Chapter III

No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home.
Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak;
Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come;
Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.

In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite;
A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast.
Thou flingest me abroad:--lo, in thy might
A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!

_OF THE SON OF MAN_.

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust To look with jealousy on her designs; With every passing year more fast she twines About my heart; with her mysterious dust Claim I a fellowship not less august Although she works before me and combines Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines Spreading a leafy volume on the crust Of the old world; and man himself likewise Is of her making: wherefore then divorce What God hath joined thus, and rend by force Spirit away from substance, bursting ties By which in one great bond of unity God hath together bound all things that be?

II. And in these lines my purpose is to show That He who left the Father, though he came Not with art-splendour or the earthly flame Of genius, yet in that he did bestow His own true loving heart, did cause to grow, Unseen and buried deep, whate'er we name The best in human art, without the shame Of idle sitting in most real woe; And that whate'er of Beautiful and Grand The Earth contains, by him was not despised, But rather was so deeply realized In word and deed, though not with artist hand, That it was either hid or all disguised From those who were not wise to understand.

III. Art is the bond of weakness, and we find Therein acknowledgment of failing power: A man would worship, gazing on a flower-- Onward he passeth, lo his eyes are blind! The unenlivened form he left behind Grew up within him only for an hour! And he will grapple with Nature till the dower Of strength shall be retreasured in his mind. And each form-record is a high protest Of treason done unto the soul of man, Which, striving upwards, ever is oppress'd By the old bondage, underneath whose ban He, failing in his struggle for the best, Must live in pain upon what food he can.

IV. Moreover, were there perfect harmony 'Twixt soul and Nature, we should never waste The precious hours in gazing, but should haste To assimilate her offerings, and we From high life-elements, as doth the tree, Should grow to higher; so what we call Taste Is a slow living as of roots encased In the grim chinks of some sterility Both cramping and withholding. Art is Truth, But Truth dammed up and frozen, gagged and bound As is a streamlet icy and uncouth Which pebbles hath and channel but no sound: Give it again its summer heart of youth And it will be a life upon the ground.

V. And Love had not been prisoned in cold stone, Nor Beauty smeared on the dead canvas so, Had not their worshipper been forced to go Questful and restless through the world alone, Searching but finding not, till on him shone Back from his own deep heart a chilly glow As of a frost-nipped sunbeam, or of snow Under a storm-dodged crescent which hath grown Wasted to mockery; and beneath such gleam His wan conceits have found an utterance, Which, had they found a true and sunny beam, Had ripened into real touch and glance-- Nay more, to real deed, the Truth of all, To some perfection high and personal.

VI. "But yet the great of soul have ever been The first to glory in all works of art; For from the genius-form would ever dart A light of inspiration, and a sheen As of new comings; and ourselves have seen Men of stern purpose to whose eyes would start Sorrow at sight of sorrow though no heart Did riot underneath that chilly, screen; And hence we judge such utterance native to The human soul--expression highest--best." --Nay, it is by such sign they will pursue, Albeit unknowing, Beauty, without rest; And failing in the search, themselves will fling Speechless before its shadow, worshipping.

VII. And how shall he whose mission is to bring The soul to worship at its rightful shrine, Seeing in Beauty what is most divine, Give out the mightiest impulse, and thus fling His soul into the future, scattering The living seed of wisdom? Shall there shine From underneath his hand a matchless line Of high earth-beauties, till the wide world ring With the far clang that tells a missioned soul, Kneeling to homage all about his feet? Alas for such a gift were this the whole, The only bread of life men had to eat! Lo, I behold them dead about him now, And him the heart of death, for all that brow!

VIII. If _Thou_ didst pass by Art, thou didst not scorn The souls that by such symbol yearned in vain From Truth and Love true nourishment to gain: On thy warm breast, so chilly and forlorn Fell these thy nurslings little more than born That thou wast anguished, and there fell a rain From thy blest eyelids, and in grief and pain Thou partedst from them yet one night and morn To find them wholesome food and nourishment Instead of what their blindness took for such, Laying thyself a seed in earthen rent From which, outspringing to the willing touch, Riseth for all thy children harvest great, For which they will all learn to bless thee yet.

