Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Come, Poet, come! A thousand labourers ply their task, And what it tends to scarcely ask, And trembling thinkers on the brink Shiver, and know not how to think. To tell the purport of their pain, And what our silly joys contain; In lasting lineaments pourtray The substance of the shadowy day; Our real and inner deeds rehearse, And make our meaning clear in verse: Come, Poet, come! for but in vain We do the work or feel the pain, And gather up the seeming gain, Unless before the end thou come To take, ere they are lost, their sum. Come, Poet, come! To give an utterance to the dumb, And make vain babblers silent, come; A thousand dupes point here and there, Bewildered by the show and glare; And wise men half have learned to doubt Whether we are not best without. Come, Poet; both but wait to see Their error proved to them in thee. Come, Poet, come! In vain I seem to call. And yet Think not the living times forget. Ages of heroes fought and fell That Homer in the end might tell; O’er grovelling generations past Upstood the Doric fane at last; And countless hearts on countless years Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, Rude laughter and unmeaning tears; Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome The pure perfection of her dome. Others, I doubt not, if not we, The issue of our toils shall see; Young children gather as their own The harvest that the dead had sown, The dead forgotten and unknown.

To think that men of former days In naked truth deserved the praise Which, fain to have in flesh and blood An image of imagined good, Poets have sung and men received, And all too glad to be deceived, Most plastic and most inexact, Posterity has told for fact;— To say what was, was not as we, This also is a vanity.

Ere Agamemnon, warriors were, Ere Helen, beauties equalling her, Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows, And brave or fair as these or those. The commonplace whom daily we In our dull streets and houses see, To think of other mould than these Were Cato, Solon, Socrates, Or Mahomet or Confutze, This also is a vanity.

Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemain, And he before, who back on Spain Repelled the fierce inundant Moor; Godfrey, St. Louis, wise and pure, Washington, Cromwell, John, and Paul, Columbus, Luther, one and all, Go mix them up, the false and true, With Sindbad, Crusoe, or St. Preux, And say as he was, so was he, This also is a vanity.

Say not: Behold it here or there, Or on the earth, or in the air. That better thing than can be seen Is neither now nor e’er has been; It is not in this land or that, But in a place we soon are at, Where all can seek and some can find, Where hope is liberal, fancy kind, And what we wish for we can see, Which also is a vanity.

It is not sweet content, be sure, That moves the nobler Muse to song, Yet when could truth come whole and pure From hearts that inly writhe with wrong? ’Tis not the calm and peaceful breast That sees or reads the problem true; They only know on whom ’t has prest Too hard to hope to solve it too. Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect.

But that from slow dissolving pomps of dawn No verity of slowly strengthening light Early or late hath issued; that the day Scarce-shown, relapses rather, self-withdrawn, Back to the glooms of ante-natal night, For this, O human beings, mourn we may.

Ah, blame him not because he’s gay! That he should smile, and jest, and play But shows how lightly he can bear, How well forget that load which, where Thought is, is with it, and howe’er Dissembled, or indeed forgot, Still is a load, and ceases not. This aged earth that each new spring Comes forth so young, so ravishing In summer robes for all to see, Of flower, and leaf, and bloomy tree, For all her scarlet, gold, and green, Fails not to keep within unseen That inner purpose and that force Which on the untiring orbit’s course Around the sun, amidst the spheres Still bears her thro’ the eternal years. Ah, blame the flowers and fruits of May, And then blame him because he’s gay. Ah, blame him not, for not being gay, Because an hundred times a day He doth not currently repay Sweet words with ready words as sweet, And for each smile a smile repeat. To mute submissiveness confined, Blame not, if once or twice the mind Its pent-up indignation wreak In scowling brow and flushing cheek, And smiles curled back as soon as born, To dire significance of scorn. Nor blame if once, and once again He wring the hearts of milder men, If slights, the worse if undesigned, Should seem unbrotherly, unkind; For though tree wave, and blossom blow Above, earth hides a fire below; Her seas the starry laws obey, And she from her own ordered way Swerves not, because it dims the day Or changes verdure to decay. Ah, blame the great world on its way, And then blame him for not being gay.

