Part 1 / Book 5 — VI.
Reading edition
DEATH: IMMORTALITY: HEAVEN.
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THE PROSPECT.
Methinks we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window-pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view; And, thus, alas! since God the maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain,— The life beyond us and our souls in pain,— We miss the prospect which we are called unto By grief we are fools to use. Be still and strong, O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, And keep thy soul's large windows pure from wrong; That so, as life's appointment issueth, Thy vision may be clear to watch along The sunset consummation-lights of death.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
* * * * *
THE LOST PLEIAD.
Not in the sky, Where it was seen, Nor on the white tops of the glistening wave, Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep,— Though green, And beautiful, its caves of mystery;— Shall the bright watcher have A place, and as of old high station keep.
Gone, gone! Oh, never more to cheer The mariner who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep, Shall it appear, With the sweet fixedness of certain light, Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep.
Vain, vain! Hopeless most idly then, shall he look forth, That mariner from his bark. Howe'er the north Does raise his certain lamp, when tempests lower— He sees no more that perished light again! And gloomier grows the hour Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark, Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.
He looks,—the shepherd of Chaldea's hills Tending his flocks,— And wonders the rich beacon does not blaze, Gladdening his gaze;— And from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him safely home through perilous ways! Still wondering as the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils Its leaden dews.—How chafes he at the night, Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight!
And lone, Where its first splendors shone, Shall be that pleasant company of stars: How should they know that death Such perfect beauty mars? And like the earth, its crimson bloom and breath; Fallen from on high, Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die!— All their concerted springs of harmony Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone.
A strain—a mellow strain— A wailing sweetness filled the sky; The stars, lamenting in unborrowed pain, That one of their selectest ones must die! Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas! 'tis evermore our destiny, The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost; The flower first budden, soonest feels the frost: Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest? And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest when they fly The desolate home they blessed?
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
* * * * *
PASSING AWAY.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell That he winds, on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, She dispensing her silvery light. And he his notes as silvery quite. While the boatman listens and ships his oar, To catch the music that comes from the shore? Hark! the notes on my ear that play Are set to words; as they float, they say, "Passing away! passing away!"
But no; it was not a fairy's shell. Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream; yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird swing); And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, "Passing away! passing away!"
Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow; And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say, "Passing away! passing away!"
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed,—as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face. Yet one couldn't but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, "Passing away! passing away!"
While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, Yet just as busily swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust: The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone (Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay), "Passing away! passing away!"
JOHN PIERPONT.
* * * * *
LINES
FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT WESTMINSTER.
E'en such is time; that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
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MY AIN COUNTREE.
"But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly."—HEBREWS xi. 16.
I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles, For the langed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles; I'll never be fu' content, until mine een do see The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree.
The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring: Wi' een an' wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain countree.
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e, When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree.
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast; For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them himse' to his ain countree.
He's faithfu' that hath promised, he'll surely come again, He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken; But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to be, To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.
So I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame as I wait, For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the shining gate; God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo to me, That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.
MARY LEE DEMAREST.
* * * * *
COMING.
"At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning."—Mark xiii. 35.
"It may be in the evening, When the work of the day is done, And you have time to sit in the twilight And watch the sinking sun, While the long bright day dies slowly Over the sea, And the hour grows quiet and holy With thoughts of me; While you hear the village children Passing along the street, Among those thronging footsteps May come the sound of my feet. Therefore I tell you: Watch. By the light of the evening star, When the room is growing dusky As the clouds afar; Let the door be on the latch In your home, For it may be through the gloaming I will come.
"It may be when the midnight Is heavy upon the land, And the black waves lying dumbly Along the sand; When the moonless night draws close, And the lights are out in the house; When the fires burn low and red, And the watch is ticking loudly Beside the bed: Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch, Still your heart must wake and watch In the dark room, For it may be that at midnight I will come.
"It may be at the cock-crow, When the night is dying slowly In the sky, And the sea looks calm and holy, Waiting for the dawn Of the golden sun Which draweth nigh; When the mists are on the valleys, shading The rivers chill, And my morning-star is fading, fading Over the hill: Behold I say unto you: Watch; Let the door be on the latch In your home; In the chill before the dawning, Between the night and morning, I may come.