IV. Thou sawest Beauty in the streaking cloud When grief lift up those eyelids; nor in scorn Broke ever on thine eyes the purple morn Along the cedar tops; to thee aloud Spake the night-solitude, when hushed and bowed The earth lay at thy feet stony and worn; Loving thou markedst when the lamb unshorn Was glad before thee, and amongst the crowd Famished and pent in cities did thine eye Read strangest glory--though in human art No record lives to tell us that thy heart Bowed to its own deep beauty: deeper did lie The burden of thy mission, even whereby We know that Beauty liveth where Thou art.

X. Doubtless thine eyes have watched the sun aspire From that same Olivet, when back on thee Flushed upwards after some night-agony Thy proper Godhead, with a purer fire Purpling thy Infinite, and in strong desire Thou sattest in the dawn that was to be Uplifted on our dark perplexity. Yea in thee lay thy soul, a living lyre, And each wild beauty smote it, though the sound Rung to the night-winds oft and desert air; Beneath thine eyes the lily paled more fair, And each still shadow slanting on the ground Lay sweetly on thee as commissioned there, So full wast thou of eyes all round and round.

XI. And so thou neededst not our human skill To fix what thus were transient--there it grew Wedded to thy perfection; and anew With every coming vision rose there still Some living principle which did fulfil Thy most legitimate manhood; and unto Thy soul all Nature rendered up its due With not a contradiction; and each hill And mountain torrent and each wandering light Grew out divinely on thy countenance, Whereon, as we are told, by word and glance Thy hearers read an ever strange delight--So strange to them thy Truth, they could not tell What made thy message so unspeakable.

XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach: Not with blind hands of groping forward thrust Into the darkness, gathering only dust, But by this real sign--that thou didst reach, In natural order, rising each from each, Thy own ideals of the True and Just; And that as thou didst live, even so he must Who would aspire his fellow-men to teach, Looking perpetual from new heights of Thought On his old self. Of art no scorner thou! Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy brow Wearing the light of manhood, thou hast brought Death unto Life! Above all statues now, Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!

XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes, Far up into the niches of the Past, Ye marble statues, dim and holden fast Within your stony homes! nor human cries Had shook you from your frozen phantasies Or sent the life-blood through you, till there passed Through all your chilly bulks a new life-blast From the Eternal Living, and ye rise From out your stiffened postures rosy-warm, Walking abroad a goodly company Of living virtues at that wondrous charm, As he with human heart and hand and eye Walked sorrowing upon our highways then, The Eternal Father's living gift to men!

XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy rest Under the griping rocks, doth ever keep A monstrous working as it lies asleep In the round hollow of some mountain's breast, Till where it hideth in its sweltering nest Some earthquake finds it, and its waters leap Forth to the sunshine down the mighty steep, So in thee once was anguished forth the quest Whereby man sought for life-power as he lay Under his own proud heart and black despair Wedged fast and stifled up with loads of care, Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay; Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer, And he hath cried aloud since that same day!

XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friend Mixing with other men forgets the woe Which anguished him when he beheld and lo Two souls had fled asunder which did bend Under the same blue heaven! yet ere the end, When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro, Will often strangely reappear that glow At simplest memory which some chance may send, Although much stronger bonds have lost their power: So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise, Striking on simple chords,--not with surprise Or mightiest recollectings in that hour, But like remembered fragrance of a flower A man with human heart and loving eyes.

_March_, 1852.

_A SONG-SERMON:_

Job xiv. 13-15.

RONDEL.

Would that thou hid me in the grave And kept me with death's gaoler-care; Until thy wrath away should wear A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave! I would endure with patience brave So thou remembered I was there! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!

To see thy creature thou wouldst crave-- Desire thy handiwork so fair; Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air And I would answer from the cave! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!

_WORDS IN THE NIGHT_.

I woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart, said this to me: Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright! The world is fair by day and night, But what is that to thee? One touch to me, down dips the light Over the land and sea. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark-- The winter with its sparkling moons, The spring with all her violets, The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, The autumn's yellowing noons! I only toss my purple jets, And thou art one that swoons Upon a night of gust and roar, Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems Across the purple hills to roam: Sweet odours touch him from the foam, And downward sinking still he dreams He walks the clover fields at home And hears the rattling teams. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!

Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air, and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank, Which, as the wind came, ever rose and sank, Violet and red; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence, while they, Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet, Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat. Let the world's fountain play! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial, and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.

One heart beats in all nature, differing But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours Are but the waste and brunt of instruments Wherewith a work is done, or as the hammers On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape The hard and scattered ore; Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash Thy life go from thee in a night of pain; So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark, the cock crows loud! And without, all ghastly and ill, Like a man uplift in his shroud, The white, white morn is propped on the hill; And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill The icicles 'gin to glitter And the birds with a warble short and shrill Pass by the chamber-window still-- With a quick, uneasy twitter! Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter; And wearily, wearily, one by one, Men awake with the weary sun! Life is a phantom shut in thee: I am the master and keep the key; So let me toss thee the days of old Crimson and orange and green and gold; So let me fill thee yet again With a rush of dreams from my spout amain; For all is mine, all is my own: Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone, And I am alive, I only, I!

_CONSIDER THE RAVENS_

Lord, according to thy words, I have considered thy birds; And I find their life good, And better the better understood: Sowing neither corn nor wheat They have all that they can eat; Reaping no more than they sow They have more than they could stow; Having neither barn nor store, Hungry again, they eat more.

Considering, I see too that they Have a busy life, and plenty of play; In the earth they dig their bills deep And work well though they do not heap; Then to play in the air they are not loath, And their nests between are better than both. But this is when there blow no storms, When berries are plenty in winter, and worms, When feathers are rife, with oil enough-- To keep the cold out and send the rain off; If there come, indeed, a long hard frost Then it looks as thy birds were lost.

But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.

Thy bird has pain, but has no fear Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day's ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot: Neither jumbles God's will With driblets from his own still.

But next I see, in my endeavour, Thy birds here do not live for ever; That cold or hunger, sickness or age Finishes their earthly stage; The rooks drop in cold nights, Leaving all their wrongs and rights; Birds lie here and birds lie there With their feathers all astare; And in thy own sermon, thou That the sparrow falls dost allow.

It shall not cause me any alarm, For neither so comes the bird to harm Seeing our father, thou hast said, Is by the sparrow's dying bed; Therefore it is a blessed place, And the sparrow in high grace.

It cometh therefore to this, Lord: I have considered thy word, And henceforth will be thy bird.

_THE WIND OF THE WORLD_.

Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth;
Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.

Yet blow, and roll the world about--
Blow, Time, blow, winter's Wind!
Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.

_SABBATH BELLS_.

Oh holy Sabbath bells, Ye have a pleasant voice! Through all the land your music swells, And man with one commandment tells To rest and to rejoice.

As birds rejoice to flee From dark and stormy skies To brighter lands beyond the sea Where skies are calm, and wings are free To wander and to rise;

As thirsty travellers sing, Through desert paths that pass, To hear the welcome waters spring, And see, beyond the spray they fling Tall trees and waving grass;

So we rejoice to know Your melody begun; For when our paths are parched below Ye tell us where green pastures glow And living waters run.

LONDON, _December_ 15, 1840.

_FIGHTING_.

Here is a temple strangely wrought:
Within it I can see
Two spirits of a diverse thought
Contend for mastery.

One is an angel fair and bright,
Adown the aisle comes he,
Adown the aisle in raiment white,
A creature fair to see.

The other wears an evil mien,
And he hath doubtless slipt,
A fearful being dark and lean,
Up from the mouldy crypt.

* * * * *

Is that the roof that grows so black?
Did some one call my name?
Was it the bursting thunder crack
That filled this place with flame?

I move--I wake from out my sleep:
Some one hath victor been!
I see two radiant pinions sweep,
And I am borne between.

Beneath the clouds that under roll
An upturned face I see--
A dead man's face, but, ah, the soul
Was right well known to me!