Dance on, dance on, we see, we see Youth goes, alack, and with it glee, A boy the old man ne’er can be; Maternal thirty scarce can find The sweet sixteen long left behind; Old folks must toil, and scrape, and strain, That boys and girls may once again Be that for them they cannot be, But which it gives them joy to see, Youth goes and glee; but not in vain, Young folks, if only you remain. Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see; The dry red leaves on winter’s tree, Can feel the new sap rising free. On, on, young folks; so you survive, The dead themselves are still alive; The blood in dull parental veins Long numbed, a tingling life regains. Deep down in earth, the tough old root Is conscious still of flower and fruit. Spring goes and glee but were not vain: In you, young folks, they come again. Dance on, dance on, we see, we feel; Wind, wind your waltzes, wind and wheel, Our senses too with music reel; Nor let your pairs neglect to fill The old ancestral scorned quadrille. Let hand the hand uplifted seek, And pleasure fly from cheek to cheek; Love too; but gently, nor astray, And yet, deluder, yet in play. Dance on; youth goes: but all’s not vain, Young folks, if only you remain. Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see; We once were nimble e’en as ye, And danced to give the oldest glee; O wherefore add, as we, you too, Once gone your prime cannot renew; You too, like us, at last shall stand To watch and not to join the band, Content some day (a far-off day) To your supplanters soft to say, Youth goes, but goes not all in vain, Young folks, so only you remain, Dance on, dance on, ’tis joy to see.

Youth, that went, is come again, Youth, for which we all were fain; With soft pleasure and sweet pain In each nerve and every vein, Circling through the heart and brain, Whence and wherefore come again? Eva, tell me! Dead and buried when we thought him, Who the magic spell hath taught him? Who the strong elixir brought him? Dead and buried as we thought, Lo! unasked for and unsought Comes he, shall it be for nought? Eva, tell me! Youth that lifeless long had lain, Youth that long we longed in vain for, Used to grumble and complain for, Thought at last to entertain A decorous cool disdain for, On a sudden see again Comes, but will not long remain, Comes, with whom too in his train, Comes, and shall it be in vain? Eva, tell me!

If that we thus are guilty doth appear, Ah, guilty tho’ we are, grave judges, hear! Ah, yes; if ever you in your sweet youth ’Midst pleasure’s borders missed the track of truth, Made love on benches underneath green trees, Stuffed tender rhymes with old new similes, Whispered soft anythings, and in the blood Felt all you said not most was understood— Ah, if you have—as which of you has not?— Nor what you were have utterly forgot, Then be not stern to faults yourselves have known, To others harsh, kind to yourselves alone. That we, young sir, beneath our youth’s green trees Once did, not what should profit, but should please, In foolish longing and in love-sick play Forgot the truth and lost the flying day— That we went wrong we say not is not true, But, if we erred, were we not punished too? If not—if no one checked our wandering feet,— Shall we our parents’ negligence repeat?— In future times that ancient loss renew, If none saved us, forbear from saving you? Nor let that justice in your faults be seen Which in our own or was or should have been? Yet, yet, recall the mind that you had then, And, so recalling, listen yet again; If you escaped, ’tis plainly understood Impunity may leave a culprit good; If you were punished, did you then, as now, The justice of that punishment allow? Did what your age consents to now, appear Expedient then and needfully severe? In youth’s indulgence think there yet might be A truth forgot by grey severity. That strictness and that laxity between, Be yours the wisdom to detect the mean. ’Tis possible, young sir, that some excess Mars youthful judgment and old men’s no less; Yet we must take our counsel as we may For (flying years this lesson still convey), ’Tis worst unwisdom to be overwise, And not to use, but still correct one’s eyes.

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng Of myriads gone before; To flutter and flap and flit along The airy limbo shore. Go, words of sport and words of wit, Sarcastic point and fine, And words of wisdom wholly fit, With folly’s to combine. Go, words of wisdom, words of sense, Which, while the heart belied, The tongue still uttered for pretence, The inner blank to hide. Go, words of wit, so gay, so light, That still were meant express To soothe the smart of fancied slight By fancies of success. Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong; Go, love-dreams vainer still; And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong; And Pride without a Will. Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way Where myriads went before, To languish out your lingering day Upon the limbo shore. November, 1850

