ASPASIA.
At times thy image to my mind returns, Aspasia. In the crowded streets it gleams Upon me, for an instant, as I pass, In other faces; or in lonely fields, At noon-tide bright, beneath the silent stars, With sudden and with startling vividness, As if awakened by sweet harmony, The splendid vision rises in my soul. How worshipped once, ye gods, what a delight To me, what torture, too! Nor do I e’er The odor of the flowery fields inhale, Or perfume of the gardens of the town, That I recall thee not, as on that day, When in thy sumptuous rooms, so redolent Of all the fragrant flowers of the spring, Arrayed in robe of violet hue, thy form Angelic I beheld, as it reclined On dainty cushions languidly, and by An atmosphere voluptuous surrounded; When thou, a skilful Syren, didst imprint Upon thy children’s round and rosy lips Resounding, fervent kisses, stretching forth Thy neck of snow, and with thy lovely hand, The little, unsuspecting innocents Didst to thy hidden, tempting bosom press. The earth, the heavens transfigured seemed to me, A ray divine to penetrate my soul. Then in my side, not unprotected quite, Deep driven by thy hand, the shaft I bore, Lamenting sore; and not to be removed, Till twice the sun his annual round had made.
A ray divine, O lady! to my thought Thy beauty seemed. A like effect is oft By beauty caused, and harmony, that seem The mystery of Elysium to reveal. The stricken mortal fondly worships, then, His own ideal, creature of his mind, Which of his heaven the greater part contains. Alike in looks, in manners, and in speech, The real and ideal seem to him, In his confused and passion-guided soul. But not the woman, but the dream it is, That in his fond caresses, he adores. At last his error finding, and the sad exchange, He is enraged, and most unjustly, oft, The woman chides. For rarely does the mind Of woman to that high ideal rise; And that which her own beauty oft inspires In generous lovers, she imagines not, Nor could she comprehend. Those narrow brows, Cannot such great conceptions hold. The man, Deceived, builds false hopes on those lustrous eyes, And feelings deep, ineffable, nay, more Than manly, vainly seeks in her, who is By nature so inferior to man. For as her limbs more soft and slender are, So is her mind less capable and strong.
Nor hast thou ever known, Aspasia, Or couldst thou comprehend the thoughts that once Thou didst inspire in me. Thou knowest not What boundless love, what sufferings intense, What ravings wild, what savage impulses, Thou didst arouse in me; nor will the time E’er come when thou could’st understand them. So, Musicians, too, are often ignorant Of the effects they with the hand and voice Produce on him that listens. Dead is that Aspasia, that I so loved, aye, dead Forever, who was once sole object of My life; save as a phantom, ever dear, That comes from time to time, and disappears. Thou livest still, not only beautiful, But in thy beauty still surpassing all; But oh, the flame thou didst enkindle once, Long since has been extinguished; thee, indeed, I never loved, but that Divinity, Once living, buried now within my heart. Her, long time, I adored; and was so pleased With her celestial beauty, that, although I from the first thy nature knew full well, And all thy artful and coquettish ways, Yet her fair eyes beholding still in thine, I followed thee, delighted, while she lived; Deceived? Ah, no! But by the pleasure led, Of that sweet likeness, that allured me so, A long and heavy servitude to bear.
Now boast; thou can’st! Say, that to thee alone Of all thy sex, my haughty head I bowed, To thee alone, of my unconquered heart An offering made. Say, that thou wast the first— And surely wast the last—that in my eye A suppliant look beheld, and me before Thee stand, timid and trembling (how I blush, In saying it, with anger and with shame), Of my own self deprived, thy every wish, Thy every word submissively observing, At every proud caprice becoming pale, At every sign of favor brightening, And changing color at each look of thine. The charm is over, and, with it, the yoke Lies broken, scattered on the ground; and I Rejoice. ’Tis true my days are laden with Ennui; yet after such long servitude, And such infatuation, I am glad My judgment, freedom to resume. For though A life bereft of love’s illusions sweet, Is like a starless night, in winter’s midst, Yet some revenge, some comfort can I find For my hard fate, that here upon the grass, Outstretched in indolence I lie, and gaze Upon the earth and sea and sky, and smile.
ON AN OLD SEPULCHRAL BAS-RELIEF.WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING, TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.
Where goest thou? Who calls Thee from my dear ones far away? Most lovely maiden, say! Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave Thy father’s roof so soon? Wilt thou unto its threshold e’er return? Wilt thou make glad one day, Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?
Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act; And yet thou, too, art sad. If pleasant or unpleasant be the road, If gay or gloomy be the new abode, To which thou journeyest, indeed, In that grave face, how difficult to read! Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed; Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood, If thou beloved, or hated by the gods, If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed.
