I.
What man shall say that he the deepest deep
Has reached, whereto misfortune may him bring?
That never from her fatal urn may leap
A lot inscribed with heavier suffering
Than that he knows? that now of everything
Which sweetens life, his life is stript so bare,
That worse with him henceforth it cannot fare?
II.
Not he, who had been hurled with impulse rude
Down from the honourable high estate
Wherein observed and reverenced once he stood;
He yet must be misfortune’s trustier mate—
Must lie exposed to keener shafts of fate:
He, knowing much of ill, must find that more,
Bitterer and sharper, is for him in store.
III.
For now his foes, by malice partly moved,
Because they saw it solaced him to share
All griefs and labours which the others proved;
And how that all, though oft they threatened were,
And punished for their deed, yet still would bear
To him all reverence and respect, and bring
Homage to him as to a crownèd king;—
IV.
And partly, for they dreaded lest his frame,
Which had been ever tender, weak, and frail,
And evidently weaker now became
With each succeeding day, should wholly fail,
Nor longer to sustain itself avail;—
Lest it should sink beneath its cruel toil,
And them of all their promised gain despoil,—
V.
They now denied him the sad liberty
To share whatever pains the others knew:
Shut in a narrow dungeon must he lie,
Shut from their fellowship and service true;
There he his resolution high may rue,
If ever ruth on high and noble deeds,
Whatever consequence they bring, succeeds.
VI.
Oh dreary months! months growing into years,
Which o’er their heads, bringing no respite, past;
And they must mingle still their drink with tears,
While fell upon them thicker and more fast
The shafts of anguish;—yet for him at last,
The noblest sufferer of this suffering band,
The hour of his deliverance was at hand.
VII.
For once, when they as usual passed before
His vault, and softly called him, no reply
Might they obtain;—but listening at the door,
They only heard him breathing heavily,
And caught at intervals a long-drawn sigh;
Till, more times called, he faintly did desire
Who called to know, and what they might require.
VIII.
—“Oh! fares it, dearest lord, so ill with thee,
That now thou dost no more our voices know,
Who once could’st tell us each from each, if we
Did but so much as near thy dungeon go,
Bound on our weary errands to and fro?”
—“Oh, pardon me, my friends,—my extreme pain
Hath robbed me of all sense and dulled my brain.
IX.
“But go and say in what an evil case
I find me now;—perchance they will relent
So far that I may in this noisome place,
For my short time remaining, not be pent;
Or at my prayer they will at least consent
That one of you may now continue nigh,
And watch beside me—for, dear friends, I die.”
X.
To the king’s presence straight they forced their way,
Regardless of what dangers they might meet:
Before him prone upon the earth they lay;
They kissed the very ground beneath his feet,
Laying the dust with tears, and did entreat
In anguish that their lord might not be left
Unhelped to perish, of all aid bereft.
XI.
But little might they find of pity there;
New insults and new taunts were all they won;
These, with rude blows, their only answer were:
—“Back to your tasks, ye Christian dogs—begone—
Away! from me compassion finds he none:
Let him upon himself compassion show;
I swear, by Heaven, he shall no other know!
XII.
“What! shall ye come in arms to waste our land,
God’s people to extirpate shall ye come,
And then, when it fares ill with you, demand
Our pity?—no; accept your righteous doom,
O fools! that in your own land had not room
To dwell—that had not strength to conquer ours;
Fools, whose desires so far outstrip your powers!
XIII.
“Where are they now, that with the fire and sword
Our land to harry were so free of old?
Can they no pity to your Prince afford?
Where is your King, and where your captains bold?
Or has it not in Portugal been told
What here is done, and what by him is borne
Of shame and outrage, and of extreme scorn?”
XIV.
It seemed that for those votaries of Mahound
All love, all mercy quite had fled away;
Yet in one heart this much of grace they found,
That when their tasks were ended of the day,
He who the dungeon where the sufferer lay
Kept, unto them consented to afford
A brief communion with their dying lord.
XV.
Admitted there, from cries and loud lament,
Untimely now, they scarcely could refrain:
Fain would they with their shrieks the vault have rent;
They knelt beside him,—kissed his hands, the chain
That on his wasted limbs did still remain;
They cast themselves the dungeon-floor along,
And tore their beards, and did their faces wrong.
XVI.
Sobs choked their utterance wholly, to behold
The lineaments so marred and so defaced,
Which they had loved and reverenced so of old.
He too was deeply moved, but sooner chased
The weakness from him, and with calm replaced:
Then from the strawen pallet where he lay
Himself a little raising, thus did say:—
XVII.
“If I sometimes an earnest hope have fed,
That I might breathe again my native air,
And tread my natal soil—this wish was bred
By the desire I cherished to prepare
For you such honourable shelter there,
As could none other do, who did not know
How truly you have served me in my woe.
XVIII.
“For had I sate a king upon my throne,
All wealth, all honour waiting on mine eye,
You never could have truer service shown
Than you _have_ shown me in my misery—
Nor I from any found more loyalty,
Than that which I _have_ found upon your parts,
Oh children dear! oh true and faithful hearts!
XIX.
“And now that I am hastening to my rest,
One only thought of trouble doth employ
My soul, that I am leaving you opprest
With this huge weight of woe;—the perfect joy
My bosom feels, knows only this alloy,
That many, when my lips are closed in death,
Will seek to draw you from your holy faith.
XX.
“But oh! whatever of worst ill betide,
Seek not this manner to evade your woe.
Be true to God—on him in faith abide,
And sure deliverance you at length shall know;
It may be that some path his hand will show
To your dear earthly homes—or he will shape
For you at length my way of glad escape.
XXI.
“Be true to God—forsake not him, and you
In all your griefs forsake he never will;
The true of heart have found him ever true:
And this I say, who having known much ill,
Do now affirm him faithful to fulfil
All promises—and boldly say that he
In all my griefs hath not forsaken me.”
XXII.
No more he spake—but speechless sank, oppressed
With the fierce fever that within him burned;
But oh! what anguish then the hearts possessed
Of that poor captive band, who weeping turned,
And their dear lord, as now departed, mourned,—
Forth filing from that vault, a weeping train
Who had beheld him now, and should not see again.