How in God’s name did Columbus get over Is a pure wonder to me, I protest, Cabot, and Raleigh too, that well-read rover, Frobisher, Dampier, Drake, and the rest. Bad enough all the same, For them that after came, But, in great Heaven’s name, How he should ever think That on the other brink Of this wild waste terra firma should be, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me. How a man ever should hope to get thither, E’en if he knew that there was another side; But to suppose he should come any whither, Sailing straight on into chaos untried, In spite of the motion Across the whole ocean, To stick to the notion That in some nook or bend Of a sea without end He should find North and South America, Was a pure madness, indeed I must say, to me. What if wise men had, as far back as Ptolemy, Judged that the earth like an orange was round, None of them ever said, Come along, follow me, Sail to the West, and the East will be found. Many a day before Ever they’d come ashore, From the ‘San Salvador,’ Sadder and wiser men They’d have turned back again; And that he did not, but did cross the sea, Is a pure wonder, I must say, to me.

Said the Poet, I wouldn’t maintain, As the mystical German has done, That the land, inexistent till then, To reward him then first saw the sun; And yet I could deem it was so, As o’er the new waters he sailed, That his soul made the breezes to blow, With his courage the breezes had failed; His strong quiet purpose had still The hurricane’s fury withheld; The resolve of his conquering will The lingering vessel impelled: For the beings, the powers that range In the air, on the earth, at our sides, Can modify, temper and change Stronger things than the winds and the tides, By forces occult can the laws— As we style them—of nature o’errule; Can cause, so to say, every cause, And our best mathematics befool; Can defeat calculation and plan, Baffle schemes ne’er so wisely designed, But will bow to the genius of man, And acknowledge a sovereign mind.

O happy mother!—while the man wayworn Sleeps by his ass and dreams of daily bread, Wakeful and heedful for thy infant care— O happy mother!—while thy husband sleeps, Art privileged, O blessed one, to see Celestial strangers sharing in thy task, And visible angels waiting on thy child. Take, O young soul, O infant heaven-desired, Take and fear not the cates, although of earth, Which to thy hands celestial hands extend, Take and fear not: such vulgar meats of life Thy spirit lips no more must scorn to pass; The seeming ill, contaminating joys, Thy sense divine no more be loth to allow; The pleasures as the pains of our strange life Thou art engaged, self-compromised, to share. Look up, upon thy mother’s face there sits No sad suspicion of a lurking ill, No shamed confession of a needful sin; Mistrust her not, although of earth she too: Look up! the bright-eyed cherubs overhead Strew from mid air fresh flowers to crown the just Look! thy own father’s servants these, and thine, Who at his bidding and at thine are here. In thine own word was it not said long since Butter and honey shall he eat, and learn The evil to refuse and choose the good? Fear not, O babe divine, fear not, accept; O happy mother, privileged to see, While the man sleeps, the sacred mystery.

Lips, lips, open! Up comes a little bird that lives inside— Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies. All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings, Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings. Little bird, little bird, whither will you go? Round about the world, while nobody can know. Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee? Far away around the world, while nobody can see. Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam? All round the world and around again home; Round the round world, and back through the air, When the morning comes, the little bird is there. Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies, Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes. Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away, Little bird will come again, by the peep of day; Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go Round about the world, while nobody can know. Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round, Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

Over every hill All is still; In no leaf of any tree Can you see The motion of a breath. Every bird has ceased its song, Wait; and thou too, ere long, Shall be quiet in death.

Who ne’er his bread with tears hath ate, Who never through the sad night hours Weeping upon his bed hath sate, He knows not you, you heavenly powers. Forth into life you bid us go, And into guilt you let us fall, Then leave us to endure the woe It brings unfailingly to all.

You complain of the woman for roving from one to another:— Where is the constant man whom she is trying to find?

Slumber and Sleep, two brothers appointed to serve the immortals, By Prometheus were brought hither to comfort mankind; But what in heaven was light, to human creatures was heavy:— Slumber became our Sleep, Sleep unto mortals was Death.

Oh, the beautiful child! and oh, the most happy mother! She in her infant blessed, and in its mother the babe— What sweet longing within me this picture might not occasion, Were I not, Joseph, like you, calmly condemned to stand by!

Diogenes by his tub, contenting himself with the sunshine, And Calanus with joy mounting his funeral pyre:— Great examples were these for the eager approving of Philip, But for the Conqueror of Earth were, as the earth was, too small.

