“Yet I aim not even to catch a tone
“Of all the harmonies which he called up,
“So one gleam still remains, altho’ the last”
Remember me — who praise thee e’en with tears,
For never more shall I walk calm with thee;
Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,
A melody, some wond’rous singer sings,
Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,
They dream not to essay; yet it no less,
But more is honored. I was thine in shame,
And now when all thy proud renown is out,
I am a watcher, whose eyes have grown dim
With looking for some star — which breaks on him,
Altered and worn, and weak, and full of tears.
Autumn has come — like Spring returned to us,
Won from her girlishness — like one returned
A friend that was a lover — nor forgets
The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts
Of fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yet
With the old smile — but yet so changed and still!
And here am I the scoffer, who have probed
Life’s vanity, won by a word again
Into my old life — for one little word
Of this sweet friend, who lives in loving me,
Lives strangely on my thoughts, and looks, and words,
As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing
Its silent course of quietness and joy
O dearest, if indeed, I tell the past,
May’st thou forget it as a sad sick dream;
Or if it linger — my lost soul too soon
Sinks to itself, and whispers, we shall be
But closer linked — two creatures whom the earth
Bears singly — with strange feelings, unrevealed
But to each other; or two lonely things
Created by some Power, whose reign is done,
Having no part in God, or his bright world,
I am to sing; whilst ebbing day dies soft,
As a lean scholar dies, worn o’er his book,
And in the heaven stars steal out one by one,
As hunted men steal to their mountain watch.
I must not think — lest this new impulse die
In which I trust. I have no confidence,
So I will sing on — fast as fancies come
Rudely — the verse being as the mood it paints.
I strip my mind bare — whose first elements
I shall unveil — not as they struggled forth
In infancy, nor as they now exist,
That I am grown above them, and can rule them,
But in that middle stage when they were full,
Yet ere I had disposed them to my will;
And then I shall show how these elements
Produced my present state, and what it is.
I am made up of an intensest life,
Of a most clear idea of consciousness
Of self — distinct from all its qualities,
From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;
And thus far it exists, if tracked in all,
But linked in me, to self-supremacy,
Existing as a centre to all things,
Most potent to create, and rule, and call
Upon all things to minister to it;
And to a principle of restlessness
Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all —
This is myself; and I should thus have been,
Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.
And of my powers, one springs up to save
From utter death a soul with such desires
Confined to clay — which is the only one
Which marks me — an imagination which
Has been an angel to me — coming not
In fitful visions, but beside me ever,
And never failing me; so tho’ my mind
Forgets not — not a shred of life forgets —
Yet I can take a secret pride in calling
The dark past up — to quell it regally.
A mind like this must dissipate itself,
But I have always had one lode-star; now,
As I look back, I see that I have wasted,
Or progressed as I looked toward that star —
A need, a trust, a yearning after God,
A feeling I have analysed but late,
But it existed, and was reconciled
With a neglect of all I deemed His laws,
Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.
I felt as one beloved, and so shut in
From fear — and thence I date my trust in signs
And omens — for I saw God everywhere;
And I can only lay it to the fruit
Of a sad after-time that I could doubt
Even His being — having always felt
His presence — never acting from myself,
Still trusting in a hand that leads me through
All dangers; and this feeling still has fought
Against my weakest reason and resolves.
And I can love nothing — and this dull truth
Has come the last — but sense supplies a love
Encircling me and mingling with my life.
These make myself — for I have sought in vain
To trace how they were formed by circumstance,
For I still find them — turning my wild youth
Where they alone displayed themselves, converting
All objects to their use — now see their course!
They came to me in my first dawn of life,
Which passed alone with wisest ancient books,
All halo-girt with fancies of my own,
And I myself went with the tale, — a god,
Wandering after beauty — or a giant,
Standing vast in the sunset — an old hunter,
Talking with gods — or a high-crested chief,
Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos; —
I tell you, nought has ever been so clear
As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives.