XXIII.
Now seemed they desolate—for he, although
Helpless his dearest to defend with power
From the least insult of the meanest foe,
Had seemed to them a shelter and a tower
Of refuge in affliction’s fiercest hour,
From his lone dungeon spreading broad above
Their heads the buckler of his faith and love.
XXIV.
And still the tears flowed faster from their eyes,
As each his fellow weeping did remind
Of all his loving gentle courtesies,
And gracious acts—how oft, as one that pined,
E’en ere that sickness took him, he declined
His scanty portion of the food prepared,
Which among them with this pretext he shared.
XXV.
—“He knew our fetters’ clank, and with quick ear
One from another by that mournful sound
He could discern, nor ever passed we near
His dungeon, on our weary labour bound,
But he for us some words of comfort found,
And still he begged us pardon him, as though
Himself he owned the cause of all our woe.
XXVI.
“And what most grieved him, more than all he bore
In his own person of injurious wrong,
Piercing his very bosom’s inmost core,
Was, if the tale was brought him that among
Us, his dear children, there had strife upsprung,
As sometimes did—for grief is quick and wild,—
Then left he not, till we were reconciled.”
XXVII.
—Beside the Prince might only one remain
In that unlighted vault the livelong night:
Its earlier watches seemed of restless pain,
Nothing he spake—but tossed from left to right,
Like one who vainly did some ease invite;
Till when it verged toward morning, he that kept
That anxious vigil deemed the sufferer slept:
XXVIII.
Or sometimes feared he was already dead,
So noiseless now that chamber’s silence deep;
Yet ventured not to speak or stir, for dread
Lest he should chase away that sweetest sleep
Of morning, which comes over them that keep
Pained watches through the night;—till tardily
The morning broke, and he drew gently nigh.
XXIX.
When lo! with folded palms the Martyr lay,
His eyes unclosed—and stood in each a tear,
And round his mouth a sweeter smile did play
Than ever might on mortal lips appear:
No mortal joy could ever have come near
The joy that bred that smile—with waking eye
He seemed to mark some vision streaming by.
XXX.
Then feared to rouse him from that blessèd trance,
And back again with noiseless step retired
That good old man—nor nearer would advance,
Though of his weal he gladly had required.
He waited, and a long long hour expired,
And it was silence still—when to his bed
Him beckoning soft, the princely sufferer said—
XXXI.
“What I shall speak, now promise that to none
Of all my fellow captives shall be told,
That not till this poor body shall have gone
The way of all the earth, thou wilt unfold
My words, yea evermore in silence hold,
Unless hereafter should a time betide,
When by the telling God were glorified.
XXXII.
“Two hours or more before the spring of day,
As I within me mused how poor and leer
This world, and as in pain I waking lay,
Thought upon all the happy souls, that here
Once suffered, but are now exempt from fear
And pain and wrong, there woke within my breast
A speechless longing for that heavenly rest.
XXXIII.
“Mine eyes were steadfastly towàrd the wall
Turned, when I saw a wondrous vision there;
I saw a vision bright, majestical,
One seated on a throne—and many fair
And dazzling shapes before him gathered were,
With palms in hand—such glory from his face
Was shed, as lightened all this dismal place.
XXXIV.
“This dismal vault, this dungeon of deep gloom,
This sunless dwelling of eternal night,
Which I have felt so long my living tomb,
Showed like the court of heaven—so clear, so bright,
So full of odours, harmonies and light—
And music filled the air—an heavenly strain,
That rose awhile, and then was hushed again.
XXXV.
“Then one came forward from that blessed throng,
And kneeled to him, and said—‘Compassion take
On this thy servant, who has suffered long
Such great and heavy troubles for thy sake,
We thank thee, Lord, that thou so soon wilt make
Thy servant’s many woes to end, that he
Into our choir admitted now will be.’
XXXVI.
“When thus I heard him speak, I marked him well,
And by his banner and his scales, I knew
It was the great Archangel Michaël:
And by his side there knelt another too,
Who in one hand a chalice held in view,
The other clasped a book, and there was writ,
‘In the beginning was the Word,’ in it.
XXXVII.
“But then my Lord, my Saviour turned to me,
And with sweet smile ineffable he said,
‘To-day thou comest hence and shalt be free!’—
With music, as it came, then vanishèd
The vision—but within me it has bred
Sweet comfort that remains, and now I know
To-day I leave the world, and end my woe.
XXXVIII.
“My Lord, my God, what wondrous grace is this
That thou hast not disdained to visit me,
And give me tidings of my coming bliss—
Who am I, sinful man, so graced to be?
Oh gladly will I bear whate’er by thee
May be appointed, ere my race be run,
Of pain or travail—Lord, thy will be done.”
XXXIX.
In calmest quiet waiting his release,
When he had finished thus his prayer, he lay:
“Lord, now thou lettest me depart in peace,”
Were the last words which he was heard to say,
Upon his left side turning, as the day
Slow sinking now with more than usual pride
Streamed through the prison bars, a glory deep and wide.
XL.
When the last flush had faded from the west,
When the last streak of golden light was gone,
They looked, but he had entered on his rest—
He too his haven of repose had won,
Leaving this truth to be gainsaid by none,
That what the scroll upon his shield did say,
That well his life had proved—_Le bien me plaît_.
ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS.
I.
High on the poop, with many a godlike peer,
With heroes and with kings, the flower of Greece,
That gathered at his word from far and near,
To snatch the guarded fleece,
II.
Great Jason stood; nor ever from the soil
The anchor’s brazen tooth unfastenèd,
Till, auspicating so his glorious toil,
From golden cup he shed
III.
Libations to the Gods—to highest Jove—
To Waves and prospering Winds—to Night and Day—
To all, by whom befriended, they might prove
A favourable way.
IV.
With him the twins—one mortal, one divine—
Of Leda, and the Strength of Hercules;
And Tiphys, steersman through the perilous brine,
And many more with these:—
V.
