风
风已远在百里之外。
薛舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
给解冻之风
哦，喧哗的西南风，和雨水一起降临吧！
带来歌唱者，带来筑巢者；
给埋没的落花以梦想；
让安稳的雪岸蒸腾；
请在白色之下找到褐色；
但是你今夜所做的一切，
冲洗着我的窗户，请让它流动，
在积雪去后再将它融化；
融化玻璃留下木棒
像隐居者的十字架；
请闯入我狭窄的牲畜栏；
请摇动墙壁上的纸画；
翻过喋喋不休的书页；
请你驱散地板上的诗歌；
并把诗人赶出门外。
薛舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
春天里的祈祷
哦，请在今天给我们花丛中的欢乐；
请不要让我们思考得太远
像那些不确定的收获；让我们留在
这里，在这一年中最有生机的春天。
哦，请给我们白色果园中的欢乐，
不像白天的什么，只像夜晚的幽灵；
让我们在幸福的蜜蜂之中，幸福，
当蜂群围绕着完美的树聚集，膨胀。
让我们在狂飞乱舞的鸟中，幸福
当蜂群之上突然传来他们的声音，
如同针尖般的鸟嘴，流星挤进来，
又冲过中间空气中安静的一朵花。
因为这才是爱，而别的都不是，
爱为上面的上帝而保存，因为爱
他可以把自己尽情地神化，
可是这爱却需要我们来将它实践。
有人说世界将毁灭于火，
有人说毁灭于冰。
根据我对于欲望的体验，
我同意毁灭于火的观点。
但如果它必须毁灭两次．
则我想我对于恨有足够的认识。
可以说在破坏一方面，
冰，
也同样伟大，
且能够胜任。
有人说毁灭于冰。
根据我对于欲望的体验，
我同意毁灭于火的观点。
但如果它必须毁灭两次．
则我想我对于恨有足够的认识。
可以说在破坏一方面，
冰，
也同样伟大，
且能够胜任。
我想我认识树林的主人
他家住在林边的农村；
他不会看见我暂停此地，
欣赏他披上雪装的树林。
我的小马准抱着个疑团：
干嘛停在这儿，不见人烟，
在一年中最黑的晚上，
停在树林和冰湖之间。
它摇了摇颈上的铃铎，
想问问主人有没有弄错。
除此之外唯一的声音
是风飘绒雪轻轻拂过。
树林真可爱，既深又黑，
但我有许多诺言不能违背，
还要赶多少路才能安睡，
还要赶多少路才能安睡。
柴垛
阴天，我走在冰冻的沼泽中
停下脚步，心想：打这儿往回走吧；
不，我要再走远点儿，这样就看到了。
大雪把我困住，就一只脚
不时还能挪动。那些细高细高的树
将视野全划成了直上直下的线条
以致没有什么能标明我是在哪儿
说不准究竟我是在这儿
还是在别处：反正离家很远就是了。
一只小鸟在我面前飞。当他
飞落时总小心地跟我隔着一棵树
什么也不说，不告诉我他是谁
而我却傻傻地想着他在想什么。
他以为，我走在他后头是为了根儿毛吧——
他尾巴上白色的那根；好像一个
把什么东西都说成是自己的人。
其实，他只要飞到外面就全明白了。
然后是一垛柴，于是我就
把他给忘了，就让它那小小的恐惧
随他走吧，走那条我要走的路
我都没有对它说一声晚安。
为了获得最后的立足地，他绕到后头。
那是一堆枫木， 已经劈好、剁好
很整齐地堆着， 四乘四乘八。
像这样的柴垛，我没看到第二个。
在它周围的雪地上 ，没有任何奔跑过的痕迹。
这垛柴，想必不是今年砍的
更不用说去年、前年。
柴已经变成灰色 ，皮也都剥落了
整个柴垛稍微有些下陷 。铁丝
一圈一圈牢牢扎着，像是个打好的包裹。
柴垛的一头，是还在生长的小树
支撑着，另一头是斜桩和竖桩
几乎快要倒了。 我只是想 ：
一定是谁要干别的事情， 才把自己
忙活好些天的东西给忘了。
费那么大劲儿砍下，没丢进炉子里烧火
却远远地留在这儿 ，让它慢慢地腐烂
无烟地燃烧，温暖这冰冻的沼泽
或许这样更好点。
他家住在林边的农村；
他不会看见我暂停此地，
欣赏他披上雪装的树林。
我的小马准抱着个疑团：
干嘛停在这儿，不见人烟，
在一年中最黑的晚上，
停在树林和冰湖之间。
它摇了摇颈上的铃铎，
想问问主人有没有弄错。
除此之外唯一的声音
是风飘绒雪轻轻拂过。
树林真可爱，既深又黑，
但我有许多诺言不能违背，
还要赶多少路才能安睡，
还要赶多少路才能安睡。
柴垛
阴天，我走在冰冻的沼泽中
停下脚步，心想：打这儿往回走吧；
不，我要再走远点儿，这样就看到了。
大雪把我困住，就一只脚
不时还能挪动。那些细高细高的树
将视野全划成了直上直下的线条
以致没有什么能标明我是在哪儿
说不准究竟我是在这儿
还是在别处：反正离家很远就是了。
一只小鸟在我面前飞。当他
飞落时总小心地跟我隔着一棵树
什么也不说，不告诉我他是谁
而我却傻傻地想着他在想什么。
他以为，我走在他后头是为了根儿毛吧——
他尾巴上白色的那根；好像一个
把什么东西都说成是自己的人。
其实，他只要飞到外面就全明白了。
然后是一垛柴，于是我就
把他给忘了，就让它那小小的恐惧
随他走吧，走那条我要走的路
我都没有对它说一声晚安。
为了获得最后的立足地，他绕到后头。
那是一堆枫木， 已经劈好、剁好
很整齐地堆着， 四乘四乘八。
像这样的柴垛，我没看到第二个。
在它周围的雪地上 ，没有任何奔跑过的痕迹。
这垛柴，想必不是今年砍的
更不用说去年、前年。
柴已经变成灰色 ，皮也都剥落了
整个柴垛稍微有些下陷 。铁丝
一圈一圈牢牢扎着，像是个打好的包裹。
柴垛的一头，是还在生长的小树
支撑着，另一头是斜桩和竖桩
几乎快要倒了。 我只是想 ：
一定是谁要干别的事情， 才把自己
忙活好些天的东西给忘了。
费那么大劲儿砍下，没丢进炉子里烧火
却远远地留在这儿 ，让它慢慢地腐烂
无烟地燃烧，温暖这冰冻的沼泽
或许这样更好点。
黄色的树林里分出两条路，
可惜我不能同时涉足，
我站在那路口久久伫立，
我向着一条路极目望去，
知道它消失在丛林深处。
但我选择了另一条路，
它荒草萋萋，十分幽静，
显得更诱人，更美丽；
虽然在这两条小路上，却很少留下旅人的足迹。
虽然那天清晨落叶满地，两条路却未经脚印污染。
啊，留下一条路等改日再见！
但我知道路径延绵无尽头，
恐怕我难以再回返。
也许多年后在某个地方，
我将轻声叹息将往事回顾；
一片树林里分出两条路——
而我选择了人迹更少的一条，
从此决定了我一生的道路。
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
可惜我不能同时涉足，
我站在那路口久久伫立，
我向着一条路极目望去，
知道它消失在丛林深处。
但我选择了另一条路，
它荒草萋萋，十分幽静，
显得更诱人，更美丽；
虽然在这两条小路上，却很少留下旅人的足迹。
虽然那天清晨落叶满地，两条路却未经脚印污染。
啊，留下一条路等改日再见！
但我知道路径延绵无尽头，
恐怕我难以再回返。
也许多年后在某个地方，
我将轻声叹息将往事回顾；
一片树林里分出两条路——
而我选择了人迹更少的一条，
从此决定了我一生的道路。
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
【赏析】 《未选择的路》是一首哲理抒情诗，它表面平易，实则蕴含深邃的哲理；看似倾诉个人经历，实则表达人们的共同感受。在这首诗里，弗罗斯特抓住林中岔道这一具体形象，用比喻的手法引起人们丰富生动的联想，烘托出人生岔路这样具有哲理寓意的象征。诗人选择的是人们司空见惯的林中岔道，来阐发如何抉择人生道路这一生活哲理的。
《未选择的路》是弗罗斯特的一首名诗，作于1915年，最初收录于他的第三本诗集《山间》(1916)中。
罗伯特·弗罗斯特堪称美国20世纪最受欢迎的诗人之一，他一生致力于诗歌的创作，写作并出版了10部诗集。
罗伯特·弗罗斯特(1874-1963)出生于旧金山一个教师家庭，在美国西部度过童年。中学毕业后，他在哈佛大学学习两年后肄业，这前后曾做过纺织工人、教员，经营过农场，并徒步漫游过许多地方，同时他也开始写诗，但他的诗歌最初并未在美国引起注意。
1912年时弗罗斯特已经38岁，这一年他作出了一个重要的选择:放弃他在一所师范学校教书的职业，放弃本来可能更加平坦、安稳的生活，而选择了诗歌。他对自己说:“写诗吧，穷就穷吧。”
夫妻二人商量后，决定到异地去闯一条路，找一个生活水平比较低，但更利于写诗的环境。于是他们卖掉了祖父遗传下来的农场，再加上几年教书所得的一点积蓄，就这样他们来到大海对岸的英国，在离伦敦不远的一个村子里找到了一座木板茅屋的新家。不久之后，他的第一本诗集《孩子的意愿》出版了，很快就以其特有的朴素坦率和真诚赢得了诗人们的好评。美国著名诗人庞德特别撰文推荐，说它是美国很长一段时间以来最好的一本诗集。
1915年弗罗斯特回到美国，在新罕布什尔州经营农场。此后他的诗名日盛，分别于1924,1931,1937,1943年四次获得普利策奖，并在几所著名的大学中任教师、驻校诗人与诗歌顾问。晚年的他已是美国的一个非官方的桂冠诗人。弗罗斯特的诗往往从描写新英格兰的自然景色或风俗人情开始，渐渐进入哲理的境界，他素有“新英格兰诗人”之称。这与他诗中大量描写新英格兰的自然景色或风俗人情有关。波士顿以北多岩石的牧场，殖民地时代的建筑，耐人寻味的石头围墙，以及那里居民粗犷的感情、耕耘生活的艰辛等等，都成为诗人作品取之不尽的素材。他的诗把新英格兰的风貌和当地人的特征一览无余地展现在了读者面前，可以说新英格兰乡间生活的各个侧面，弗罗斯特都写到了。
但弗罗斯特并未沉洒于描绘美丽山川和旖旎景色，他的诗虽然保持了一些传统的形式和格律，气氛也较轻
现在收录在人民教育出版社七年级下册第一单元第4课
夕阳
有一种低声道别的夕阳。
往往是短促的黄昏，替星星铺路。
它们均匀地踱过草原和海的边缘，
睡眠是安稳的。
有一种舞着告别的夕阳。
它们把围巾一半投向圆穹，
于是投上圆穹，投过圆穹。
耳朵边挂着丝绢，腰间飘着缎带，
舞着，舞着跟你道别。睡眠时
微微转侧，因为做着梦。
邢光祖 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
思绪之束
我想起了海滩，田野，
眼泪，笑声。
我想起建造的家——
又被风刮走。
我想起聚会，
但每一次聚会都是告别。
我想起在孤单中运行着的星星，
黄鹂成双成对，落日慌乱地，
在愁闷中消隐。
我想要越过茫茫宇宙，
到下一个星球去，到最后一个星球去。
我要留下几滴眼泪，
和一些笑声。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
也许
也许他信任我，也许不，
也许我会嫁给他，也许不，
也许草原上的风，
海洋上的风，也许。
某个地方某个人，也许会说出。
我会把头搁在他肩上，
当他问我，我会说：好的。
也许。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
人会活下去
人会活下去，
一面学，一面错，人会活下去，
他们受了骗，给出卖了不算，又给出卖，
回到丰富的大地里重新生起根来，
人就是有这种卷土重来的本事，
你就是笑也笑不掉他们这种能耐。
一头巨象正在惊天动地的戏剧中休息。
人看上去老是疲倦，不够睡，象个谜，
是很多单位组成的一大堆，都在说：
我赚钱过日子，
我赚得刚可以过活，
却占尽我的时间。
要使我有更多的时间，
我可以替自己多做些事，
或者替别人多做些事，
我可以读书写字，
可以谈谈天，
找出事情的道理来，
这需要时间。
但愿我有时间。
人有悲和喜的两面：
英雄和流氓，精灵和猩猩，扭
着血盆似的大口在埋怨："他们
收买了我，又出卖了我……这是把戏……
总有一天我会逃走……"
只要能大踏步，
踏过生存需要的边缘，
跨过糊口的冷酷界限，
人就会获得，
埋藏得同骨头一样深的仪式，
比骨头更轻的光明，
把事情想一想的空闲，
跳舞，唱歌，传奇，
或做梦的时光，
只要能这样大踏步跨过去。
一方面是五官所给予的限制，
一方面是对无限的不停的追求，
人遵从工作和肚子的絮絮的吩咐，
可是如果有机会，同时还会渴求着
那些五官的牢狱之外的光明，
那些比饥饿和死亡更永久的纪念物。
这种渴求才是真正的生活，
虽然荒淫无耻之徒已把它破坏和玷污。
可是这种对光明和纪念物的
渴求才是真正的生活。
人知道海水的盐
和风的力量
正在向地球四角冲击。
人把地球当做
休息的坟墓和希望的摇篮。
还有谁替人类说话？
他们跟星座和宇宙法律
音节和步伐完全合拍。
人是多姿多彩的，
就像放在活动的草色衬景上的，
一面分光镜在不停的分析光，
一架风琴在奏着不同的曲调，
一些幻光灯照耀下的彩色诗篇
在里面大海吐出雾来，
而雾又从雨中消散。
拉布多的黄昏落日缩短，
成为亮星的夜景。
在北极光所喷出的光明中，
沉默不做一声。
钢铁厂的天空熊熊一片，
衬托在暗灰色的朦胧中，
火花迸裂出白色的闪电，
人还要等很久，很久。
人终于会得到胜利。
兄和弟终于会站在一起：
这古老的铁砧嘲笑那些敲断了的铁锤。
有些人是收买不了的。
出生在火里的安于火。
星座们一点也不闹。
你不能叫风不吹。
时间是伟大的导师。
谁能活着没有个希望？
在黑暗中，背着一大堆悲伤
人大踏步向前进。
在夜里，一抬头就是满天星，
永远的；人大踏步向前进：
上哪去？底下是什么？
邢光祖 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
芝加哥
世界的猪屠夫，
工具匠，小麦存储者，
铁路运输家，全国货物转运人
暴躁、魁梧、喧闹，
宽肩膀的城市：
人家告诉我你太卑劣，我相信：我看到你的
女人浓妆艳抹在煤气灯下勾引乡下小伙。
人家告诉我你太邪恶，我回答：是的，的确
我见到凶手杀了人逍遥法外又去行凶。
人家告诉我你大残酷，我的答复是：在妇女
和孩子脸上我见到饥饿肆虐的烙印。
我这样回答后．转过身，对那些嘲笑我的城
市的人，我回敬以嘲笑，我说：
来呀，给我看别的城市，也这样昂起头，骄
傲地歌唱，也这样活泼、粗犷、强壮、机灵。
他把工作堆起来时，抛出带磁性的咒骂，在
那些矮小展弱的城市中，他是个高大拳击手。
凶狠如一只狗，舌头伸出准备进攻，机械有
如跟莽原搏斗的野蛮人；
光着头，
挥着锹，
毁灭，
计划，
建造，破坏，再建造，
在浓烟下，满嘴的灰，露出白牙齿大笑，
在命运可怕的重负下，像个青年人一样大笑，
大笑，像个从未输过一场的鲁莽斗士，
自夸，大笑，他腕下脉搏在跳，肋骨下人民
的心在跳，大笑！
笑出年青人的暴躁、魁伟、喧闹的笑、赤着
上身，汗流浃背，他骄傲，因为他是猪屠
夫，工具匠，小麦存储者，铁路运输家，
全国货物的转运人。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
雾
雾来了，
踮着猫的细步。
他弓起腰蹲着，
静静地俯视
海港和城市，
又再往前走。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
草
让奥斯特里茨和滑铁卢尸如山积，
把他们铲进坑，再让我干活——
我是草；我掩盖一切。
让葛梯斯堡尸如山积，
让依普尔和凡尔登尸如山积，
把他们铲进坑，再让我干活。
两年，十年，于是旅客们问乘务员：
这是什么地方？
我们到了何处？
我是草。
让我干活。
飞白 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大草原（节选）
霜打松了玉米壳，
太阳、雨、风
都打松了玉米壳，
男工女工都只是帮一把，
大家都是剥玉米的人，
我看到他们．在西部的夜晚，
在烟熏红的尘土中。
****************************
哦大草原母亲，我是你的一个孩子。
我热爱大草原，心中充满痛苦的爱。
我在这里不追求任何东西．只盼望再一个日出，—
个燃烧在天空的月亮，一轮明月倒映在河水之
中。
******************************
我谈论新的城市，新的人民，
我告诉你过去是一桶灰，
我告诉你昨天是己停息的风，
是落下西天的夕阳。
我告诉你世上没有别的东西
只有一个充满明天的海洋，
一个充满明天的天空，
我是剥玉米人的兄弟．他们在日落时说
明天还是工作日。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
钢的祈祷
请把我放上铁砧，哦上帝，
捶我，揍我，打成一根橇棍
让我橇动古老的墙，
让我拆松古老的地基。
请把我放上铁砧，我上帝，
捶我，揍我，打成一根钢钉，
把我钉进拽紧摩天楼的大梁，
用烧红的铆钉安我在主梁上，
让我做个大钉拽紧摩天棱，使它穿过深
蓝的夜空，
刺进银白的星群。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我们的地狱
密尔顿给我们开启了地狱
让我们看一看。
但丁做了同样的事。
每个地狱都很独特。
一个是密尔顿的, 一个是但丁的。
密尔顿写下了一切他的
人间地狱。
但丁写下了一切他的
人间地狱。
若你为我开启你的地狱
而我为你开启我的地狱
它们将是两个独特的地狱,
我们每人都展示我们的
人间地狱。
你的是一个地狱, 我的是另一个地狱。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
芝加哥诗人
我向一个无名之辈敬礼。
我看到他在一面镜子里。
他微笑着--我也微笑。
他弄皱他前额的皮肤，
眉头紧锁--我也同样。
我做他所做的每件事。
我说："你好，我认识你。"
而说这话的我是个说谎者。
哎，这个全然相反的人！
说谎者，傻瓜，梦想家，演员，
士兵，满是灰尘的饮尘者-
哎！他将随我而去
走下黑暗的阶梯
当没有别人在注意，
当所有别人都离去。
他挽起我的胳膊肘，
除了他--我丢失所有。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
拿破仑
那小男孩吹着泡泡
空气漂浮闪亮发光
带着彩虹的欢欣虚幻轻柔：
它们漂浮着破灭着以至消亡。
那男子吹着泡泡
制造国家，国王和将领
还有行军征战杀戮并
因手上沾血而大笑的军队-
可这些军队，国王和将领
已破碎消逝死光光。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
神秘的传记
克里斯多夫。哥伦布曾是个饥汉
环绕了半个世界追寻自己；
他开始受穷，行乞，最后坐牢，
克里斯多夫如此饥饿，如此贫苦，
克里斯多夫戴着冰冷的钢手铐，
高贵著名的克里斯多夫。哥伦布。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
铁锤
我一直看到
旧神离去
和新神到来。
日复一日
年复一年
偶像倒下
和偶像升起。
今天
我崇拜铁锤。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
西班牙人
用黑眼睛盯着我。
桃树下我对你别无所求，
用你带风暴之矛的黑眼睛
刺入我的阴郁吧。
桃花下的空气是粉色的雾。
金舟 译
有一种低声道别的夕阳。
往往是短促的黄昏，替星星铺路。
它们均匀地踱过草原和海的边缘，
睡眠是安稳的。
有一种舞着告别的夕阳。
它们把围巾一半投向圆穹，
于是投上圆穹，投过圆穹。
耳朵边挂着丝绢，腰间飘着缎带，
舞着，舞着跟你道别。睡眠时
微微转侧，因为做着梦。
邢光祖 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
思绪之束
我想起了海滩，田野，
眼泪，笑声。
我想起建造的家——
又被风刮走。
我想起聚会，
但每一次聚会都是告别。
我想起在孤单中运行着的星星，
黄鹂成双成对，落日慌乱地，
在愁闷中消隐。
我想要越过茫茫宇宙，
到下一个星球去，到最后一个星球去。
我要留下几滴眼泪，
和一些笑声。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
也许
也许他信任我，也许不，
也许我会嫁给他，也许不，
也许草原上的风，
海洋上的风，也许。
某个地方某个人，也许会说出。
我会把头搁在他肩上，
当他问我，我会说：好的。
也许。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
人会活下去
人会活下去，
一面学，一面错，人会活下去，
他们受了骗，给出卖了不算，又给出卖，
回到丰富的大地里重新生起根来，
人就是有这种卷土重来的本事，
你就是笑也笑不掉他们这种能耐。
一头巨象正在惊天动地的戏剧中休息。
人看上去老是疲倦，不够睡，象个谜，
是很多单位组成的一大堆，都在说：
我赚钱过日子，
我赚得刚可以过活，
却占尽我的时间。
要使我有更多的时间，
我可以替自己多做些事，
或者替别人多做些事，
我可以读书写字，
可以谈谈天，
找出事情的道理来，
这需要时间。
但愿我有时间。
人有悲和喜的两面：
英雄和流氓，精灵和猩猩，扭
着血盆似的大口在埋怨："他们
收买了我，又出卖了我……这是把戏……
总有一天我会逃走……"
只要能大踏步，
踏过生存需要的边缘，
跨过糊口的冷酷界限，
人就会获得，
埋藏得同骨头一样深的仪式，
比骨头更轻的光明，
把事情想一想的空闲，
跳舞，唱歌，传奇，
或做梦的时光，
只要能这样大踏步跨过去。
一方面是五官所给予的限制，
一方面是对无限的不停的追求，
人遵从工作和肚子的絮絮的吩咐，
可是如果有机会，同时还会渴求着
那些五官的牢狱之外的光明，
那些比饥饿和死亡更永久的纪念物。
这种渴求才是真正的生活，
虽然荒淫无耻之徒已把它破坏和玷污。
可是这种对光明和纪念物的
渴求才是真正的生活。
人知道海水的盐
和风的力量
正在向地球四角冲击。
人把地球当做
休息的坟墓和希望的摇篮。
还有谁替人类说话？
他们跟星座和宇宙法律
音节和步伐完全合拍。
人是多姿多彩的，
就像放在活动的草色衬景上的，
一面分光镜在不停的分析光，
一架风琴在奏着不同的曲调，
一些幻光灯照耀下的彩色诗篇
在里面大海吐出雾来，
而雾又从雨中消散。
拉布多的黄昏落日缩短，
成为亮星的夜景。
在北极光所喷出的光明中，
沉默不做一声。
钢铁厂的天空熊熊一片，
衬托在暗灰色的朦胧中，
火花迸裂出白色的闪电，
人还要等很久，很久。
人终于会得到胜利。
兄和弟终于会站在一起：
这古老的铁砧嘲笑那些敲断了的铁锤。
有些人是收买不了的。
出生在火里的安于火。
星座们一点也不闹。
你不能叫风不吹。
时间是伟大的导师。
谁能活着没有个希望？
在黑暗中，背着一大堆悲伤
人大踏步向前进。
在夜里，一抬头就是满天星，
永远的；人大踏步向前进：
上哪去？底下是什么？
邢光祖 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
芝加哥
世界的猪屠夫，
工具匠，小麦存储者，
铁路运输家，全国货物转运人
暴躁、魁梧、喧闹，
宽肩膀的城市：
人家告诉我你太卑劣，我相信：我看到你的
女人浓妆艳抹在煤气灯下勾引乡下小伙。
人家告诉我你太邪恶，我回答：是的，的确
我见到凶手杀了人逍遥法外又去行凶。
人家告诉我你大残酷，我的答复是：在妇女
和孩子脸上我见到饥饿肆虐的烙印。
我这样回答后．转过身，对那些嘲笑我的城
市的人，我回敬以嘲笑，我说：
来呀，给我看别的城市，也这样昂起头，骄
傲地歌唱，也这样活泼、粗犷、强壮、机灵。
他把工作堆起来时，抛出带磁性的咒骂，在
那些矮小展弱的城市中，他是个高大拳击手。
凶狠如一只狗，舌头伸出准备进攻，机械有
如跟莽原搏斗的野蛮人；
光着头，
挥着锹，
毁灭，
计划，
建造，破坏，再建造，
在浓烟下，满嘴的灰，露出白牙齿大笑，
在命运可怕的重负下，像个青年人一样大笑，
大笑，像个从未输过一场的鲁莽斗士，
自夸，大笑，他腕下脉搏在跳，肋骨下人民
的心在跳，大笑！
笑出年青人的暴躁、魁伟、喧闹的笑、赤着
上身，汗流浃背，他骄傲，因为他是猪屠
夫，工具匠，小麦存储者，铁路运输家，
全国货物的转运人。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
雾
雾来了，
踮着猫的细步。
他弓起腰蹲着，
静静地俯视
海港和城市，
又再往前走。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
草
让奥斯特里茨和滑铁卢尸如山积，
把他们铲进坑，再让我干活——
我是草；我掩盖一切。
让葛梯斯堡尸如山积，
让依普尔和凡尔登尸如山积，
把他们铲进坑，再让我干活。
两年，十年，于是旅客们问乘务员：
这是什么地方？
我们到了何处？
我是草。
让我干活。
飞白 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大草原（节选）
霜打松了玉米壳，
太阳、雨、风
都打松了玉米壳，
男工女工都只是帮一把，
大家都是剥玉米的人，
我看到他们．在西部的夜晚，
在烟熏红的尘土中。
****************************
哦大草原母亲，我是你的一个孩子。
我热爱大草原，心中充满痛苦的爱。
我在这里不追求任何东西．只盼望再一个日出，—
个燃烧在天空的月亮，一轮明月倒映在河水之
中。
******************************
我谈论新的城市，新的人民，
我告诉你过去是一桶灰，
我告诉你昨天是己停息的风，
是落下西天的夕阳。
我告诉你世上没有别的东西
只有一个充满明天的海洋，
一个充满明天的天空，
我是剥玉米人的兄弟．他们在日落时说
明天还是工作日。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
钢的祈祷
请把我放上铁砧，哦上帝，
捶我，揍我，打成一根橇棍
让我橇动古老的墙，
让我拆松古老的地基。
请把我放上铁砧，我上帝，
捶我，揍我，打成一根钢钉，
把我钉进拽紧摩天楼的大梁，
用烧红的铆钉安我在主梁上，
让我做个大钉拽紧摩天棱，使它穿过深
蓝的夜空，
刺进银白的星群。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我们的地狱
密尔顿给我们开启了地狱
让我们看一看。
但丁做了同样的事。
每个地狱都很独特。
一个是密尔顿的, 一个是但丁的。
密尔顿写下了一切他的
人间地狱。
但丁写下了一切他的
人间地狱。
若你为我开启你的地狱
而我为你开启我的地狱
它们将是两个独特的地狱,
我们每人都展示我们的
人间地狱。
你的是一个地狱, 我的是另一个地狱。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
芝加哥诗人
我向一个无名之辈敬礼。
我看到他在一面镜子里。
他微笑着--我也微笑。
他弄皱他前额的皮肤，
眉头紧锁--我也同样。
我做他所做的每件事。
我说："你好，我认识你。"
而说这话的我是个说谎者。
哎，这个全然相反的人！
说谎者，傻瓜，梦想家，演员，
士兵，满是灰尘的饮尘者-
哎！他将随我而去
走下黑暗的阶梯
当没有别人在注意，
当所有别人都离去。
他挽起我的胳膊肘，
除了他--我丢失所有。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
拿破仑
那小男孩吹着泡泡
空气漂浮闪亮发光
带着彩虹的欢欣虚幻轻柔：
它们漂浮着破灭着以至消亡。
那男子吹着泡泡
制造国家，国王和将领
还有行军征战杀戮并
因手上沾血而大笑的军队-
可这些军队，国王和将领
已破碎消逝死光光。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
神秘的传记
克里斯多夫。哥伦布曾是个饥汉
环绕了半个世界追寻自己；
他开始受穷，行乞，最后坐牢，
克里斯多夫如此饥饿，如此贫苦，
克里斯多夫戴着冰冷的钢手铐，
高贵著名的克里斯多夫。哥伦布。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
铁锤
我一直看到
旧神离去
和新神到来。
日复一日
年复一年
偶像倒下
和偶像升起。
今天
我崇拜铁锤。
金舟 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
西班牙人
