Volume 2 — OXFORD

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind?-- He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men, Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen, And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, That halting slave, who in Nicopolis Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son Cleared Rome of what most shamed him. But he his My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, From first youth tested up to extreme old age, Business could not make dull, nor passion wild; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole; The mellow glory of the Attic stage, Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.

TO MARGUERITE We were apart; yet, day by day, I bade my heart more constant be. I bade it keep the world away, And grow a home for only thee; Nor feared but thy love likewise grew, Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. The fault was grave! I might have known, What far too soon, alas! I learned-- The heart can bind itself alone, And faith may oft be unreturned. Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell-- Thou lov'st no more;--Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!--and thou, thou lonely heart, Which never yet without remorse Even for a moment didst depart From thy remote and spherèd course To haunt the place where passions reign-- Back to thy solitude again! Back! with the conscious thrill of shame Which Luna felt, that summer-night, Flash through her pure immortal frame, When she forsook the starry height To hang over Endymion's sleep Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved How vain a thing is mortal love, Wandering in Heaven, far removed; But thou hast long had place to prove This truth--to prove, and make thine own: "Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone." Or, if not quite alone, yet they Which touch thee are unmating things-- Ocean and clouds and night and day; Lorn autumns and triumphant springs; And life, and others' joy and pain, And love, if love, of happier men. Of happier men--for they, at least, Have dreamed two human hearts might blend In one, and were through faith released From isolation without end Prolonged; nor knew, although not less Alone than thou, their loneliness. Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollow lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour-- Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain-- Oh, might our marges meet again! Who ordered that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled? Who renders vain their deep desire?-- A God, a God their severance ruled! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea

In front the awful Alpine track Crawls up its rocky stair; The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, Close o'er it, in the air. Behind are the abandoned baths Mute in their meadows lone; The leaves are on the valley-paths, The mists are on the Rhone-- The white mists rolling like a sea! I hear the torrents roar. --Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee; I feel thee near once more. I turn thy leaves! I feel their breath Once more upon me roll; That air of languor, cold, and death, Which brooded o'er thy soul. Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, Condemned to cast about, All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, For comfort from without! A fever in these pages burns Beneath the calm they feign; A wounded human spirit turns, Here, on its bed of pain. Yes, though the virgin mountain-air Fresh through these pages blows; Though to these leaves the glaciers spare The soul of their mute snows; Though here a mountain-murmur swells Of many a dark-boughed pine; Though, as you read, you hear the bells Of the high-pasturing kine-- Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, And brooding mountain-bee, There sobs I know not what ground-tone Of human agony. Is it for this, because the sound Is fraught too deep with pain, That, Obermann! the world around So little loves thy strain? And then we turn, thou sadder sage, To thee! we feel thy spell! --The hopeless tangle of our age, Thou too hast scanned it well! Immovable thou sittest, still As death, composed to bear! Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill, And icy thy despair. He who hath watched, not shared, the strife, Knows how the day hath gone. He only lives with the world's life Who hath renounced his own. To thee we come, then! Clouds are rolled Where thou, O seer! art set; Thy realm of thought is drear and cold-- The world is colder yet! And thou hast pleasures, too, to share With those who come to thee-- Balms floating on thy mountain-air, And healing sights to see. How often, where the slopes are green On Jaman, hast thou sate By some high chalet-door, and seen The summer-day grow late; And darkness steal o'er the wet grass With the pale crocus starr'd, And reach that glimmering sheet of glass Beneath the piny sward, Lake Leman's waters, far below! And watched the rosy light Fade from the distant peaks of snow; And on the air of night Heard accents of the eternal tongue Through the pine branches play-- Listened and felt thyself grow young! Listened, and wept--Away! Away the dreams that but deceive! And thou, sad guide, adieu! I go, fate drives me; but I leave Half of my life with you. We, in some unknown Power's employ, Move on a rigorous line; Can neither, when we will, enjoy, Nor, when we will, resign. I in the world must live;--but thou, Thou melancholy shade! Wilt not, if thou can'st see me now, Condemn me, nor upbraid. For thou art gone away from earth, And place with those dost claim, The Children of the Second Birth, Whom the world could not tame. Farewell!--Whether thou now liest near That much-loved inland sea, The ripples of whose blue waves cheer Vevey and Meillerie; And in that gracious region bland, Where with clear-rustling wave The scented pines of Switzerland Stand dark round thy green grave, Between the dusty vineyard-walls Issuing on that green place, The early peasant still recalls The pensive stranger's face, And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date Ere he plods on again;-- Or whether, by maligner fate, Among the swarms of men, Where between granite terraces The blue Seine rolls her wave, The Capital of Pleasures sees Thy hardly-heard-of grave;-- Farewell! Under the sky we part, In this stern Alpine dell. O unstrung will! O broken heart! A last, a last farewell!