Great father, Peleus, of a greater son,
And Atalanta, martial queen, was here;
And that supreme Athenian, nobler none,
And Idmon, holy seer.
VI.
Nor Orpheus pass unnamed, though from the rest
Apart, he leaned upon that lyre divine,
Which once in heaven his glory should attest,
Set there a sacred sign.
VII.
But when auspicious thunders rolled on high,
Unto its chords and to his chant sublime
The joyful heroes, toiling manfully,
With measured strokes kept time.
VIII.
Then when that keel divided first the waves,
Them Chiron cheered from Pelion’s piny crown,
And wondering Sea-nymphs rose from ocean caves,
And all the Gods looked down.
IX.
The bark divine, itself instinct with life,
Went forth, and baffled Ocean’s rudest shocks,
Escaping, though with pain and arduous strife,
The huge encountering rocks;
X.
And force and fraud o’ercome, and peril past,
Its hard-won trophy raised in open view,
Through prosperous floods was bringing home at last
Its high heroic crew;
XI.
Till now they cried, (Ææa left behind,
And the dead waters of the Cronian main,)
“No peril more upon our path we find,
Safe haven soon we gain.”
XII.
When, as they spake, sweet sounds upon the breeze
Came to them, melodies till now unknown,
And blended into one delight with these,
Sweet odours sweetly blown,—
XIII.
Sweet odours wafted from the flowery isle,
Sweet music breathèd by the Sirens three,
Who there lie wait, all passers to beguile,
Fair monsters of the sea—
XIV.
Fair monsters foul, that with their magic song
And beauty to the shipman wandering,
Worse peril than disastrous whirlpools strong,
Or fierce sea-robbers bring.
XV.
Sometimes upon the diamond rocks they leant,
Sometimes they sate upon the flowery lea
That sloped towàrd the wave, and ever sent
Shrill music o’er the sea.
XVI.
One piped, one sang, one struck the golden lyre;
And thus to forge and fling a threefold chain
Of linkèd harmony the three conspire,
O’er land and hoary main.
XVII.
The winds, suspended by the charmèd song,
Shed treacherous calm about that fatal isle;
The waves, as though the halcyon o’er its young
Were brooding, always smile;
XVIII.
And every one that listens, presently
Forgetteth home, and wife, and children dear,
All noble enterprise and purpose high,
And turns his pinnace here,—
XIX.
He turns his pinnace, warning taking none
From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lie bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whiten all the shore.
XX.
He cannot heed,—so sweet unto him seems
To reap the harvest of the promised joy;
The wave-worn man of such secure rest dreams,
So guiltless of annoy.
XXI.
The heroes and the kings, the wise, the strong,
That won the fleece with cunning and with might,
_Their_ souls were taken in the net of song,
Entangled in delight;
XXII.
Till ever loathlier seemed all toil to be,
And that small space they yet must travel o’er,
Stretched an immeasurable breadth of sea
Their fainting hearts before.
XXIII.
“Let us turn hitherward our bark,” they cried,
“And, ’mid the blisses of this happy isle,
Past toil forgetting and to come, abide
In joyfulness awhile;
XXIV.
“And then, refreshed, our tasks resume again,
If other tasks we yet are bound unto,
Combing the hoary tresses of the main
With sharp swift keel anew.”
XXV.
O heroes, that had once a nobler aim,
O heroes, sprung from many a godlike line,
What will ye do, unmindful of your fame,
And of your race divine?
XXVI.
But they, by these prevailing voices now
Lured, evermore draw nearer to the land,
Nor saw the wrecks of many a goodly prow,
That strewed that fatal strand;
XXVII.
Or seeing, feared not—warning taking none
From the plain doom of all who went before,
Whose bones lay bleaching in the wind and sun,
And whitened all the shore.
XXVIII.
And some impel through foaming billows now
The hissing keel, and some tumultuous stand
Upon the deck, or crowd about the prow,
Waiting to leap to land.
XXIX.
And them had thus this lodestar of delight
Drawn to their ruin wholly, but for one
Of their own selves, who struck his lyre with might,
Calliope’s great son.
XXX.
He singing, (for mere words were now in vain,
That melody so led all souls at will,)
Singing he played, and matched that earth-born strain
With music sweeter still.
XXXI.
Of holier joy he sang, more true delight,
In other happier isles for them reserved,
Who, faithful here, from constancy, and right,
And truth have never swerved;
XXXII.
How evermore the tempered ocean gales
Breathe round those hidden islands of the blest,
Steeped in the glory spread when daylight fails
Far in the sacred West;
XXXIII.
How unto them, beyond our mortal night,
Shines evermore in strength the golden day;
And meadows with purpureal roses bright
Bloom round their feet alway;
XXXIV.
And plants of gold—some burn beneath the sea,
And some, for garlands apt, the land doth bear,
And lacks not many an incense-breathing tree,
Enriching all that air.
XXXV.
Nor need is more, with sullen strength of hand
To vex the stubborn earth, or plough the main;
They dwell apart, a calm heroic band,
Not tasting toil or pain.
XXXVI.
Nor sang he only of unfading bowers,
Where they a tearless, painless age fulfil,
In fields Elysian spending blissful hours,
Remote from every ill;
XXXVII.
But of pure gladness found in temperance high,
In duty owned, and reverenced in awe,
Of man’s true freedom, that may only lie
In servitude to law;
XXXVIII.
And how ’twas given through virtue to aspire
To golden seats in ever-calm abodes;
Of mortal men, admitted to the quire
Of high immortal Gods.
XXXIX.
He sang—a mighty melody divine,
That woke deep echoes in the heart of each—
Reminded whence they drew their royal line,
And to what heights might reach.
XL.
And all the while they listened, them the speed
Bore forward still of favouring wind and tide,
That, when their ears were open to give heed
To any sound beside,
XLI.
The feeble echoes of that other lay,
Which held awhile their senses thralled and bound,
Were in the distance fading quite away,
A dull, unheeded sound.
ST. CHRYSOSTOM.
