VI.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,[x]
Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all: In the Desert a fountain is springing,[y][81]
In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of _Thee_.[82]
_July_ 24, 1816.
[First published, _Prisoner of Chillon_, etc., 1816.]
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.[83]
I.
My Sister! my sweet Sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the same-- A loved regret which I would not resign.[z]
There yet are two things in my destiny,-- A world to roam through, and a home with thee.[84]
II.
The first were nothing--had I still the last, It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast,[aa]
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past[ab]
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; Reversed for him our grandsire's[85] fate of yore,-- He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
III.
If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, I have sustained my share of worldly shocks, The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen My errors with defensive paradox;[ac]
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.
IV.
Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marred The gift,--a fate, or will, that walked astray;[86]
And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive.
V.
Kingdoms and Empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something--I know not what--does still uphold A spirit of slight patience;--not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase Pain.
VI.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir Within me--or, perhaps, a cold despair Brought on when ills habitually recur,-- Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, (For even to this may change of soul refer,[ad]
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot.[ae]
VII.
I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, Which do remember me of where I dwelt, Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,[af]
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks; And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love--but none like thee.[ag]
VIII.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create A fund for contemplation;--to admire Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; But something worthier do such scenes inspire: Here to be lonely is not desolate,[87]
For much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a Lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.[88]
IX.
Oh that thou wert but with me!--but I grow The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret; There may be others which I less may show;-- I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet I feel an ebb in my philosophy, And the tide rising in my altered eye.[ah]
X.
I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
_Leman's_ is fair; but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resigned for ever, or divided far.
XI.
The world is all before me; I but ask Of Nature that with which she will comply-- It is but in her Summer's sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, To see her gentle face without a mask, And never gaze on it with apathy.
She was my early friend, and now shall be My sister--till I look again on thee.
XII.
I can reduce all feelings but this one; And that I would not;--for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun--[89]
The earliest--even the only paths for me--[ai]
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, I had been better than I now can be; The Passions which have torn me would have slept; _I_ had not suffered, and _thou_ hadst not wept.
XIII.
With false Ambition what had I to do?
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make--a Name.
Yet this was not the end I did pursue; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over--I am one the more To baffled millions which have gone before.
XIV.
And for the future, this world's future may[aj]
From me demand but little of my care; I have outlived myself by many a day;[ak]
Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have filled a century,[90]
Before its fourth in time had passed me by.
XV.
And for the remnant which may be to come[al]
I am content; and for the past I feel Not thankless,--for within the crowded sum Of struggles, Happiness at times would steal, And for the present, I would not benumb My feelings farther.--Nor shall I conceal That with all this I still can look around, And worship Nature with a thought profound.