Death calls thee; in thy morn of life, Its latest breath. Unto the nest Thou leavest, thou wilt ne’er return; wilt ne’er The faces of thy kindred more behold; And under ground, The place to which thou goest will be found; And for all time will be thy sojourn there. Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny.
Ne’er to have seen the light, e’en at the time, I think; but, born, e’en at the time, When regal beauty all her charms displays, Alike in form and face, And at her feet the admiring world Its distant homage pays; When every hope is in its flower, Long, long ere dreary winter flash His baleful gleams against the joyous brow; Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud, That melting in the evening sky is seen To disappear, as if one ne’er had been; And to exchange the brilliant days to come, For the dark silence of the tomb; The intellect, indeed, May call this, happiness; but still It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill.
Thou mother, dreaded and deplored From birth, by all the world that lives, Nature, ungracious miracle, That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill, If death untimely be an evil thing, Why on these innocent heads Wilt thou that evil bring? If good, why, why, Beyond all other misery, To him who goes, to him who must remain, Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain?
Wretched, where’er we look, Whichever way we turn, Thy suffering children are! Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope Should ever be by life beguiled; The current of our years with woes be filled, And death against all ills the only shield: And this inevitable seal, And this immutable decree, Hast thou assigned to human destiny, Why, after such a painful race, Should not the goal, at least, Present to us a cheerful face? Why that, which we in constant view, Must, while we live, forever bear, Sole comfort in our hour of need, Thus dress in weeds of woe, And gird with shadows so, And make the friendly port to us appear More frightful than the tempest drear?
If death, indeed, be a calamity, Which thou intendest for us all, Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will, Hast forced to draw this mortal breath, Then, surely, he who dies, A lot more enviable hath Then he who feels his loved one’s death. But, if the truth it be, As I most firmly think, That life is the calamity, And death the boon, alas! who ever could, What yet he should, Desire the dying day of those so dear, That he may linger here, Of his best self deprived, May see across his threshold borne, The form beloved of her, With whom so many years he lived, And say to her farewell, Without the hope of meeting here again; And then alone on earth to dwell, And, looking round, the hours and places all, Of lost companionship recall?
Ah, Nature! how, how couldst thou have the heart, From the friend’s arms the friend to tear, The brother from the brother part, The father from the child, The lover from his love, And, killing one, the other keep alive? What dire necessity Compels such misery That lover should the loved one e’er survive? But Nature in her cruel dealings still, Pays little heed unto our good or ill.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, CARVED ON HER MONUMENT.
Such wast thou: now in earth below, Dust and a skeleton thou art. Above thy bones and clay, Here vainly placed by loving hands, Sole guardian of memory and woe, The image of departed beauty stands. Mute, motionless, it seems with pensive gaze To watch the flight of the departing days. That gentle look, that, wheresoe’er it fell, As now it seems to fall, Held fast the gazer with its magic spell; That lip, from which as from some copious urn, Redundant pleasure seems to overflow; That neck, on which love once so fondly hung; That loving hand, whose tender pressure still The hand it clasped, with trembling joy would thrill; That bosom, whose transparent loveliness The color from the gazer’s cheek would steal; All these have been; and now remains alone A wretched heap of bones and clay, Concealed from sight by this benignant stone.
To this hath Fate reduced The form, that, when with life it beamed, To us heaven’s liveliest image seemed. O Nature’s endless mystery! To-day, of grand and lofty thoughts the source, And feelings not to be described, Beauty rules all, and seems, Like some mysterious splendor from on high Forth-darted to illuminate This dreary wilderness; Of superhuman fate, Of fortunate realms, and golden worlds, A token, and a hope secure To give our mortal state; To-morrow, for some trivial cause, Loathsome to sight, abominable, base Becomes, what but a little time before Wore such an angel face; And from our minds, in the same breath, The grand conception it inspired, Swift vanishes and leaves no trace. What infinite desires, What visions grand and high, In our exalted thought, With magic power creates, true harmony! O’er a delicious and mysterious sea, The exulting spirit glides, As some bold swimmer sports in Ocean’s tides: But oh, the mischief that is wrought, If but one accent out of tune Assaults the ear! Alas, how soon Our paradise is turned to naught!
O human nature, why is this? If frail and vile throughout, If shadow, dust thou art, say, why Hast thou such fancies, aspirations high? And yet, if framed for nobler ends, Alas, why are we doomed To see our highest motives, truest thoughts, By such base causes kindled, and consumed?
PALINODIA.TO THE MARQUIS GINO CAPPONI.