A man's dead face! Away I haste
Through regions calm and fair:
Go vanquish sin, and thou shall taste
The same celestial air.

_AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM._

I have long enough been working down in my cellar,
Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill;
I long for wider spaces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar:
Successless labour never the love of it did fill.

More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence,
In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain,
In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence,
In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again!

Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights!
There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun,
The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights
Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done.

But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions!
'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind!
Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions!
I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find.

But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion,
Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails,
Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean,
The living well of all wells whose water never fails.

So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour,
But up to my garret where those arms are ever going;
There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour,
And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing.

Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing!
Keep the great windmill going full and free;
So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going
Till in burst the waters of God's eternal sea.

_A PRAYER IN SICKNESS._

Thou foldest me in sickness; Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face, The only perfect grace That thou canst show thy child.

0 father, being-giver, Take off the sickness-cloud; Saviour, my life deliver From this dull body-shroud: Till I can see thy face I am not full of grace, I am not reconciled.

_QUIET DEAD!_

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay?

Fathers, children, mothers, Ye are very quiet; Can ye shout, my brothers? I would know you by it!

Have ye any words That are like to ours? Have ye any birds? Have ye any flowers?

Could ye rise a minute When the sun is warm? I would know you in it, I would take no harm.

I am half afraid In the ghostly night; If ye all obeyed I should fear you quite.

But when day is breaking In the purple east I would meet you waking-- One of you at least--

When the sun is tipping Every stony block, And the sun is slipping Down the weathercock.

Quiet, quiet dead, I will not perplex you; What my tongue hath said Haply it may vex you!

Yet I hear you speaking With a quiet speech, As if ye were seeking Better things to teach:

"Wait a little longer, Suffer and endure Till your heart is stronger And your eyes are pure--

A little longer, brother, With your fellow-men: We will meet each other Otherwhere again."

_LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE._

Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head
A lamp that well might pharos all the lands;
Anon the light will neither rise nor spread:
Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands!

A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dying lamp
Under a bushel with an earthy smell!
Mouldering it stands, in rust and eating damp,
While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell!

For me it were enough to be a flower
Knowing its root in thee, the Living, hid,
Ordained to blossom at the appointed hour,
And wake or sleep as thou, my Nature, bid;

But hear my brethren in their darkling fright!
Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad
Then will they cry--Lo, there is something bright!
Who kindled it if not the shining God?

_TRIOLET._

When the heart is a cup
In the body low lying,
And wine, drop by drop
Falls into that cup

From somewhere high up,
It is good to be dying
With the heart for a cup
In the body low lying.

_THE SOULS' RISING._

See how the storm of life ascends Up through the shadow of the world! Beyond our gaze the line extends, Like wreaths of vapour tempest-hurled! Grasp tighter, brother, lest the storm Should sweep us down from where we stand, And we may catch some human form We know, amongst the straining band.

See! see in yonder misty cloud One whirlwind sweep, and we shall hear The voice that waxes yet more loud And louder still approaching near!

Tremble not, brother, fear not thou, For yonder wild and mystic strain Will bring before us strangely now The visions of our youth again!

Listen! oh listen! See how its eyeballs roll and glisten With a wild and fearful stare Upwards through the shining air, Or backwards with averted look, As a child were gazing at a book Full of tales of fear and dread, When the thick night-wind came hollow and dead.

Round about it, wavering and light. As the moths flock round a candle at night, A crowd of phantoms sheeted and dumb Strain to its words as they shrilly come: Brother, my brother, dost thou hear? They pierce through the tumult sharp and clear!

"The rush of speed is on my soul, My eyes are blind with things I see; I cannot grasp the awful whole, I cannot gird the mystery! The mountains sweep like mist away; The great sea shakes like flakes of fire; The rush of things I cannot see Is mounting upward higher and higher! Oh! life was still and full of calm In yonder spot of earthly ground, But now it rolls a thunder-psalm, Its voices drown my ear in sound! Would God I were a child again To nurse the seeds of faith and power; I might have clasped in wisdom then A wing to beat this awful hour! The dullest things would take my marks-- _They_ took my marks like drifted snow-- God! how the footsteps rise in sparks, Rise like myself and onward go! Have pity, O ye driving things That once like me had human form! For I am driven for lack of wings A shreddy cloud before the storm!"