When on the primal peaceful blank profound, Which in its still unknowing silence holds All knowledge, ever by withholding holds— When on that void (like footfalls in far rooms), In faint pulsations from the whitening East Articulate voices first were felt to stir, And the great child, in dreaming grown to man, Losing his dream to piece it up began; Then Plato in me said, ‘’Tis but the figured ceiling overhead, With cunning diagrams bestarred, that shine In all the three dimensions, are endowed With motion too by skill mechanical, That thou in height, and depth, and breadth, and power, Schooled unto pure Mathesis, might proceed To higher entities, whereof in us Copies are seen, existent they themselves In the sole kingdom of the Mind and God. Mind not the stars, mind thou thy Mind and God.’ By that supremer Word O’ermastered, deafly heard Were hauntings dim of old astrologies; Chaldean mumblings vast, with gossip light From modern ologistic fancyings mixed, Of suns and stars, by hypothetic men Of other frame than ours inhabited, Of lunar seas and lunar craters huge. And was there atmosphere, or was there not? And without oxygen could life subsist? And was the world originally mist?— Talk they as talk they list, I, in that ampler voice, Unheeding, did rejoice.

My beloved, is it nothing Though we meet not, neither can, That I see thee, and thou me, That we see, and see we see, When I see I also feel thee; Is it nothing, my beloved? Thy luminous clear beauty Brightens on me in my night, I withdraw into my darkness To allure thee into light. About me and upon me I feel them pass and stay, About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray. And thou, thou also feelest When thou stealest Shamefaced and half afraid To the chamber of thy shade, Thou in thy turn, Thou too feelest Something follow, something yearn, A full orb blaze and burn. My full orb upon thine, As thine erst, gently smiling, Softly wooing, sweetly wiling, Gleamed on mine; So mine on thine in turn When thou feelest blaze and burn, Is it nothing, my beloved? My beloved, is it nothing When I see thee and thou me, When we each other see, Is it nothing, my beloved? Closer, closer come unto me. Shall I see thee and no more? I can see thee, is that all? Let me also, Let me feel thee, Closer, closer, my beloved, Come unto me, come to me, come! O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not, Lookest onward, look’st before, Yet I follow, evermore. Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way, Scarcely lookest, wilt not stay, From thine alien way. The inevitable motion Bears me forth upon the line Whose course I cannot see. I must move as it conveys me Evermore. It so must be. O cold one, and I round thee Revolve, round only thee, Straining ever to be nearer While thou evadest still; Repellest still, O cold one, Nay, but closer, closer, closer, My beloved, come, come, come! The inevitable motion Carries both upon its line, Also you as well as me. What is best, and what is strongest, We obey. It so must be. Cruel, cruel, didst thou only Feel as I feel evermore, A force, though in, not of me, Drawing inward, in, in, in. Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth Thou shalt feel me closer, closer, My beloved, close, close to thee, Come to thee, come, come, come! The inevitable motion Bears us both upon its line Together, you as me, Together and asunder, Evermore. It so must be.

O richly soiled and richly sunned, Exuberant, fervid, and fecund! Is this the fixed condition On which may Northern pilgrim come, To imbibe thine ether-air, and sum Thy store of old tradition? Must we be chill, if clean, and stand Foot-deep in dirt on classic land? So is it: in all ages so, And in all places man can know, From homely roots unseen below The stem in forest, field, and bower, Derives the emanative power That crowns it with the ethereal flower, From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sour Draws juices that those petals fill. Ah Nature, if indeed thy will Thou own’st it, it shall not be ill! And truly here, in this quick clime, Where, scarcely bound by space or time, The elements in half a day Toss off with exquisitest play What our cold seasons toil and grieve, And never quite at last achieve; Where processes, with pain, and fear, Disgust, and horror wrought, appear The quick mutations of a dance, Wherein retiring but to advance, Life, in brief interpause of death, One moment sitting taking breath, Forth comes again as glad as e’er, In some new figure full as fair, Where what has scarcely ceased to be, Instinct with newer birth we see— What dies, already, look you, lives; In such a clime, who thinks, forgives; Who sees, will understand; who knows, In calm of knowledge find repose, And thoughtful as of glory gone, So too of more to come anon, Of permanent existence sure, Brief intermediate breaks endure. O Nature, if indeed thy will, Thou ownest it, it is not ill! And e’en as oft on heathy hill, On moorland black, and ferny fells, Beside thy brooks and in thy dells, Was welcomed erst the kindly stain Of thy true earth, e’en so again With resignation fair, and meet The dirt and refuse of thy street, My philosophic foot shall greet, So leave but perfect to my eye Thy columns, set against thy sky!

