"Where Passion stoops, or strays, is cold, or dead, I lift from error, or to action thrill!
Or if it rage too madly in its bed, The tempest hushes at my 'Peace! be still!'
I know how far its tides should sink or swell, And they obey my sceptre and my spell.
XLIII
"All lovely things, and gentle--the sweet laugh Of children, Girlhood's kiss, and Friendship's clasp, The boy that sporteth with the old man's staff, The baby, and the breast its fingers grasp-- All that exalts the grounds of happiness, All griefs that hallow, and all joys that bless,
XLIV
"To me are sacred; at my holy shrine Love breathes its latest dreams, its earliest hints; I turn life's tasteless waters into wine, And flush them through and through with purple tints.
Wherever Earth is fair, and Heaven looks down, I rear my altars, and I wear my crown.
XLV
"I am the unseen spirit thou hast sought, I woke those shadowy questionings that vex Thy young mind, lost in its own cloud of thought, And rouse the soul they trouble and perplex; I filled thy days with visions, and thy nights Blessed with all sweetest sounds and fairy sights.
XLVI
"Not here, not in this world, may I disclose The mysteries in which this life is hearsed; Some doubts there be that, with some earthly woes, By Death alone shall wholly be dispersed; Yet on those very doubts from this low sod Thy soul shall pass beyond the stars to God.
XLVII
"And so to knowledge, climbing grade by grade, Thou shalt attain whatever mortals can, And what thou mayst discover by my aid Thou shalt translate unto thy brother man; And men shall bless the power that flings a ray Into their night from thy diviner day.
XLVIII
"For, from thy lofty height, thy words shall fall Upon their spirits like bright cataracts That front a sunrise; thou shalt hear them call Amid their endless waste of arid facts, As wearily they plod their way along, Upon the rhythmic zephyrs of thy song.
XLIX
"All this is in thy reach, but much depends Upon thyself--thy future I await; I give the genius, point the proper ends, But the true bard is his own only Fate; Into thy soul my soul have I infused; Take care thy lofty powers be wisely used.
L
"The Poet owes a high and holy debt, Which, if he feel, he craves not to be heard For the poor boon of praise, or place, nor yet Does the mere joy of song, as with the bird Of many voices, prompt the choral lay That cheers that gentle pilgrim on his way.
LI
"Nor may he always sweep the passionate lyre, Which is his heart, only for such relief As an impatient spirit may desire, Lest, from the grave which hides a private grief, The spells of song call up some pallid wraith To blast or ban a mortal hope or faith.
LII
"Yet over his deep soul, with all its crowd Of varying hopes and fears, he still must brood; As from its azure height a tranquil cloud Watches its own bright changes in the flood; Self-reading, not self-loving--they are twain-- And sounding, while he mourns, the depths of pain.
LIII
"Thus shall his songs attain the common breast, Dyed in his own life's blood, the sign and seal, Even as the thorns which are the martyr's crest, That do attest his office, and appeal Unto the universal human heart In sanction of his mission and his art.
LIV
"Much yet remains unsaid--pure must he be; Oh, blessed are the pure! for they shall hear Where others hear not, see where others see With a dazed vision: who have drawn most near My shrine, have ever brought a spirit cased And mailed in a body clean and chaste.
LV
"The Poet to the whole wide world belongs, Even as the teacher is the child's--I said No selfish aim should ever mar his songs, But self wears many guises; men may wed Self in another, and the soul may be Self to its centre, all unconsciously.
LVI
"And therefore must the Poet watch, lest he, In the dark struggle of this life, should take Stains which he might not notice; he must flee Falsehood, however winsome, and forsake All for the Truth, assured that Truth alone Is Beauty, and can make him all my own.
LVII
"And he must be as armed warrior strong, And he must be as gentle as a girl, And he must front, and sometimes suffer wrong, With brow unbent, and lip untaught to curl; For wrath, and scorn, and pride, however just, Fill the clear spirit's eyes with earthly dust."
The story came to me--it recks not whence-- In fragments. Oh! if I could tell it all, If human speech indeed could tell it all, 'T were not a whit less wondrous, than if I Should find, untouched in leaf and stem, and bright, As when it bloomed three thousand years ago, On some Idalian slope, a perfect rose.
Alas! a leaf or two, and they perchance Scarce worth the hiving, one or two dead leaves Are the sole harvest of a summer's toil.
There was a moment, ne'er to be recalled, When to the Poet's hope within my heart, They wore a tint like life's, but in my hand, I know not why, they withered. I have heard Somewhere, of some dead monarch, from the tomb, Where he had slept a century and more, Brought forth, that when the coffin was laid bare, Albeit the body in its mouldering robes Was fleshless, yet one feature still remained Perfect, or perfect seemed at least; the eyes Gleamed for a second on the startled crowd, And then went out in ashes. Even thus The story, when I drew it from the grave Where it had lain so long, did seem, I thought, Not wholly lifeless; but even while I gazed To fix its features on my heart, and called The world to wonder with me, lo! it proved I looked upon a corpse!
What further fell In that lone forest nook, how much was taught, How much was only hinted, what the youth Promised, if promise were required, to do Or strive for, what the gifts he bore away-- Or added powers or blessings--how at last, The vision ended and he sought his home, How lived there, and how long, and when he passed Into the busy world to seek his fate, I know not, and if any ever knew, The tale hath perished from the earth; for here The slender thread on which my song is strung Breaks off, and many after years of life Are lost to sight, the life to reappear Only towards its close--as of a dream We catch the end and opening, but forget That which had joined them in the dreaming brain; Or as a mountain with a belt of mist That shows his base, and far above, a peak With a blue plume of pines.
But turn the page And read the only hints that yet remain.
Part II
I
It is not winter yet, but that sweet time In autumn when the first cool days are past; A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime, And some have dropped before the North wind's blast; But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon, The day hath all the genial warmth of June.
II
What slender form lies stretched along the mound?
Can it be his, the Wanderer's, with that brow Gray in its prime, those eyes that wander round Listlessly, with a jaded glance that now Seems to see nothing where it rests, and then Pores on each trivial object in its ken?
III
See how a gentle maid's wan fingers clasp The last fond love-notes of some faithless hand; Thus, with a transient interest, his weak grasp Holds a few leaves as when of old he scanned The meaning in their gold and crimson streaks; But the sweet dream has vanished! hush! he speaks!
IV
"Once more, once more, after long pain and toil, And yet not long, if I should count by years, I breathe my native air, and tread the soil I trod in childhood; if I shed no tears, No happy tears, 't is that their fount is dry, And joy that cannot weep must sigh, must sigh.
V
"These leaves, my boyish books in days of yore, When, as the weeks sped by, I seemed to stand Ever upon the brink of some wild lore-- These leaves shall make my bed, and--for the hand Of God is on me, chilling brain and breath-- I shall not ask a softer couch in death.
VI