I was mistaken, my dear Gino. Long And greatly have I erred. I fancied life A vain and wretched thing, and this, our age, Now passing, vainest, silliest of all. Intolerable seemed, and was, such talk Unto the happy race of mortals, if, Indeed, man ought or could be mortal called. ’Twixt anger and surprise, the lofty creatures laughed Forth from the fragrant Eden where they dwell; Neglected, or unfortunate, they called me; Of joy incapable, or ignorant, To think my lot the common lot of all, Mankind, the partner in my misery. At length, amid the odor of cigars, The crackling sound of dainty pastry, and The orders loud for ices and for drinks, ’Midst clinking glasses, and ’midst brandished spoons, The daily light of the gazettes flashed full On my dim eyes. I saw and recognized The public joy, and the felicity Of human destiny. The lofty state I saw, and value of all human things; Our mortal pathway strewed with flowers; I saw How naught displeasing here below endures. Nor less I saw the studies and the works Stupendous, wisdom, virtue, knowledge deep Of this our age. From far Morocco to Cathay, and from the Poles unto the Nile, From Boston unto Goa, on the track Of flying Fortune, emulously panting, The empires, kingdoms, dukedoms of the earth I saw, now clinging to her waving locks, Now to the end of her encircling boa. Beholding this, and o’er the ample sheets Profoundly meditating, I became Of my sad blunder, and myself, ashamed.
The age of gold the spindles of the Fates, O Gino, are evolving. Every sheet, In each variety of speech and type, The splendid promise to the world proclaims, From every quarter. Universal love, And iron roads, and commerce manifold, Steam, types, and cholera, remotest lands, Most distant nations will together bind; Nor need we wonder if the pine or oak Yield milk and honey, or together dance Unto the music of the waltz. So much The force already hath increased, both of Alembics, and retorts, and of machines, That vie with heaven in working miracles, And will increase, in times that are to come: For, evermore, from better unto best, Without a pause, as in the past, the race Of Shem, and Ham, and Japhet will progress.
And yet, on acorns men will never feed, Unless compelled by hunger; never will Hard iron lay aside. Full oft, indeed, They gold and silver will despise, bills of Exchange preferring. Often, too, the race Its generous hands with brothers’ blood will stain, With fields of carnage filling Europe, and The other shore of the Atlantic sea, The new world, that the old still nourishes, As often as it sends its rival bands Of armed adventurers, in eager quest Of pepper, cinnamon, or other spice, Or sugar-cane, aught that ministers Unto the universal thirst for gold. True worth and virtue, modesty and faith, And love of justice, in whatever land, From public business will be still estranged, Or utterly humiliated and O’erthrown; condemned by Nature still, To sink unto the bottom. Insolence And fraud, with mediocrity combined, Will to the surface ever rise, and reign. Authority and strength, howe’er diffused, However concentrated, will be still Abused, beneath whatever name concealed, By him who wields them; this the law by Fate And nature written first, in adamant: Nor can a Volta with his lightnings, nor A Davy cancel it, nor England with Her vast machinery, nor this our age With all its floods of Leading Articles. The good man ever will be sad, the wretch Will keep perpetual holiday; against All lofty souls both worlds will still be armed Conspirators; true honor be assailed By calumny, and hate, and envy; still The weak will be the victim of the strong; The hungry man upon the rich will fawn, Beneath whatever form of government, Alike at the Equator and the Poles; So will it be, while man on earth abides, And while the sun still lights him on his way.
These signs and tokens of the ages past Must of necessity their impress leave Upon our brightly dawning age of gold: Because society from Nature still Receives a thousand principles and aims, Diverse, discordant; which to reconcile, No wit or power of man hath yet availed, Since first our race, illustrious, was born; Nor will avail, or treaty or gazette, In any age, however wise or strong. But in things more important, how complete, Ne’er seen, till now, will be our happiness! More soft, from day to day, our garments will Become, of woollen or of silk. Their rough Attire the husbandman and smith will cast Aside, will swathe in cotton their rough hides, And with the skins of beavers warm their backs. More serviceable, more attractive, too, Will be our carpets and our counterpanes, Our curtains, sofas, tables, and our chairs; Our beds, and their attendant furniture, Will a new grace unto our chambers lend; And dainty forms of kettles and of pans, On our dark kitchens will their lustre shed. From Paris unto Calais, and from there To London, and from there to Liverpool, More rapid than imagination can Conceive, will be the journey, nay the flight; While underneath the ample bed of Thames, A highway will be made, immortal work, That should have been completed, years ago. Far better lighted, and perhaps as safe, At night, as now they are, will be the lanes And unfrequented streets of Capitals; Perhaps, the main streets of the smaller towns. Such privileges, such a happy lot, Kind heaven reserves unto the coming race.