"It may be in the morning, When the sun is bright and strong, And the dew is glittering sharply Over the little lawn; When the waves are laughing loudly Along the shore, And the little birds are singing sweetly About the door; With the long day's work before you, You rise up with the sun, And the neighbors come in to talk a little Of all that must be done. But remember that I may be the next To come in at the door, To call you from all your busy work Forevermore: As you work your heart must watch, For the door is on the latch In your room, And it may be in the morning I will come."
So He passed down my cottage garden, By the path that leads to the sea, Till he came to the turn of the little road Where the birch and laburnum tree Lean over and arch the way; There I saw him a moment stay, And turn once more to me, As I wept at the cottage door, And lift up his hands in blessing— Then I saw his face no more.
And I stood still in the doorway, Leaning against the wall, Not heeding the fair white roses, Though I crushed them and let them fall. Only looking down the pathway, And looking toward the sea, And wondering, and wondering When he would come back for me; Till I was aware of an angel Who was going swiftly by, With the gladness of one who goeth In the light of God Most High.
He passed the end of the cottage Toward the garden gate; (I suppose he was come down At the setting of the sun To comfort some one in the village Whose dwelling was desolate) And he paused before the door Beside my place, And the likeness of a smile Was on his face. "Weep not," he said, "for unto you is given To watch for the coming of his feet Who is the glory of our blessed heaven; The work and watching will be very sweet, Even in an earthly home; And in such an hour as you think not He will come."
So I am watching quietly Every day. Whenever the sun shines brightly, I rise and say: "Surely it is the shining of his face!" And look unto the gates of his high place Beyond the sea; For I know he is coming shortly To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If he is come; And the angel answers sweetly In my home: "Only a few more shadows, And he will come."
BARBARA MILLER MACANDREW.
* * * * *
EUTHANASIA.
Methinks, when on the languid eye Life's autumn scenes grow dim; When evening's shadows veil the sky; And pleasure's siren hymn Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, Like echoes from another sphere, Or dreams of seraphim— It were not sad to cast away This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart Grow passionless and cold; To feel those longings to depart That cheered the good of old; To clasp the faith which looks on high, Which fires the Christian's dying eye, And makes the curtain-fold That falls upon his wasting breast, The door that leads to endless rest.
It seems not lonely thus to lie On that triumphant bed, Till the pure spirit mounts on high By white-winged seraphs led: Where glories, earth may never know, O'er "many mansions" lingering glow, In peerless lustre shed. It were not lonely thus to soar Where sin and grief can sting no more.
And though the way to such a goal Lies through the clouded tomb, If on the free, unfettered soul There rest no stains of gloom, How should its aspirations rise Far through the blue unpillared skies, Up to its final home, Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run!
WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
* * * * *
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! I saw the last of human mould That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime!
The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,—the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sear leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will? Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim, discrowned king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men. Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again: Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips, that speak thy dirge of death,— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death!
Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste,— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
* * * * *
WHEN.
If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow For any one, All the fight fought, all the short journey through. What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter, But just go on, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter Aught that is gone; But rise and move and love and smile and pray For one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Say in that ear Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within thy keeping How should I fear? And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, Do thou thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, My soul would lie All the night long; and when the morning splendor Flushed o'er the sky, I think that I could smile—could calmly say, "It is his day."
But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder Held out a scroll, On which my life was writ, and I with wonder Beheld unroll To a long century's end its mystic clew, What should I do?'
What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, Other than this; Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, Nor fear to miss The road, although so very long it be, While led by thee?
Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, Although unseen, Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide thee, Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay.
I may not know; my God, no hand revealeth Thy counsels wise; Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, No voice replies To all my questioning thought, the time to tell; And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Thy will always, Through a long century's ripening fruition Or a short day's; Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait If thou come late.
SARAH WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).
* * * * *
BURIAL OF MOSES.
"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."—DEUTERONOMY xxxiv. 6.
By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave; But no man built that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er; For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; Yet no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth: Noiselessly as daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Unfold their thousand leaves: So without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor's height Out of his rocky eyry Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.