’Tis not by action only, not by deed,
Though that be just and holy, pure and wise,
That man may to his last perfection rise;
Of suffering as of doing he has need:
Thus prospers with due change the heavenly seed,
While stormy night succeeds to sunny day;
Thus the good metal, proven every way,
From the last dross that clung to it is freed.
And thus for thee, O glorious man, on whom
Love well deserved, and honour waited long,
In thy last years in place of timely ease
There did remain another loftier doom,
Pain, travail, exile, peril, scorn and wrong—
Glorious before, but glorified through these.
THE OIL OF MERCY.
Many beauteous spots the earth
Keepeth yet,—but brighter, fairer
Did that long-lost Eden show
Than the loveliest that remaineth:
So what marvel, when our Sire
Was from thence expelled, he waited
Lingering with a fond regret
Round those blessèd happy places
Once his home, while innocence
Was his bright sufficient raiment?
Long he lingered there, and saw
Up from dark abysmal spaces
Four strong rivers rushing ever;
Saw the mighty wall exalted
High as heaven, and on its heights
Glimpses of the fiery Angel.
Long he lingered near, with hope
Which had never quite abated,
That one day the righteous sentence,
Dooming him to stern disgraces,
Should be disannulled, and he
In his first bliss reinstated.
But when mortal pangs surprised him,
By an unseen foe assailèd,
Seth he called, his dearest son,
Called him to his side, and faintly
Him addressed—“My son, thou knowest
Of what sufferings partaker,
Of what weariness and toil,
Of what sickness, pain and danger
I have been, since that sad hour
That from Eden’s precincts drave me.
But thou dost not know that God,
When to exile forth I farèd,
Houseless wanderer through the world,
Thus with gracious speech bespake me:
—‘Though thou mayst not here continue,
In these blessèd happy places,
As before from pain exempt,
Suffering, toil, and mortal ailment,
Think not thou shalt therefore be
Of my loving care forsaken:
Rather shall that tree of life,
In the middle garden planted,
Once a precious balm distil,
Which to thee applied, thine ailments
Shall be all removed, and thou
Made of endless life partaker.’—
With these words he cheered me then,
Words that have remained engraven
On my bosom’s tablets since.
Go then, dear my son, oh hasten
Unto Eden’s guarded gate,
Tell thine errand to the Angel;
And that fiery sentinel
To the tree will guide thee safely,
Where it stands, aloft, alone,
In the garden’s middle spaces:
Thence bring back that oil of mercy,
Ere my lamp of life be wasted.”
When his father’s feeble words
Seth had heard, at once he hastened,
Hoping to bring back that oil,
Ere the light had wholly faded
From his father’s eyes, the lamp
Of his life had wholly wasted.
O’er the plain besprent with flowers,
With ten thousand colours painted
In that spring-time of the year,
By Thelassar on he hastened,
Made no pause, till Eden’s wall
Rose an ever verdant barrier,
High as heaven’s great roof, that shines
With its bright carbuncles paven.
There the son of Adam paused,
For above him hung the Angel
In the middle air suspense,
With his swift sword glancing naked.
Down upon his face he fell
By the sun-bright vision dazèd.
“Child of man”—these words he heard,
“Rise, and say what thing thou cravest?”
All his father’s need he told,
And how now his father waited,
In his mighty agony
For that medicine yearning greatly.
“But thou seekest” (this reply
Then he heard) “thou seekest vainly
For that oil of mercy yet,
Nor will tears nor prayers avail thee.
Go then quickly back, and bring
These my words to him, _thy_ parent,
Parent of the race of men.
He and they in faith and patience
Must abide, long years must be
Ere the precious fruit be gathered,
Ere the oil of mercy flow
From the blessèd tree and sacred
In the Paradise of God:
Nor till then will be obtainèd
The strong medicine of life,
Healing every mortal ailment,
Nor thy sire till then be made
Of immortal life a sharer.
Fear not that his heart will sink
When these tidings back thou bearest,
Rather thou shalt straightway see
All his fears and pangs abated,
And by faith allayed to meekness
Every wish and thought impatient.
Hasten back then—thy return,
Strongly yearning, he awaiteth:
Hasten back then.”—On the word
To his father back he hastened,
Found him waiting his return
In his agony, his latest:
Told him of what grace to come,
Of what sure hope he was bearer—
Saw him, when that word was spoke,
Every fear and pang assuagèd,
And by faith allayed to meekness,
Every wish and thought impatient,
Like a child resign himself
Unto sweet sleep, calm and painless.
THE TREE OF LIFE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT.
I.
When Adam’s latest breath was nearly gone,
To Paradise the Patriarch sent his son,
II.
A branch to fetch him from the tree of life,
Hoping to taste of it ere life was done.
III.
Seth brought the branch, but ere he had arrived,
His father’s spirit was already flown.
IV.
Then planted they the twig on Adam’s grave,
And it was tended still from son to son.
V.
It grew while Joseph in the dungeon lay,
It grew while Israel did in Egypt groan.
VI.
Sweet odours gave the blossoms of the tree,
When David harping sat upon his throne.
VII.
Dry was the tree, when from the ways of God
Went erring in his wisdom Solomon:
VIII.
Yet the world hoped it would revive anew,
When David’s stock should give another Son.
IX.
Faith saw in spirit this, the while she sat
Mourning beside the floods of Babylon.
X.
And when the eternal lightning flashed from heaven,
The tree asunder burst with jubilant tone.
XI.
To the dry trunk this grace from God was given,
The Wòod of Passion should from thence be won.
XII.
The blind world fashioned out of it the cross,
And its Salvation nailed with scorn thereon.
XIII.
Then bore the tree of life ensanguined fruit,
Which whoso tasteth life shall be his loan.
XIV.
Oh look, oh look, how grows the tree of life,
By storms established more, not overthrown.
XV.
May the _whole_ world beneath its shadow rest:
_Half_ has its shelter there already won.
THE TREE OF LIFE
FROM AN OLD LATIN POEM.
I.
There is a spot, by men believed to be
Earth’s centre, and the place of Adam’s grave,
And here a slip that from a barren tree
Was cut, fruit sweet and salutary gave—
Yet not unto the tillers of the land;
That blessèd fruit was culled by other hand.