I had not seen a work of lofty art,
Nor woman’s beauty, nor sweet nature’s face,
Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those
On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea:
The deep groves, and white temples, and wet caves —
And nothing ever will surprise me now —
Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,
Who bound my forehead with Proserpine’s hair.
An’ strange it is, that I who could so dream,
Should e’er have stooped to aim at aught beneath —
Aught low, or painful, but I never doubted;
So as I grew, I rudely shaped my life
To my immediate wants, yet strong beneath
Was a vague sense of power folded up —
A sense that tho’ those shadowy times were past,
Their spirit dwelt in me, and I should rule.
Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down
My soul, till it was changed. I lost myself,
And were it not that I so loathe that time,
I could recall how first I learned to turn
My mind against itself; and the effects,
In deeds for which remorse were vain, as for
The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence
Came cunning, envy, falsehood, which so long
Have spotted me — at length I was restored,
Yet long the influence remained; and nought
But the still life I led, apart from all,
Which left my soul to seek its old delights,
Could e’er have brought me thus far back to peace.
As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit:
And song rose — no new impulse — but the one
With which all others best could be combined.
My life has not been that of those whose heaven
Was lampless, save where poesy shone out;
But as a clime, where glittering mountain-tops,
And glancing sea, and forests steeped in light,
Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;
For music, (which is earnest of a heaven,
Seeing we know emotions strange by it,
Not else to be revealed) is as a voice,
A low voice calling Fancy, as a friend,
To the green woods in the gay summer time.
And she fills all the way with dancing shapes,
Which have made painters pale; and they go on
While stars look at them, and winds call to them,
As they leave life’s path for the twilight world,
Where the dead gather. This was not at first,
For I scarce knew what I would do. I had
No wish to paint, no yearning — but I sang.
And first I sang, as I in dream have seen,
Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,
Yet singing to herself until it came.
I turned to those old times and scenes, where all
That’s beautiful had birth for me, and made
Rude verses on them all; and then I paused —
I had done nothing, so I sought to know
What mind had yet achieved. No fear was mine
As I gazed on the works of mighty bards,
In the first joy at finding my own thoughts
Recorded, and my powers exemplified,
And feeling their aspirings were my own.
And then I first explored passion and mind;
And I began afresh; I rather sought
To rival what I wondered at, than form
Creations of my own; so much was light
Lent back by others, yet much was my own
I paused again — a change was coming on,
I was no more a boy — the past was breaking
Before the coming, and like fever worked.
I first thought on myself — and here my powers
Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed
On all things: schemes and systems went and came,
And I was proud (being vainest of the weak),
In wandering o’er them, to seek out some one
To be my own; as one should wander o’er
The white way for a star.
. . . . .
On one, whom praise of mine would not offend,
Who was as calm as beauty — being such
Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,
Believing in them, and devoting all
His soul’s strength to their winning back to peace;
Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,
Clothed in all passion’s melodies, which first
Caught me, and set me, as to a sweet task,
To gather every breathing of his songs,
And woven with them there were words, which seemed
A key to a new world; the muttering
Of angels, of something unguessed by man.
How my heart beat, as I went on, and found
Much there! I felt my own mind had conceived,
But there living and burning; soon the whole
Of his conceptions dawned on me; their praise
Is in the tongues of men; men’s brows are high
When his name means a triumph and a pride;
So my weak hands may well forbear to dim
What then seemed my bright fate: I threw myself
To meet it. I was vowed to liberty,
Men were to be as gods, and earth as heaven.
And I — ah! what a life was mine to be,
My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,
I shall go mad if I recall that time.
. . . . .
O let me look back, e’er I leave for ever
The time, which was an hour, that one waits
For a fair girl, that comes a withered hag.
And I was lonely — far from woods and fields,
And amid dullest sights, who should be loose
As a stag — yet I was full of joy — who lived
With Plato — and who had the key to life.
And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,
And many a thought did I build up on thought,
As the wild bee hangs cell to cell — in vain;
For I must still go on: my mind rests not.