用黑眼睛盯着我。
桃树下我对你别无所求，
用你带风暴之矛的黑眼睛
刺入我的阴郁吧。
桃花下的空气是粉色的雾。
金舟 译
巨大的数字
在密雨中
在灯光里
我看到一个金色的
数字5
写在一辆红色的
救火车上
无人注意
疾驰
驶向锣声紧敲
警报尖鸣之处
轮子隆隆
穿过黑暗的城市。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
唤醒一位老妇
老年
是一群
吱吱叫的小鸟
掠过
雪原上的
光秃树林。
上下飞翻
它们被—阵黑风
猛吹——
可是，看到没有？
粗糙的杂草茎上
鸟群歇下了；
爆裂的飞荚
密布在冰雪之上；
一阵繁复的
尖锐的笛音
减轻了风势。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
寡妇春怨
我的家庭是悲哀的
这儿的新草
像往常一样
闪光吐焰，但往年
没有今年这种凄凉的火
在我周围环绕。
整整三十五年
我和丈夫形影不离。
今天李树满是银花
许多花朵
沉甸甸地挂在樱桃树上
枝头红黄相间
但我心头的忧伤
比它们更强烈
从前它们令我欢欣
但今天看到它们
我却掉头力图忘却。
我的儿子今天告诉我
在草原上
在远方的
茂密树丛旁
许多树开满银花。
我愿意
到那儿去
投身到那些花卉中
沉入它们近旁的池沼。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
沉思的农夫
沉思的农夫
淋着雨踏步
在未耕种的田里，双手
插在兜中，
在他头脑里
庄稼已经种下。
寒风吹皱
棕黄野草间的池水，
四面八方
世界冰冷地向前滚动：
黑色的果园
在三月的云下更加幽暗
耐人寻思。
在大雨洗过的大车路旁
那蒙茸的
灌木林后
朦胧地显出农夫
那艺术家的身影——在创作
——苦斗的人
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
去传染病院的路上
去传染病院的路上
冷风——从东北方向
赶来蓝斑点点的
汹涌层云。远处，
一片泥泞的荒野
野草枯黄，有立有伏
一潭潭的死水
偶见几丛大树
沿路尽是灌木
小树，半紫半红
枝桠丛丛纠结
下面是枯黄的叶子
无叶的藤——
看来毫无生命，倦怠不堪
而莽撞的春天来临——
他们赤裸地进入新世界
全身冰凉，什么都不明白
只知道他们在进入春天。而周围
依然是熟悉的寒风——
瞧这些草，明天
野胡萝卜那坚挺的卷叶
一件一件请清楚楚——
越来越快：明晰，这叶子的轮廓
可是在此刻．进入春天
依然那么艰难——然而深沉的变化
已经来到：它们扎住的根
往下紧攫，开始醒来
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
女士像
你的大腿是苹果树
它的花碰到了天。
哪个天？瓦都的挂着
一只女人拖鞋的天。
你的膝头
是南方吹来的一阵微风——
或者是一捧雪。噢！
弗拉戈奈尔何许人也？
—— 仿佛那个就解答
了什么问题。哦，对了——
膝盖以下色调
就淡了下去，那是个
炽热的夏天，
你的脚踝是颀长的草
在海滩上一闪一闪——
哪个海滩？——
沙粒粘住了我的唇——
哪个海滩？
哦，也许是花瓣。
我哪里知道？
哪个海滩？哪个海滩？
我说，的是苹果树上落下的花瓣。
袁可嘉 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
树与天空
依然是
我们已写过的
赤裸的树枝，长在
半折裂的
那棵树上，单独地
站在风吹雨打的
小山顶
而遥远的
云的缝隙
雾气缭绕
来回移动
透过云缝
是那永不移动的
蓝天
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
裴特森（选段）
以具体细节
为出发点
把它们变为一般，用有缺陷的
方法，滚卷而成——
嗅树木的
只是狗群中的
一只狗。这里
还剩什么？有何事可做？
其余的狗都去
追兔子了
只有这只跛腿的站着
用三只脚。前抓后刨。
挖出
一根发霉的骨头。
因为开头肯定就是
结尾——因为我们不知道任何
超越我们自己的复杂性的
单纯而简朴的东西。
但是不可能
走回头了；从浑沌中滚卷起
九个月的奇迹，这城市
就是人，两者一体——不可能
用别的方式——一种
双向的相互渗透。滚卷
起来！正面的，反面的；
喝醉的、清醒的；杰出的
粗俗的；都是一个。在无知中
有某种知识，无法
驱散，毁灭了自己。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
公牛
它给逮住了--
圈起来，套上笼头
栓在一个大靶上
那公牛天神一般
不象母牛们
它独个儿生活，小心地
用鼻子闻闻芳香的草
来打发时光
它跪下，卧倒
伸出前腿舐舐
自己蹄子的周围
然后停住
双眼半闭着
对大好时光的消逝
作高傲的评论
--那圆太阳
透过
光亮的松树林
把它的漆皮毛弄平正
它躯体硬朗
如象牙或玻璃--
风还在
中间嬉戏--
没有奶
它摆动
两角之间的毛
风信子的卷须
罩住了它的双眼
袁可嘉 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
红色手推车
这么多
全靠
一辆红轮子的
手推车
因为雨水
而闪光
旁边是一群
白色的小鸡。
郑敏 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
为一位穷苦的老妇人而写
嚼着一枚李子
在大街上，手里
拿着一口袋李子
味道真好，对于她
味道真好，它们吃起来
味道其好
你看得出来
从那神态沉醉在
她手中那半个
吸吮过的。
得到宽慰
一种熟李子的安慰
似乎充满了空间
它们味道真好。
郑敏 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
槐树花开
丛中
一
厚
硬
枯
亮
的断
枝
又
现
白
香
五月
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
诗之比喻
白杨林中有只鸟！
它是太阳！
树叶是小黄鱼
在河里游。
鸟在鱼上飞掠，
翅膀驮着白昼。
福玻斯！
是他使白杨
发出耀眼的光芒！
是他的歌声
压倒风中
哗哗作响的叶声。
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
南塔基特岛
窗外的花朵
淡紫金黄
变幻在白窗帘上──
闻之清爽──
午后的阳光──
玻璃盘上有个
玻璃罐，平底杯
倒摆着，旁边
丢一把钥匙──还有
洁白的床
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大数字
雨中
灯下
我看见
一辆红
救火车上
金色的
数字5
救火车
急匆匆
不顾一切
敲铃
伙裁
车轮辘辘
驰过黑暗的城市。
郑建青 译
在密雨中
在灯光里
我看到一个金色的
数字5
写在一辆红色的
救火车上
无人注意
疾驰
驶向锣声紧敲
警报尖鸣之处
轮子隆隆
穿过黑暗的城市。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
唤醒一位老妇
老年
是一群
吱吱叫的小鸟
掠过
雪原上的
光秃树林。
上下飞翻
它们被—阵黑风
猛吹——
可是，看到没有？
粗糙的杂草茎上
鸟群歇下了；
爆裂的飞荚
密布在冰雪之上；
一阵繁复的
尖锐的笛音
减轻了风势。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
寡妇春怨
我的家庭是悲哀的
这儿的新草
像往常一样
闪光吐焰，但往年
没有今年这种凄凉的火
在我周围环绕。
整整三十五年
我和丈夫形影不离。
今天李树满是银花
许多花朵
沉甸甸地挂在樱桃树上
枝头红黄相间
但我心头的忧伤
比它们更强烈
从前它们令我欢欣
但今天看到它们
我却掉头力图忘却。
我的儿子今天告诉我
在草原上
在远方的
茂密树丛旁
许多树开满银花。
我愿意
到那儿去
投身到那些花卉中
沉入它们近旁的池沼。
申奥 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
沉思的农夫
沉思的农夫
淋着雨踏步
在未耕种的田里，双手
插在兜中，
在他头脑里
庄稼已经种下。
寒风吹皱
棕黄野草间的池水，
四面八方
世界冰冷地向前滚动：
黑色的果园
在三月的云下更加幽暗
耐人寻思。
在大雨洗过的大车路旁
那蒙茸的
灌木林后
朦胧地显出农夫
那艺术家的身影——在创作
——苦斗的人
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
去传染病院的路上
去传染病院的路上
冷风——从东北方向
赶来蓝斑点点的
汹涌层云。远处，
一片泥泞的荒野
野草枯黄，有立有伏
一潭潭的死水
偶见几丛大树
沿路尽是灌木
小树，半紫半红
枝桠丛丛纠结
下面是枯黄的叶子
无叶的藤——
看来毫无生命，倦怠不堪
而莽撞的春天来临——
他们赤裸地进入新世界
全身冰凉，什么都不明白
只知道他们在进入春天。而周围
依然是熟悉的寒风——
瞧这些草，明天
野胡萝卜那坚挺的卷叶
一件一件请清楚楚——
越来越快：明晰，这叶子的轮廓
可是在此刻．进入春天
依然那么艰难——然而深沉的变化
已经来到：它们扎住的根
往下紧攫，开始醒来
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
女士像
你的大腿是苹果树
它的花碰到了天。
哪个天？瓦都的挂着
一只女人拖鞋的天。
你的膝头
是南方吹来的一阵微风——
或者是一捧雪。噢！
弗拉戈奈尔何许人也？
—— 仿佛那个就解答
了什么问题。哦，对了——
膝盖以下色调
就淡了下去，那是个
炽热的夏天，
你的脚踝是颀长的草
在海滩上一闪一闪——
哪个海滩？——
沙粒粘住了我的唇——
哪个海滩？
哦，也许是花瓣。
我哪里知道？
哪个海滩？哪个海滩？
我说，的是苹果树上落下的花瓣。
袁可嘉 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
树与天空
依然是
我们已写过的
赤裸的树枝，长在
半折裂的
那棵树上，单独地
站在风吹雨打的
小山顶
而遥远的
云的缝隙
雾气缭绕
来回移动
透过云缝
是那永不移动的
蓝天
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
裴特森（选段）
以具体细节
为出发点
把它们变为一般，用有缺陷的
方法，滚卷而成——
嗅树木的
只是狗群中的
一只狗。这里
还剩什么？有何事可做？
其余的狗都去
追兔子了
只有这只跛腿的站着
用三只脚。前抓后刨。
挖出
一根发霉的骨头。
因为开头肯定就是
结尾——因为我们不知道任何
超越我们自己的复杂性的
单纯而简朴的东西。
但是不可能
走回头了；从浑沌中滚卷起
九个月的奇迹，这城市
就是人，两者一体——不可能
用别的方式——一种
双向的相互渗透。滚卷
起来！正面的，反面的；
喝醉的、清醒的；杰出的
粗俗的；都是一个。在无知中
有某种知识，无法
驱散，毁灭了自己。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
公牛
它给逮住了--
圈起来，套上笼头
栓在一个大靶上
那公牛天神一般
不象母牛们
它独个儿生活，小心地
用鼻子闻闻芳香的草
来打发时光
它跪下，卧倒
伸出前腿舐舐
自己蹄子的周围
然后停住
双眼半闭着
对大好时光的消逝
作高傲的评论
--那圆太阳
透过
光亮的松树林
把它的漆皮毛弄平正
它躯体硬朗
如象牙或玻璃--
风还在
中间嬉戏--
没有奶
它摆动
两角之间的毛
风信子的卷须
罩住了它的双眼
袁可嘉 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
红色手推车
这么多
全靠
一辆红轮子的
手推车
因为雨水
而闪光
旁边是一群
白色的小鸡。
郑敏 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
为一位穷苦的老妇人而写
嚼着一枚李子
在大街上，手里
拿着一口袋李子
味道真好，对于她
味道真好，它们吃起来
味道其好
你看得出来
从那神态沉醉在
她手中那半个
吸吮过的。
得到宽慰
一种熟李子的安慰
似乎充满了空间
它们味道真好。
郑敏 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
槐树花开
丛中
一
厚
硬
枯
亮
的断
枝
又
现
白
香
五月
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
诗之比喻
白杨林中有只鸟！
它是太阳！
树叶是小黄鱼
在河里游。
鸟在鱼上飞掠，
翅膀驮着白昼。
福玻斯！
是他使白杨
发出耀眼的光芒！
是他的歌声
压倒风中
哗哗作响的叶声。
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
南塔基特岛
窗外的花朵
淡紫金黄
变幻在白窗帘上──
闻之清爽──
午后的阳光──
玻璃盘上有个
玻璃罐，平底杯
倒摆着，旁边
丢一把钥匙──还有
洁白的床
郑建青 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
大数字
雨中
灯下
我看见
一辆红
救火车上
金色的
数字5
救火车
急匆匆
不顾一切
敲铃
伙裁
车轮辘辘
驰过黑暗的城市。
郑建青 译
这几张脸在人群中幻景般闪现；
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
这几张脸在人群中幻景般闪现；
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
Petals on a wet, black bough.
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
Petals on a wet, black bough.
【赏析】 《在地铁站内》仅两行、14个字，是一首单一意象诗（one-image poem）。它是庞德根据在巴黎协和广场地铁站的印象写成的。诗虽短，但诗人最后落笔定稿前经过相当一段时间的酝酿和推敲。
在地铁站庞德眼前闪过一张张美丽的脸。在归途中，这些脸在他眼前反复出现，直到最后他们逐渐变成了一片片彩色印花色底。这时他产生了一个念头，要作出一幅纯粹表现色彩的斑斑点点的非写实主义的画，但他不会作画，只能以诗代之。诗的两行互相依存。apparition是幻象、幽灵，使人们联想到来来往往的乘客的一张张脸。第二行的petal花瓣则传递了美的信息。这一信息由于有深色而又带湿气的树枝的反衬而变得突出鲜明了，同时也给人以模糊重叠之感，意境也就更丰满了。
此诗酷似19世纪法国印象主义画派作品，如反复诵读，读者能勾画出一幅色彩丰富的画面。与此同时也会发现诗歌在音的处理上很巧妙。第一行的［p］音与第二行的［p］音遥相呼应，但其中一个只构成非重读音节；两行末尾均有［au］音，只是前者有辅音［d］，后者没有。第二行中［e］音的重复等都加强了这首短诗的音乐感。以湿润的黑色树枝上挂着的花瓣来比喻他眼前所闪现的脸反映出诗人令人折服的想象力。
我的爱人是深深藏在
水底的火焰。
－我的爱人是欢乐的亲切的
我的爱人象水底的火焰
难寻踪影。
风的手指
给她带去
脆弱的
快速的问候。
我的爱人是欢乐的
亲切的
难于
相逢
象水底的火焰
难于相逢。
that hides beneath the waters
my love is gay and kind
my love is hard to find
as the flame beneath of the waters
the fingers of the wind
meet hers
with a frail
swift greeting
my love is gay
and kind
and hard
of meeting
as the flame beneath the waters
hard of meeting
水底的火焰。
－我的爱人是欢乐的亲切的
我的爱人象水底的火焰
难寻踪影。
风的手指
给她带去
脆弱的
快速的问候。
我的爱人是欢乐的
亲切的
难于
相逢
象水底的火焰
难于相逢。
that hides beneath the waters
my love is gay and kind
my love is hard to find
as the flame beneath of the waters
the fingers of the wind
meet hers
with a frail
swift greeting
my love is gay
and kind
and hard
of meeting
as the flame beneath the waters
hard of meeting
I
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has since been killed
in France). Thomas, writing in the "English Review" (then in its
brightest days under the editorship of Ford Madox Hueffer),
recognized the first-hand intensity of feeling in "Personae":
He has ... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of
modern versifiers.... He has not the current melancholy or
resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of
feeling for nature which runs to minute description and
decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any
living writers;... full of personality and with such power
to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most
of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure grave,
passionate world.... The beauty of it (In Praise of Ysolt)
is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of
beautiful words and images and suggestions ... the thought
dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here
(Idyll for Glaucus) the effect is full of human passion and
natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of
modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a
subject.
Mr. Scott James, in the "Daily News," speaks in praise of his
metres:
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and
rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without
beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem
to have a law and order of their own; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of
infectious beauty to his words. Sometimes there is a strange
beating of anapaests when he quickens to his subject; again
and again he unexpectedly ends a line with the second half
of a reverberant hexameter:
"Flesh shrouded, bearing the secret."
... And a few lines later comes an example of his favourite
use of spondee, followed by dactyl and spondee, which comes
in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance
of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and
distinctive vigour:
"Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes."
Another line like the end of a hexameter is
"But if e'er I come to my love's land."
But even so favourable a critic pauses to remark that
He baffles us by archaic words and unfamiliar metres; he
often seems to be scorning the limitations of form and
metre, breaking out into any sort of expression which suits
itself to his mood.
and counsels the poet to "have a little more respect for his
art."
It is, in fact, just this adaptability of metre to mood,
an adaptability due to an intensive study of metre, that
constitutes an important element in Pound's technique. Few
readers were prepared to accept or follow the amount of
erudition which entered into "Personae" and its close successor,
"Exultations," or to devote the care to reading them which they
demand. It is here that many have been led astray. Pound is not
one of those poets who make no demand of the reader; and the
casual reader of verse, disconcerted by the difference between
Pound's poetry and that on which his taste has been trained,
attributes his own difficulties to excessive scholarship on the
part of the author. "This," he will say of some of the poems in
Provencal form or on Provencal subjects, "is archaeology; it
requires knowledge on the part of its reader, and true poetry
does not require such knowledge." But to display knowledge is
not the same thing as to expect it on the part of the reader;
and of this sort of pedantry Pound is quite free. He is, it is
true, one of the most learned of poets. In America he had taken
up the study of Romance Languages with the intention of
teaching. After work in Spain and Italy, after pursuing the
Provencal verb from Milan to Freiburg, he deserted the thesis
on Lope de Vega and the Ph.D. and the professorial chair,
and elected to remain in Europe. Mr. Pound has spoken out
his mind from time to time on the subject of scholarship in
American universities, its deadness, its isolation from genuine
appreciation, and the active creative life of literature. He has
always been ready to battle against pedantry. As for his own
learning, he has studied poetry carefully, and has made use of
his study in his own verse. "Personae" and "Exultations"
show his talent for turning his studies to account. He was
supersaturated in Provence; he had tramped over most of the
country; and the life of the courts where the Troubadours
thronged was part of his own life to him. Yet, though "Personae"
and "Exultations" do exact something from the reader, they do
not require a knowledge of Provencal or of Spanish or Italian.