II.
The shape and fashion of the tree attend:
From undivided stem at first it sprung;
Thence in two arms its branches did outsend,
Like sail-yards whence the flowing sheet is hung,
Or as a yoke that in the furrow stands,
When the tired steers are loosened from their bands.
III.
Three days the slip from which this tree should spring
Appeared as dead—then suddenly it bore
(While earth and heaven stood awed and wondering)
Harvest of vital fruit;—the fortieth more
Beheld it touch heaven’s summit with its height,
And shroud its sacred head in clouds of light.
IV.
Yet the same while it did put forth below
Branches twice six, these too with fruit endued,
Which stretching to all quarters might bestow
Upon all nations medicine and food,
Which mortal men might eat, and eating be
Sharers henceforth of immortality.
V.
But when another fifty days were gone,
A breath divine, a mighty storm of heaven
On all the branches swiftly lighted down,
To which a rich nectareous taste was given,
And all the heavy leaves that on them grew
Distilled henceforth a sweet and heavenly dew.
VI.
Beneath that tree’s great shadow on the plain
A fountain bubbled up, whose lymph serene
Nothing of earthly mixture might distain:
Fountain so pure not anywhere was seen
In all the world, nor on whose marge the earth
Put flowers of such unfading beauty forth.
VII.
And thither did all people, young and old,
Matrons and virgins, rich and poor, a crowd
Stream ever, who, whenas they did behold
Those branches with their golden burden bowed,
Stretched forth their hands, and eager glances threw
Towàrd the fruit distilling that sweet dew.
VIII.
But touch they might not these, much less allay
Their hunger, howsoe’er they might desire,
Till the foul tokens of their former way
They had washed off, the dust and sordid mire,
And cleansed their bodies in that holy wave,
Able from every spot and stain to save.
IX.
But when within their mouths they had received
Of that immortal fruit the gust divine,
Straight of all sickness were their souls relieved,
The weak grew strong;—and tasks they did decline
As overgreat for them, they shunned no more,
And things they deemed they could not bear, they bore.
X.
But woe, alas! some daring to draw near
That sacred stream, did presently retire,
Drew wholly back again, and did not fear
To stain themselves in all their former mire,
That fruit rejecting from their mouths again,
Not any more their medicine, but their bane.
XI.
Oh blessèd they, who not retreating so,
First in that fountain make them pure and fair,
And do from thence unto the branches go,
With power upon the fruitage hanging there:
Thence by the branches of the lofty tree
Ascend to heaven—The Tree of Life oh! see.
PARADISE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF RÜCKERT.
I.
Oh! Paradise must show more fair
Than any earthly ground,
And therefore longs my spirit there
Right quickly to be found.
II.
In Paradise a stream must flow
Of everlasting love:
Each tear of longing shed below
Therein a pearl will prove.
III.
In Paradise a breath of balm
All anguish must allay,
Till every anguish growing calm,
Even mine shall flee away.
IV.
And there the tree of stillest peace
In verdant spaces grows:
Beneath it one can never cease
To dream of blest repose.
V.
A cherub at the gate must be,
Far off the world to fray,
That its rude noises reach not me,
To fright my dream away.
VI.
My heart, that weary ship, at last
Safe haven there will gain,
And on the breast will slumber fast
The wakeful infant, Pain.
VII.
For every thorn that pierced me here
The rose will there be found,
With joy, earth’s roses brought not near,
My head will there be crowned.
VIII.
There all delights will blossom forth,
That here in bud expire,
And from all mourning weeds of earth
Be wove a bright attire.
IX.
All here I sought in vain pursuit,
Will freely meet me there,
As from green branches golden fruit,
Fair flowers from gardens fair.
X.
My youth, that by me swept amain,
On swift wing borne away,
And Love that suffered me to drain
Its nectar for a day,—
XI.
These, never wishing to depart,
Will me for ever bless,
Their darling fold unto the heart,
And comfort and caress.
XII.
And there the Loveliness, whose glance
From far did on me gleam,
But whose unveilèd countenance
Was only seen in dream,
XIII.
Will, meeting all my soul’s desires,
Unveil itself to me,
When to the choir of starry lyres
Shall mine united be.
THE LOREY LEY.
FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.
I.
What makes me so heavy-hearted,
I ask of my heart in vain:
But a tale of the times departed
Haunts ever my heart and brain.
II.
In the cool air it waxes dimmer,
And quietly flows the Rhine:
And the mountain summits glimmer
In the sunny evening shine.
III.
There sits on the rocks a maiden
In marvellous beauty there.
With gold her apparel is laden,
And she combs her golden hair:
IV.
And the comb is of gold and glistens,
And thereto she sings a song,
Which for every soul that listens
Has a potent spell and strong.
V.
The boatman in light boat speeding,
When he hears it, utters a cry,
No longer the rapids heeding,
But only gazing on high.
VI.
The stream is its wild waves flinging
O’er boat and boatman anon,
And ’tis this with her lovely singing
Which the Lorey Ley has done.
I.
Oh thou of dark forebodings drear,
Oh thou of such a faithless heart,
Hast thou forgotten what thou art,
That thou hast ventured so to fear?
II.
No weed on Ocean’s bosom cast,
Borne by its never-resting foam
This way and that, without an home,
Till flung on some bleak shore at last—
III.
But thou the Lotus, which above
Swayed here and there by wind and tide,
Yet still below doth fixed abide
Fast rooted in the eternal Love.
THE PRODIGAL.
I.
Why feedest thou on husks so coarse and rude?
I could not be content with angels’ food.
II.
How camest thou companion for the swine?
I loathed the courts of heaven, the choir divine.
III.
Who bade thee crouch in hovel dark and drear?
I left a palace wide to sojourn here.
IV.
Harsh tyrant’s slave who made thee, once so free?
A father’s rule too heavy seemed to me.
V.
What sordid rags hang round thee on the breeze?
I laid immortal robes aside for these.
VI.
An exile through the world who bade thee roam?
