THE DYING POET.
FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
Broken, while mantling yet, my cup of life;
The breath in sighs retained and feeble strife
No grief of mourning friends can now delay;
The hollow bell from yonder giant tower
Tolls out my doom!—Pass we the waning hour
In tears or song away?
In song—my fingers clasp the lyre in death—
My spirit, swanlike, with departing breath
To worlds unseen lifts her melodious cry:—
How should the soul, of music wrought above,
Save in the strains of harmony and love,
Pour forth her farewell sigh?
The lyre in breaking yields its loftiest sound;
The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,
Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;
Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast—
While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,
And counts his closing days.
What is the worth of time that we deplore?
A sun—a sun—an hour—and yet an hour—
And each the last resembling in its flight!
One brings the joys another bears away;
Labor—grief—rest—a vision! Such the day!
Then comes the unconscious night.
Let him lament, who pressed with eager fears,
Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:—
I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
On evening breezes borne.
Like is the poet to the birds of flight
Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;
Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore
With heedless warblings—and the world no more
Than their wild voices, knows.
No master’s hand along the sounding wires
Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires;
No lessons give what heaven alone doth send:
The stream learns not from its deep source to sing—
Eagles—to cleave the skies with soaring wing—
The bee—its sweets to blend.
The bell resounding from its dome on high,
In glad or mournful anthem to the sky
Peals for the rites of marriage or the grave;
My being too, e’en like that fire-wrought bell,
To every passion’s touch, in mighty swell,
A solemn answer gave.
’Tis thus at night the wild harp, far and faint,
Blending with wailing streams its airy plaint,
Pours to the wind spontaneous melodies:
The charmed traveller stays his step to hear,
And thrilled with wonder, marvels whence so near
The sounds celestial rise.
Full oft my chords were steeped in tears and rue;
For the soul’s flower are tears the heavenly dew—
It blooms not in the sun’s unclouded ray.
From broken cups the sparkling juice is shed,
And the crushed herb, beneath our reckless tread,
Spreads perfume on our way.
God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;
All she approached her being did inspire.
Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.
All I have touched resolves in dust away—
So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray
Sinks, its own ruins nigh.
Time? ’tis no more.—Fame?—What is to the sage
This echo vain from age transferred to age?
This name—the toy of centuries yet to dawn?
Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,
Hear—hear my harp’s last utterings.—’Tis in vain!
With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!
Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet!
Say, shall a sound so perishing and fleet
Waft round a tomb the eternal voice of praise?
Is this renown—a dying mortal’s sigh?
And you who said his glory ne’er could die—
Know you your term of days?
Attest the gods—through life, that mighty name
My lips have uttered but in scorn and shame—
That name—the vaunt of man’s delirious pride:
Proved more—still more its emptiness I find—
And spurn it—like the parched and vapid rind
Of fruits our lips have tried.
In sterile hope of this uncertain fame
Man to the tide commits a cherished name;
From day to day wanes its receding light;
With the bright wreck Time’s billow sports—yet on
Year after year it floats—then plunges down,
Whelmed in the abyss of night.
One bark the more I launch upon the deep,
To sink or float, sport of the tempest’s sweep.
Can it avail me, if a name remain?
The swan that sails in yon imperial sky—
Asks he if yet his wings, self-poised on high,
Shadow the subject plain?
Then wherefore sing?—Ask of the minstrel bird
Wherefore all night her plaintive voice is heard
Mingled with streamlets moaning ’neath the shade!
I sang—as man impulsive drinks the air—
As breezes sigh—as rivers murmur—where
They roam the silent glade.
Love, prayer, and song to me existence gave:—
Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,
In this my farewell hour I nought regret;
Nought—save the burning sighs that soar above,
The lyre’s full ecstasy, or wordless love
Of hearts that ne’er forget.
To sweep the lyre at listening beauty’s feet—
To mark from note to note the transport sweet
Thrill her rapt bosom with responsive power;
To draw the tears of rapture from her eyes,
As morning dews are swept by zephyrs’ sighs
From the full, bending flower—
To watch her pensive glances meekly rise
In hallowed transport to the arching skies,
The seraph sounds pursuing in their flight—
Then softly bend to earth, with fondness beaming,
While from the downcast lids the soul is gleaming,
Like trembling fires at night—
To mark on her fair brow the shade of thought,
Words failing to the lips with awe o’erfraught—
And mid the silence deep at length to hear
That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain—
The word—“I love!”—pronounced by gods and men—
This—this is worth a tear!
A tear! a vain regret—an idle breath!
My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
I go—where all our loftiest wishes rise;
I go—where hope hath fixed her burning gaze—
I go—where float my lute’s high notes of praise—
Where tend my latest sighs.
Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,
The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
With prophet instinct pointing to the dead;
Toward that vast future where our thoughts aspire,
How oft, upborne to heaven on wings of fire,
My soul hath death outsped!
O’er my last dwelling grave no haughty name,
Nor raise me monuments inscribed to fame.
Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?
Leave only at my tomb enough of space,
Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place
May kneel in humble trust.
Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom
Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,
And hope descended to the weary soul!
The foot clings less to mortal weakness there—
Heaven grows more vast—the spirit mounts its sphere
Less bowed to earth’s control.
Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,
These strings which to my soul respond no more.
The harp of angels soon these hands shall sweep!
Soon, thrilled like them with an immortal fire,
Seraphic hosts, perchance, my ardent lyre
In ecstasy shall steep!
Soon—but the dull cold hand of death along
My chords has struck:—one farewell gush of song
Sad and receding—to the winds is given.
They break—’tis gone!—my friends, be yours the hymn!
My parting soul would rise, while earth grows dim,
In melody to heaven!