Very few people know the Arthurian legends well, or even Malory
(if they did they might realize that the Idylls of the King are
hardly more important than a parody, or a "Chaucer retold for
Children"); but no one accuses Tennyson of needing footnotes, or
of superciliousness toward the uninstructed. The difference is
merely in what people are prepared for; most readers could no
more relate the myth of Atys correctly than they could give a
biography of Bertrand de Born. It is hardly too much to say that
there is no poem in these volumes of Mr. Pound which needs
fuller explanation than he gives himself. What the poems do
require is a trained ear, or at least the willingness to be
trained.
The metres and the use of language are unfamiliar. There are
certain traces of modern influence. We cannot agree with Mr.
Scott-James that among these are "W. E. Henley, Kipling,
Chatterton, and especially Walt Whitman"--least of all Walt
Whitman. Probably there are only two: Yeats and Browning. Yeats
in "La Fraisne," in "Personae," for instance, in the attitude
and somewhat in the vocabulary:
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men ...
For Browning, Mr. Pound has always professed strong admiration
(see "Mesmerism" in "Personae"); there are traces of him in
"Cino" and "Famam Librosque Cano," in the same volume. But it is
more profitable to comment upon the variety of metres and the
original use of language.
Ezra Pound has been fathered with vers libre in English, with
all its vices and virtues. The term is a loose one--any verse is
called "free" by people whose ears are not accustomed to it--in
the second place, Pound's use of this medium has shown the
temperance of the artist, and his belief in it as a vehicle is
not that of the fanatic. He has said himself that when one has
the proper material for a sonnet, one should use the sonnet
form; but that it happens very rarely to any poet to find
himself in possession of just the block of stuff which can
perfectly be modelled into the sonnet. It is true that up to
very recently it was impossible to get free verse printed in any
periodical except those in which Pound had influence; and
that now it is possible to print free verse (second, third, or
tenth-rate) in almost any American magazine. Who is responsible
for the bad free verse is a question of no importance, inasmuch
as its authors would have written bad verse in any form; Pound
has at least the right to be judged by the success or failure of
his own. Pound's vers libre is such as is only possible for a
poet who has worked tirelessly with rigid forms and different
systems of metric. His "Canzoni" are in a way aside from his
direct line of progress; they are much more nearly studies in
mediaeval appreciation than any of his other verse; but they are
interesting, apart from their merit, as showing the poet at work
with the most intricate Provencal forms--so intricate that the
pattern cannot be exhibited without quoting an entire poem. (M.
Jean de Bosschere, whose French is translated in the "Egoist,"
has already called attention to the fact that Pound was the
first writer in English to use five Provencal forms.) Quotation
will show, however, the great variety of rhythm which Pound
manages to introduce into the ordinary iambic pentameter:
Thy gracious ways,
O lady of my heart, have
O'er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
Tread softly 'neath the damask shield of night,
Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.
Within the iambic limits, there are no two lines in the whole
poem that have an identical rhythm.
We turn from this to a poem in "Exultations," the "Night
Litany":
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
There is evident, and more strongly in certain later poems, a
tendency toward quantitative measure. Such a "freedom" as this
lays so heavy a burden upon every word in a line that it becomes
impossible to write like Shelley, leaving blanks for the
adjectives, or like Swinburne, whose adjectives are practically
blanks. Other poets have manipulated a great variety of metres
and forms; but few have studied the forms and metres which they
use so carefully as has Pound. His ballad of the "Goodly Fere"
shows great knowledge of the ballad form:
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
And from this we turn to a very different form in the
"Altaforte," which is perhaps the best sestina that has
been written in English:
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing,
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heaven flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
I have quoted two verses to show the intricacy of the pattern.
The Provencal canzon, like the Elizabethan lyric, was written
for music. Mr. Pound has more recently insisted, in a series of
articles on the work of Arnold Dolmetsch, in the "Egoist," on
the importance of a study of music for the poet.
* * * * *
Such a relation between poetry and music is very different from
what is called the "music" of Shelley or Swinburne, a music
often nearer to rhetoric (or the art of the orator) than to the
instrument. For poetry to approach the condition of music
(Pound quotes approvingly the dictum of Pater) it is not
necessary that poetry should be destitute of meaning. Instead of
slightly veiled and resonant abstractions, like
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran--
of Swinburne, or the mossiness of Mallarme, Pound's verse is
always definite and concrete, because he has always a definite
emotion behind it.
Though I've roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose laud here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I've essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.
At the end of this poem the author appends the note:
The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal's "_Ab
l'alen tir vas me l'aire_." The song is fit only to be
sung, and is not to be spoken.
There are, here and there, deliberate archaisms or oddities
(e.g., "herward"); there are deliberately arbitrary images,
having their place in the total effect of the poem:
Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
The green sheaf of the world ...
The lotos that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup ...
Black lightning ... (in a more recent poem)
but no word is ever chosen merely for the tinkle; each has
always its part in producing an impression which is produced
always through language. Words are perhaps the hardest of
all material of art: for they must be used to express both
visual beauty and beauty of sound, as well as communicating
a grammatical statement. It would be interesting to compare
Pound's use of images with Mallarme's; I think it will be found
that the former's, by the contrast, will appear always sharp in
outline, even if arbitrary and not photographic. Such images as
those quoted above are as precise in their way as
Sur le Noel, morte saison,
Lorsque les loups vivent de vent ...
and the rest of that memorable Testament.
So much for the imagery. As to the "freedom" of his verse, Pound
has made several statements in his articles on Dolmetsch which
are to the point:
Any work of art is a compound of freedom and order. It is
perfectly obvious that art hangs between chaos on the one
side and mechanics on the other. A pedantic insistence upon
detail tends to drive out "major form." A firm hold on major
form makes for a freedom of detail. In painting men intent
on minutiae gradually lost the sense of form and form-
combination. An attempt to restore this sense is branded as
"revolution." It is revolution in the philological sense of
the term....
Art is a departure from fixed positions; felicitous
departure from a norm....
The freedom of Pound's verse is rather a state of tension due to
constant opposition between free and strict. There are not, as a
matter of fact, two kinds of verse, the strict and the free;
there is only a mastery which comes of being so well trained
that form is an instinct and can be adapted to the particular
purpose in hand.
* * * * *
After "Exultations" came the translation of the "Sonnets and
Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti." It is worth noting that the writer
of a long review in the "_Quest_"--speaking in praise of the
translation, yet found fault with the author not on the ground
of excessive mediaevalism, but because
he is concerned rather with the future than with a somewhat
remote past, so that in spite of his love for the mediaeval
poets, his very accomplishment as a distinctly modern poet
makes against his success as a wholly acceptable translator
of Cavalcanti, the heir of the Troubadours, the scholastic.
Yet the _Daily News_, in criticising "Canzoni," had remarked
that Mr. Pound
seems to us rather a scholar than a poet, and we should like
to see him giving his unusual talent more to direct
translation from the Provencal.
and Mr. J. C. Squire (now the literary editor of the _New
Statesman_), in an appreciative review in the _New Age_, had
counselled the poet that he would
gain and not lose if he could forget all about the poets of
Dante's day, their roses and their flames, their gold and
their falcons, and their literary amorousness, and walk out
of the library into the fresh air.
In "Ripostes" there are traces of a different idiom.
Superficially, the work may appear less important. The diction
is more restrained, the flights shorter, the dexterity of
technique is less arresting. By romantic readers the book would
be considered less "passionate." But there is a much more solid
substratum to this book; there is more thought; greater depth,
if less agitation on the surface. The effect of London is
apparent; the author has become a critic of men, surveying them
from a consistent and developed point of view; he is more
formidable and disconcerting; in short, much more mature.
That he abandons nothing of his technical skill is evident from
the translation from the Anglo-Saxon, the "Seafarer." It is
not a slight achievement to have brought to life alliterative
verse: perhaps the "Seafarer" is the only successful piece of
alliterative verse ever written in modern English; alliterative
verse which is not merely a clever tour de force, but which
suggests the possibility of a new development of this form. Mr.
Richard Aldington (whose own accomplishments as a writer of vers
libre qualify him to speak) called the poem "unsurpassed and
unsurpassable," and a writer in the _New Age_ (a literary organ
which has always been strongly opposed to metrical innovations)
called it "one of the finest literary works of art produced in
England during the last ten years." And the rough, stern beauty
of the Anglo-Saxon, we may remark, is at the opposite pole from
that of the Provencal and Italian poets to whom Pound had
previously devoted his attention.
May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
But we can notice in "Ripostes" other evidences than of
versatility only; certain poems show Mr. Pound turning to more
modern subjects, as in the "Portrait d'une femme," or the
mordant epigram, "An Object." Many readers are apt to confuse
the maturing of personality with desiccation of the emotions.
There is no desiccation in "Ripostes." This should be evident to
anyone who reads carefully such a poem as "A Girl." We quote it
entire without comment.
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast--
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child--_so_ high--you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
"The Return" is an important study in verse which is really
quantitative. We quote only a few lines:
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
"Ripostes" belongs to the period when Mr. Pound was being
attacked because of his propaganda. He became known as the
inventor of "Imagism," and later, as the "High Priest of
Vorticism." As a matter of fact, the actual "propaganda" of Mr.
Pound has been very small in quantity. The impression which his
personality made, however, is suggested by the following note in
"_Punch_," which is always a pretty reliable barometer of the
English middle-class Grin:
Mr. Welkin Mark (exactly opposite Long Jane's) begs to
announce that he has secured for the English market the
palpitating works of the new Montana (U.S.A.) poet, Mr.
Ezekiel Ton, who is the most remarkable thing in poetry
since Robert Browning. Mr. Ton, who has left America to
reside for a while in London and impress his personality on
English editors, publishers and readers, is by far the
newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may say. He
has succeeded, where all others have failed, in evolving a
blend of the imagery of the unfettered West, the vocabulary
of Wardour Street, and the sinister abandon of Borgiac
Italy.
In 1913, someone writing to the New York _Nation_ from the
University of Illinois, illustrates the American, more serious,
disapproval. This writer begins by expressing his objections to
the "principle of Futurism." (Pound has perhaps done more than
anyone to keep Futurism out of England. His antagonism to this
movement was the first which was not due merely to unintelligent
dislike for anything new, and was due to his perception that
Futurism was incompatible with any principles of form. In his
own words, Futurism is "accelerated impressionism.") The writer
in the _Nation_ then goes on to analyze the modern "hypertrophy
of romanticism" into
The exaggeration of the importance of a personal emotion.
The abandonment of all standards of form.
The suppression of all evidence that a particular composition
is animated by any directing intelligence.
As for the first point, here are Mr. Pound's words in answer to
the question, "do you agree that the great poet is never
emotional?"
Yes, absolutely; if by emotion is meant that he is at the
mercy of every passing mood.... The only kind of emotion
worthy of a poet is the inspirational emotion which
energises and strengthens, and which is very remote from the
everyday emotion of sloppiness and sentiment....
And as for the platform of Imagism, here are a few of Pound's
"Don'ts for Imagists":
Pay no attention to the criticisms of men who have never
themselves written a notable work.
Use no superfluous word and no adjective which does not
reveal something.
Go in fear of abstractions. Don't retail in mediocre verse
what has already been done in good prose.
Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the
art of music or that you can please the expert before you
have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as
the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.
Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, but have
the decency either to acknowledge the debt outright or try
to conceal it.
Consider the definiteness of Dante's presentation as
compared with Milton's. Read as much of Wordsworth as does
not seem to be unutterably dull.
If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus,
Villon when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too
frigid, or if yon have not the tongues seek out the
leisurely Chaucer.
Good prose will do you no harm. There is good discipline to
be had by trying to write it. Translation is also good
training.
The emphasis here is certainly on discipline and form. The
Chicago _Tribune_ recognized this as "sound sense," adding:
If this is Imagism ... we are for establishing Imagism by
constitutional amendment and imprisoning without recourse to
ink or paper all "literary" ladies or gents who break any of
these canons.
But other reviewers were less approving. While the writer in the
_Nation_, quoted above, dreads the anarchy impending, Mr.
William Archer was terrified at the prospect of hieratic
formalisation. Mr. Archer believes in the simple untaught muse:
Mr. Pound's commandments tend too much to make of poetry a
learned, self-conscious craft, to be cultivated by a guild
of adepts, from whose austere laboratories spontaneity and
simplicity are excluded.... A great deal of the best poetry
in the world has very little technical study behind it....
There are scores and hundreds of people in England who could
write this simple metre (i.e. of "A Shropshire Lad")
successfully.
To be hanged for a cat and drowned for a rat is, perhaps,
sufficient exculpation.
Probably Mr. Pound has won odium not so much by his theories as
by his unstinted praise of certain contemporary authors whose
work he has liked. Such expressions of approval are usually
taken as a grievance--much more so than any personal abuse,
which is comparatively a compliment--by the writers who escape
his mention. He does not say "A., B., and C. are bad poets or
novelists," but when he says "The work of X., Y., and Z. is in
such and such respects the most important work in verse (or
prose) since so and so," then A., B., and C. are aggrieved.
Also, Pound has frequently expressed disapproval of Milton and
Wordsworth.
After "Ripostes," Mr. Pound's idiom has advanced still farther.
Inasmuch as "Cathay," the volume of translations from the
Chinese, appeared prior to "Lustra," it is sometimes thought
that his newer idiom is due to the Chinese influence. This is
almost the reverse of the truth. The late Ernest Fenollosa left
a quantity of manuscripts, including a great number of rough
translations (literally exact) from the Chinese. After certain
poems subsequently incorporated in "Lustra" had appeared in
"Poetry," Mrs. Fenollosa recognized that in Pound the Chinese
manuscripts would find the interpreter whom her husband would
have wished; she accordingly forwarded the papers for him to do
as he liked with. It is thus due to Mrs. Fenollosa's acumen that
we have "Cathay"; it is not as a consequence of "Cathay" that we
have "Lustra." This fact must be borne in mind.
Poems afterward embodied in "Lustra" appeared in "Poetry," in
April, 1913, under the title of "Contemporanea." They included
among others "Tenzone," "The Condolence," "The Garret,"
"Salutation the Second," and "Dance Figure."
There are influences, but deviously. It is rather a gradual
development of experience into which literary experiences have
entered. These have not brought the bondage of temporary
enthusiasms, but have liberated the poet from his former
restricted sphere. There is Catullus and Martial, Gautier,
Laforgue and Tristan Corbiere. Whitman is certainly not an
influence; there is not a trace of him anywhere; Whitman and Mr.
Pound are antipodean to each other. Of "Contemporanea" the
_Chicago Evening Post_ discriminatingly observed:
Your poems in the April _Poetry_ are so mockingly, so
delicately, so unblushingly beautiful that you seem to have
brought back into the world a grace which (probably) never
existed, but which we discover by an imaginative process in
Horace and Catullus.
It was a true insight to ally Pound to the Latin, not to the
Greek poets.
Certain of the poems in "Lustra" have offended admirers of the
verse of the "Personae" period. When a poet alters or develops,
many of his admirers are sure to drop off. Any poet, if he is to
survive as a writer beyond his twenty-fifth year, must alter; he
must seek new literary influences; he will have different
emotions to express. This is disconcerting to that public which
likes a poet to spin his whole work out of the feelings of his
youth; which likes to be able to open a new volume of his poems
with the assurance that they will be able to approach it exactly
as they approached the preceding. They do not like that constant
readjustment which the following of Mr. Pound's work demands.
Thus has "Lustra" been a disappointment to some; though it
manifests no falling off in technique, and no impoverishment
of feeling. Some of the poems (including several of the
"Contemporanea") are a more direct statement of views than
Pound's verse had ever given before. Of these poems, M. Jean de
Bosschere writes:
Everywhere his poems incite man to exist, to profess a
becoming egotism, without which there can be no real
altruism.
I beseech you enter your life.
I beseech you learn to say "I"
When I question you.
For you are no part, but a whole;
No portion, but a being.
... One must be capable of reacting to stimuli for a moment,
as a real, live person, even in face of as much of one's own
powers as are arrayed against one;... The virile complaint,
the revolt of the poet, all which shows his emotion,--that
is poetry.
Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.
Be against all forms of oppression,
Go out and defy opinion.
This is the old cry of the poet, but more precise, as an
expression of frank disgust:
Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family.
O, how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree without shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.
Each poem holds out these cries of revolt or disgust, but
they are the result of his still hoping and feeling:
Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities. Pound ...
has experience of the folly of the Philistines who read his
verse. Real pain is born of this stupid interpretation, and
one does not realize how deep it is unless one can feel,
through the ejaculations and the laughter, what has caused
these wounds, which are made deeper by what he knows, and
what he has lost....
The tone, which is at once jocund and keen, is one of
Pound's qualities. Ovid, Catullus--he does not disown them.
He only uses these accents for his familiars; with the
others he is on the edge of paradox, pamphleteering, indeed
of abuse....
This is the proper approach to the poems at the beginning of
"Lustra," and to the short epigrams, which some readers find
"pointless," or certainly "not poetry." They should read, then,
the "Dance Figure," or "Near Perigord," and remember that all
these poems come out of the same man.
Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark;
Thy face as a river with lights.
White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk.
Or the ending of "Near Perigord":
Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezere
Poppies and day's-eyes in the green email
Rose over us; and we knew all that stream,
And our two horses had traced out the valleys;
Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars,
In the young days when the deep sky befriended.
And great wings beat above us in the twilight,
And the great wheels in heaven
Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ...
Believing we should meet with lips and hands ...
There shut up in his castle, Tairiran's,
She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands,
Gone, ah, gone--untouched, unreachable!
She who could never live save through one person,
She who could never speak save to one person,
And all the rest of her a shifting change,
A broken bundle of mirrors...!
Then turn at once to "To a Friend Writing on Cabaret Dancers."
It is easy to say that the language of "Cathay" is due to the
Chinese. If one looks carefully at (1) Pound's other verse, (2)
other people's translations from the Chinese (e.g., Giles's), it
is evident that this is not the case. The language was ready for
the Chinese poetry. Compare, for instance, a passage from
"Provincia Deserta":
I have walked
into Perigord
I have seen the torch-flames, high-leaping,
Painting the front of that church,--
And, under the dark, whirling laughter,
I have looked back over the stream
and seen the high building,
Seen the long minarets, the white shafts.
I have gone in Ribeyrac,
and in Sarlat.
I have climbed rickety stairs, heard talk of Croy,
Walked over En Bertran's old layout,
Have seen Narbonne, and Cahors and Chalus,
Have seen Excideuil, carefully fashioned.
with a passage from "The River Song":
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.
It matters very little how much is due to Rihaku and how much to
Pound. Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer has observed: "If these are
original verses, then Mr. Pound is the greatest poet of this
day." He goes on to say:
The poems in "Cathay" are things of a supreme beauty. What
poetry should be, that they are. And if a new breath of
imagery and handling can do anything for our poetry, that
new breath these poems bring....
Poetry consists in so rendering concrete objects that the
emotions produced by the objects shall arise in the
reader....
Where have you better rendered, or more permanently
beautiful a rendering of, the feelings of one of those
lonely watchers, in the outposts of progress, whether it be
Ovid in Hyrcania, a Roman sentinel upon the great wall of
this country, or merely ourselves, in the lonely recesses of
our minds, than the "Lament of the Frontier Guard"?...
Beauty is a very valuable thing; perhaps it is the most
valuable thing in life; but the power to express emotion so
that it shall communicate itself intact and exactly is
almost more valuable. Of both these qualities Mr. Pound's
book is very full. Therefore, I think we may say that this
is much the best work he has done, for, however closely he
may have followed his originals--and of that most of us have
no means of judging--there is certainly a good deal of Mr.
Pound in this little volume.
"Cathay" and "Lustra" were followed by the translations of Noh
plays. The Noh are not so important as the Chinese poems
(certainly not so important for English); the attitude is less
unusual to us; the work is not so solid, so firm. "Cathay" will,
I believe, rank with the "Sea-Farer" in the future among Mr.
Pound's original work; the Noh will rank among his translations.
It is rather a dessert after "Cathay." There are, however,
passages which, as Pound has handled them, are different both
from the Chinese and from anything existent in English. There
is, for example, the fine speech of the old Kagekiyo, as he
thinks of his youthful valour:
He thought, how easy this killing. He rushed with his
spearshaft gripped under his arm. He cried out, "I am
Kagekiyo of the Heike." He rushed on to take them. He
pierced through the helmet vizards of Miyanoya. Miyanoya
fled twice, and again; and Kagekiyo cried: "You shall not
escape me!" He leaped and wrenched off his helmet. "Eya!"
The vizard broke and remained in his hand, and Miyanoya
still fled afar, and afar, and he looked back crying in
terror, "How terrible, how heavy your arm!" And Kagekiyo
called at him, "How tough the shaft of your neck is!" And
they both laughed out over the battle, and went off each his
own way.
The "Times Literary Supplement" spoke of Mr. Pound's "mastery of
beautiful diction" and his "cunningly rhythmically prose," in
its review of the "Noh."
Even since "Lustra," Mr. Pound has moved again. This move is to
the epic, of which three cantos appear in the American "Lustra"
(they have already appeared in "Poetry"--Miss Monroe deserves
great honour for her courage in printing an epic poem in this
twentieth century--but the version in "Lustra" is revised and is
improved by revision). We will leave it as a test: when anyone
has studied Mr. Pound's poems in _chronological_ order, and has
mastered "Lustra" and "Cathay," he is prepared for the Cantos--
but not till then. If the reader then fails to like them, he has
probably omitted some step in his progress, and had better go
back and retrace the journey.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
BOOKS AND PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
NOTABLE CRITICAL ARTICLES
BY EZRA POUND
POEMS
A LUME SPENTO (100 copies). Antonelli, Venice, June, 1908.
A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE.
First 100 printed by Pollock, London, December, 1908.
Second 100 published under Elkin Mathews' imprint, London,
December, 1908.
PERSONAE. Mathews, London, Spring, 1909.
EXULTATIONS. Mathews, London, Autumn, 1909.
PROSE
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE. Dent, London, 1910.
POEMS
PROVENCA (a _select_ion of poems from "Personae" and
"Exultations" with new poems). Small Maynard, Boston, 1910.
CANZONI. Mathews, London, 1911.
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI (translated).
Small Maynard, Boston, 1912.
A cheaper edition of the same, Swift and Co., London, 1912.
The bulk of this edition destroyed by fire.
RIPOSTES. Swift, London, 1912.
(_Note_.--This book contains the first announcement of
Imagism, in the foreword to the poems of T. E. Hulme.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"A FEW DON'TS BY AN IMAGISTE," in "Poetry," for March, 1913.
"CONTEMPORANIA" (poems), in "Poetry," April, 1913.
POEMS
PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, CANZONI, RIPOSTES, published in two
volumes. Mathews, London, 1913.
FIRST OF THE NOTES ON JAMES JOYCE, "Egoist," January, 1914.
FIRST OF THE ARTICLES CONCERNING GAUDIER-BRZESKA, "Egoist,"
February, 1914.
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"DES IMAGISTES," poems by several authors _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, published as a number of "The Glebe," in New York.
February, 1914.
Alfred Kreymborg was at this time editor of "The Glebe." The
first arrangements for the anthology were made through the
kind offices of John Cournos during the winter of 1912-13.