None, but I wearied of an happy home.
VII.
Why must thou dweller in a desert be?
A garden seemed not fair enough to me.
VIII.
Why sue a beggar at the mean world’s door?
To live on God’s large bounty seemed so poor.
IX.
What has thy forehead so to earthward brought?
To lift it higher than the stars I thought.
THE CORREGAN.
A BALLAD OF BRITTANY.
I.
They were affianced, a youthful pair;
In youth, alas! they divided were.
II.
Lovely twins she has brought to light,
A boy and a girl, both snowy white.
III.
—“What shall now for thee be done,
Who hast brought me this longed-for son?
IV.
“Shall I fetch thee fowl from the sedgy mere?
Or strike in the greenwood the flying deer?”
V.
—“Wild deer’s flesh would please me best,
Yet wherefore go to the far forèst?”
VI.
He snatched his spear, he mounted his steed;
He to the greenwood is gone with speed.
VII.
When he there arrived, a milk-white hind
Started before him as swift as wind.
VIII.
He pursued it with foot so fleet,
On his forehead stood the heat,
IX.
And down his courser’s flanks it ran;
—Evening now to close began;
X.
When he espied a stream that flowed
Near the Corregan’s abode.
XI.
Smoothest turf encircled its brink;
Down from his steed he alit to drink.
XII.
By its margin was seated there
The Corregan, combing her golden hair,
XIII.
Combing it with a comb of gold;—
Richly clad, and bright to behold.
XIV.
—“Thou art bolder than thou dost know,
Daring to trouble my waters so.
XV.
“Me shalt thou on the instant wed,
Or in three days shalt be dead.”
XVI.
—“I will not wed on the instant thee,
Nor yet in three days dead will be.
XVII.
“When God pleases I will die,
And already wedded am I;
XVIII.
“And besides I had rather died
Than to make a fairy my bride.”
XIX.
—“Sick am I, mother, at heart; oh spread,
If thou lovest me, my death-bed!
XX.
“Me the fairy has looked to death:
In three days shall I yield my breath.
XXI.
“Yet though my body in earth they lay,
To her I love, oh! nothing say.”
XXII.
—Three days after, “O mother, tell,”
She exclaimed, “why tolls the bell?
XXIII.
“Why do the Priests so mournfully go,
Clad in white, and chanting low?”
XXIV.
—“A beggar we lodged died yesternight;
They bury him with the morning light.”
XXV.
—“O mother, where is my husband gone?”
—“He from the town will return anon.”
XXVI.
—“O mother, I would to church repair;
Tell me what were meetest to wear:
XXVII.
“Shall it be my robe of blue,
Or my vest of scarlet hue?”
XXVIII.
—“It is now the manner to wear
Garments of black, my daughter, there.”
XXIX.
When she came to the churchyard ground,
Her husband’s grave was the first she found.
XXX.
—“Death of kin I have not heard,
Yet this earth has been newly stirred.”
XXXI.
—“My daughter, the truth I needs must show;
’Tis thy husband that lies below.”
XXXII.
Down she fell upon that floor;
Thence she rose not any more.
XXXIII.
But the night next after the day,
When by his her body lay,
XXXIV.
Two tall oaks, both stately and fair,
Marvel to see! arose in air;
XXXV.
And upon their uppermost spray,
Two white doves, delightsome and gay:
XXXVI.
At dawn of morn they did sweetly sing;
At noon toward heaven they lightly spring.
SONNET.
Ulysses, sailing by the Sirens’ isle,
Sealed first his comrades’ ears, then bade them fast
Bind him with many a fetter to the mast,
Lest those sweet voices should their souls beguile,
And to their ruin flatter them, the while
Their homeward bark was sailing swiftly past;
And thus the peril they behind them cast,
Though chased by those weird voices many a mile.
But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used:
No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear,
But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear
The blisses of the Gods, their holy joys,
And with diviner melody confused
And marred earth’s sweetest music to a noise.
SONNET.
Were the sad tablets of our hearts alone
A dreary blank, for Thee the task were light,
To draw fair letters there and lines of light:
But while far other spectacle is shown
By them, with dismal traceries overdrawn,
Oh! task it seems, transcending highest might,
Ever again to make them clean and white,
Effacing the sad secrets they have known.
And then what heaven were better than a name,
If there must haunt and cling unto us there
Abiding memories of our sin and shame?
Dread doubt! which finds no answer anywhere
Except in him, who with him power did bring
To make us feel our sin an alien thing.
SONNET.
In the mid garden doth a fountain stand;
From font to font its waters fall alway,
Freshening the leaves by their continual play:—
Such often have I seen in southern land,
While every leaf, as though by light winds fanned,
Has quivered underneath the dazzling spray,
Keeping its greenness all the sultry day,
While others pine aloof, a parchèd band.
And in the mystic garden of the soul
A fountain, nourished from the upper springs,
Sends ever its clear waters up on high,
Which, while a dewy freshness round it flings,
All plants which there acknowledge its control
Show fair and green, else drooping, pale, and dry.
THE ETRURIAN KING.
[See Mrs. Hamilton Gray’s “Visit to the Sepulchres of Etruria.”]
I.
One only eye beheld him in his pride,
The old Etrurian monarch, as he, died;
II.
And as they laid him on his bier of stone,
Shield, spear, and arrows laying at his side;
III.
In golden armour with his crown of gold,
One only eye the kingly warrior spied;
IV.
Nor that eye long—for in the common air
The wondrous pageant might not now abide,
V.
Which had in sealèd sepulchre the wrongs
Of time for thirty centuries defied.
VI.
That eye beheld it melt and disappear,
As down an hour-glass the last sand-drops glide.
VII.
A few short moments,—and a shrunken heap
Of common dust survived, of all that pride:
VIII.
And so that gorgeous vision has remained
For evermore to other eye denied:
IX.
And he who saw must oftentimes believe
That him his waking senses had belied,
X.
Since what if all the pageants of the earth
Melt soon away, and may not long abide,
XI.
Yet when did ever doom _so_ swift before
Even to the glories of the earth betide?