How its words went through me then, Like a long forgotten pang, Till the storm's embrace again Swept it far with sudden clang!-- Ah, methinks I see it still! Let us follow it, my brother, Keeping close to one another, Blessing God for might of will! Closer, closer, side by side! Ours are wings that deftly glide Upwards, downwards, and crosswise Flashing past our ears and eyes, Splitting up the comet-tracks With a whirlwind at our backs!

How the sky is blackening! Yet the race is never slackening; Swift, continual, and strong, Streams the torrent slope along, Like a tidal surge of faces Molten into one despair; Each the other now displaces, A continual whirl of spaces; Ah, my fainting eyesight reels As I strive in vain to stare On a thousand turning wheels Dimly in the gloom descending, Faces with each other blending!-- Let us beat the vapours back, We are yet upon his track.

Didst thou see a spirit halt Upright on a cloudy peak, As the lightning's horrid fault Smote a gash into the cheek Of the grinning thunder-cloud Which doth still besiege and crowd Upward from the nether pits Where the monster Chaos sits, Building o'er the fleeing rack Roofs of thunder long and black? Yes, I see it! I will shout Till I stop the horrid rout. Ho, ho! spirit-phantom, tell Is thy path to heaven or hell? We would hear thee yet again, What thy standing amongst men, What thy former history, And thy hope of things to be! Wisdom still we gain from hearing: We would know, we would know Whither thou art steering-- Unto weal or woe!

Ah, I cannot hear it speaking! Yet it seems as it were seeking Through our eyes our souls to reach With a quaint mysterious speech, As with stretched and crossing palms One were tracing diagrams On the ebbing of the beach, Till with wild unmeasured dance All the tiptoe waves advance, Seize him by the shoulder, cover, Turn him up and toss him over: He is vanished from our sight, Nothing mars the quiet night Save a speck of gloom afar Like the ruin of a star!

Brother, streams it ever so, Such a torrent tide of woe? Ah, I know not; let us haste Upwards from this dreary waste, Up to where like music flowing Gentler feet are ever going, Streams of life encircling run Round about the spirit-sun! Up beyond the storm and rush With our lesson let us rise! Lo, the morning's golden flush Meets us midway in the skies! Perished all the dream and strife! Death is swallowed up of Life!

_AWAKE!_

The stars are all watching;
God's angel is catching
At thy skirts in the darkness deep!
Gold hinges grating,
The mighty dead waiting,
Why dost thou sleep?

Years without number,
Ages of slumber,
Stiff in the track of the infinite One!
Dead, can I think it?
Dropt like a trinket,
A thing whose uses are done!

White wings are crossing,
Glad waves are tossing,
The earth flames out in crimson and green
Spring is appearing,
Summer is nearing--
Where hast thou been?

Down in some cavern,
Death's sleepy tavern,
Housing, carousing with spectres of night?
There is my right hand!
Grasp it full tight and
Spring to the light.

Wonder, oh, wonder!
How the life-thunder
Bursts on his ear in horror and dread!
Happy shapes meet him;
Heaven and earth greet him:
Life from the dead!

_TO AN AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER_.

Seek not my name--it doth no virtue bear;
Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find--
The name God called when thy ideal fair
Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.

When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord
Of time and space--art heir of all things grown;
And not my name, poor, earthly label-word,
But I myself thenceforward am thine own.

Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man
Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell?
My very shadow would feel strange and wan
In thy abode:--I say _No_, and _Farewell_.

Thou understandest? Then it is enough;
No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend;
We walk the same path, over smooth and rough,
To meet ere long at the unending end.

_WITH A COPY OF "IN MEMORIAM."_

TO E.M. II.

Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
And here is one for your regard.
You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

Already something understand
For whom he mourns and what he sings,
And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"

How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
Yet loving all and hoping all,
He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;

And how he sends his cries across,
His cries for him that comes no more,
Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;

And how there comes sublimer cheer--
Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
Not the wild joy of mournful cries,
But light that makes his spirit clear;

How, while he gazes, something high,
Something of Heaven has fallen on him,
His distance and his future dim
Broken into a dawning sky!

Something of this, dear friend, you know;
And will you take the book from me
That holds this mournful melody,
And softens grief to sadness so?

Perhaps it scarcely suits the day
Of joyful hopes and memories clear,
When love should have no thought of fear,
And only smiles be round your way;

Yet from the mystery and the gloom,
From tempted faith and conquering trust,
From spirit stronger than the dust,
And love that looks beyond the tomb,

What can there be but good to win,
But hope for life, but love for all,
But strength whatever may befall?--
So for the year that you begin,

For all the years that follow this
While a long happy life endures,
This hope, this love, this strength be yours,
And afterwards a larger bliss!

May nothing in this mournful song
Too much take off your thoughts from time,
For joy should fill your vernal prime,
And peace your summer mild and long.

And may his love who can restore
All losses, give all new good things,
Like loving eyes and sheltering wings
Be round us all for evermore!

_THEY ARE BLIND_.

They are blind, and they are dead:
We will wake them as we go;
There are words have not been said,
There are sounds they do not know:
We will pipe and we will sing--
With the Music and the Spring
Set their hearts a wondering!

They are tired of what is old,
We will give it voices new;
For the half hath not been told
Of the Beautiful and True.
Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping!
Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping!
Flashes through the lashes leaping!

Ye that have a pleasant voice,
Hither come without delay;
Ye will never have a choice
Like to that ye have to-day:
Round the wide world we will go,
Singing through the frost and snow
Till the daisies are in blow.

Ye that cannot pipe or sing,
Ye must also come with speed;
Ye must come, and with you bring
Weighty word and weightier deed--
Helping hands and loving eyes!
These will make them truly wise--
Then will be our Paradise.

_March 27, 1852._

_WHEN THE STORM WAS PROUDEST_.

When the storm was proudest,
And the wind was loudest,
I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;
When the stars were bright,
And the ground was white,
I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.

Many voices spake--
The river to the lake,
And the iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;
And every starry spark
Made music with the dark,
And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.

When the sun was setting,
All the clouds were getting
Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;
Beneath the leafless trees
Wrangling in the breeze,
I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.

When the day had ended,
And the night descended,
I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day,
And every peak afar
Was ready for a star,
And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.

Then slumber soft and holy
Came down upon me slowly,
And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;
My glory had been banished,
For when I woke it vanished;
But I waited on its coming, and I am waiting now.

_THE DIVER._

FROM SCHILLER.

"Which of you, knight or squire, will dare Plunge into yonder gulf? A golden beaker I fling in it--there! The black mouth swallows it like a wolf! Who brings me the cup again, whoever, It is his own--he may keep it for ever!"

'Tis the king who speaks. He flings from the brow Of the cliff, that, rugged and steep, Hangs out o'er the endless sea below, The cup in the whirlpool's howling heap:-- "Again I ask, what hero will follow, What hero plunge into yon dark hollow?"

The knights and the squires the king about Hear, and dumbly stare Into the wild sea's tumbling rout; To win the beaker they hardly care! The king, for the third time, round him glaring-- "Not one soul of you has the daring?"

Speechless all, as before, they stand. Then a squire, young, gentle, gay, Steps from his comrades' shrinking band, Flinging his girdle and cloak away; And all the women and men that surrounded Gazed on the noble youth, astounded.

And when he stepped to the rock's rough brow And looked down on the gulf so black, The waters which it had swallowed, now Charybdis bellowing rendered back; And, with a roar as of distant thunder, Foaming they burst from the dark lap under.

It wallows, seethes, hisses in raging rout, As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout; And flood upon flood keeps mounting higher: It will never its endless coil unravel, As the sea with another sea were in travail!

But, at last, slow sinks the writhing spasm, And, black through the foaming white, Downward gapes a yawning chasm-- Bottomless, cloven to hell's wide night; And, sucked up, see the billows roaring Down through the whirling funnel pouring!