The English edition of this anthology published by The Poetry
Book Shop. London, 1914.
ARTICLE ON WYNDHAM LEWIS, "Egoist," June 15, 1914.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO FIRST NUMBER OF "Blast," June 20, 1914.
"VORTICISM," an article in "The Fortnightly Review," September,
1914.
"GAUDIER-BRZESKA," an article in "The New Age," February 4,
1915.
CONTRIBUTIONS to second number of "Blast," 1915.
POEMS
CATHAY. Mathews, London, April, 1915. (Translations from the
Chinese from the notes of Ernest Fenollosa.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
THE CATHOLIC ANTHOLOGY, edited by Ezra Pound. Mathews, London,
December, 1915.
GAUDIER-BRZESKA, a memoir. John Lane, London and New York, 1916.
LUSTRA (poems) public edition, pp. 116. Mathews, London, 1916.
200 copies privately printed and numbered, pp. 124.
CERTAIN NOBLE PLAYS OF JAPAN. Cuala Press, Dundrum, Ireland,
1916. Translated by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound, with an
introduction by William Butler Yeats.
NOH, or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of
Japan, including translations of fifteen plays, by Ernest
Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. Macmillan, London, 1917. Knopf, New
York, 1917.
PASSAGES FROM THE LETTERS OF JOHN BUTLER YEATS, _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, with brief editorial note. Cuala Press, 1917.
LUSTRA, with Earlier Poems, Knopf, New York, 1917. (This
collection of Mr. Pound's poems contains all that he now
thinks fit to republish.)
There is also a privately-printed edition of fifty copies,
with a reproduction of a drawing of Ezra Pound by Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska (New York, 1917).
PAVANNES and DIVISIONS (Prose), in preparation. Knopf,
New York.
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has since been killed
in France). Thomas, writing in the "English Review" (then in its
brightest days under the editorship of Ford Madox Hueffer),
recognized the first-hand intensity of feeling in "Personae":
He has ... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of
modern versifiers.... He has not the current melancholy or
resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of
feeling for nature which runs to minute description and
decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any
living writers;... full of personality and with such power
to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most
of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure grave,
passionate world.... The beauty of it (In Praise of Ysolt)
is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of
beautiful words and images and suggestions ... the thought
dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here
(Idyll for Glaucus) the effect is full of human passion and
natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of
modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a
subject.
Mr. Scott James, in the "Daily News," speaks in praise of his
metres:
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and
rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without
beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem
to have a law and order of their own; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of
infectious beauty to his words. Sometimes there is a strange
beating of anapaests when he quickens to his subject; again
and again he unexpectedly ends a line with the second half
of a reverberant hexameter:
"Flesh shrouded, bearing the secret."
... And a few lines later comes an example of his favourite
use of spondee, followed by dactyl and spondee, which comes
in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance
of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and
distinctive vigour:
"Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes."
Another line like the end of a hexameter is
"But if e'er I come to my love's land."
But even so favourable a critic pauses to remark that
He baffles us by archaic words and unfamiliar metres; he
often seems to be scorning the limitations of form and
metre, breaking out into any sort of expression which suits
itself to his mood.
and counsels the poet to "have a little more respect for his
art."
It is, in fact, just this adaptability of metre to mood,
an adaptability due to an intensive study of metre, that
constitutes an important element in Pound's technique. Few
readers were prepared to accept or follow the amount of
erudition which entered into "Personae" and its close successor,
"Exultations," or to devote the care to reading them which they
demand. It is here that many have been led astray. Pound is not
one of those poets who make no demand of the reader; and the
casual reader of verse, disconcerted by the difference between
Pound's poetry and that on which his taste has been trained,
attributes his own difficulties to excessive scholarship on the
part of the author. "This," he will say of some of the poems in
Provencal form or on Provencal subjects, "is archaeology; it
requires knowledge on the part of its reader, and true poetry
does not require such knowledge." But to display knowledge is
not the same thing as to expect it on the part of the reader;
and of this sort of pedantry Pound is quite free. He is, it is
true, one of the most learned of poets. In America he had taken
up the study of Romance Languages with the intention of
teaching. After work in Spain and Italy, after pursuing the
Provencal verb from Milan to Freiburg, he deserted the thesis
on Lope de Vega and the Ph.D. and the professorial chair,
and elected to remain in Europe. Mr. Pound has spoken out
his mind from time to time on the subject of scholarship in
American universities, its deadness, its isolation from genuine
appreciation, and the active creative life of literature. He has
always been ready to battle against pedantry. As for his own
learning, he has studied poetry carefully, and has made use of
his study in his own verse. "Personae" and "Exultations"
show his talent for turning his studies to account. He was
supersaturated in Provence; he had tramped over most of the
country; and the life of the courts where the Troubadours
thronged was part of his own life to him. Yet, though "Personae"
and "Exultations" do exact something from the reader, they do
not require a knowledge of Provencal or of Spanish or Italian.
Very few people know the Arthurian legends well, or even Malory
(if they did they might realize that the Idylls of the King are
hardly more important than a parody, or a "Chaucer retold for
Children"); but no one accuses Tennyson of needing footnotes, or
of superciliousness toward the uninstructed. The difference is
merely in what people are prepared for; most readers could no
more relate the myth of Atys correctly than they could give a
biography of Bertrand de Born. It is hardly too much to say that
there is no poem in these volumes of Mr. Pound which needs
fuller explanation than he gives himself. What the poems do
require is a trained ear, or at least the willingness to be
trained.
The metres and the use of language are unfamiliar. There are
certain traces of modern influence. We cannot agree with Mr.
Scott-James that among these are "W. E. Henley, Kipling,
Chatterton, and especially Walt Whitman"--least of all Walt
Whitman. Probably there are only two: Yeats and Browning. Yeats
in "La Fraisne," in "Personae," for instance, in the attitude
and somewhat in the vocabulary:
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men ...
For Browning, Mr. Pound has always professed strong admiration
(see "Mesmerism" in "Personae"); there are traces of him in
"Cino" and "Famam Librosque Cano," in the same volume. But it is
more profitable to comment upon the variety of metres and the
original use of language.
Ezra Pound has been fathered with vers libre in English, with
all its vices and virtues. The term is a loose one--any verse is
called "free" by people whose ears are not accustomed to it--in
the second place, Pound's use of this medium has shown the
temperance of the artist, and his belief in it as a vehicle is
not that of the fanatic. He has said himself that when one has
the proper material for a sonnet, one should use the sonnet
form; but that it happens very rarely to any poet to find
himself in possession of just the block of stuff which can
perfectly be modelled into the sonnet. It is true that up to
very recently it was impossible to get free verse printed in any
periodical except those in which Pound had influence; and
that now it is possible to print free verse (second, third, or
tenth-rate) in almost any American magazine. Who is responsible
for the bad free verse is a question of no importance, inasmuch
as its authors would have written bad verse in any form; Pound
has at least the right to be judged by the success or failure of
his own. Pound's vers libre is such as is only possible for a
poet who has worked tirelessly with rigid forms and different
systems of metric. His "Canzoni" are in a way aside from his
direct line of progress; they are much more nearly studies in
mediaeval appreciation than any of his other verse; but they are
interesting, apart from their merit, as showing the poet at work
with the most intricate Provencal forms--so intricate that the
pattern cannot be exhibited without quoting an entire poem. (M.
Jean de Bosschere, whose French is translated in the "Egoist,"
has already called attention to the fact that Pound was the
first writer in English to use five Provencal forms.) Quotation
will show, however, the great variety of rhythm which Pound
manages to introduce into the ordinary iambic pentameter:
Thy gracious ways,
O lady of my heart, have
O'er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
Tread softly 'neath the damask shield of night,
Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.
Within the iambic limits, there are no two lines in the whole
poem that have an identical rhythm.
We turn from this to a poem in "Exultations," the "Night
Litany":
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
There is evident, and more strongly in certain later poems, a
tendency toward quantitative measure. Such a "freedom" as this
lays so heavy a burden upon every word in a line that it becomes
impossible to write like Shelley, leaving blanks for the
adjectives, or like Swinburne, whose adjectives are practically
blanks. Other poets have manipulated a great variety of metres
and forms; but few have studied the forms and metres which they
use so carefully as has Pound. His ballad of the "Goodly Fere"
shows great knowledge of the ballad form:
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
And from this we turn to a very different form in the
"Altaforte," which is perhaps the best sestina that has
been written in English:
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing,
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heaven flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
I have quoted two verses to show the intricacy of the pattern.
The Provencal canzon, like the Elizabethan lyric, was written
for music. Mr. Pound has more recently insisted, in a series of
articles on the work of Arnold Dolmetsch, in the "Egoist," on
the importance of a study of music for the poet.
* * * * *
Such a relation between poetry and music is very different from
what is called the "music" of Shelley or Swinburne, a music
often nearer to rhetoric (or the art of the orator) than to the
instrument. For poetry to approach the condition of music
(Pound quotes approvingly the dictum of Pater) it is not
necessary that poetry should be destitute of meaning. Instead of
slightly veiled and resonant abstractions, like
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran--
of Swinburne, or the mossiness of Mallarme, Pound's verse is
always definite and concrete, because he has always a definite
emotion behind it.
Though I've roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose laud here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I've essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.
At the end of this poem the author appends the note:
The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal's "_Ab
l'alen tir vas me l'aire_." The song is fit only to be
sung, and is not to be spoken.
There are, here and there, deliberate archaisms or oddities
(e.g., "herward"); there are deliberately arbitrary images,
having their place in the total effect of the poem:
Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
The green sheaf of the world ...
The lotos that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup ...
Black lightning ... (in a more recent poem)
but no word is ever chosen merely for the tinkle; each has
always its part in producing an impression which is produced
always through language. Words are perhaps the hardest of
all material of art: for they must be used to express both
visual beauty and beauty of sound, as well as communicating
a grammatical statement. It would be interesting to compare
Pound's use of images with Mallarme's; I think it will be found
that the former's, by the contrast, will appear always sharp in
outline, even if arbitrary and not photographic. Such images as
those quoted above are as precise in their way as
Sur le Noel, morte saison,
Lorsque les loups vivent de vent ...
and the rest of that memorable Testament.
So much for the imagery. As to the "freedom" of his verse, Pound
has made several statements in his articles on Dolmetsch which
are to the point:
Any work of art is a compound of freedom and order. It is
perfectly obvious that art hangs between chaos on the one
side and mechanics on the other. A pedantic insistence upon
detail tends to drive out "major form." A firm hold on major
form makes for a freedom of detail. In painting men intent
on minutiae gradually lost the sense of form and form-
combination. An attempt to restore this sense is branded as
"revolution." It is revolution in the philological sense of
the term....
Art is a departure from fixed positions; felicitous
departure from a norm....
The freedom of Pound's verse is rather a state of tension due to
constant opposition between free and strict. There are not, as a
matter of fact, two kinds of verse, the strict and the free;
there is only a mastery which comes of being so well trained
that form is an instinct and can be adapted to the particular
purpose in hand.
* * * * *
After "Exultations" came the translation of the "Sonnets and
Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti." It is worth noting that the writer
of a long review in the "_Quest_"--speaking in praise of the
translation, yet found fault with the author not on the ground
of excessive mediaevalism, but because
he is concerned rather with the future than with a somewhat
remote past, so that in spite of his love for the mediaeval
poets, his very accomplishment as a distinctly modern poet
makes against his success as a wholly acceptable translator
of Cavalcanti, the heir of the Troubadours, the scholastic.
Yet the _Daily News_, in criticising "Canzoni," had remarked
that Mr. Pound
seems to us rather a scholar than a poet, and we should like
to see him giving his unusual talent more to direct
translation from the Provencal.
and Mr. J. C. Squire (now the literary editor of the _New
Statesman_), in an appreciative review in the _New Age_, had
counselled the poet that he would
gain and not lose if he could forget all about the poets of
Dante's day, their roses and their flames, their gold and
their falcons, and their literary amorousness, and walk out
of the library into the fresh air.
In "Ripostes" there are traces of a different idiom.
Superficially, the work may appear less important. The diction
is more restrained, the flights shorter, the dexterity of
technique is less arresting. By romantic readers the book would
be considered less "passionate." But there is a much more solid
substratum to this book; there is more thought; greater depth,
if less agitation on the surface. The effect of London is
apparent; the author has become a critic of men, surveying them
from a consistent and developed point of view; he is more
formidable and disconcerting; in short, much more mature.
That he abandons nothing of his technical skill is evident from
the translation from the Anglo-Saxon, the "Seafarer." It is
not a slight achievement to have brought to life alliterative
verse: perhaps the "Seafarer" is the only successful piece of
alliterative verse ever written in modern English; alliterative
verse which is not merely a clever tour de force, but which
suggests the possibility of a new development of this form. Mr.
Richard Aldington (whose own accomplishments as a writer of vers
libre qualify him to speak) called the poem "unsurpassed and
unsurpassable," and a writer in the _New Age_ (a literary organ
which has always been strongly opposed to metrical innovations)
called it "one of the finest literary works of art produced in
England during the last ten years." And the rough, stern beauty
of the Anglo-Saxon, we may remark, is at the opposite pole from
that of the Provencal and Italian poets to whom Pound had
previously devoted his attention.
May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
But we can notice in "Ripostes" other evidences than of
versatility only; certain poems show Mr. Pound turning to more
modern subjects, as in the "Portrait d'une femme," or the
mordant epigram, "An Object." Many readers are apt to confuse
the maturing of personality with desiccation of the emotions.
There is no desiccation in "Ripostes." This should be evident to
anyone who reads carefully such a poem as "A Girl." We quote it
entire without comment.
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast--
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child--_so_ high--you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
"The Return" is an important study in verse which is really
quantitative. We quote only a few lines:
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
"Ripostes" belongs to the period when Mr. Pound was being
attacked because of his propaganda. He became known as the
inventor of "Imagism," and later, as the "High Priest of
Vorticism." As a matter of fact, the actual "propaganda" of Mr.
Pound has been very small in quantity. The impression which his
personality made, however, is suggested by the following note in
"_Punch_," which is always a pretty reliable barometer of the
English middle-class Grin:
Mr. Welkin Mark (exactly opposite Long Jane's) begs to
announce that he has secured for the English market the
palpitating works of the new Montana (U.S.A.) poet, Mr.
Ezekiel Ton, who is the most remarkable thing in poetry
since Robert Browning. Mr. Ton, who has left America to
reside for a while in London and impress his personality on
English editors, publishers and readers, is by far the
newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may say. He
has succeeded, where all others have failed, in evolving a
blend of the imagery of the unfettered West, the vocabulary
of Wardour Street, and the sinister abandon of Borgiac
Italy.
In 1913, someone writing to the New York _Nation_ from the
University of Illinois, illustrates the American, more serious,
disapproval. This writer begins by expressing his objections to
the "principle of Futurism." (Pound has perhaps done more than
anyone to keep Futurism out of England. His antagonism to this
movement was the first which was not due merely to unintelligent
dislike for anything new, and was due to his perception that
Futurism was incompatible with any principles of form. In his
own words, Futurism is "accelerated impressionism.") The writer
in the _Nation_ then goes on to analyze the modern "hypertrophy
of romanticism" into
The exaggeration of the importance of a personal emotion.
The abandonment of all standards of form.
The suppression of all evidence that a particular composition
is animated by any directing intelligence.
As for the first point, here are Mr. Pound's words in answer to
the question, "do you agree that the great poet is never
emotional?"
Yes, absolutely; if by emotion is meant that he is at the
mercy of every passing mood.... The only kind of emotion
worthy of a poet is the inspirational emotion which
energises and strengthens, and which is very remote from the
everyday emotion of sloppiness and sentiment....
And as for the platform of Imagism, here are a few of Pound's
"Don'ts for Imagists":
Pay no attention to the criticisms of men who have never
themselves written a notable work.
Use no superfluous word and no adjective which does not
reveal something.
Go in fear of abstractions. Don't retail in mediocre verse
what has already been done in good prose.
Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the
art of music or that you can please the expert before you
have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as
the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.
Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, but have
the decency either to acknowledge the debt outright or try
to conceal it.
Consider the definiteness of Dante's presentation as
compared with Milton's. Read as much of Wordsworth as does
not seem to be unutterably dull.
If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus,
Villon when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too
frigid, or if yon have not the tongues seek out the
leisurely Chaucer.
Good prose will do you no harm. There is good discipline to
be had by trying to write it. Translation is also good
training.
The emphasis here is certainly on discipline and form. The
Chicago _Tribune_ recognized this as "sound sense," adding:
If this is Imagism ... we are for establishing Imagism by
constitutional amendment and imprisoning without recourse to
ink or paper all "literary" ladies or gents who break any of
these canons.
But other reviewers were less approving. While the writer in the
_Nation_, quoted above, dreads the anarchy impending, Mr.
William Archer was terrified at the prospect of hieratic
formalisation. Mr. Archer believes in the simple untaught muse:
Mr. Pound's commandments tend too much to make of poetry a
learned, self-conscious craft, to be cultivated by a guild
of adepts, from whose austere laboratories spontaneity and
simplicity are excluded.... A great deal of the best poetry
in the world has very little technical study behind it....
There are scores and hundreds of people in England who could
write this simple metre (i.e. of "A Shropshire Lad")
successfully.
To be hanged for a cat and drowned for a rat is, perhaps,
sufficient exculpation.
Probably Mr. Pound has won odium not so much by his theories as
by his unstinted praise of certain contemporary authors whose
work he has liked. Such expressions of approval are usually
taken as a grievance--much more so than any personal abuse,
which is comparatively a compliment--by the writers who escape
his mention. He does not say "A., B., and C. are bad poets or
novelists," but when he says "The work of X., Y., and Z. is in
such and such respects the most important work in verse (or
prose) since so and so," then A., B., and C. are aggrieved.
Also, Pound has frequently expressed disapproval of Milton and
Wordsworth.
After "Ripostes," Mr. Pound's idiom has advanced still farther.
Inasmuch as "Cathay," the volume of translations from the
Chinese, appeared prior to "Lustra," it is sometimes thought
that his newer idiom is due to the Chinese influence. This is
almost the reverse of the truth. The late Ernest Fenollosa left
a quantity of manuscripts, including a great number of rough
translations (literally exact) from the Chinese. After certain
poems subsequently incorporated in "Lustra" had appeared in
"Poetry," Mrs. Fenollosa recognized that in Pound the Chinese
manuscripts would find the interpreter whom her husband would
have wished; she accordingly forwarded the papers for him to do
as he liked with. It is thus due to Mrs. Fenollosa's acumen that
we have "Cathay"; it is not as a consequence of "Cathay" that we
have "Lustra." This fact must be borne in mind.
Poems afterward embodied in "Lustra" appeared in "Poetry," in
April, 1913, under the title of "Contemporanea." They included
among others "Tenzone," "The Condolence," "The Garret,"
"Salutation the Second," and "Dance Figure."
There are influences, but deviously. It is rather a gradual
development of experience into which literary experiences have
entered. These have not brought the bondage of temporary
enthusiasms, but have liberated the poet from his former
restricted sphere. There is Catullus and Martial, Gautier,
Laforgue and Tristan Corbiere. Whitman is certainly not an
influence; there is not a trace of him anywhere; Whitman and Mr.
Pound are antipodean to each other. Of "Contemporanea" the
_Chicago Evening Post_ discriminatingly observed:
Your poems in the April _Poetry_ are so mockingly, so
delicately, so unblushingly beautiful that you seem to have
brought back into the world a grace which (probably) never
existed, but which we discover by an imaginative process in
Horace and Catullus.
It was a true insight to ally Pound to the Latin, not to the
Greek poets.
Certain of the poems in "Lustra" have offended admirers of the
verse of the "Personae" period. When a poet alters or develops,
many of his admirers are sure to drop off. Any poet, if he is to
survive as a writer beyond his twenty-fifth year, must alter; he
must seek new literary influences; he will have different
emotions to express. This is disconcerting to that public which
likes a poet to spin his whole work out of the feelings of his
youth; which likes to be able to open a new volume of his poems
with the assurance that they will be able to approach it exactly
as they approached the preceding. They do not like that constant
readjustment which the following of Mr. Pound's work demands.
Thus has "Lustra" been a disappointment to some; though it
manifests no falling off in technique, and no impoverishment
of feeling. Some of the poems (including several of the
"Contemporanea") are a more direct statement of views than
Pound's verse had ever given before. Of these poems, M. Jean de
Bosschere writes:
Everywhere his poems incite man to exist, to profess a
becoming egotism, without which there can be no real
altruism.
I beseech you enter your life.
I beseech you learn to say "I"
When I question you.
For you are no part, but a whole;
No portion, but a being.
... One must be capable of reacting to stimuli for a moment,
as a real, live person, even in face of as much of one's own
powers as are arrayed against one;... The virile complaint,
the revolt of the poet, all which shows his emotion,--that
is poetry.
Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.
Be against all forms of oppression,
Go out and defy opinion.
This is the old cry of the poet, but more precise, as an
expression of frank disgust:
Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family.
O, how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree without shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.
Each poem holds out these cries of revolt or disgust, but
they are the result of his still hoping and feeling:
Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities. Pound ...
has experience of the folly of the Philistines who read his
verse. Real pain is born of this stupid interpretation, and
one does not realize how deep it is unless one can feel,
through the ejaculations and the laughter, what has caused
these wounds, which are made deeper by what he knows, and
what he has lost....
The tone, which is at once jocund and keen, is one of
Pound's qualities. Ovid, Catullus--he does not disown them.
He only uses these accents for his familiars; with the
others he is on the edge of paradox, pamphleteering, indeed
of abuse....
This is the proper approach to the poems at the beginning of
"Lustra," and to the short epigrams, which some readers find
"pointless," or certainly "not poetry." They should read, then,
the "Dance Figure," or "Near Perigord," and remember that all
these poems come out of the same man.
Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark;
Thy face as a river with lights.
White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk.
Or the ending of "Near Perigord":
Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezere
Poppies and day's-eyes in the green email
Rose over us; and we knew all that stream,
And our two horses had traced out the valleys;
Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars,
In the young days when the deep sky befriended.
And great wings beat above us in the twilight,
And the great wheels in heaven
Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ...
Believing we should meet with lips and hands ...
There shut up in his castle, Tairiran's,
She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands,
Gone, ah, gone--untouched, unreachable!
She who could never live save through one person,
She who could never speak save to one person,
And all the rest of her a shifting change,
A broken bundle of mirrors...!
Then turn at once to "To a Friend Writing on Cabaret Dancers."
It is easy to say that the language of "Cathay" is due to the
Chinese. If one looks carefully at (1) Pound's other verse, (2)
other people's translations from the Chinese (e.g., Giles's), it
is evident that this is not the case. The language was ready for
the Chinese poetry. Compare, for instance, a passage from
"Provincia Deserta":
I have walked
into Perigord
I have seen the torch-flames, high-leaping,
Painting the front of that church,--
And, under the dark, whirling laughter,
I have looked back over the stream
and seen the high building,
Seen the long minarets, the white shafts.
I have gone in Ribeyrac,
and in Sarlat.
I have climbed rickety stairs, heard talk of Croy,
Walked over En Bertran's old layout,
Have seen Narbonne, and Cahors and Chalus,
Have seen Excideuil, carefully fashioned.
with a passage from "The River Song":
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.
It matters very little how much is due to Rihaku and how much to
Pound. Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer has observed: "If these are
original verses, then Mr. Pound is the greatest poet of this
day." He goes on to say:
The poems in "Cathay" are things of a supreme beauty. What
poetry should be, that they are. And if a new breath of
imagery and handling can do anything for our poetry, that
new breath these poems bring....
