One eve he led me to this fane: Daylight on its last purple cloud Was lingering grey, and soon her strain The nightingale began; now loud, Climbing in circles the windless sky, Now dying music; suddenly 'Tis scattered in a thousand notes, And now to the hushed ear it floats Like field-smells known in infancy, Then failing, soothes the air again. We sate within that temple lone, Pavilioned round with Parian stone: His mother's harp stood near, and oft I had awakened music soft Amid its wires: the nightingale Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: "Now drain the cup," said Lionel,
"Which the poet-bird has crowned so well With the wine of her bright and liquid song! Heardst thou not sweet words among That heaven-resounding minstrelsy! Heardst thou not, that those who die Awake in a world of ecstacy?
That love, when limbs are interwoven,
And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging,
And music, when one beloved is singing, Is death? Let us drain right joyously The cup which the sweet bird fills for me." He paused, and to my lips he bent His own: like spirit his words went Through all my limbs with the speed of fire; And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, Filled me with the flame divine, Which in their orbs was burning far, Like the light of an unmeasured star, In the sky of midnight dark and deep: Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken; And first, I felt my fingers sweep The harp, and a long quivering cry Burst from my lips in symphony: The dusk and solid air was shaken, As swift and swifter the notes came
From my touch, that wandered like quick flame, And from my bosom, labouring With some unutterable thing:
The awful sound of my own voice made
My faint lips tremble; in some mood
Of wordless thought Lionel stood
So pale, that even beside his cheek The snowy column from its shade Caught whiteness: yet his countenance Raised upward, burned with radiance Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light,
Like the moon struggling through the night Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break With beams that might not be confined.
I paused, but soon his gestures kindled New power, as by the moving wind The waves are lifted, and my song
To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,
And from the twinkling wires among,
My languid fingers drew and flung
Circles of life-dissolving sound,
Yet faint: in aery rings they bound My Lionel, who, as every strain Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien
Sunk with the sound relaxedly; And slowly now he turned to me, As slowly faded from his face That awful joy: with looks serene He was soon drawn to my embrace, And my wild song then died away In murmurs: words, I dare not say, We mixed, and on his lips mine fed Till they methought felt still and cold: "What is it with thee, love?" I said; No word, no look, no motion! yes, There was a change, but spare to guess, Nor let that moment's hope be told. I looked, and knew that he was dead, And fell, as the eagle on the plain Falls when life deserts her brain, And the mortal lightning is veiled again. O that I were now dead! but such, Did they not, love, demand too much, Those dying murmurs? He forbad. O that I once again were mad! And yet, dear Rosalind, not so, For I would live to share thy woe. Sweet boy! did I forget thee too? Alas, we know not what we do When we speak words.
Is in my mind of that sea-shore. Madness came on me, and a troop Of misty shapes did seem to sit Beside me, on a vessel's poop, And the clear north-wind was driving it. Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,
And the stars methought grew unlike ours, And the azure sky and the stormless sea Made me believe that I had died, And waked in a world, which was to me Drear hell, though heaven to all beside. Then a dead sleep fell on my mind, Whilst animal life many long years Had rescued from a chasm of tears; And when I woke, I wept to find That the same lady, bright and wise, With silver locks and quick brown eyes, The mother of my Lionel,
Had tended me in my distress, And died some months before. Wonder, but far more peace and joy, Brought in that hour my lovely boy;
For through that trance my soul had well The impress of thy being kept;
And if I waked, or if I slept,
No doubt, though memory faithless be,
Thy image ever dwelt on me ;
And thus, O Lionel ! like thee
Is our sweet child. "Tis sure most strange
I knew not of so great a change,
As that which gave him birth, who now
Is all the solace of my woe.
That Lionel great wealth had left
By will to me, and that of all
The ready lies of law bereft,
My child and me might well befall.
But let me think not of the scorn,
Which from the meanest I have borne, When, for my child's beloved sake,
I mixed with slaves, to vindicate
The very laws themselves do make : Let me not say scorn is my fate, Lest I be proud, suffering the same With those who live in deathless fame.
She ceased." Lo, where red morning thro' the woods
Is burning o'er the dew!" said Rosalind.
And with these words they rose, and towards the flood
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind With equal steps and fingers intertwined: Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore Is shadowed with rocks, and cypresses Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies,
And with their shadows the clear depths below, And where a little terrace from its bowers, Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er The liquid marble of the windless lake;
And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, Under the leaves which their green garments make,
They come 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white,
Like one which tyrants spare on our own land In some such solitude, its casements bright Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning
And even within 'twas scarce like Italy.
And when she saw how all things there were planned,
As in an English home, dim memory Disturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as one Whose mind is where his body cannot be, Till Helen led her where her child yet slept, And said, "Observe, that brow was Lionel's, Those lips were his, and so he ever kept One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. You cannot see his eyes, they are two wells Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet." But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept A shower of burning tears, which fell upon His face, and so his opening lashes shone With tears unlike his own, as he did leap In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.
So Rosalind and Helen lived together Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again, Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather They wandered in their youth, through sun and rain.
And after many years, for human things Change even like the ocean and the wind, Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, And in their circle thence some visitings Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene : A lovely child she was, of looks serene, And motions which o'er things indifferent shed The grace and gentleness from whence they came. And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed From the same flowers of thought, until each mind Like springs which mingle in one flood became, And in their union soon their parents saw The shadow of the peace denied to them. And Rosalind,-for when the living stem Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall,- Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe The pale survivors followed her remains Beyond the region of dissolving rains, Up the cold mountain she was wont to call Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice They raised a pyramid of lasting ice,
Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,
The last, when it had sunk; and through the night The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home, Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, With willing steps climbing that rugged height, And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite,
Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light: Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.
Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led Into the peace of his dominion cold: She died among her kindred, being old; And know, that if love die not in the dead As in the living, none of mortal kind Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS.
MANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track ; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will; But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on
O'er the unreposing wave, To the haven of the grave.
What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress
In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no Senseless is the breast, and cold, Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill: Every little living nerve
That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough.
On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap,
One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few grey rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land : Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town,
When a king in glory rides Through the pomp of fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim,
Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not.
Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. 'Mid the mountains Euganean, I stood listening to the paan With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical;
Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar
Like grey shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,
So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes
On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail; And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,- A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandon'd sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar, Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aërial gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourish'd worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they; Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away,
Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming.
Perish let there only be Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of Time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan: That a tempest-cleaving swan Of the songs of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams, By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung
O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror: what though yet Poesy's unfailing river,
Which through Albion winds for ever, Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled! What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own,-oh, rather say, Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul! As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakspeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light, Like omniscient power, which he Imaged 'mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly; so thou art, Mighty spirit: so shall be
The city that did refuge thee.
Lo, the sun floats up the sky, Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that grey cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,
And since that time, ay, long before, Both have ruled from shore to shore, That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time.
In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray: Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth; Now new fires from Antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by tyranny.
As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born; The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear: so thou, O tyranny! beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest : Grovel on the earth; ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now: "Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one;
And my spirit, which so long
Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs : And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies 'Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being), Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony : Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps, On some rock the wild wave wraps, With folding wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove, Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell 'mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine. We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies; And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life, All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood. They, not it, would change; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.
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