Then in haste, ere the out-rage return again, The youth to his God doth pray, And--ascends a cry of horror and pain!-- Already the vortex hath swept him away, And o'er the bold swimmer, in darkness eternal, Close the great jaws of the gulf infernal!

Then the water above grows smooth as glass, While, below, dull roarings ply; And trembling they hear the murmur pass-- "High-hearted youth, farewell, good-bye!" And hollower still comes the howl affraying, Till their hearts are sick with the frightful delaying.

If the crown itself thou in should fling, And say, "Who back with it hies Himself shall wear it, and shall be king," I would not covet the precious prize! What Ocean hides in that howling hell of it Live soul will never come back to tell of it!

Ships many, caught in that whirling surge, Shot sheer to their dismal doom: Keel and mast only did ever emerge, Shattered, from out the all-gulping tomb!-- Like the bluster of tempest, clearer and clearer, Comes its roaring nearer and ever nearer!

It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout, As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout, Wave upon wave's back mounting higher; And as with the grumble of distant thunder, Bellowing it bursts from the dark lap under.

And, see, from its bosom, flowing dark, Something heave up, swan-white! An arm and a shining neck they mark, And it rows with never relaxing might! It is he! and high his golden capture His left hand waves in success's rapture!

With long deep breaths his path he ploughed, And he hailed the heavenly day; Jubilant shouted the gazing crowd, "He lives! he is there! he broke away! Out of the grave, the whirlpool uproarious, The hero hath rescued his life victorious!"

He comes; they surround him with shouts of glee; At the king's feet he sinks on the sod, And hands him the beaker upon his knee; To his lovely daughter the king gives a nod: She fills it brim-full of wine sparkling and playing, And then to the king the youth turned him saying:

"Long live the king!--Well doth he fare Who breathes in this rosy light, But, ah, it is horrible down there! And man must not tempt the heavenly Might, Or ever seek, with prying unwholesome, What he graciously covers with darkness dolesome!

"It tore me down with a headlong swing; Then a shaft in a rock outpours, Wild-rushing against me, a torrent spring; It seized me, the double stream's raging force, And like a top, with giddy twisting, It spun me round--there was no resisting!

"Then God did show me, sore beseeching In deepest, frightfullest need, Up from the bottom a rock-ledge reaching-- At it I caught, and from death was freed! And, behold, on spiked corals the beaker suspended, Which had else to the very abyss descended!

"For below me it lay yet mountain-deep The purply darksome maw; And though to the ear it was dead asleep, The ghasted eye, down staring, saw How with dragons, lizards, salamanders crawling, The hell-jaws horrible were sprawling.

"Black swarming in medley miscreate, In masses lumped hideously, Wallowed the conger, the thorny skate, The lobster's grisly deformity; And bared its teeth with cruel sheen a Terrible shark, the sea's hyena.

"And there I hung, and shuddering knew That human help was none; One thinking soul mid the horrid crew, In the ghastly solitude I was alone-- Deeper than man's speech ever sounded, By the waste sea's dismal monsters surrounded.

"I thought and shivered. Then something crept near, Moved at once a hundred joints! Now it will have me!--Frantic with fear I lost my grasp of the coral points! Away the whirl in its raging tore me, But it was my salvation, and upward bore me!"

The king at the tale is filled with amaze:-- "The beaker, well won, is thine; And this ring I will give thee too," he says, "Precious with gems that are more than fine, If thou dive yet once, and bring me the story-- What thou sawst in the sea's lowest repertory."

His daughter she hears with a tender dismay, And her words sweet-suasive plead: "Father, enough of this cruel play! For you he has done an unheard-of deed! And can you not master your soul's desire, 'Tis the knights' turn now to disgrace the squire!"

The king he snatches and hurls the cup Into the swirling pool:-- "If thou bring me once more that beaker up, My best knight I hold thee, most worshipful; And this very day to thy home thou shall lead her Who there for thee stands such a pitying pleader."