But, when the warrior dieth. His comrades of the war. With arms reversed and muffled drums, Follow the funeral car: They show the banners taken; They tell his battles won; And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute-gun.
Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marbles drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned hall.
This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his glorious pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor?— The hillside for a pall! To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall! And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in his grave!—
In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again—O wondrous thought!— Before the judgment day, And stand, with glory wrapped around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the incarnate Son of God.
O lonely tomb in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still: God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well.
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.
* * * * *
THE RESIGNATION.
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill; But what the Eternal acts is right.
Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own my power, Thy goodness love, thy Justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away.
Then why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless.
But ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned, I'll thank the inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.
THOMAS CHATTERTON.
* * * * *
"ONLY WAITING."
[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting."]
Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart, once full of day; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.
Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.
Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away; If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.
Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown. Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies.
FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.
* * * * *
HOPEFULLY WAITING.
"Blessed are they who are homesick, for they shall come at last to their Father's house."—HEINRICH STILLING.
Not as you meant, O learned man, and good! Do I accept thy words of truth and rest; God, knowing all, knows what for me is best, And gives me what I need, not what he could, Nor always as I would! I shall go to the Father's house, and see Him and the Elder Brother face to face,— What day or hour I know not. Let me be Steadfast in work, and earnest in the race, Not as a homesick child who all day long Whines at its play, and seldom speaks in song.
If for a time some loved one goes away, And leaves us our appointed work to do, Can we to him or to ourselves be true In mourning his departure day by day, And so our work delay? Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make The absence brief by doing well our task,— Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. And at his coming only of him ask Approval of the work, which most was done, Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One.
Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand; In it how many, many mansions are! And, far beyond the light of sun or star, Four little ones of mine through that fair land Are walking hand in hand! Think you I love not, or that I forget These of my loins? Still this world is fair, And I am singing while my eyes are wet With weeping in this balmy summer air: Yet I'm not homesick, and the children here Have need of me, and so my way is clear.
I would be joyful as my days go by, Counting God's mercies to rue. He who bore Life's heaviest cross is mine forever-more, And I who wait his coming, shall not I On his sure word rely? And if sometimes the way be rough and steep, Be heavy for the grief he sends to me, Or at my waking I would only weep, Let me remember these are things to be, To work his blessed will until he comes To take my hand, and lead me safely home.
ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH.
* * * * *
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.
Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying; Come, tell the sweet amount That's lost by sighing! How many smiles?—a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same; We love,—forever; We laugh, yet few we shame,— The gentle never. Stay, then, till sorrow dies; Then—hope and happy skies Are thine forever!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.)
* * * * *
IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL.
"Urit me Patriae decor."
It kindles all my soul, My country's loveliness! Those starry choirs That watch around the pole, And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires Through golden halls that roll. O chorus of the night! O planets, sworn The music of the spheres To follow! Lovely watchers, that think scorn To rest till day appears! Me, for celestial homes of glory born, Why here, O, why so long, Do ye behold an exile from on high? Here, O ye shining throng, With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie: Here let me drop my chain, And dust to dust returning, cast away The trammels that remain; The rest of me shall spring to endless day!
From the Latin of CASIMIR OF POLAND.
* * * * *
EPILOGUE.
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time. When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned— Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, —Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel —Being—who?
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare ever There as here!"
ROBERT BROWNING.
* * * * *
CROSSING THE BAR.
Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
* * * * *
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
Vital spark of heavenly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, O, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears! Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?
ALEXANDER POPE.
* * * * *
ODE.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
I.
There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light,— The glory and the freshness of the dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore: Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II.
The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
III.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,— No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity; And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy!
IV.
Ye blessed creatures! I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal,— The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning, And the children are culling, On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm;— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!— But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon,— Both of them speak of something that is gone; The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
V.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows— He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended: At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
VI.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
VII.
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,— A six years' darling of a pygmy size! See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art,— A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral;— And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part,— Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the persons, down to palsied age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.
VIII.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity! Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind!— Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
IX.
O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest,— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather. Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither,— Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,— To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
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