Poetry consists in so rendering concrete objects that the
emotions produced by the objects shall arise in the
reader....
Where have you better rendered, or more permanently
beautiful a rendering of, the feelings of one of those
lonely watchers, in the outposts of progress, whether it be
Ovid in Hyrcania, a Roman sentinel upon the great wall of
this country, or merely ourselves, in the lonely recesses of
our minds, than the "Lament of the Frontier Guard"?...
Beauty is a very valuable thing; perhaps it is the most
valuable thing in life; but the power to express emotion so
that it shall communicate itself intact and exactly is
almost more valuable. Of both these qualities Mr. Pound's
book is very full. Therefore, I think we may say that this
is much the best work he has done, for, however closely he
may have followed his originals--and of that most of us have
no means of judging--there is certainly a good deal of Mr.
Pound in this little volume.
"Cathay" and "Lustra" were followed by the translations of Noh
plays. The Noh are not so important as the Chinese poems
(certainly not so important for English); the attitude is less
unusual to us; the work is not so solid, so firm. "Cathay" will,
I believe, rank with the "Sea-Farer" in the future among Mr.
Pound's original work; the Noh will rank among his translations.
It is rather a dessert after "Cathay." There are, however,
passages which, as Pound has handled them, are different both
from the Chinese and from anything existent in English. There
is, for example, the fine speech of the old Kagekiyo, as he
thinks of his youthful valour:
He thought, how easy this killing. He rushed with his
spearshaft gripped under his arm. He cried out, "I am
Kagekiyo of the Heike." He rushed on to take them. He
pierced through the helmet vizards of Miyanoya. Miyanoya
fled twice, and again; and Kagekiyo cried: "You shall not
escape me!" He leaped and wrenched off his helmet. "Eya!"
The vizard broke and remained in his hand, and Miyanoya
still fled afar, and afar, and he looked back crying in
terror, "How terrible, how heavy your arm!" And Kagekiyo
called at him, "How tough the shaft of your neck is!" And
they both laughed out over the battle, and went off each his
own way.
The "Times Literary Supplement" spoke of Mr. Pound's "mastery of
beautiful diction" and his "cunningly rhythmically prose," in
its review of the "Noh."
Even since "Lustra," Mr. Pound has moved again. This move is to
the epic, of which three cantos appear in the American "Lustra"
(they have already appeared in "Poetry"--Miss Monroe deserves
great honour for her courage in printing an epic poem in this
twentieth century--but the version in "Lustra" is revised and is
improved by revision). We will leave it as a test: when anyone
has studied Mr. Pound's poems in _chronological_ order, and has
mastered "Lustra" and "Cathay," he is prepared for the Cantos--
but not till then. If the reader then fails to like them, he has
probably omitted some step in his progress, and had better go
back and retrace the journey.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
BOOKS AND PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
NOTABLE CRITICAL ARTICLES
BY EZRA POUND
POEMS
A LUME SPENTO (100 copies). Antonelli, Venice, June, 1908.
A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE.
First 100 printed by Pollock, London, December, 1908.
Second 100 published under Elkin Mathews' imprint, London,
December, 1908.
PERSONAE. Mathews, London, Spring, 1909.
EXULTATIONS. Mathews, London, Autumn, 1909.
PROSE
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE. Dent, London, 1910.
POEMS
PROVENCA (a _select_ion of poems from "Personae" and
"Exultations" with new poems). Small Maynard, Boston, 1910.
CANZONI. Mathews, London, 1911.
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI (translated).
Small Maynard, Boston, 1912.
A cheaper edition of the same, Swift and Co., London, 1912.
The bulk of this edition destroyed by fire.
RIPOSTES. Swift, London, 1912.
(_Note_.--This book contains the first announcement of
Imagism, in the foreword to the poems of T. E. Hulme.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"A FEW DON'TS BY AN IMAGISTE," in "Poetry," for March, 1913.
"CONTEMPORANIA" (poems), in "Poetry," April, 1913.
POEMS
PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, CANZONI, RIPOSTES, published in two
volumes. Mathews, London, 1913.
FIRST OF THE NOTES ON JAMES JOYCE, "Egoist," January, 1914.
FIRST OF THE ARTICLES CONCERNING GAUDIER-BRZESKA, "Egoist,"
February, 1914.
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"DES IMAGISTES," poems by several authors _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, published as a number of "The Glebe," in New York.
February, 1914.
Alfred Kreymborg was at this time editor of "The Glebe." The
first arrangements for the anthology were made through the
kind offices of John Cournos during the winter of 1912-13.
The English edition of this anthology published by The Poetry
Book Shop. London, 1914.
ARTICLE ON WYNDHAM LEWIS, "Egoist," June 15, 1914.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO FIRST NUMBER OF "Blast," June 20, 1914.
"VORTICISM," an article in "The Fortnightly Review," September,
1914.
"GAUDIER-BRZESKA," an article in "The New Age," February 4,
1915.
CONTRIBUTIONS to second number of "Blast," 1915.
POEMS
CATHAY. Mathews, London, April, 1915. (Translations from the
Chinese from the notes of Ernest Fenollosa.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
THE CATHOLIC ANTHOLOGY, edited by Ezra Pound. Mathews, London,
December, 1915.
GAUDIER-BRZESKA, a memoir. John Lane, London and New York, 1916.
LUSTRA (poems) public edition, pp. 116. Mathews, London, 1916.
200 copies privately printed and numbered, pp. 124.
CERTAIN NOBLE PLAYS OF JAPAN. Cuala Press, Dundrum, Ireland,
1916. Translated by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound, with an
introduction by William Butler Yeats.
NOH, or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of
Japan, including translations of fifteen plays, by Ernest
Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. Macmillan, London, 1917. Knopf, New
York, 1917.
PASSAGES FROM THE LETTERS OF JOHN BUTLER YEATS, _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, with brief editorial note. Cuala Press, 1917.
LUSTRA, with Earlier Poems, Knopf, New York, 1917. (This
collection of Mr. Pound's poems contains all that he now
thinks fit to republish.)
There is also a privately-printed edition of fifty copies,
with a reproduction of a drawing of Ezra Pound by Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska (New York, 1917).
PAVANNES and DIVISIONS (Prose), in preparation. Knopf,
New York.
风再也不会
风再也不会
把你珍爱，
雨也不会。
我们再也不会
看到你如此明亮，
在雪地，在风里。
雪溶化，
雪消失，
你也飞走。
象鸟儿飞出我们的手，
象光束飞出我们的心，
你一去不复返。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
歌
你是金色的，
像正要成熟的谷子
重新变得金黄。
白色的雨敲打在
伊里尔苹果树
黝黑的枝干
那巨大的花团中
半绽的花蕾上，
你像这雨一样白。
蜜能沁出这样的芬芳
像你闪光的头发？
你的脸向雨一样美，
像蜂巢上的
晶莹的雨珠
给白蜡映上奇彩，
你的头发披在眉际，
照亮了一个阴影。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
奥丽特
翻腾吧，大海——
翻腾起你那尖尖的松针，
把你巨大的松针
倾泻在我们的岩石上，
把你的绿色扔在我们身上，
用你池水似的杉覆盖我们。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
黄昏
光闪过了
从一座桥到另一座桥，
从一朵花到另一朵花——
海泊提丝盛开着
在光下
渐渐暗淡——
花瓣向里伸展，
蔚蓝的尖端折卷着
弯向更蓝的花蕊，
花就这样完结了。
康纳尔花蕾依然洁白
但影子从
康纳尔的根部冒了上来——
黑色从一根根蔓爬行到另一根根，
每一片叶子
在草上割着另一片叶子，
影子寻求影子，
接着两片叶子
和叶子的影子都消失了。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
梨树
银色的尘雾
从地面升起，
我的手够不着，
你升得这么高。
哦白银，
我的手够不着
你花团锦簇向着我们；
没别的花能开出
如此坚挺洁白的花瓣，
没别的花能从如此罕见的白银
再分离出白银；
哦洁白的梨花
你一簇簇花团
怒放在枝头，
用你紫色的心
带来夏天，带来成熟的果实。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
水池
你活着吗？
我碰着你。
你像一条海鱼一样颤动。
我用我的网把你盖上。
你是什么——有条纹的东西？
海上的玫瑰
玫瑰，刺人的玫瑰，
饱受蹂躏，花瓣稀少，
瘦削的花朵，单薄，
疏落的叶子，
比一根茎上唯一的
一朵淋湿的玫瑰
更为珍贵——
你给卷入了海浪中。
开不大的玫瑰
叶子这样小，
你给扔到了沙滩上，
在风中疾驰的
干脆沙粒中
你又被刮了起来。
那芬芳的玫瑰
能滴下这样辛辣的﹑
凝于一片叶子中的香气？
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
忘川
没有皮没有壳没有羊毛
能把你遮盖，
没有绛红的幕也没有
杉木的小屋把你荫蔽，
没有红枞，
也没有青松。
看不到金雀花看不到荆棘
也没有水柏，
没有花丛的馥郁，
没有水鸟的哀唳把你唤起，
没有红雀，
也没有黄鹂。
没有话语没有抚摸没有目光
来自你的爱人，你
长夜漫漫只有一个心愿：
让满潮卷来把你盖上
没有询问，
也没有亲吻。
在紫光中旋转的群星
群星在紫光中旋转，你不像
长庚星难得露面，也不像
毕宿五或天狼，巨大﹑明亮，
不像血污的战神那么耀眼。
群星在紫光中旋转，满天华彩，
你，不像昴宿星团那么慈祥
也不像猎户星座，那么灿烂；
但当所有的星都凋萎﹑飘落，
你那清醒﹑冷静﹑高傲的脸，
像钢钉铆紧，为在风暴里
飘荡的货船单独遵约出现。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
不倒的墙（选段）
因此我们用双角﹑圆盘
用直立的蛇来显示我们的地位，
尽管这些东西，还有双羽﹑莲子，
你现在告诉我，都是
无甚足道的知识残渣；
诗人是无用之物，
不仅如此，
我们，可靠的文物，
神秘智能的肩负者，
是圣殿乐队
和圣殿开创者中
仅存着的活人，
我们不仅“不实用”，
而且是“多愁善感”：
这就是时髦的邪说，
如果你根本不懂文字的意义，
你又怎么能判断
文字隐藏着什么？
而古代的红字标题显示
我们又回到了初始：
你还有很长的路，
走路要小心，对那些
刚结束蛆虫期的人说话要客气，
因为众神早已被击碎，
偶像与偶像的秘密
已储存在每个人的话里，
在琐碎不足道的
或真实的梦里；徽号
在苍鹭的冠中，
在毒蛇的背上，
而谜语，正如红字标题所承诺
不会被誊抄者写错；
走在祭司之前的人，
其地位仅次于法老。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
开花的杖（选段）
蓝雁，白雁，你会说，
不错，我了解这两重性，这双倍的怀乡；
我知道那无法满足的渴念，
在冬天，渴望棕榈树影
渴望沙滩，海面烤焦的草；
但在夏天，当我注视
海浪卷来，直到浪花
碰到火烫的沙滩，即刻
就消失，像赤道上下雪，
我嚷起来：且住，且住；
这时我想起纤细耐久的霜
想起冬晨它画的图案；
在这正午毒日下，我想起
灰蒙蒙的冬晨；一如这浪
在卵石滩上燃烧，我想，
你不见得比冬霜更美；
但它也是我祈求的那样真实，
哦请在浪花的边线上
带给我燃烧的蓝色
和烤焦的脆弱的海草，
当我满怀饥渴，站立在
站在雪地上松树长长的影子里。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
格言
（模仿希腊人的作品）
那个金色的人离开了宴席；
她，阿提麦脱斯所爱的人，
燕子，光彩夺目的霍姆诺妮亚；
消失了，那可爱的话匣子。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
珀莱埃勃斯
（果园的守护者）
我看见第一个梨子，
梨子正在落下。
那群寻找蜜糖的，长满了金灿灿条纹的
黄色蜂群
并不比我更快些，
（别让我们看到这片美景吧！）
于是我俯伏在地上，
哭泣。
你用你的花朵严责了我们；
别让我们看到
果树的美景吧！
那寻找蜂蜜者
一刻不停。
空中嗡嗡响着它们的歌，
而我独自俯卧在地上。
哦，粗粗削成的
果园的守护神，
我给你带来一份祭品，
你，唯一不漂亮的，
（神的儿子），
别让我们看到这片美景吧。
落下的榛子，
很晚才剥去它们绿色的外壳，
葡萄，紫红色的，
它们的肚子
滴着酒，
已开裂了的石榴，
干瘪的无花果，
还有无人碰的馧桲
我把这些作为给你的祭品带来。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
西托尔卡斯
你终于来了，
你比任何冷冰冰的神
在里西亚遥远的
海岸下的一间房间里，
你比任何高高在上的﹑
不能感动我的神
更为美丽，
这里，在多子的草叶中。
比撒着残叶的阿基斯特
更为美丽。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
道路神
１
脆硬的沙土碎裂，
一粒粒沙子
像酒一样闪光。
远远的，远在几里路外，
风
在宽广的海岸上嬉戏，
堆起一座座小山岭，
于是巨大的浪头
在小山岭上迸裂。
然而比海洋上
无数条飞沫的路还要多
我认识
这三重小路上的他，
道路神，
他等待着。
满腹狐疑，
面对三条道路，
欢迎风尘仆仆的人。
海上的果园
为他挡开了西风，
挡开了东风，
顶住了海风；
面对巨大的沙丘。
风在沙丘上
席卷过去，
粗鄙的﹑结着盐花的草
瑟瑟作答。
嘿，
它抽打我的足踝！
２
这条白色的溪流
虽然细小，
从杨树荫影覆盖的山岭
流下了田野，
但水是甜的。
小树上的苹果
是硬的，
太小了，
熟得太晚了，
因为太阳绝望地
从海雾中挣扎了出来。
粗大的树枝
经过多少番风吹雨打后
扭曲了；
扭曲的是
长着小叶的树枝。
但它们的影子
不是桅顶的影子，
也不是撕碎的帆影。
道路神，道路神，
大海泡沫飞溅，
对着我咬牙切齿；
但你等待了，
那里，海草和海草
缠在一起。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
花园
１
你多清晰，
哦玫瑰，刻在岩石中的玫瑰，
就像一阵雹子那样硬。
我真能从花瓣
刮下颜色，好似
从岩石刮下了的色彩。
如果我能折断你，
我能折断一棵树。
如果我能动，
我能折断一棵树，
我能折断你。
２
哦风，
犁开这片炎热，
切开这片炎热，