A heavenly passion his being invades, His eyes dart a lightning ray; He sees on her beauty the flushing shades, He sees her grow pallid and sink away! Determination thorough him flashes, And downward for life or for death he dashes!

They hear the dull roar!--it is turning again, Its herald the thunderous brawl! Downward they bend with loving strain: They come! they are coming, the waters all!-- They rush up!--they rush down!--up, down, for ever! The youth again bring they never.

_TO THE CLOUDS._

Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped, Speed onward still, a strange wild company, Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye, Whether the sun lift up his shining head, High throned at noontide and established Among the shifting pillars, or we see The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully Against the sunlight, passionless and dead! Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun, From all the cloudy labour of man's hand-- Whether the quickening nations rise and run, Or in the market-place we idly stand Casting huge shadows over these thy plains-- Even thence, O God, draw thy rich gifts of rains.

_SECOND SIGHT._

Rich is the fancy which can double back All seeming forms, and from cold icicles Build up high glittering palaces where dwells Summer perfection, moulding all this wrack To spirit symmetry, and doth not lack The power to hear amidst the funeral bells The eternal heart's wind-melody which swells In whirlwind flashes all along its track! So hath the sun made all the winter mine With gardens springing round me fresh and fair; On hidden leaves uncounted jewels shine; I live with forms of beauty everywhere, Peopling the crumbling waste and icy pool With sights and sounds of life most beautiful.

_NOT UNDERSTOOD._

Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains; A wildered maze of comets and of suns; The blood of changeless God that ever runs With quick diastole up the immortal veins; A phantom host that moves and works in chains; A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns The mind to stupor and amaze at once; A tragedy which that man best explains Who rushes blindly on his wild career With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, But is extinguished like a falling star;-- Such will at times this life appear to me Until I learn to read more perfectly.

_HOM. IL. v. 403._

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem Thou art a coward if thy safety seem To spring too little from a righteous will; For there is nightmare on thee, nor until Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream By painful introversion; rather fill Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth; But see thou cherish higher hope than this,-- hope hereafter that thou shall be fit Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit Transparent among other forms of youth Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.

_THE DAWN_.

And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost? I am perplexed with thee that thou shouldst cost This earth another turning! All aglow Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show Along far mountain-tops! and I would post Over the breadth of seas, though I were lost In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so Thou earnest ever with this numbing sense Of chilly distance and unlovely light, Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence! I have another mountain-range from whence Bursteth a sun unutterably bright!

_GALILEO_.

"And yet it moves!" Ah, Truth, where wert thou then When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? Art thou a phantom that deceives! men To their undoing? or dost thou watch him Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? And wilt thou ever speak to him again? "It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak! That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day! Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud That I alone should know that word to speak! And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray."

_SUBSIDY_.

If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. Others will live in peace, and thou be fain To bargain with despair, and in thy need To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; Thine is a ruinous hut, and oft the rain Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea, the speed Of earth outstrip thee, pilgrim, while thy feet Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, _Shot from the Truth's own bow, and flaming sweet,_ An arrow for despair, and oft the hum Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.

_THE PROPHET_.

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, Empty of all save God and thy loud heart, Nor with like rugged message quick to dart Into the hideous fiction mean and base; But yet, O prophet man, we need not less But more of earnest, though it is thy part To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite The living Mammon, seated, not as then In bestial quiescence grimly dight, But _robed as priest, and honoured of good men Yet_ thrice as much an idol-god as when He stared at his own feet from morn to night.

_THE WATCHER_.

From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro Upon the people's tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays Their deep-set contemplation; steadily glow Those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow Liker unto the eyes of one that prays. And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power As of the might of worlds, and they are holden Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; And they will be uplifted till that hour Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake This conscious nightmare from us, and we wake.

_THE BELOVED DISCIPLE_.

I.

One do I see and twelve; but second there Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one; Not from thy nobler port, for there are none More quiet-featured: some there are who bear Their message on their brows, while others wear A look of large commission, nor will shun The fiery trial, so their work is done; But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer-- Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips Seem like the porches of the spirit land; For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye Burns with a vision and apocalypse Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.