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease, But one such death remained to come; The last poetic voice is dumb-- We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. When Byron's eyes were shut in death, We bowed our head and held our breath. He taught us little; but our soul Had felt him like the thunder's roll. With shivering heart the strife we saw Of passion with eternal law; And yet with reverential awe We watched the fount of fiery life Which served for that Titanic strife. When Goethe's death was told, we said,-- Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. Physician of the iron age, Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear; And struck his finger on the place, And said: Thou ailest here, and here! He looked on Europe's dying hour Of fitful dream and feverish power; His eye plunged down the weltering strife, The turmoil of expiring life--He said, The end is everywhere, Art still has truth, take refuge there! And he was happy, if to know Causes of things, and far below His feet to see the lurid flow Of terror, and insane distress, And headlong fate, be happiness. And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! For never has such soothing voice Been to your shadowy world conveyed, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade Heard the clear song of Orpheus come Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye, Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen--on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. He found us when the age had bound Our souls in its benumbing round; He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. He laid us as we lay at birth, On the cool, flowery lap of earth. Smiles broke from us and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze Went o'er the sunlit fields again; Our foreheads felt the wind and rain, Our youth returned; for there was shed On spirits that had long been dead, Spirits dried up and closely furled, The freshness of the early world. Ah! since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power? Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel; Others will strengthen us to bear-- But who, ah! who, will make us feel? The cloud of mortal destiny, Others will front it fearlessly--But who, like him, will put it by? Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha, with thy living wave! Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