把它分开到两边。
果实不能在这浓重的
空气中落下：
果实无法落入炎热，
这片炎热
鼓起了又磨平了犁尖，
鼓圆了葡萄。
切割这片炎热，
犁过这片炎热，
把它推到你的
道路的两边。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
乔基斯的妇女们的合唱（选段）
（改写自欧里庇得斯的《陶洛人中的伊芙吉妮亚》）
３
一道闪光——
阿基里斯越过海滩。
（他是海洋女神的孩子
凯伦教出来的学生。）
阿基里斯的脚踝上
绑住了风，
他挥开了波浪
卷来的岩石。
他全身披甲地奔跑。
他领头乘坐四轮战车，
他向所有的竞赛者挑战。
艾姆勒斯驶着车，
用尖刺赶着每一匹马。
我看见这些马群：
每一个马头都佩着金饰品。
中间的马匹有着银色的条纹。
它们拴在旗杆上
马夫摇摇晃晃地向开阔地走去。
色彩从足踝和马蹄铁漫延，
青铜闪光。
阿基里斯，铜甲披挂，
向前俯着身，
身子和战车栏杆一样平。
４
如果一个神站在这里，
看到船只密密围着
船只的这派景象，
他将说不出话。
对任何一个女人，
这种眉都是太强烈了。
它在我的眼前燃烧。
象牙号角列成了一队。
忠心的侍从在五十艘战栗的船里
驻扎在右边。
这些是阿基里斯的船只。
在每一条船首上
一位女神洒下了金子，
海妖在金色的行列中跳舞。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
冬之恋（选段）
1
……十年
比这还长，比这还长；
你的手抓住我的——没有主人？
当男人们角斗时，我没有主人，
我只找到一个精灵来配我的精灵，
当我遇到阿喀琉斯，在一个梦幻中，
结束了一中生活，
又重新过另一种生活，
直到我回来，回来了……
3
现在有了冬之恋，一位冬季的爱人
他高兴地——戏弄着脆了的落叶
用那垫着的爪子，带上套的——高兴地
发现在窝里，在圣洁的铺垫上，
没有诱惑的陷阱，贪婪的腰腹，叹息和呻吟
没有箭雨，没有毒矛的穿刺，
没有楼梯上的雷鸣，
没有铁器的挫磨声，
只有泰格底斯的寂静，
直到一片白雪
从枝上滑落，
而后，更强烈的寂静。
7
合唱（向左舞蹈）
命运的手，沉重
锁链沉重，捆缚沉重
命运的重量，重，重
无可逃脱
逃不了注定的刑罚和痛苦
在特洛依的石头下碾碎
我们是为永恒而生的碎粉
被那倒塌的城墙所碾碎
我们无望，没有援助
什么活着，什么留下
当雨水冲洗着特洛依平原
当雪填满车轮压出的沟缝？
什么留下，特洛依的什么留下？
命运的手，沉重
什么比那城墙上的裂缝
更凄凉？
象一个张嘴的伤口枯竭了——
那里曾是特洛依的城门。
8
合唱（向右舞蹈）
线丝脆弱而纤长
手苍白而柔弱
在机杼上忙碌
日以继夜，日以继夜
重新纺织，用金色
仙客来，紫色和蓝色的线
那图案，那历史
那传说，他从宝座上走下
菲白斯，特洛依之主
走入海，夜来临
整夜，整日
那轮子转着
敢于藐视太阳
敢于亵渎美
敢于宣称特洛依已被遗忘——
歌声和歌唱者是一个。
9
合唱（向左舞蹈）
只剩下什么歌需要唱？
所有的歌都已唱过
愤怒发出不和谐之声
用它的铁翼；
空气烧焦了盛开的玫瑰
恶浊的空气给
广阔的田野带来死亡
死亡——那些紧闭的
围墙里的果园
那里开花的树枝
依附在潮湿的墙上
花凋落
那失色的花朵落在
径上，那儿长满
毒草
曼德拉草致命的种子
很久前就播下了。
10
合唱（向右舞蹈）
别理那不和谐之声
别理死亡的嘘声
海伦，无瑕的人
穿一身少女的衣裳
你的凉鞋绊在
乱草丛里
你的肩带解散
你的紧身上衣松了
你的小小的胸部成熟在
那饥饿的英雄的吻中
啊，海伦，最幸福的
啊，处女无瑕
但知道那未结合的时间的干渴
那不能满足的干渴
将引向阿基里斯
那船桅之丛
那没有得到满足的时刻
将照亮大地
用神话和传说
那精美的
杏子苹果和温桲花的香味
那石榴花杯……
啊，海伦，最幸福的
回忆着第一次与最后一次爱情。
13
安慰我吧，奥德修斯，人之王，
但不要翻身，寒气透过
羊毛和兽毛，那兽皮沉沉地压着我
但我不敢翻身；这是现实；
我选了这比我的意志强大的
咒语或魔术，把海伦带到远方吧。
阿喀琉斯的眼睛转向大海，
而后我觉得珀里斯想念
他的初恋，奥娥诺涅，
我在冷落中消失像鬼魂，
或者寻觅巴石径，回走，
那荆棘，现实；
一个心愿，一个狂想，墨涅拉俄斯来了；
忒西亚斯早已找到神们，
对于忒西亚斯和奥林波斯来说如此
——但我只相信一个神，就是坚持不挠；
忍耐，忍耐是我的救主，
但当爱关闭了门扉，把一个人拋弃
锁在空堡中，为什么还忍耐，
一座没有灵魂的宫殿，没有灵魂
直到你来了，还有一个世界要征服，
或是空间或是时间，现实，一个陡坡，
一条山路，关于
要来到的水仙花苞的记忆，
现在都埋葬了，在白雪的下面。
23
老祖母，我来替你拿拐杖，
你不用再跛行，蹒跚，
你将告诉我什么是真实，
什么不是真实，
我们将行万里越过沙漠；
他们将说，墨涅拉俄斯到过埃及找我，
真的吗？他们说，我们
生活在什么地方的一个岛上——什么地方？
传奇在醒来的狂喜中生活，
但我想我不会回到那座皇宫，
那些战利品和宴会，和奥德修斯的会晤
当他第二次将我虏走，
从一个令人厌倦的庸俗的礼仪中；
不，不，我从没有回到那个世界，那个世界；
我活在希望中，希望单纯的完善，
不是一把剑——但特洛伊的迷宫
围困了我——而后黑暗——珀里斯被杀了，
阿喀琉斯的脚跟，那致命的，隆隆的战车，
那嘶喊，那火焰，和一个声音，海伦；
在战争存在前就有海伦，
墨涅拉俄斯记得她。
郑敏 译
风再也不会
把你珍爱，
雨也不会。
我们再也不会
看到你如此明亮，
在雪地，在风里。
雪溶化，
雪消失，
你也飞走。
象鸟儿飞出我们的手，
象光束飞出我们的心，
你一去不复返。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
歌
你是金色的，
像正要成熟的谷子
重新变得金黄。
白色的雨敲打在
伊里尔苹果树
黝黑的枝干
那巨大的花团中
半绽的花蕾上，
你像这雨一样白。
蜜能沁出这样的芬芳
像你闪光的头发？
你的脸向雨一样美，
像蜂巢上的
晶莹的雨珠
给白蜡映上奇彩，
你的头发披在眉际，
照亮了一个阴影。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
奥丽特
翻腾吧，大海——
翻腾起你那尖尖的松针，
把你巨大的松针
倾泻在我们的岩石上，
把你的绿色扔在我们身上，
用你池水似的杉覆盖我们。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
黄昏
光闪过了
从一座桥到另一座桥，
从一朵花到另一朵花——
海泊提丝盛开着
在光下
渐渐暗淡——
花瓣向里伸展，
蔚蓝的尖端折卷着
弯向更蓝的花蕊，
花就这样完结了。
康纳尔花蕾依然洁白
但影子从
康纳尔的根部冒了上来——
黑色从一根根蔓爬行到另一根根，
每一片叶子
在草上割着另一片叶子，
影子寻求影子，
接着两片叶子
和叶子的影子都消失了。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
梨树
银色的尘雾
从地面升起，
我的手够不着，
你升得这么高。
哦白银，
我的手够不着
你花团锦簇向着我们；
没别的花能开出
如此坚挺洁白的花瓣，
没别的花能从如此罕见的白银
再分离出白银；
哦洁白的梨花
你一簇簇花团
怒放在枝头，
用你紫色的心
带来夏天，带来成熟的果实。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
水池
你活着吗？
我碰着你。
你像一条海鱼一样颤动。
我用我的网把你盖上。
你是什么——有条纹的东西？
海上的玫瑰
玫瑰，刺人的玫瑰，
饱受蹂躏，花瓣稀少，
瘦削的花朵，单薄，
疏落的叶子，
比一根茎上唯一的
一朵淋湿的玫瑰
更为珍贵——
你给卷入了海浪中。
开不大的玫瑰
叶子这样小，
你给扔到了沙滩上，
在风中疾驰的
干脆沙粒中
你又被刮了起来。
那芬芳的玫瑰
能滴下这样辛辣的﹑
凝于一片叶子中的香气？
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
忘川
没有皮没有壳没有羊毛
能把你遮盖，
没有绛红的幕也没有
杉木的小屋把你荫蔽，
没有红枞，
也没有青松。
看不到金雀花看不到荆棘
也没有水柏，
没有花丛的馥郁，
没有水鸟的哀唳把你唤起，
没有红雀，
也没有黄鹂。
没有话语没有抚摸没有目光
来自你的爱人，你
长夜漫漫只有一个心愿：
让满潮卷来把你盖上
没有询问，
也没有亲吻。
在紫光中旋转的群星
群星在紫光中旋转，你不像
长庚星难得露面，也不像
毕宿五或天狼，巨大﹑明亮，
不像血污的战神那么耀眼。
群星在紫光中旋转，满天华彩，
你，不像昴宿星团那么慈祥
也不像猎户星座，那么灿烂；
但当所有的星都凋萎﹑飘落，
你那清醒﹑冷静﹑高傲的脸，
像钢钉铆紧，为在风暴里
飘荡的货船单独遵约出现。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
不倒的墙（选段）
因此我们用双角﹑圆盘
用直立的蛇来显示我们的地位，
尽管这些东西，还有双羽﹑莲子，
你现在告诉我，都是
无甚足道的知识残渣；
诗人是无用之物，
不仅如此，
我们，可靠的文物，
神秘智能的肩负者，
是圣殿乐队
和圣殿开创者中
仅存着的活人，
我们不仅“不实用”，
而且是“多愁善感”：
这就是时髦的邪说，
如果你根本不懂文字的意义，
你又怎么能判断
文字隐藏着什么？
而古代的红字标题显示
我们又回到了初始：
你还有很长的路，
走路要小心，对那些
刚结束蛆虫期的人说话要客气，
因为众神早已被击碎，
偶像与偶像的秘密
已储存在每个人的话里，
在琐碎不足道的
或真实的梦里；徽号
在苍鹭的冠中，
在毒蛇的背上，
而谜语，正如红字标题所承诺
不会被誊抄者写错；
走在祭司之前的人，
其地位仅次于法老。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
开花的杖（选段）
蓝雁，白雁，你会说，
不错，我了解这两重性，这双倍的怀乡；
我知道那无法满足的渴念，
在冬天，渴望棕榈树影
渴望沙滩，海面烤焦的草；
但在夏天，当我注视
海浪卷来，直到浪花
碰到火烫的沙滩，即刻
就消失，像赤道上下雪，
我嚷起来：且住，且住；
这时我想起纤细耐久的霜
想起冬晨它画的图案；
在这正午毒日下，我想起
灰蒙蒙的冬晨；一如这浪
在卵石滩上燃烧，我想，
你不见得比冬霜更美；
但它也是我祈求的那样真实，
哦请在浪花的边线上
带给我燃烧的蓝色
和烤焦的脆弱的海草，
当我满怀饥渴，站立在
站在雪地上松树长长的影子里。
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
格言
（模仿希腊人的作品）
那个金色的人离开了宴席；
她，阿提麦脱斯所爱的人，
燕子，光彩夺目的霍姆诺妮亚；
消失了，那可爱的话匣子。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
珀莱埃勃斯
（果园的守护者）
我看见第一个梨子，
梨子正在落下。
那群寻找蜜糖的，长满了金灿灿条纹的
黄色蜂群
并不比我更快些，
（别让我们看到这片美景吧！）
于是我俯伏在地上，
哭泣。
你用你的花朵严责了我们；
别让我们看到
果树的美景吧！
那寻找蜂蜜者
一刻不停。
空中嗡嗡响着它们的歌，
而我独自俯卧在地上。
哦，粗粗削成的
果园的守护神，
我给你带来一份祭品，
你，唯一不漂亮的，
（神的儿子），
别让我们看到这片美景吧。
落下的榛子，
很晚才剥去它们绿色的外壳，
葡萄，紫红色的，
它们的肚子
滴着酒，
已开裂了的石榴，
干瘪的无花果，
还有无人碰的馧桲
我把这些作为给你的祭品带来。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
西托尔卡斯
你终于来了，
你比任何冷冰冰的神
在里西亚遥远的
海岸下的一间房间里，
你比任何高高在上的﹑
不能感动我的神
更为美丽，
这里，在多子的草叶中。
比撒着残叶的阿基斯特
更为美丽。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
道路神
１
脆硬的沙土碎裂，
一粒粒沙子
像酒一样闪光。
远远的，远在几里路外，
风
在宽广的海岸上嬉戏，
堆起一座座小山岭，
于是巨大的浪头
在小山岭上迸裂。
然而比海洋上
无数条飞沫的路还要多
我认识
这三重小路上的他，
道路神，
他等待着。
满腹狐疑，
面对三条道路，
欢迎风尘仆仆的人。
海上的果园
为他挡开了西风，
挡开了东风，
顶住了海风；
面对巨大的沙丘。
风在沙丘上
席卷过去，
粗鄙的﹑结着盐花的草
瑟瑟作答。
嘿，
它抽打我的足踝！
２
这条白色的溪流
虽然细小，
从杨树荫影覆盖的山岭
流下了田野，
但水是甜的。
小树上的苹果
是硬的，
太小了，
熟得太晚了，
因为太阳绝望地
从海雾中挣扎了出来。
粗大的树枝
经过多少番风吹雨打后
扭曲了；
扭曲的是
长着小叶的树枝。
但它们的影子
不是桅顶的影子，
也不是撕碎的帆影。
道路神，道路神，
大海泡沫飞溅，
对着我咬牙切齿；
但你等待了，
那里，海草和海草
缠在一起。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
花园
１
你多清晰，
哦玫瑰，刻在岩石中的玫瑰，
就像一阵雹子那样硬。
我真能从花瓣
刮下颜色，好似
从岩石刮下了的色彩。
如果我能折断你，
我能折断一棵树。
如果我能动，
我能折断一棵树，
我能折断你。
２
哦风，
犁开这片炎热，
切开这片炎热，
把它分开到两边。
果实不能在这浓重的
空气中落下：
果实无法落入炎热，
这片炎热
鼓起了又磨平了犁尖，
鼓圆了葡萄。
切割这片炎热，
犁过这片炎热，
把它推到你的
道路的两边。
裘小龙 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
乔基斯的妇女们的合唱（选段）
（改写自欧里庇得斯的《陶洛人中的伊芙吉妮亚》）
３
一道闪光——
阿基里斯越过海滩。
（他是海洋女神的孩子
凯伦教出来的学生。）
阿基里斯的脚踝上
绑住了风，
他挥开了波浪
卷来的岩石。
他全身披甲地奔跑。
他领头乘坐四轮战车，
他向所有的竞赛者挑战。
艾姆勒斯驶着车，
用尖刺赶着每一匹马。
我看见这些马群：
每一个马头都佩着金饰品。
中间的马匹有着银色的条纹。
它们拴在旗杆上
马夫摇摇晃晃地向开阔地走去。
色彩从足踝和马蹄铁漫延，
青铜闪光。
阿基里斯，铜甲披挂，
向前俯着身，
身子和战车栏杆一样平。
４
如果一个神站在这里，
看到船只密密围着
船只的这派景象，
他将说不出话。
对任何一个女人，
这种眉都是太强烈了。
它在我的眼前燃烧。
象牙号角列成了一队。
忠心的侍从在五十艘战栗的船里
驻扎在右边。
这些是阿基里斯的船只。
在每一条船首上
一位女神洒下了金子，
海妖在金色的行列中跳舞。
裘小龙 译
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冬之恋（选段）
1
……十年
比这还长，比这还长；
你的手抓住我的——没有主人？
当男人们角斗时，我没有主人，
我只找到一个精灵来配我的精灵，
当我遇到阿喀琉斯，在一个梦幻中，
结束了一中生活，
又重新过另一种生活，
直到我回来，回来了……
3
现在有了冬之恋，一位冬季的爱人
他高兴地——戏弄着脆了的落叶
用那垫着的爪子，带上套的——高兴地
发现在窝里，在圣洁的铺垫上，
没有诱惑的陷阱，贪婪的腰腹，叹息和呻吟
没有箭雨，没有毒矛的穿刺，
没有楼梯上的雷鸣，
没有铁器的挫磨声，
只有泰格底斯的寂静，
直到一片白雪
从枝上滑落，
而后，更强烈的寂静。
7
合唱（向左舞蹈）
命运的手，沉重
锁链沉重，捆缚沉重
命运的重量，重，重
无可逃脱
逃不了注定的刑罚和痛苦
在特洛依的石头下碾碎
我们是为永恒而生的碎粉
被那倒塌的城墙所碾碎
我们无望，没有援助
什么活着，什么留下
当雨水冲洗着特洛依平原
当雪填满车轮压出的沟缝？
什么留下，特洛依的什么留下？
命运的手，沉重
什么比那城墙上的裂缝
更凄凉？
象一个张嘴的伤口枯竭了——
那里曾是特洛依的城门。
8
合唱（向右舞蹈）
线丝脆弱而纤长
手苍白而柔弱
在机杼上忙碌
日以继夜，日以继夜
重新纺织，用金色
仙客来，紫色和蓝色的线
那图案，那历史
那传说，他从宝座上走下
菲白斯，特洛依之主
走入海，夜来临
整夜，整日
那轮子转着
敢于藐视太阳
敢于亵渎美
敢于宣称特洛依已被遗忘——
歌声和歌唱者是一个。
9
合唱（向左舞蹈）
只剩下什么歌需要唱？
所有的歌都已唱过
愤怒发出不和谐之声
用它的铁翼；
空气烧焦了盛开的玫瑰
恶浊的空气给
广阔的田野带来死亡
死亡——那些紧闭的
围墙里的果园
那里开花的树枝
依附在潮湿的墙上
花凋落
那失色的花朵落在
径上，那儿长满
毒草
曼德拉草致命的种子
很久前就播下了。
10
合唱（向右舞蹈）
别理那不和谐之声
别理死亡的嘘声
海伦，无瑕的人
穿一身少女的衣裳
你的凉鞋绊在
乱草丛里
你的肩带解散
你的紧身上衣松了
你的小小的胸部成熟在
那饥饿的英雄的吻中
啊，海伦，最幸福的
啊，处女无瑕
但知道那未结合的时间的干渴
那不能满足的干渴
将引向阿基里斯
那船桅之丛
那没有得到满足的时刻
将照亮大地
用神话和传说
那精美的
杏子苹果和温桲花的香味
那石榴花杯……
啊，海伦，最幸福的
回忆着第一次与最后一次爱情。
13
安慰我吧，奥德修斯，人之王，
但不要翻身，寒气透过
羊毛和兽毛，那兽皮沉沉地压着我
但我不敢翻身；这是现实；
我选了这比我的意志强大的
咒语或魔术，把海伦带到远方吧。
阿喀琉斯的眼睛转向大海，
而后我觉得珀里斯想念
他的初恋，奥娥诺涅，
我在冷落中消失像鬼魂，
或者寻觅巴石径，回走，
那荆棘，现实；
一个心愿，一个狂想，墨涅拉俄斯来了；
忒西亚斯早已找到神们，
对于忒西亚斯和奥林波斯来说如此
——但我只相信一个神，就是坚持不挠；
忍耐，忍耐是我的救主，
但当爱关闭了门扉，把一个人拋弃
锁在空堡中，为什么还忍耐，
一座没有灵魂的宫殿，没有灵魂
直到你来了，还有一个世界要征服，
或是空间或是时间，现实，一个陡坡，
一条山路，关于
要来到的水仙花苞的记忆，
现在都埋葬了，在白雪的下面。
23
老祖母，我来替你拿拐杖，
你不用再跛行，蹒跚，
你将告诉我什么是真实，
什么不是真实，
我们将行万里越过沙漠；
他们将说，墨涅拉俄斯到过埃及找我，
真的吗？他们说，我们
生活在什么地方的一个岛上——什么地方？
传奇在醒来的狂喜中生活，
但我想我不会回到那座皇宫，
那些战利品和宴会，和奥德修斯的会晤
当他第二次将我虏走，
从一个令人厌倦的庸俗的礼仪中；
不，不，我从没有回到那个世界，那个世界；
我活在希望中，希望单纯的完善，
不是一把剑——但特洛伊的迷宫
围困了我——而后黑暗——珀里斯被杀了，
阿喀琉斯的脚跟，那致命的，隆隆的战车，
那嘶喊，那火焰，和一个声音，海伦；
在战争存在前就有海伦，
墨涅拉俄斯记得她。
郑敏 译
悼念叶芝
（死于1939年1月）
1
他在严寒的冬天消失了：
小溪已冻结，飞机场几无人迹
积雪模糊了露天的塑像；
水银柱跌进垂死一天的口腔。
呵，所有的仪表都同意
他死的那天是寒冷而又阴暗。
远远离开他的疾病
狼群奔跑过常青的树林，
农家的河没受到时髦码头的诱导；
哀悼的文辞
把诗人的死同他的诗隔开。
但对他说，那不仅是他自己结束，
那也是他最后一个下午，
呵，走动着护士和传言的下午；
他的躯体的各省都叛变了，
他的头脑的广场逃散一空，
寂静侵入到近郊，
他的感觉之流中断：他成了他的爱读者。
如今他被播散到一百个城市，
完全移交给陌生的友情；
他要在另一种林中寻求快乐，
并且在迥异的良心法典下受惩处。
一个死者的文字
要在活人的腑肺间被润色。
但在来日的重大和喧嚣中，
当交易所的兼客像野兽一般咆哮，
当穷人承受着他们相当习惯的苦痛，
当每人在自我的囚室里几乎自信是自由的
有个千把人会想到这一天，
仿佛在这天曾做了稍稍不寻常的事情。
呵，所有的仪表都同意，
他死的那天是寒冷而又阴暗。
2
你像我们一样蠢；可是你的才赋
却超越这一切：贵妇的教堂，肉体的
衰颓，你自己；爱尔兰刺伤你发为诗歌，
但爱尔兰的疯狂和气候依旧，
因为诗无济于事：它永生于
它辞句的谷中，而官吏绝不到
那里去干预；“孤立”和热闹的“悲伤”
本是我们信赖并死守的粗野的城，
它就从这片牧场流向南方；它存在着，
是现象的一种方式，是一个出口。
3
泥土呵，请接纳一个贵宾，
威廉·叶芝己永远安寝：
让这爱尔兰的器皿歇下，
既然它的诗已尽倾洒。
时间对勇敢和天真的人
可以表示不能容忍，
也可以在一个星期里，
漠然对待一个美的躯体，
却崇拜语言，把每个
使语言常活的人部宽赦，
还宽赦懦弱和自负．
把荣耀都向他们献出。
时间以这样奇怪的诡辩
原谅了吉卜林和他的观点，
还将原谅保尔·克劳德，
原谅他写得比较出色。
黑略的恶梦把一切笼罩，
欧洲所有的恶犬在吠叫，
尚存的国家在等待，
各为自己的恨所隔开；
智能所受的耻辱
从每个人的脸上透露，
而怜悯底海洋已歇，
在每只眼里锁住和冻结。
跟去吧，诗人，跟在后面，
直到黑夜之深渊，
用你无拘束的声音
仍旧劝我们要欢欣；
靠耕耕一片诗f田
把诅咒变为葡萄园，
在苦难的欢腾中
歌唱着人的不成功；
从心灵的一片沙漠
让治疗的泉水喷射，
在他的岁月的监狱里
教给自由人如何赞誉。
（查良铮译）
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歌
一天傍晚，当我走出屋外，
在布里斯托尔大街独自闲荡，
人行道上聚集的人群，
宛若收割的麦田的景象。
在涨满了潮水的河岸，
在铁路拱桥的下方，
我听列一个情郎正在讴歌：
“爱情之歌没有终端。
“我爱你，亲爱的，我爱你，
一直爱到中国与非洲相撞，
爱到大河跳上了山顶。
鲑鱼来到大街上歌唱。
“我爱你，直至海洋被关进栅栏，
为了晒干而被人倒挂；
直至七颗星星粗声喊叫，
就像空中出现了鹅鸭。
“岁月将像兔子一样奔跑，
因为我以自己的心坎，
紧紧搂住时代的花朵
以及大干世界的初恋。”
这时，城市里所有的大钟
开始呼呼地敲出声响：
“哦，莫让时间把你欺骗，
你没有法子征服时间。
“在恶梦的洞穴里面
住着赤身裸体的正义
你一亲吻，时间就咳嗽，
它从阴影中把你窥视
“在头痛和焦虑的时刻，
生活浑噩地渗漏而光
不是明天就是今日，
时间会有自己的幻想。
“令人震惊的鹅毛大雪，
向许多绿色的溪谷漂动
时间打破了交织的舞蹈，
和潜水者的美妙的鞠躬。
“唉，把你双手放入水中
一直浸到手的腕部；
凝视吧，紧紧凝视水盆，
弄清你失去了何物。
“冰川敲打在食品橱内，
沙漠叹息在这张床铺，
茶杯上的裂缝已经打开
一条通往死亡之自的狭路。
“乞丐在那儿出售钞票，
巨人以魔法迷惑男孩，
百合般纯洁的少年是个歹徒，
少女沉重地走下山来。
“噢，看吧，看一看镜子，
噢，看一看你的痛苦；
生活成了一种幸事，
尽管你自己不能赐福。
“唤，站住，站在镜子旁边，
就像眼泪烫痫、受惊；
你应以弥那颗扭曲的心，
去爱你的扭曲的近邻。”
夜已经很深，很深，
情人们早就无影无踪；
大钟也已停止了敲打，
深深的河水却继续滚动。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
阿喀琉斯之盾
她从他肩上看过去
寻找葡萄和橄榄、
大理石、秩序井然的城市、
深红色大海上的船帆；
但是，在闪闪发光的金属上
他的双手放下的却是
像铅块一样的天空
和人造的荒凉的空地。
毫无特色的平原，发黑、光秃，
没一片草叶，没有邻居的足迹，
没东西进餐，没地方就坐；
然而在那空寂的荒地
难以理解的众人却在聚集，
百万只眼睛，百万双靴子，
没有表情，列队等待着一个标记。
没人露面的声音从空中飘出，
统计资料表明，有些原因。
说出来像这块地方一样干燥、平板；
不愉悦任何人物，不讨论任何事情，
一队接着一队，迎着云雾般的灰尘，
他们齐步走开，忍受着一个信仰：
他们结果必然会在某处遭难。
她从他肩上看过去
寻找宗教仪式上的虔诚、
戴上了花环的白衣姑娘、
奠酒以及别的祭品；
但是，在闪闪发光的金属上
本来应该是祭坛，