THE FAMINE.
I.
Oh, time it was of famine sore,
That ever sorer grew;
And many hungered that before
Rich plenty only knew!
II.
For year by year the labouring hind
Bewailed his fruitless toil,
And ever seemed some spell to bind
The hard, unthankful soil.
III.
His seed-corn rotted in the ground,
And did no more appear;
Or if in blade and stalk was found,
It withered in the ear.
IV.
And now unseasonable rains,
And now untimely drought,
With blight and mildew, all his pains
And hopes to nothing brought.
V.
And ever did that keen distress
In wider circles spread;
Who once with alms did others bless,
Now lacked their daily bread,
VI.
—One only, who was never known
To bless another’s board—
In all that Suabian land alone
This cruel, impious lord,
VII.
Did all the while exempt appear
From this wide-reaching ill;
With largest bounties of the year,
His broad fields laughing still.
VIII.
The Autumn duly had outpoured
For him its plenteous horn,
And safe in ample granaries stored
He saw his golden corn;
IX.
And high he reared new granaries vast,
Of hewn stone builded strong,
And made with bars of iron fast,
And fenced from every wrong.
X.
Till safe, as seemed, from every foe,
He now, as if the sight
Of others’ want, and others’ woe
Enhanced his own delight,
XI.
Sate high, and with his minions still
Did keep continual feast;
Long nights with waste and wassail fill
Which not with morning ceased;
XII.
Till ofttimes they who wandered near
Those halls at early day,
Culling wild herbs and roots in fear,
Their hunger to allay,
XIII.
Heard sounds of fierce and reckless mirth
Borne from those halls of pride,
While famine’s feeble wail went forth
From all the land beside;
XIV.
And strange thoughts rose in many a breast,
Why God’s true servants pined,
And largest means this man unblest
Did still for riot find;
XV.
Which stranger grew, as more and more
He did his coffers fill
With gold and every precious store,
Wrung from men’s cruel ill;
XVI.
As he each poor man’s field was fain
To add unto his own—
To the wide space of his domain,
Now daily wider grown.
XVII.
For some, their lives awhile to save,
Had sold him house and lands;
And some to bonds their children gave,
As grew his stern demands:
XVIII.
Yet not a whit for poor man’s curse
This evil churl did care;
He said,—it passed, nor left him worse—
That words were only air.
XIX.
He, if they cried “For Jesu’s sake,
That so may light on thee
God’s blessing!” answer proud would make,
“What will that profit me?”
XX.
“I ask no blessing—yet my fields
Have store of spiky grain:
The earth to me its fatness yields,
The sky its sun and rain.
XXI.
“And high my granaries stand, and strong,
Huge-vaulted, ribbed with stone:
What need I fear? from any wrong
I can defend mine own.”—
XXII.
Thus ever fierce, and fiercer rose
His words of scorn and pride;
And more he mocked at mortal woes,
And earth and heaven defied.
XXIII.
And thus it chanced upon a day,
As oft had been before,
That from his gates he spurned away
A widow, old and poor;
XXIV.
When to his presence entered in
A servant, pale with fear,
And did with trembling words begin:—
“Oh, dread my Lord, give ear!
XXV.
“As me perchance my business drew
Thy storehouse vast beside,
I heard unwonted sounds, and through
The iron grating spied.
XXVI.
“The thing I saw, if like it seemed
To any thing on earth,
I might some huge black bull have deemed
That hellish monstrous birth.
XXVII.
“Yet how should beast have entrance found
Into that guarded place,
Which strangely now it wandered round,
With wild, unresting pace?
XXVIII.
“Oh, here must be some warning meant,
Which do not now deride:
Oh, yet have pity, and relent,
Nor speak such words of pride!”
XXIX.
Slight heed his tale of fear might find,
Slight heed his counsel true;
That utterance of his faithful mind
He now had learned to rue,
XXX.
But that, even then, another came,
Worse terror in his mien:
—“Three monstrous creatures, breathing flame,
These eyes but now have seen;
XXXI.
“They toss about the hoarded store,
And greedily they eat,
Consuming thus a part, but more
They stamp beneath their feet.
XXXII.
“Oh, Sir! full often God doth take
What we refuse to give;
But yet to him large offering make,
And all our souls may live.”
XXXIII.
—“Fool!—Let another hasten now,
But if he shall not see
The self-same vision, fellow, thou
Shalt hang on yonder tree.”
XXXIV.
He said—when, lo! inrushed a third
Within the briefest space:—
—“Of horses wild and bulls an herd
Is filling all the place.
XXXV.
“The numbers of that furious rout
Wax ever high and higher;
And from their mouths smoke issues out,
And from their nostrils fire.
XXXVI.
“From side to side they leap and bound,
The hoarded corn they eat,
They toss and scatter on the ground,
And stamp beneath their feet.
XXXVII.
“My Lord, these portents do not scorn;
Thy granary doors throw wide,
And poor men’s prayers even yet may turn
The threatened wrath aside.”
XXXVIII.
—“What, all conspiring in one tale!
Or fooled by one deceit!
Yet think not ye shall so prevail,
Or me so lightly cheat.
XXXIX.
“Come with me;—fling the portals back;—
I too this sight would see:
What! one and all this courage lack?
Give _me_ the ponderous key.”
XL.
In fear the vassal multitude
Fell back on either side:
Before the doors he singly stood—
He singly—in his pride.
XLI.
But them, or ere he touched, asunder
Some hand unbidden threw;
With lightning flash, with sound like thunder
The gates wide open flew.
XLII.
How shook then underneath the tread
Of thousand feet the earth!
Day darkened into night with dread!
So wild a troop rushed forth.
XLIII.
And all who saw like dead men stood,
As swept that wild troop by,
Till lost within a neighbouring wood
For aye from mortal eye.
XLIV.
But when that hurricane was past
Of hideous sight and sound,
And when they breathed anew, they cast
Their fearful glances round:
XLV.
They lifted up a blackened corse,
Where scorched and crushed it lay,
And scarred with hooves of fiery force,—
Then bore in awe away;
XLVI.