‘Twas in my plan to look on real life,
Which was all new to me; my theories
Were firm, so I left them, to look upon
Men, and their cares, and hopes, and fears, and joys;
And, as I pondered on them all, I sought
How best life’s end might be attained — an end
Comprising every joy. I deeply mused.
And suddenly, without heart-wreck, I awoke
As from a dream — I said, ‘twas beautiful,
Yet but a dream; and so adieu to it.
As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow
Strange towers, and walled gardens, thick with trees,
Where singing goes on, and delicious mirth,
And laughing fairy creatures peeping over,
And on the morrow, when he comes to live
For ever by those springs, and trees, fruit-flushed
And fairy bowers — all his search is vain.
Well I remember . . .
First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,
And faith in them — then freedom in itself,
And virtue in itself — and then my motives’ ends,
And powers and loves; and human love went last.
I felt this no decay, because new powers
Rose as old feelings left — wit, mockery,
And happiness; for I had oft been sad.
Mistrusting my resolves: but now I cast
Hope joyously away — I laughed and said,
“No more of this” — I must not think; at length
I look’d again to see how all went on.
My powers were greater — as some temple seemed
Around the altar — only God is gone,
And some dark spirit sitteth in His seat!
So I passed through the temple: and to me
Knelt troops of shadows; and they cried, “Hail, king!
“We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more!
“Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!”
And I said, “Are ye strong — let fancy bear me
“Far from the past.” — And I was borne away
As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,
O’er deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm;
And I said, “I have nursed up energies,
“They will prey on me.” And a band knelt low,
And cried, “Lord, we are here, and we will make
“A way for thee — in thine appointed life
“O look on us!” And I said, “Ye will worship
“Me; but my heart must worship too.” They shouted,
“Thyself — thou art our king!” So I stood there
Smiling . . .
And buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit
With which I looked out how to end my days;
I felt once more myself — my powers were mine;
I found that youth or health so lifted me,
That, spite of all life’s vanity, no grief
Came nigh me — I must ever be light-hearted;
And that this feeling was the only veil
Betwixt me and despair: so if age came,
I should be as a wreck linked to a soul
Yet fluttering, or mind-broken, and aware
Of my decay. So a long summer morn
Found me; and e’er noon ca
me, I had resolved
No age should come on me, ere youth’s hopes went,
For I would wear myself out — like that morn
Which wasted not a sunbeam — every joy
I would make mine, and die; and thus I sought
To chain my spirit down, which I had fed
With thoughts of fame. I said, the troubled life
Of genius seen so bright when working forth
Some trusted end, seems sad, when all in vain —
Most sad, when men have parted with all joy
For their wild fancy’s sake, which waited first,
As an obedient spirit, when delight
Came not with her alone, but alters soon,
Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart,
Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.
But I shall never lose her; she will live
Brighter for such seclusion — I but catch
A hue, a glance of what I sing; so pain
Is linked with pleasure, for I ne’er may tell
The radiant sights which dazzle me; but now
They shall be all my own, and let them fade
Untold — others shall rise as fair, as fast.
And when all’s done, the few dim gleams transferred, —
(For a new thought sprung up — that it were well
To leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such lays
As would encircle me with praise and love;
So I should not die utterly — I should bring
One branch from the gold forest, like the night
Of old tales, witnessing I had been there,) —
And when all’s done, how vain seems e’en success,
And all the influence poets have o’er men!
‘Tis a fine thing that one, weak as myself,
Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words
He utters in his solitude shall move
Men like a swift wind — that tho’ he be forgotten,
Fair eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams
Of love come true in happier frames than his.
Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but morn
Came, and the mockery again laughed out
At hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers;
And my soul’s idol seemed to whisper me
To dwell with him and his unhonoured name —
And I well knew my spirit, that would be
First in the struggle, and again would make
All bow to it; and I would sink again.
. . . . .
And then know that this curse will come on us,
To see our idols perish — we may wither,
Nor marvel — we are clay; but our low fate
Should not extend them, whom trustingly,
We sent before into Time’s yawning gulf,
To face what e’er may lurk in darkness there —
To see the painter’s glory pass, and feel