可是在他那摇曳的炉火下，
她看到的却是另一番景象。
有刺的铁丝困住了专横的地方，
烦躁的官员们躺在那儿（说着趣闻），
天气炎热，哨兵们汗流浃背；
一群正派的普通百姓，
从外面观看，既不移步也不出声。
就像三个暗淡的图像，
笔直地绑在钉于地上的木桩。
这个世上的群众和帝王，
都有着分量，而且分量始终一样，
但都躺在别人的手上；他们渺小，
不能期待帮助，也没有人肯来帮忙；
他们敌人想做的一切已经做完；
他们的羞耻无与伦比；失去自尊，
在肉体死亡之前，灵魂就不再生存。
她从他肩上看过去
寻找比赛中的运动队员，
寻找扭动腰肢的男男女女，
甜甜蜜蜜地起舞翩翩，
快速、快速地合着音乐的节奏；
但是，在闪闪发光的盾牌上，
他的双手布置的不是舞厅，
而是布满枯草的田地的荒凉。
一个衣着褴褛的顽童，
在那空地漫无目的地独自闲逛；
一只乌儿从真实的石头上溜之大吉；
两个姑娘遭到强奸，两个少年残杀第三，
这就是他看到的公理，他从未听见，
任和世界会信守诺言，
或任何人因别人痛哭而呜咽。
锻造武器的赫准斯托斯，
长着薄嘴唇，离去时蹒蹒跚跚；
胸膛闪闪发光的忒提斯——
灰心丧气地大声哭喊，
责怪上帝迁就她的儿子——
力大无比的阿喀琉斯，
他铁石心肠，残忍地杀人，
但他已经无法永生。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
美术馆
关于苦难他们总是很清楚的，
这些古典画家：他们多么深知它在
人心中的地位，甚至痛苦会产生，
当别人在吃，在开窗，或正作着无聊的散步的时候 ；
甚至当老年人热烈地、虔敬地等候
神异的降生时，总会有些孩子
并不特别想要他出现，而却在
树林边沿的池塘上溜着冰。
他们从不忘记：
即使悲惨的殉道也终归会完结
在一个角落，乱糟糟的地方，
在那里狗继续过着狗的生涯，而迫害者的马
把无知的臀部在树上摩擦。
在勃鲁盖尔的《伊卡鲁斯》里，比如说；
一切是多么安闲地从那桩灾难转过脸：
农夫或许听到了堕水的声音和那绝望的呼喊，
但对于他，那不是了不得的失败；
太阳依旧照着白腿落进绿波里；
那华贵而精巧的船必曾看见
一件怪事，从天上掉下一个男孩，
但它有某地要去，仍静静的航行。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
太亲热，太含糊了
如果讲爱情
只凭着痴心
照定义而行，
那就隔着墙壁，
从“是”走到“不”
就通不过去，
因为“不”不是爱，“不”是“不”，
是关一道门户，
是绷紧了下颚，
能意识到的难过。
说“是”吧，把爱情
变为成功，
凭栏看风景，
看到陆地和幸福，
一切都很肯定，
沙发压出吱扭声。
如果这是一切，爱情
就只是颊贴着颊，
亲热话对亲热话。
声音在解释
爱的欢欣，爱的痛苦，
还轻拍着膝，
无法不同意，
等待心灵的吐诉
象屏息等待的攻击，
每种弱点原封不动，
相同对着相同；
爱情不会在那里
爱情已移到另一个座椅。
已经知道了
谁挨近着你，
不感到为难，
也不会昏眩，
就会有礼貌地
离开北方自得其所，
而不会集合起
另一个对另一个，
这是设计自己的不幸，
预言自己的死亡和变心。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
暗藏的法律
暗藏的法律并不否认
我们的或然性规律，
而是把原子、星辰和人
都照其实际情况来对待，
当我们说谎是它就不理。
这是唯一的理由：何以
没有一个政府能把它编集
语言的定义必然会伤害
暗藏的法律。
它极端的耐心不会阻止，
如果我们要去找死；
当我们坐上汽车想逃避它，
当我们在酒馆里想忘记它：
这就是暗藏的法律要惩罚
我们的方法。
查良铮 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
小说家
装在各自的才能里象穿了制服，
每一位诗人的级别总一目了然；
他们可以象风暴叫我们沭目，
或者是早夭，或者是独居多少年。
他们可以象轻骑兵冲前去：可是他
必须挣脱出少年气盛的才分
而学会朴实和笨拙，学会做大家
都以为全然不值得一顾的一种人。
因为要达到他的最低的愿望，
他就得变成了绝顶的厌烦，得遭受
俗气的病痛，象爱情；得在公道场
公道，在龌龊堆里也龌龊个够；
而在他自己脆弱的一身中，他必须
尽可能隐受人类所有的委屈。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
名人志
一先令传记会给你全部的事实：
他父亲怎样揍他，他怎样出走，
少年作什么奋斗，是什么事迹
使得他在一代人物里最出风头：
他怎样打仗，钓鱼，打猎，熬通宵，
头晕着攀新峰；命名了新海一个：
最晚的研究家有的甚至于写到
爱情害得他哭鼻子，就象你和我。
他名满天下，却朝思暮想着一个人，
惊讶的评论家说那位就住在家中，
就在屋子里灵巧的做一点细活，
不干别的；能打打唿哨；会静坐，
会在园子里东摸摸西掏掏，回几封
他大堆出色的长信，一封也不保存。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
战争时代（选四）
十四
是的，我们要受难，就在此刻；
天空像高烧的前额在悸动，痛苦
是真实的；探照灯突然显示了
一些小小的自然使我们痛哭。
我们从来不相信他们会存在，
至少不存在我们这里。它们突地
像丑恶的、久已忘却的记忆涌来，
所有的炮像良心一样都在抗击。
在每个爱社交、爱家庭的眼睛后
一场私下的屠杀在进行摧毁
一切妇女，犹太人，富翁和人类。
山峦审判不了我们，若我们说了谎。
我们是地面的居民；大地听从着
智慧的邪恶者直到他们死亡。
十八
他被使用在远离文化中心的地方，
又被他的将军和他的虱子所遗弃，
于是在一件棉袄里他闭上眼睛
而离开人世。人家不会把他提起。
当这场战役被整理成书的时候，
没有重要的知识会在他的头壳里丧失。
他的玩笑是陈腐的，他沉闷如战时，
他的名字和模样都将永远消逝。
他不知善，不择善，却教育了我们，
并且像逗点一样加添上意义；
他在中国变为尘土，以便在他日
我们的女儿得以热爱这人间，
不再为狗所凌辱；也为了使有山、
有水、有房屋的地方，也能有人烟。
二十
他们携带恐怖像怀着一个钱包，
又畏惧地平线仿佛它是一门炮，
所有的河流和铁路像逃避诅咒，
都从近邻的情谊像各方逃跑。
他们紧紧拥聚在这新的灾祸中，
像刚入学的儿童，轮流地哭叫；
因为空间有些规则他们学不会，
时间讲的语言他们也掌握不了。
我们活在这里，在“现在”的未打开的
悲哀中；它的范围就是我们的内容。
是否囚人应该宽恕它的囚居，
是否未来的时代能远远逃避开
但仍感到它源于每件发生过的事情，
甚至源于我们？甚至觉得这也不坏？
二一
人的一生从没有彻底完成过，
豪迈和闲谈将会继续存在；
但是，有如艺术家感到才尽，
这些人行走世间，自知已经失败。
有些人既难忍，又驯服不了青年，
不禁悼念那曾治世的的受了伤的神话，
有些人失去了他们从未理解的世界，
有些人很清楚人一生应受的惩罚。
“丧失”是他们的影子和妻子，“焦虑”
像一个大饭店接待他们，但只要
他们有所悔恨，那也是无可规避；
他们的一生就是听禁城的召唤，
看陌生人注视他们，愉快而好奇，
而“自由”则在每家每棵树上为敌。
二三
当所有用以报告消息的工具
一齐证实我们的敌人的胜利；
我们在棱堡被突破，军队在退却，
“暴行”风靡象一种新的疫疠，
“邪恶”是一个妖精，到处受欢迎；
当我们悔不该生于此世的时份：
且记起一切似已被遗弃的孤灵。
今夜在中国让我来追念一个人，
他经过十年的沉默，工作而等待，
直到在谬佐显出了全部的魄力，
一举而让什么都有了个交代：
于是带了“完成者”所怀的感激，
他在冬天的夜里走出去抚摩
那座小堡，象一个庞然大物。
查良铮译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
安眠曲
我的爱．见把你凡人的头
枕着我不忠的手臂安眠；
心怀忧思的青春之年
经不住时间和热病烧焚，
终将烧尽个体的美色
坟墓将证明她蜉蝣薄命。
但此刻啊，直到黎明前，
且让这尤物睡在我的臂弯
她只是个有罪的凡人哪，
在我眼中却美丽非凡。
灵魂与肉体间并无界线：
维纳斯的绿茵宽容而销魂，
躺在这绿茵上的恋人们
在惯常的昏眩中醉酣，
维纳斯便向他们揭示
超自然契合的庄严幻象，
揭示伟大的泛爱和希望；
而在冰川与岩石之间
修士却通过抽象的悟性
获得一种肉欲的迷狂。
坚贞的品质、爱的忠实
随着子夜的钟声敲响
随着震荡的音波消逝；
时髦的狂人们卖弄着学识，
发出令人腻烦的叫嚣：
每张牌都预言着凶兆，
每一分代价都必须清偿！
但今宵的每一句语丝、
每一种心思、每一瞥目光
和每个吻，全都不会丢失。
美和子夜、幻象一齐消亡；
当黎明时辰和风送爽，
在你安眠的头上吹拂，
但愿它显示美好的白昼，
让目光和心跳能为它祝福
并为这凡世感到满足；
枯燥的午时使你饱尝，
不由自主之力的控制，
但当你把粗野的夜消度，
任何凡人之爱都把你守护。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
无名的公民
(献给JS/07 M 378该大理石纪念碑为本州所立)
他被统计局发现是
一个官方从未指摘过的人，
而且所有有关他品行的报告都表明：
用一个老式词儿的现代含义来说，他是个圣徒，
因为他所作所为都为一个更大的社会服务。
除了战时，直到退休
他都在一家工厂干活，从未遭到辞退，
而且他的雇主——福济汽车公司始终满意。
他并不拒绝加入工会，观点也不怪奇，
因为他的工会认为他会按期缴费，
（关于他所属工会我们的报告显示是可信的）
我们的社会心理学工作者发现
他很受同事欢迎，也喜欢喝上几杯。
新闻界深信他每天买份报纸
并且对那上面的广告反映正常。
他名下的保险单也证明他已买足了保险，
他的健康证上写着住过一次院，离开时已康复。
生产者研究所和高级生活部都宣称
他完全了解分期付款购物的好处
并拥有一个现代人必需的一切：
留声机，收音机，小汽车，电冰箱。
我们的舆论研究者甚感满意，
他能审时度势提出恰当的看法：
和平时拥护和平，战时就去打仗。
他结了婚，为全国人口添了五个孩子，
我们的优生学家说这对他那一代父母正好合适。
我们的教师报告也说他从不干预子女教育。
他自由吗？他幸福吗？这个问题太可笑：
如果真有什么错了，我们当然知道。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一位暴君的墓志铭
他追求一种尽善尽美，
他创造的诗歌简单易懂；
他对人类的愚蠢了如指掌，
而且醉心于自己的舰艇和军队;
他笑时，可敬的臣子也爆出大笑，
他哭时，小孩们则死在街头。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
散步
当我要散布一件丑闻，
或者向路另一头的某人
归还工具，出借书籍，
我选择此路，从这里走到那里。
之后返回，即使
与来时的脚印相遇，
那路看上去却全然若新
我打算做的现在已经做成。
但我避开它，当我作为
一个散步者散步只为散步；
其中所涉及的重复
提出了它自身不可解答的疑处。
什么样的天使或恶魔
命令我恰好停止在那一刻？
假如再向前走一公里
又会发生什么？
不，当灵魂里的骚动
或者积雨云约请一次漫步，
我挑选的路线转弯抹角
在它出发的地方结束。
这蜿蜒足迹，带我回家，
我不必向后转，
也不必回答
究竟要走多远，
却让行为成为规范，
以满足某种道德需求，
因为，当我重返家门
我早已经把罗盘装进盒子。
心，害怕离开她的外壳。
一如在我的私人住宅
和随便哪条公共道路之间
都要求有一百码的距离，
当它也被增加，就使得
直线成“T”，圆形为“Q”。
让我无论晴天雨天
都称这两样散步全然属已。
一条无人旅经的乡间小径，
那里的印痕并不合我的鞋，
它十分像我所爱的人留下，
而且，在寻找着我。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
罗马的秋天
(for Cyril Connolly)
波涛拍击码头；
荒野上大雨
抽打一辆废弃的火车；
歹徒们挤满了山洞。
幻觉遍布夜礼服；
国库代理人穿过
偏僻小镇的下水道
追赶着潜逃的抗税者。
魔法的秘密仪式催促
寺院里的娼妓入睡；
所有的文人学者
都有一个假想的朋友。
崇高而激动人心的卡多
可能赞美古老的纪律，
但肌肉僵硬的海兵叛乱
则是为了食物和薪水。
凯撒的双人床多暖和
当一个微不足道的办事员
在一张粉红的正式表格里
写下“我不喜欢我的工作”。
财富或怜悯未被赠予，
红腿的小鸟，
蹲在它们带斑点的蛋上，
注视着每座流感肆虐的城市。
在一起移向别处，无数
成群结队的驯鹿横穿
一片又一片金黄苔藓，
沉默而迅捷。
1940年
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
布鲁塞尔的冬天
寒冷的街道缠结如一团旧绳
喷泉也在霜下噤不作声
走来走去，看不请这城市的面容
它缺少自称"我乃实物"的品性
只有无家可归和真正卑微的人们
才像确切知道他们身在何处
他们的凄惨集中了一切命运
冬天紧抱着他们，像歌剧院的石柱
阔人们的公寓耸立在高地
几处窗子亮着灯光，犹如孤立的田庄
一句话像一辆卡车，满载着意义
一个眼光包含着人的历史
只要五十法郎，陌生人就有权利
让这无情义的城市送上温暖的胸膛
王佐良 译
（死于1939年1月）
1
他在严寒的冬天消失了：
小溪已冻结，飞机场几无人迹
积雪模糊了露天的塑像；
水银柱跌进垂死一天的口腔。
呵，所有的仪表都同意
他死的那天是寒冷而又阴暗。
远远离开他的疾病
狼群奔跑过常青的树林，
农家的河没受到时髦码头的诱导；
哀悼的文辞
把诗人的死同他的诗隔开。
但对他说，那不仅是他自己结束，
那也是他最后一个下午，
呵，走动着护士和传言的下午；
他的躯体的各省都叛变了，
他的头脑的广场逃散一空，
寂静侵入到近郊，
他的感觉之流中断：他成了他的爱读者。
如今他被播散到一百个城市，
完全移交给陌生的友情；
他要在另一种林中寻求快乐，
并且在迥异的良心法典下受惩处。
一个死者的文字
要在活人的腑肺间被润色。
但在来日的重大和喧嚣中，
当交易所的兼客像野兽一般咆哮，
当穷人承受着他们相当习惯的苦痛，
当每人在自我的囚室里几乎自信是自由的
有个千把人会想到这一天，
仿佛在这天曾做了稍稍不寻常的事情。
呵，所有的仪表都同意，
他死的那天是寒冷而又阴暗。
2
你像我们一样蠢；可是你的才赋
却超越这一切：贵妇的教堂，肉体的
衰颓，你自己；爱尔兰刺伤你发为诗歌，
但爱尔兰的疯狂和气候依旧，
因为诗无济于事：它永生于
它辞句的谷中，而官吏绝不到
那里去干预；“孤立”和热闹的“悲伤”
本是我们信赖并死守的粗野的城，
它就从这片牧场流向南方；它存在着，
是现象的一种方式，是一个出口。
3
泥土呵，请接纳一个贵宾，
威廉·叶芝己永远安寝：
让这爱尔兰的器皿歇下，
既然它的诗已尽倾洒。
时间对勇敢和天真的人
可以表示不能容忍，
也可以在一个星期里，
漠然对待一个美的躯体，
却崇拜语言，把每个
使语言常活的人部宽赦，
还宽赦懦弱和自负．
把荣耀都向他们献出。
时间以这样奇怪的诡辩
原谅了吉卜林和他的观点，
还将原谅保尔·克劳德，
原谅他写得比较出色。
黑略的恶梦把一切笼罩，
欧洲所有的恶犬在吠叫，
尚存的国家在等待，
各为自己的恨所隔开；
智能所受的耻辱
从每个人的脸上透露，
而怜悯底海洋已歇，
在每只眼里锁住和冻结。
跟去吧，诗人，跟在后面，
直到黑夜之深渊，
用你无拘束的声音
仍旧劝我们要欢欣；
靠耕耕一片诗f田
把诅咒变为葡萄园，
在苦难的欢腾中
歌唱着人的不成功；
从心灵的一片沙漠
让治疗的泉水喷射，
在他的岁月的监狱里
教给自由人如何赞誉。
（查良铮译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
歌
一天傍晚，当我走出屋外，
在布里斯托尔大街独自闲荡，
人行道上聚集的人群，
宛若收割的麦田的景象。
在涨满了潮水的河岸，
在铁路拱桥的下方，
我听列一个情郎正在讴歌：
“爱情之歌没有终端。
“我爱你，亲爱的，我爱你，
一直爱到中国与非洲相撞，
爱到大河跳上了山顶。
鲑鱼来到大街上歌唱。
“我爱你，直至海洋被关进栅栏，
为了晒干而被人倒挂；
直至七颗星星粗声喊叫，
就像空中出现了鹅鸭。
“岁月将像兔子一样奔跑，
因为我以自己的心坎，
紧紧搂住时代的花朵
以及大干世界的初恋。”
这时，城市里所有的大钟
开始呼呼地敲出声响：
“哦，莫让时间把你欺骗，
你没有法子征服时间。
“在恶梦的洞穴里面
住着赤身裸体的正义
你一亲吻，时间就咳嗽，
它从阴影中把你窥视
“在头痛和焦虑的时刻，
生活浑噩地渗漏而光
不是明天就是今日，
时间会有自己的幻想。
“令人震惊的鹅毛大雪，
向许多绿色的溪谷漂动
时间打破了交织的舞蹈，
和潜水者的美妙的鞠躬。
“唉，把你双手放入水中
一直浸到手的腕部；
凝视吧，紧紧凝视水盆，
弄清你失去了何物。
“冰川敲打在食品橱内，
沙漠叹息在这张床铺，
茶杯上的裂缝已经打开
一条通往死亡之自的狭路。
“乞丐在那儿出售钞票，
巨人以魔法迷惑男孩，
百合般纯洁的少年是个歹徒，
少女沉重地走下山来。
“噢，看吧，看一看镜子，
噢，看一看你的痛苦；
生活成了一种幸事，
尽管你自己不能赐福。
“唤，站住，站在镜子旁边，
就像眼泪烫痫、受惊；
你应以弥那颗扭曲的心，
去爱你的扭曲的近邻。”
夜已经很深，很深，
情人们早就无影无踪；
大钟也已停止了敲打，
深深的河水却继续滚动。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
阿喀琉斯之盾
她从他肩上看过去
寻找葡萄和橄榄、
大理石、秩序井然的城市、
深红色大海上的船帆；
但是，在闪闪发光的金属上
他的双手放下的却是
像铅块一样的天空
和人造的荒凉的空地。
毫无特色的平原，发黑、光秃，
没一片草叶，没有邻居的足迹，
没东西进餐，没地方就坐；
然而在那空寂的荒地
难以理解的众人却在聚集，
百万只眼睛，百万双靴子，
没有表情，列队等待着一个标记。
没人露面的声音从空中飘出，
统计资料表明，有些原因。
说出来像这块地方一样干燥、平板；
不愉悦任何人物，不讨论任何事情，
一队接着一队，迎着云雾般的灰尘，
他们齐步走开，忍受着一个信仰：
他们结果必然会在某处遭难。
她从他肩上看过去
寻找宗教仪式上的虔诚、
戴上了花环的白衣姑娘、
奠酒以及别的祭品；
但是，在闪闪发光的金属上
本来应该是祭坛，
可是在他那摇曳的炉火下，
她看到的却是另一番景象。
有刺的铁丝困住了专横的地方，
烦躁的官员们躺在那儿（说着趣闻），
天气炎热，哨兵们汗流浃背；
一群正派的普通百姓，
从外面观看，既不移步也不出声。
就像三个暗淡的图像，
笔直地绑在钉于地上的木桩。
这个世上的群众和帝王，
都有着分量，而且分量始终一样，
但都躺在别人的手上；他们渺小，
不能期待帮助，也没有人肯来帮忙；
他们敌人想做的一切已经做完；
他们的羞耻无与伦比；失去自尊，
在肉体死亡之前，灵魂就不再生存。
她从他肩上看过去
寻找比赛中的运动队员，
寻找扭动腰肢的男男女女，
甜甜蜜蜜地起舞翩翩，
快速、快速地合着音乐的节奏；
但是，在闪闪发光的盾牌上，
他的双手布置的不是舞厅，
而是布满枯草的田地的荒凉。
一个衣着褴褛的顽童，
在那空地漫无目的地独自闲逛；
一只乌儿从真实的石头上溜之大吉；
两个姑娘遭到强奸，两个少年残杀第三，
这就是他看到的公理，他从未听见，
任和世界会信守诺言，
或任何人因别人痛哭而呜咽。
锻造武器的赫准斯托斯，
长着薄嘴唇，离去时蹒蹒跚跚；
胸膛闪闪发光的忒提斯——
灰心丧气地大声哭喊，
责怪上帝迁就她的儿子——
力大无比的阿喀琉斯，
他铁石心肠，残忍地杀人，
但他已经无法永生。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
美术馆
关于苦难他们总是很清楚的，
这些古典画家：他们多么深知它在
人心中的地位，甚至痛苦会产生，
当别人在吃，在开窗，或正作着无聊的散步的时候 ；
甚至当老年人热烈地、虔敬地等候
神异的降生时，总会有些孩子
并不特别想要他出现，而却在
树林边沿的池塘上溜着冰。
他们从不忘记：
即使悲惨的殉道也终归会完结
在一个角落，乱糟糟的地方，
在那里狗继续过着狗的生涯，而迫害者的马
把无知的臀部在树上摩擦。
在勃鲁盖尔的《伊卡鲁斯》里，比如说；
一切是多么安闲地从那桩灾难转过脸：
农夫或许听到了堕水的声音和那绝望的呼喊，
但对于他，那不是了不得的失败；
太阳依旧照着白腿落进绿波里；
那华贵而精巧的船必曾看见
一件怪事，从天上掉下一个男孩，
但它有某地要去，仍静静的航行。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
太亲热，太含糊了
如果讲爱情
只凭着痴心
照定义而行，
那就隔着墙壁，
从“是”走到“不”
就通不过去，
因为“不”不是爱，“不”是“不”，
是关一道门户，
是绷紧了下颚，
能意识到的难过。
说“是”吧，把爱情
变为成功，
凭栏看风景，
看到陆地和幸福，
一切都很肯定，
沙发压出吱扭声。
如果这是一切，爱情
就只是颊贴着颊，
亲热话对亲热话。
声音在解释
爱的欢欣，爱的痛苦，
还轻拍着膝，
无法不同意，
等待心灵的吐诉
象屏息等待的攻击，
每种弱点原封不动，
相同对着相同；
爱情不会在那里
爱情已移到另一个座椅。
已经知道了
谁挨近着你，
不感到为难，
也不会昏眩，
就会有礼貌地
离开北方自得其所，
而不会集合起
另一个对另一个，
这是设计自己的不幸，
预言自己的死亡和变心。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
暗藏的法律
暗藏的法律并不否认
我们的或然性规律，
而是把原子、星辰和人
都照其实际情况来对待，
当我们说谎是它就不理。
这是唯一的理由：何以
没有一个政府能把它编集
语言的定义必然会伤害
暗藏的法律。
它极端的耐心不会阻止，
如果我们要去找死；
当我们坐上汽车想逃避它，
当我们在酒馆里想忘记它：
这就是暗藏的法律要惩罚
我们的方法。
查良铮 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
小说家
装在各自的才能里象穿了制服，
每一位诗人的级别总一目了然；
他们可以象风暴叫我们沭目，
或者是早夭，或者是独居多少年。
他们可以象轻骑兵冲前去：可是他
必须挣脱出少年气盛的才分
而学会朴实和笨拙，学会做大家
都以为全然不值得一顾的一种人。
因为要达到他的最低的愿望，
他就得变成了绝顶的厌烦，得遭受
俗气的病痛，象爱情；得在公道场
公道，在龌龊堆里也龌龊个够；
而在他自己脆弱的一身中，他必须
尽可能隐受人类所有的委屈。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
名人志
一先令传记会给你全部的事实：
他父亲怎样揍他，他怎样出走，
少年作什么奋斗，是什么事迹
使得他在一代人物里最出风头：
他怎样打仗，钓鱼，打猎，熬通宵，
头晕着攀新峰；命名了新海一个：
最晚的研究家有的甚至于写到
爱情害得他哭鼻子，就象你和我。
他名满天下，却朝思暮想着一个人，
惊讶的评论家说那位就住在家中，
就在屋子里灵巧的做一点细活，
不干别的；能打打唿哨；会静坐，
会在园子里东摸摸西掏掏，回几封
他大堆出色的长信，一封也不保存。
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
战争时代（选四）
十四
是的，我们要受难，就在此刻；
天空像高烧的前额在悸动，痛苦
是真实的；探照灯突然显示了
一些小小的自然使我们痛哭。
我们从来不相信他们会存在，
至少不存在我们这里。它们突地
像丑恶的、久已忘却的记忆涌来，
所有的炮像良心一样都在抗击。
在每个爱社交、爱家庭的眼睛后
一场私下的屠杀在进行摧毁
一切妇女，犹太人，富翁和人类。
山峦审判不了我们，若我们说了谎。
我们是地面的居民；大地听从着
智慧的邪恶者直到他们死亡。
十八
他被使用在远离文化中心的地方，
又被他的将军和他的虱子所遗弃，
于是在一件棉袄里他闭上眼睛
而离开人世。人家不会把他提起。