They bore away, but not to hide
In any holy ground;
Who in his height of sin had died
No hallowed burial found.
THE PRIZE OF SONG.
I.
Challenged by the haughty daughters
Of the old Emathian king,
Strove the Muses at the waters
Of that Heliconian spring—
Proved beside those hallowed fountains
Unto whom the prize of song,
Unto whom those streams and mountains
Did of truest right belong.
II.
First those others in vexed numbers
Mourned the rebel giant brood,
Whom the earth’s huge mass encumbers,
Or who writhe, the vulture’s food;
Mourned for earth-born power, which faileth
Heaven to win by might and main;
Then, thrust back, for ever waileth,
Gnawing its own heart in pain.
III.
Nature shuddered while she hearkened,
Through her veins swift horror ran:
Sun and stars, perturbed and darkened,
To forsake their orbs began.
Back the rivers fled; the Ocean
Howled upon a thousand shores,
As it would with wild commotion
Burst its everlasting doors.
IV.
Hushed was not that stormy riot
Till were heard the sacred Nine,
Singing of the blissful quiet
In the happy seats divine;
Singing of those thrones immortal,
Whither struggling men attain,
Passing humbly through the portal
Of obedience, toil, and pain.
V.
At that melody symphonious
Joy to Nature’s heart was sent,
And the spheres, again harmonious,
Made sweet thunder as they went:
Lightly moved, with pleasure dancing,
Little hills and mountains high,—
Helicon his head advancing,
Till it almost touched the sky.
VI.
—Thou whom once those Sisters holy
On thy lonely path hath met,
And, thy front thou stooping lowly,
There their sacred laurel set,
Oh be thine, their mandate owning,
Aye with them to win the prize,
Reconciling and atoning
With thy magic harmonies—
VII.
An Arion thou, whose singing
Rouses not a furious sea,
Rather the sea-monsters bringing
Servants to its melody;—
An Amphion, not with passion
To set wild the builders’ mind,
But the mystic walls to fashion,
And the stones in one to bind.
NOTES.
THE STEADFAST PRINCE.
Page 128, stanzas 7, 8.
In these stanzas I had before me Calderon’s magnificent description
of the advance of the Portuguese fleet, which he puts into
the mouth of one of the Moors. These are a few lines:—
Primero nos pareció
Viendo que sus puntas tocan
Con el cielo, que eran nubes
De los que á la mar se arrojan
A concebir en zafir
Lluvias, que en cristal abortan.
Luego de marinos monstruos
Nos pareció errante copia,
Que á acompañar á Neptuno
Salian de sus alcobas:
Pues sacudiendo las velas
Que son del viento lisonja
Pensamos que sacudian
Las alas sobre las olas.
Ya parecia mas cerca
Una inmensa Babilonia,
De quien los pénsiles fueron
Flámulas, que el viento azotan.
P. 129, s. 9, l. 5.
“Vexilla Regis prodeunt,” the great Crusaders’ hymn.
P. 173.
ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS.
This poem was first suggested by some words in the “Sirenes,
sive Voluptas,” in Lord Bacon’s “Sapientia Veterum.” [Orpheus]
“laudes Deorum cantans et reboans, Sirenum voces confudit
et summovit: meditationes enim rerum divinarum voluptates
sensûs non tantum potestate, sed etiam suavitate superant.”
According to the author of the “Orphic Argonautics,” the song
of Orpheus ended the enchantment of the Sirens, and caused
them to fling themselves into the sea, where they were changed
into rocks. Lord Bacon gives finely the meaning of the shore
white with bones (stanza xix.), which yet were unable to deter
others from approaching;—how it teaches us “exempla calamitatum,
licet clara et conspicua, contra voluptatum corruptelas non
multum proficere.”
The classical reader will at once recognise, in more than one
passage, my obligations to Pindar.
P. 185.
THE OIL OF MERCY.
The traditions concerning the relations between the Tree of
life which was set in Paradise, and the Cross on which hung
the Saviour of the world, are almost infinite; or, rather, the one
deep idea of their identity has clothed itself in innumerable forms.
They constitute indeed one of the richest portions of what may
without offence be termed the Mythology of the Christian Church.
That which I have followed here is given in the “Evangelium
Nicodemi,” c. 19. See Thilo’s “Codex Apocryphus,” v. i. p. 684.
In the “Recognitions” of Clement, l. 1, c. 45, an Ebionite book,
and therefore only acknowledging the humanity of Christ, he is,
consistently with this view, said, not himself to anoint, but to
have been anointed with the oil from the Tree of Life. The
connexion between the Tree of Life and the Cross of Christ has
been twice wrought up into sublime dramatic poems by Calderon;
once in his Auto, entitled “El Arbor del mejor Fruto;” and
again in that which is indeed only the same poem in a later and
more perfect form, “La Sibila del Oriente.” We have the same
tradition of Seth going to the gates of Paradise in the fine old
Cornish Mystery of “The Creation of the World,” which was
lately published with an English translation; and allusions to it
are frequent in all the popular literature of the Middle Ages;
see, for instance, Göthe’s recension of the “Reineke Fuchs,”
near the beginning of the tenth book; and I remember a curious
passage about it in Mandeville’s “Travels.” Rückert, in the
following poem, has given the tradition in somewhat a different
shape.
I may just observe that this poem is an attempt—I will confess
a most unsuccessful one—to write English verse in the Spanish
assonant rhyme, of which the principle is, that words are considered
to rhyme which have the same vowel-sounds, though the
consonants are different: thus, _angel_ and _raiment_ having the
same vowel-sounds, _a—e_, are perfect assonant rhymes. As in
the Persian Ghazel, there is but one rhyme running through the
whole poem, and in this all the alternate lines, beginning with
the second, terminate: and of course the rhythmical effect of the
poem is to be judged, not by any half-dozen lines apart, but by
the total impression which the whole Poem continuously read
leaves on the ear.
THE END.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS,
WHITEFRIARS.
Transcriber’s Note
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardized but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
Footnote has been placed at end of respective poem.
Poems with and without titles within the book were left as printed.