Is it this, then, O world-warrior, That, exulting, through the folds Of the dark and cloudy barrier Thine enfranchised eye beholds? Is, when blessed hands relieve thee From the gross and mortal clay, This the heaven that should receive thee? ‘Tête d’armée.’ Now the final link is breaking, Of the fierce, corroding chain, And the ships, their watch forsaking, Bid the seas no more detain, Whither is it, freed and risen, The pure spirit seeks away, Quits for what the weary prison? ‘Tête d’armée.’ Doubtless—angels, hovering o’er thee In thine exile’s sad abode, Marshalled even now before thee, Move upon that chosen road! Thither they, ere friends have laid thee Where sad willows o’er thee play, Shall already have conveyed thee! ‘Tête d’armée.’ Shall great captains, foiled and broken, Hear from thee on each great day, At the crisis, a word spoken— Word that battles still obey— ‘Cuirassiers here, here those cannon; Quick, those squadrons, up—away! To the charge, on—as one man, on!’ ‘Tête d’armée.’ (Yes, too true, alas! while sated Of the wars so slow to cease, Nations, once that scorned and hated, Would to Wisdom turn, and Peace; Thy dire impulse still obeying, Fevered youths, as in the old day, In their hearts still find thee saying, ‘Tête d’armée.’) Oh, poor soul!—Or do I view thee, From earth’s battle-fields withheld, In a dream, assembling to thee Troops that quell not, nor are quelled, Breaking airy lines, defeating Limbo-kings, and, as to-day, Idly to all time repeating ‘Tête d’armée’?

And what the words, that with his failing breath Did England hear her aged soldier say? I know not. Yielding tranquilly to death, With no proud speech, no boast, he passed away. Not stirring words, nor gallant deeds alone, Plain patient work fulfilled that length of life; Duty, not glory—Service, not a throne, Inspired his effort, set for him the strife. Therefore just Fortune, with one hasty blow, Spurning her minion, Glory’s, Victory’s lord, Gave all to him that was content to know, In service done its own supreme reward. The words he said, if haply words there were, When full of years and works he passed away, Most naturally might, methinks, refer To some poor humble business of to-day. ‘That humble simple duty of the day Perform,’ he bids; ‘ask not if small or great: Serve in thy post; be faithful, and obey; Who serves her truly, sometimes saves the State.’ 1852

What voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost? ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ The tricolor—a trampled rag Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track By sentry boxes yellow-black, Lead up to no Italian flag. I see the Croat soldier stand Upon the grass of your redoubts; The eagle with his black wings flouts The breath and beauty of your land. Yet not in vain, although in vain, O men of Brescia, on the day Of loss past hope, I heard you say Your welcome to the noble pain. You say, ‘Since so it is,—good-bye Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er May be, or must, no tongue shall dare To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’ You said (there shall be answer fit), ‘And if our children must obey, They must; but thinking on this day ’Twill less debase them to submit.’ You said (Oh not in vain you said), ‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may; The hours ebb fast of this one day When blood may yet be nobly shed.’ Ah! not for idle hatred, not For honour, fame, nor self-applause, But for the glory of the cause, You did, what will not be forgot. And though the stranger stand, ’tis true, By force and fortune’s right he stands; By fortune, which is in God’s hands, And strength, which yet shall spring in you. This voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849

Or shall I say, Vain word, false thought, Since Prudence hath her martyrs too, And Wisdom dictates not to do, Till doing shall be not for nought? Not ours to give or lose is life; Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, Remake her work? or songs recall Death’s victim slain in useless strife? That rivers flow into the sea Is loss and waste, the foolish say, Nor know that back they find their way, Unseen, to where they wont to be. Showers fall upon the hills, springs flow, The river runneth still at hand, Brave men are born into the land, And whence the foolish do not know. No! no vain voice did on me fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, ‘’Tis better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.’ 1849

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main, And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. 1849