当这场战役被整理成书的时候，
没有重要的知识会在他的头壳里丧失。
他的玩笑是陈腐的，他沉闷如战时，
他的名字和模样都将永远消逝。
他不知善，不择善，却教育了我们，
并且像逗点一样加添上意义；
他在中国变为尘土，以便在他日
我们的女儿得以热爱这人间，
不再为狗所凌辱；也为了使有山、
有水、有房屋的地方，也能有人烟。
二十
他们携带恐怖像怀着一个钱包，
又畏惧地平线仿佛它是一门炮，
所有的河流和铁路像逃避诅咒，
都从近邻的情谊像各方逃跑。
他们紧紧拥聚在这新的灾祸中，
像刚入学的儿童，轮流地哭叫；
因为空间有些规则他们学不会，
时间讲的语言他们也掌握不了。
我们活在这里，在“现在”的未打开的
悲哀中；它的范围就是我们的内容。
是否囚人应该宽恕它的囚居，
是否未来的时代能远远逃避开
但仍感到它源于每件发生过的事情，
甚至源于我们？甚至觉得这也不坏？
二一
人的一生从没有彻底完成过，
豪迈和闲谈将会继续存在；
但是，有如艺术家感到才尽，
这些人行走世间，自知已经失败。
有些人既难忍，又驯服不了青年，
不禁悼念那曾治世的的受了伤的神话，
有些人失去了他们从未理解的世界，
有些人很清楚人一生应受的惩罚。
“丧失”是他们的影子和妻子，“焦虑”
像一个大饭店接待他们，但只要
他们有所悔恨，那也是无可规避；
他们的一生就是听禁城的召唤，
看陌生人注视他们，愉快而好奇，
而“自由”则在每家每棵树上为敌。
二三
当所有用以报告消息的工具
一齐证实我们的敌人的胜利；
我们在棱堡被突破，军队在退却，
“暴行”风靡象一种新的疫疠，
“邪恶”是一个妖精，到处受欢迎；
当我们悔不该生于此世的时份：
且记起一切似已被遗弃的孤灵。
今夜在中国让我来追念一个人，
他经过十年的沉默，工作而等待，
直到在谬佐显出了全部的魄力，
一举而让什么都有了个交代：
于是带了“完成者”所怀的感激，
他在冬天的夜里走出去抚摩
那座小堡，象一个庞然大物。
查良铮译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
安眠曲
我的爱．见把你凡人的头
枕着我不忠的手臂安眠；
心怀忧思的青春之年
经不住时间和热病烧焚，
终将烧尽个体的美色
坟墓将证明她蜉蝣薄命。
但此刻啊，直到黎明前，
且让这尤物睡在我的臂弯
她只是个有罪的凡人哪，
在我眼中却美丽非凡。
灵魂与肉体间并无界线：
维纳斯的绿茵宽容而销魂，
躺在这绿茵上的恋人们
在惯常的昏眩中醉酣，
维纳斯便向他们揭示
超自然契合的庄严幻象，
揭示伟大的泛爱和希望；
而在冰川与岩石之间
修士却通过抽象的悟性
获得一种肉欲的迷狂。
坚贞的品质、爱的忠实
随着子夜的钟声敲响
随着震荡的音波消逝；
时髦的狂人们卖弄着学识，
发出令人腻烦的叫嚣：
每张牌都预言着凶兆，
每一分代价都必须清偿！
但今宵的每一句语丝、
每一种心思、每一瞥目光
和每个吻，全都不会丢失。
美和子夜、幻象一齐消亡；
当黎明时辰和风送爽，
在你安眠的头上吹拂，
但愿它显示美好的白昼，
让目光和心跳能为它祝福
并为这凡世感到满足；
枯燥的午时使你饱尝，
不由自主之力的控制，
但当你把粗野的夜消度，
任何凡人之爱都把你守护。
（飞白译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
无名的公民
(献给JS/07 M 378该大理石纪念碑为本州所立)
他被统计局发现是
一个官方从未指摘过的人，
而且所有有关他品行的报告都表明：
用一个老式词儿的现代含义来说，他是个圣徒，
因为他所作所为都为一个更大的社会服务。
除了战时，直到退休
他都在一家工厂干活，从未遭到辞退，
而且他的雇主——福济汽车公司始终满意。
他并不拒绝加入工会，观点也不怪奇，
因为他的工会认为他会按期缴费，
（关于他所属工会我们的报告显示是可信的）
我们的社会心理学工作者发现
他很受同事欢迎，也喜欢喝上几杯。
新闻界深信他每天买份报纸
并且对那上面的广告反映正常。
他名下的保险单也证明他已买足了保险，
他的健康证上写着住过一次院，离开时已康复。
生产者研究所和高级生活部都宣称
他完全了解分期付款购物的好处
并拥有一个现代人必需的一切：
留声机，收音机，小汽车，电冰箱。
我们的舆论研究者甚感满意，
他能审时度势提出恰当的看法：
和平时拥护和平，战时就去打仗。
他结了婚，为全国人口添了五个孩子，
我们的优生学家说这对他那一代父母正好合适。
我们的教师报告也说他从不干预子女教育。
他自由吗？他幸福吗？这个问题太可笑：
如果真有什么错了，我们当然知道。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
一位暴君的墓志铭
他追求一种尽善尽美，
他创造的诗歌简单易懂；
他对人类的愚蠢了如指掌，
而且醉心于自己的舰艇和军队;
他笑时，可敬的臣子也爆出大笑，
他哭时，小孩们则死在街头。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
散步
当我要散布一件丑闻，
或者向路另一头的某人
归还工具，出借书籍，
我选择此路，从这里走到那里。
之后返回，即使
与来时的脚印相遇，
那路看上去却全然若新
我打算做的现在已经做成。
但我避开它，当我作为
一个散步者散步只为散步；
其中所涉及的重复
提出了它自身不可解答的疑处。
什么样的天使或恶魔
命令我恰好停止在那一刻？
假如再向前走一公里
又会发生什么？
不，当灵魂里的骚动
或者积雨云约请一次漫步，
我挑选的路线转弯抹角
在它出发的地方结束。
这蜿蜒足迹，带我回家，
我不必向后转，
也不必回答
究竟要走多远，
却让行为成为规范，
以满足某种道德需求，
因为，当我重返家门
我早已经把罗盘装进盒子。
心，害怕离开她的外壳。
一如在我的私人住宅
和随便哪条公共道路之间
都要求有一百码的距离，
当它也被增加，就使得
直线成“T”，圆形为“Q”。
让我无论晴天雨天
都称这两样散步全然属已。
一条无人旅经的乡间小径，
那里的印痕并不合我的鞋，
它十分像我所爱的人留下，
而且，在寻找着我。
（范倍译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
罗马的秋天
(for Cyril Connolly)
波涛拍击码头；
荒野上大雨
抽打一辆废弃的火车；
歹徒们挤满了山洞。
幻觉遍布夜礼服；
国库代理人穿过
偏僻小镇的下水道
追赶着潜逃的抗税者。
魔法的秘密仪式催促
寺院里的娼妓入睡；
所有的文人学者
都有一个假想的朋友。
崇高而激动人心的卡多
可能赞美古老的纪律，
但肌肉僵硬的海兵叛乱
则是为了食物和薪水。
凯撒的双人床多暖和
当一个微不足道的办事员
在一张粉红的正式表格里
写下“我不喜欢我的工作”。
财富或怜悯未被赠予，
红腿的小鸟，
蹲在它们带斑点的蛋上，
注视着每座流感肆虐的城市。
在一起移向别处，无数
成群结队的驯鹿横穿
一片又一片金黄苔藓，
沉默而迅捷。
1940年
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
布鲁塞尔的冬天
寒冷的街道缠结如一团旧绳
喷泉也在霜下噤不作声
走来走去，看不请这城市的面容
它缺少自称"我乃实物"的品性
只有无家可归和真正卑微的人们
才像确切知道他们身在何处
他们的凄惨集中了一切命运
冬天紧抱着他们，像歌剧院的石柱
阔人们的公寓耸立在高地
几处窗子亮着灯光，犹如孤立的田庄
一句话像一辆卡车，满载着意义
一个眼光包含着人的历史
只要五十法郎，陌生人就有权利
让这无情义的城市送上温暖的胸膛
王佐良 译
对永恒和对时间都一样
对永恒和对时间都一样
爱情无开始如爱情无终
在不能呼吸步行游泳的地方
爱情是海洋是陆地是风
（情人可痛苦？一切神圣
骄傲地下降时，都穿上必死的肉体，
情人可快乐？即使最小的欢欣
也是一宇宙，诞生自希冀）
爱情是一切沉默下的声音
是希望，找不到相对的恐惧
是力量，强得使力量可悯
是真理，比星还最后，比太阳还第一
－情人可有情？好吧，挟地狱去天堂
管他圣人和愚人说什么，一切都理想
余光中译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
有个地方我从未去过，在经验之外
有个地方我从未去过，在经验之外
愉快地存在，你的眼睛有种沉默：
你最纤巧的姿态里有东西能紧裹我
也有东西太靠近我使我无法触摸
哪怕我把自己关紧象捏拢手指
你最轻微的目光也很容易打开我，
一瓣儿一瓣儿开，就象春天打开
（巧妙、神秘地触摸着）第一朵玫瑰
或者你的愿望是把我关起，我和
我的生命会闭上，优美地，突然地，
似乎这朵花的心里正在想象
漫天白雪处处飘下，小心翼翼；
这世界上我们理解的东西没一件
能与你紧绷的纤巧相比：那种质地
用它本乡的颜色逼迫着我而且
给我死亡，永远地，随着每次呼吸
（我不知道你有什么本领能开
又能关；我心中却有东西却能够
理解你眼睛的声音深于任何玫瑰）
没人，哪怕雨也没有如此小巧的手
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
爱情比忘却厚
爱情比忘却厚
比回忆薄
比潮湿的波浪少
比失败多
它最痴癫最疯狂
但比起所有
比海洋更深的海洋
它更为长久
爱情总比胜利少见
却比活着多些
不大于无法开始
不小于谅解
它最明朗最清醒
而比起所有
比天空更高的天空
它更为不朽
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
但是
但是
“他”我
凝视
这冬季的黄
昏（喃喃着）“是
我的朋友”回
忆着“并且
是一个
奇迹”
他的总是
不可想象的
比——最——慷——慨——的——还——要——超
——过——的
精神。只
感受到
（耶稣）每一（位神）
处
（耶稣）
那绝对的虚无
（郑敏 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
为什么从这个她和他
为什么从这个她和他
你和我向上爬
（疯狂地吻着）直到
我们跌入他们——
时间和空间的全体
是怎么向那不朽的你我鞠躬
假如在—张小床上
她和他躺着（没有死）
（郑敏 译）
对永恒和对时间都一样
爱情无开始如爱情无终
在不能呼吸步行游泳的地方
爱情是海洋是陆地是风
（情人可痛苦？一切神圣
骄傲地下降时，都穿上必死的肉体，
情人可快乐？即使最小的欢欣
也是一宇宙，诞生自希冀）
爱情是一切沉默下的声音
是希望，找不到相对的恐惧
是力量，强得使力量可悯
是真理，比星还最后，比太阳还第一
－情人可有情？好吧，挟地狱去天堂
管他圣人和愚人说什么，一切都理想
余光中译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
有个地方我从未去过，在经验之外
有个地方我从未去过，在经验之外
愉快地存在，你的眼睛有种沉默：
你最纤巧的姿态里有东西能紧裹我
也有东西太靠近我使我无法触摸
哪怕我把自己关紧象捏拢手指
你最轻微的目光也很容易打开我，
一瓣儿一瓣儿开，就象春天打开
（巧妙、神秘地触摸着）第一朵玫瑰
或者你的愿望是把我关起，我和
我的生命会闭上，优美地，突然地，
似乎这朵花的心里正在想象
漫天白雪处处飘下，小心翼翼；
这世界上我们理解的东西没一件
能与你紧绷的纤巧相比：那种质地
用它本乡的颜色逼迫着我而且
给我死亡，永远地，随着每次呼吸
（我不知道你有什么本领能开
又能关；我心中却有东西却能够
理解你眼睛的声音深于任何玫瑰）
没人，哪怕雨也没有如此小巧的手
赵毅衡 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
爱情比忘却厚
爱情比忘却厚
比回忆薄
比潮湿的波浪少
比失败多
它最痴癫最疯狂
但比起所有
比海洋更深的海洋
它更为长久
爱情总比胜利少见
却比活着多些
不大于无法开始
不小于谅解
它最明朗最清醒
而比起所有
比天空更高的天空
它更为不朽
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
但是
但是
“他”我
凝视
这冬季的黄
昏（喃喃着）“是
我的朋友”回
忆着“并且
是一个
奇迹”
他的总是
不可想象的
比——最——慷——慨——的——还——要——超
——过——的
精神。只
感受到
（耶稣）每一（位神）
处
（耶稣）
那绝对的虚无
（郑敏 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
为什么从这个她和他
为什么从这个她和他
你和我向上爬
（疯狂地吻着）直到
我们跌入他们——
时间和空间的全体
是怎么向那不朽的你我鞠躬
假如在—张小床上
她和他躺着（没有死）
（郑敏 译）
黑色小手鼓
地窖里一个黑人的兴趣
在遁世的门上留下了缓慢的判断标记。
小虫们还晃动在瓶子的阴影中，
一只蟑螂又跨过了地板的缝隙。
伊索，陷入沉思之中，发现了
拥有龟和兔的天堂；
狐狸尾巴和母猪耳朵盖住了他的墓地
空气中回荡着混杂的咒语。
那个黑人，被遗弃在地窖中，
徘徊在某个王国的中央，它黑黑的，位于
他的手鼓之间，贴在墙上，
而此时，在非洲，一具尸体迅速被苍蝇占据。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
抽象的花园
枝条上的苹果是她的欲望——
闪耀的悬浮体，太阳的模仿品。
枝条抓住了她的呼吸、她的声音，暗暗地
把她头顶上枝桠在枝桠中的倾斜和上升
连成了一片，模糊了她的眼睛。
她是大树和它绿色手指的囚徒。
因此她梦见自己成了那棵树，
风占有了她，编织她稚气的静脉，
把她举到天空和它迅疾的蓝色中，
在阳光中溺死她手心中的热。
她没有记忆、没有畏惧、没有希望
在她脚底的草和阴影之上。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
北拉布拉多
倾斜的冰的领地
被天空那石膏灰的弓形所绷紧，
寂静地把它自身
射向无垠。
“没有人来这儿战胜你，
或者令你闪光的乳房上
生出微弱的羞红吗？
你没有记忆吗？或者漆黑的光？”
冷透了的安静。这儿只有那些狡猾的时辰
它们朝着春天的背面旅行——
回答是
没有出生、没有死亡、没有时间甚至太阳。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我祖母的情书
今晚没有星星
只有记忆中的星星。
而在柔软雨水的松弛束腰里
有多少间屋子留给了记忆。
甚至还有足够的屋子
留给我的祖母伊丽莎白
的情书，
它们很久以来一直被
压在屋顶的角落里
它们褐黄、松软，
快要象雪一样融化。
踏上此处的伟大
脚步一定要温柔。
它们全都被一根看不见的白发悬挂着。
它们颤抖着象桦树枝在网罗空气。
我问自己：
“你的手指有没有足够的长度
去弹奏仅仅是回音的琴键：
沉默有没有强大到
可以把音乐送回它的源头
再次交还给你
就象给她？”
而我情愿拉着我祖母的手
穿过这许多她搞不懂的东西；
因此我绊倒了。雨继续在屋顶上
带着一种轻柔的怜悯的笑。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
河的休眠
柳树带来一种迟缓的声音，
风跳着萨拉班德舞，扫过草坪。
我从不记得
沼泽地火热而固执的水位
直到年岁把我带到海边。
旗帜、杂草。还有关于一面陡峭凹壁
的记忆：在那儿柏树分享着月亮的
暴政；它们快要把我拖进了地狱。
猛犸海龟们爬上硫磺梦
而后塌下来，阳光的裂口把它们
割成了碎片……
我放弃了怎样一笔交易啊！漆黑的峡谷
和山中所有奇异的巢穴：
在那儿海狸学到了缝纫和牙齿。
我曾进去过又迅速逃了出来的池塘——
现在我记起来那是柳树歌唱着的边缘。
最后，在那个记忆中所有东西都在看护。
在我最终经过的城市——象流淌的滚烫油膏
和冒烟的飞镖一样经过——之后
季候风巧妙地绕过三角洲
到达海湾的门口……在那儿，在堤坝以远
我听见风一片一片剥下蓝宝石，就象这个夏天，
柳树不能再保留更多稳定的声音。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
星期天早晨的苹果
给威廉·索默
树叶会在某个时候再度落下，为
大自然的诈骗添加如下目的：
你诗行中豪华而忠实的力量。
但是现在，在成熟的赤裸之中
是对春天的挑战：头颅
伸进
刀剑的王国，她紫色的阴影
在某个世界的冬天爆发：这世界
来自蔑视雪的白。
一个男孩带着一条狗跑在太阳前面，骑着
造就了他们独立轨道的自发性，
他们自身光亮的四季周行
藏在你居住的山谷中
（人称白兰地酒山谷）。
我曾在那儿见过晃着你的秘密的苹果，——
心爱的、疯狂得有道理的苹果
满足了你悬着酒水的探究。
把它们再次放在一个插着刀子的水罐旁边，
让它们保持饱满的姿势，准备爆发——
苹果，比尔，苹果！
胡续冬 译
地窖里一个黑人的兴趣
在遁世的门上留下了缓慢的判断标记。
小虫们还晃动在瓶子的阴影中，
一只蟑螂又跨过了地板的缝隙。
伊索，陷入沉思之中，发现了
拥有龟和兔的天堂；
狐狸尾巴和母猪耳朵盖住了他的墓地
空气中回荡着混杂的咒语。
那个黑人，被遗弃在地窖中，
徘徊在某个王国的中央，它黑黑的，位于
他的手鼓之间，贴在墙上，
而此时，在非洲，一具尸体迅速被苍蝇占据。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
抽象的花园
枝条上的苹果是她的欲望——
闪耀的悬浮体，太阳的模仿品。
枝条抓住了她的呼吸、她的声音，暗暗地
把她头顶上枝桠在枝桠中的倾斜和上升
连成了一片，模糊了她的眼睛。
她是大树和它绿色手指的囚徒。
因此她梦见自己成了那棵树，
风占有了她，编织她稚气的静脉，
把她举到天空和它迅疾的蓝色中，
在阳光中溺死她手心中的热。
她没有记忆、没有畏惧、没有希望
在她脚底的草和阴影之上。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
北拉布拉多
倾斜的冰的领地
被天空那石膏灰的弓形所绷紧，
寂静地把它自身
射向无垠。
“没有人来这儿战胜你，
或者令你闪光的乳房上
生出微弱的羞红吗？
你没有记忆吗？或者漆黑的光？”
冷透了的安静。这儿只有那些狡猾的时辰
它们朝着春天的背面旅行——
回答是
没有出生、没有死亡、没有时间甚至太阳。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
我祖母的情书
今晚没有星星
只有记忆中的星星。
而在柔软雨水的松弛束腰里
有多少间屋子留给了记忆。
甚至还有足够的屋子
留给我的祖母伊丽莎白
的情书，
它们很久以来一直被
压在屋顶的角落里
它们褐黄、松软，
快要象雪一样融化。
踏上此处的伟大
脚步一定要温柔。
它们全都被一根看不见的白发悬挂着。
它们颤抖着象桦树枝在网罗空气。
我问自己：
“你的手指有没有足够的长度
去弹奏仅仅是回音的琴键：
沉默有没有强大到
可以把音乐送回它的源头
再次交还给你
就象给她？”
而我情愿拉着我祖母的手
穿过这许多她搞不懂的东西；
因此我绊倒了。雨继续在屋顶上
带着一种轻柔的怜悯的笑。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
河的休眠
柳树带来一种迟缓的声音，
风跳着萨拉班德舞，扫过草坪。
我从不记得
沼泽地火热而固执的水位
直到年岁把我带到海边。
旗帜、杂草。还有关于一面陡峭凹壁
的记忆：在那儿柏树分享着月亮的
暴政；它们快要把我拖进了地狱。
猛犸海龟们爬上硫磺梦
而后塌下来，阳光的裂口把它们
割成了碎片……
我放弃了怎样一笔交易啊！漆黑的峡谷
和山中所有奇异的巢穴：
在那儿海狸学到了缝纫和牙齿。
我曾进去过又迅速逃了出来的池塘——
现在我记起来那是柳树歌唱着的边缘。
最后，在那个记忆中所有东西都在看护。
在我最终经过的城市——象流淌的滚烫油膏
和冒烟的飞镖一样经过——之后
季候风巧妙地绕过三角洲
到达海湾的门口……在那儿，在堤坝以远
我听见风一片一片剥下蓝宝石，就象这个夏天，
柳树不能再保留更多稳定的声音。
胡续冬 译
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
星期天早晨的苹果
给威廉·索默
树叶会在某个时候再度落下，为
大自然的诈骗添加如下目的：
你诗行中豪华而忠实的力量。
但是现在，在成熟的赤裸之中
是对春天的挑战：头颅
伸进
刀剑的王国，她紫色的阴影
在某个世界的冬天爆发：这世界
来自蔑视雪的白。
一个男孩带着一条狗跑在太阳前面，骑着
造就了他们独立轨道的自发性，
他们自身光亮的四季周行
藏在你居住的山谷中
（人称白兰地酒山谷）。
我曾在那儿见过晃着你的秘密的苹果，——
心爱的、疯狂得有道理的苹果
满足了你悬着酒水的探究。
把它们再次放在一个插着刀子的水罐旁边，
让它们保持饱满的姿势，准备爆发——
苹果，比尔，苹果！
胡续冬 译
我经常被允许回到草场上
好象这是头脑编造出的一个场景
它不是我的头脑，但是这编造的地方
是我的，它如此靠近我的心脏
一个包含在全部思维内的永久的牧场，
这样它就有一个前厅
它是一个制造出的地方，光线所创造的
各种形状的阴影从那里落下
从那里降下各种建筑物，
我说我就象上帝的第一个宠儿，
他的花朵是为圣母燃烧的火焰。
她是圣山脚下的女王
她的军队是一群乱军，由字中之字组成
它们是一片围好的田野
它仅是—场关于绿草摇拂的梦，
草摆向东方逆着太阳照来的方向，
在日落前一个小时。
太阳的秘密，我们在孩子们的游戏
“绕着月季花走”中看到。
我常常被允许回到草场上
好象这是头脑的天生财富
某些疆界使它免于混乱
那是一块人们最早得到允许的地盘
事物实质的永恒征兆。
（郑敏 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
诗，一个自然的东西
我们的邪恶或品德
都不能推进诗。“它们生长
和衰亡
正象它们每年出现
在岩石上那样。”
诗
用思想、感情和行动喂养和
抚育自己
是一种精神的紧迫感在昏暗的梯子上跳跃。
这种美是一种内在坚持
朝着源泉
努力抵抗（内在地）那江流下泄之势
我们听见一种召唤，并回答
那是这世界的迟暮中一种
原始的澎湃声
从它的浪潮中年轻的世界可能诞生
鲑鱼不生活在榛子飘落的井中
却在瀑布中战斗，无声地
盲然地进行着。
这是一幅适合头脑的图画。
第二幅：一幅斯塔布斯所画的驼鹿
那去年的华丽的鹿茸
躺在地上
那寂寞的鹿脸的诗带着
新的鹿角的小蕾
同样是
“有点沉重，有点造作”
他的唯一的美就是
他是完完全全的鹿。
（郑敏 译）
好象这是头脑编造出的一个场景
它不是我的头脑，但是这编造的地方
是我的，它如此靠近我的心脏
一个包含在全部思维内的永久的牧场，
这样它就有一个前厅
它是一个制造出的地方，光线所创造的
各种形状的阴影从那里落下
从那里降下各种建筑物，
我说我就象上帝的第一个宠儿，
他的花朵是为圣母燃烧的火焰。
她是圣山脚下的女王
她的军队是一群乱军，由字中之字组成
它们是一片围好的田野
它仅是—场关于绿草摇拂的梦，
草摆向东方逆着太阳照来的方向，
在日落前一个小时。
太阳的秘密，我们在孩子们的游戏
“绕着月季花走”中看到。
我常常被允许回到草场上
好象这是头脑的天生财富
某些疆界使它免于混乱
那是一块人们最早得到允许的地盘
事物实质的永恒征兆。
（郑敏 译）
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
诗，一个自然的东西
我们的邪恶或品德
都不能推进诗。“它们生长
和衰亡
正象它们每年出现
在岩石上那样。”
诗
用思想、感情和行动喂养和
抚育自己
是一种精神的紧迫感在昏暗的梯子上跳跃。
这种美是一种内在坚持
朝着源泉
努力抵抗（内在地）那江流下泄之势
我们听见一种召唤，并回答
那是这世界的迟暮中一种
原始的澎湃声
从它的浪潮中年轻的世界可能诞生
鲑鱼不生活在榛子飘落的井中
却在瀑布中战斗，无声地
盲然地进行着。
这是一幅适合头脑的图画。
第二幅：一幅斯塔布斯所画的驼鹿
那去年的华丽的鹿茸
躺在地上
那寂寞的鹿脸的诗带着
新的鹿角的小蕾
同样是
“有点沉重，有点造作”
他的唯一的美就是
他是完完全全的鹿。
（郑敏 译）