HUSSEIN O most just Vizier, send away The cloth-merchants, and let them be, Them and their dues, this day! the King Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. THE VIZIER O merchants, tarry yet a day Here in Bokhara! but at noon, To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay Each fortieth web of cloth to me, As the law is, and go your way. O Hussein, lead me to the King! Thou teller of sweet tales,--thine own, Ferdousi's, and the others',--lead! How is it with my lord? HUSSEIN Alone, Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, O Vizier! without lying down, In the great window of the gate, Looking into the Registàn, Where through the sellers' booths the slaves Are this way bringing the dead man.-- O Vizier, here is the King's door! THE KING O Vizier, I may bury him? THE VIZIER O King, thou know'st, I have been sick These many days, and heard no thing (For Allah shut my ears and mind), Not even what thou dost, O King! Wherefore, that I may counsel thee, Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste To speak in order what hath chanced. THE KING O Vizier, be it as thou say'st! HUSSEIN Three days since, at the time of prayer, A certain Moollah, with his robe All rent, and dust upon his hair, Watched my lord's coming forth, and pushed The golden mace-bearers aside, And fell at the King's feet, and cried:-- "Justice, O King, and on myself! On this great sinner, who did break The law, and by the law must die! Vengeance, O King!" But the King spake:-- "What fool is this, that hurts our ears With folly? or what drunken slave? My guards, what, prick him with your spears! Prick me the fellow from the path!" As the King said, so was it done, And to the mosque my lord passed on. But on the morrow when the King Went forth again, the holy book Carried before him, as his right, And through the square his way he took, My man comes running, flecked with blood From yesterday, and falling down Cries out most earnestly:--"O King, My lord, O King, do right, I pray! "How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern If I speak folly? but a king, Whether a thing be great or small, Like Allah, hears and judges all. "Wherefore hear thou! Thou know'st how fierce In these last days the sun hath burned; That the green water in the tanks Is to a putrid puddle turned; And the canal, that from the stream Of Samarcand is brought this way, Wastes, and runs thinner every day. "Now I at nightfall had gone forth Alone, and in a darksome place Under some mulberry trees I found A little pool; and in short space With all the water that was there I filled my pitcher, and stole home Unseen; and having drink to spare, I hid the can behind the door, And went up on the roof to sleep. "But in the night, which was with wind And burning dust, again I creep Down, having fever, for a drink. "Now meanwhile had my brethren found The water-pitcher, where it stood Behind the door upon the ground, And called my mother; and they all, As they were thirsty, and the night Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; That they sate with it, in my sight, Their lips still wet, when I came down. "Now mark! I, being fevered, sick (Most unblest also), at that sight Brake forth, and cursed them--dost thou hear?-- One was my mother--Now, do right!" But my lord mused a space, and said:-- "Send him away, sirs, and make on! It is some madman!" the King said. As the King bade, so was it done. The morrow, at the self-same hour, In the King's path, behold, the man, Not kneeling, sternly fixed! he stood Right opposite, and thus began, Frowning grim down:--"Thou wicked King, Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear! What, must I howl in the next world, Because thou wilt not listen here? "What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, And all grace shall to me be grudged? Nay, but I swear, from this thy path I will not stir till I be judged!" Then they who stood about the King Drew close together and conferred; Till that the King stood forth and said, "Before the priests thou shalt be heard." But when the Ulemas were met, And the thing heard, they doubted not; But sentenced him, as the law is, To die by stoning on the spot. Now the King charged us secretly:-- "Stoned must he be, the law stands so. Yet, if he seek to fly, give way; Hinder him not, but let him go." So saying, the King took a stone, And cast it softly;--but the man, With a great joy upon his face, Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. So they, whose lot it was, cast stones, That they flew thick and bruised him sore, But he praised Allah with loud voice, And remained kneeling as before. My lord had covered up his face; But when one told him, "He is dead," Turning him quickly to go in,-- "Bring thou to me his corpse," he said. And truly while I speak, O King, I hear the bearers on the stair; Wilt thou they straightway bring him in? --Ho! enter ye who tarry there! THE VIZIER O King, in this I praise thee not. Now must I call thy grief not wise, Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, To find such favor in thine eyes? Nay, were he thine own mother's son, Still, thou art king, and the law stands. It were not meet the balance swerved, The sword were broken in thy hands. But being nothing, as he is, Why for no cause make sad thy face?-- Lo, I am old! Three kings, ere thee, Have I seen reigning in this place. But who, through all this length of time, Could bear the burden of his years, If he for strangers pained his heart Not less than those who merit tears? Fathers we must have, wife and child, And grievous is the grief for these; This pain alone, which must be borne, Makes the head white, and bows the knees. But other loads than this his own One man is not well made to bear. Besides, to each are his own friends, To mourn with him, and show him care. Look, this is but one single place, Though it be great; all the earth round, If a man bear to have it so, Things which might vex him shall be found. All these have sorrow, and keep still, Whilst other men make cheer, and sing, Wilt thou have pity on all these? No, nor on this dead dog, O King! THE KING O Vizier, thou art old, I young! Clear in these things I cannot see. My head is burning, and a heat Is in my skin which angers me. But hear ye this, ye sons of men! They that bear rule, and are obeyed, Unto a rule more strong than theirs Are in their turn obedient made. In vain therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man Who loiters by the high-heaped booths, Below there in the Registàn, Says:--"Happy he, who lodges there! With silken raiment, store of rice, And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice, With cherries served in drifts of snow." In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enameled mosques; And to make orchard-closes, filled With curious fruit-trees brought from far; With cisterns for the winter rain; And in the desert, spacious inns In divers places--if that pain Is not more lightened, which he feels, If his will be not satisfied; And that it be not, from all time The law is planted, to abide. Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man! Thou wast athirst, and didst not see That, though we take what we desire, We must not snatch it eagerly. And I have meat and drink at will, And rooms of treasures, not a few, But I am sick, nor heed I these; And what I would, I cannot do. Even the great honor which I have, When I am dead, will soon grow still; So have I neither joy nor fame-- But what I can do, that I will. I have a fretted brickwork tomb Upon a hill on the right hand, Hard by a close of apricots, Upon the road of Samarcand; Thither, O Vizier, will I bear This man my pity could not save, And plucking up the marble flags, There lay his body in my grave. Bring water, nard, and linen rolls! Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb! Then say:--"He was not wholly vile, Because a king shall bury him."