How fortunate are they, whom, as I write, Naked and whimpering, in her arms receives The midwife! They those longed-for days may hope To see, when, after careful studies we Shall know, and every nursling shall imbibe That knowledge with the milk of the dear nurse, How many hundred-weight of salt, and how Much flesh, how many bushels, too, of flour, His native town in every month consumes; How many births and deaths in every year The parish priest inscribes: when by the aid Of mighty steam, that, every second, prints Its millions, hill and dale, and ocean’s vast Expanse, e’en as we see a flock of cranes Aërial, that suddenly the day obscure, will with Gazettes be overrun; Gazettes, of the great Universe the life And soul, sole fount of wisdom and of wit, To this, and unto every coming age!
E’en as a child, who carefully constructs, Of little sticks and leaves, an edifice, In form of temple, palace, or of tower; And, soon as he beholds the work complete, The impulse feels, the structure to destroy, Because the self-same sticks and leaves he needs, To carry out some other enterprise; So Nature every work of hers, however It may delight us with its excellence, No sooner sees unto perfection brought, Than she proceeds to pull it all to pieces, For other structures using still the parts. And vainly seeks the human race, itself Or others from the cruel sport to save, The cause of which is hidden from its sight Forever, though a thousand means it tries, With skilful hand devising remedies: For cruel Nature, child invincible, Our efforts laughs to scorn, and still its own Caprices carries out, without a pause, Destroying and creating, for its sport. And hence, a various, endless family Of ills incurable and sufferings Oppresses the frail mortal, doomed to death Irreparably; hence a hostile force, Destructive, smites him from within, without, On every side, perpetual, e’en from The day of birth, and wearies and exhausts, Itself untiring, till he drops at last, By the inhuman mother crushed, and killed. Those crowning miseries, O gentle friend, Of this our mortal life, old age and death, E’en then commencing, when the infant lip The tender breast doth press, that life instils, This happy nineteenth century, I think, Can no more help, than could the ninth, or tenth, Nor will the coming ages, more than this. Indeed, if we may be allowed to call The truth by its right name, no other than Supremely wretched must each mortal be, In every age, and under every form Of government, and walk and mode of life; By nature hopelessly incurable, Because a universal law hath so Decreed, which heaven and earth alike obey. And yet the lofty spirits of our age A new discovery have made, almost Divine; for, though they cannot make A single person happy on the earth, The man forgetting, they have gone in quest Of universal happiness, and this, Forsooth, have found so easily, that out Of many wretched individuals, They can a happy, joyful people make. And at this miracle, not yet explained By quarterly reviews, or pamphlets, or Gazettes, the common herd in wonder smile.
O minds, O wisdom, insight marvellous Of this our passing age! And what profound Philosophy, what lessons deep, O Gino, In matters more sublime and recondite, This century of thine and mine will teach To those that follow! With what constancy, What yesterday it scorned, upon its knees To-day it worships, and will overthrow To-morrow, merely to pick up again The fragments, to the idol thus restored, To offer incense on the following day! How estimable, how inspiring, too, This unanimity of thought, not of The age alone, but of each passing year! How carefully should we, when we our thought With this compare, however different From that of next year it may be, at least Appearance of diversity avoid! What giant strides, compared with those of old, Our century in wisdom’s school has made!
One of thy friends, O worthy Gino, once, A master poet, nay, of every Art, And Science, every human faculty, For past, and present, and for future times, A learned expositor, remarked to me: “Of thy own feelings, care to speak no more! Of them, this manly age makes no account, In economic problems quite absorbed, And with an eye for politics alone, Of what avail, thy own heart to explore? Seek not within thyself material For song; but sing the needs of this our age, And consummation of its ripening hope!” O memorable words! Whereat I laughed Like chanticleer, the name of hope to hear Thus strike upon my ear profane, as if A jest it were, or prattle of a child Just weaned. But now a different course I take, Convinced by many shining proofs, that he Must not resist or contradict the age, Who seeketh praise or pudding at its hands, But faithfully and servilely obey; And so will find a short and easy road Unto the stars. And I who long to reach The stars will not, howe’er, select the needs Of this our age for burden of my song; For these, increasing constantly, are still By merchants and by work-shops amply met; But I will sing of hope, of hope whereof The gods now grant a pledge so palpable. The first-fruits of our new felicity Behold, in the enormous growth of hair, Upon the lip, upon the cheek, of youth!
O hail, thou salutary sign, first beam Of light of this our wondrous, rising age! See, how before thee heaven and earth rejoice, How sparkle all the damsels’ eyes with joy, How through all banquets and all festivals The fame of the young bearded heroes flies! Grow for your country’s sake, ye manly youth! Beneath the shadow of your fleecy locks, Will Italy increase, and Europe from The mouths of Tagus to the Hellespont, And all the world will taste the sweets of peace. And thou, O tender child, for whom these days Of gold are yet in store, begin to greet Thy bearded father with a smile, nor fear The harmless blackness of his loving face. Laugh, darling child; for thee are kept the fruits Of so much dazzling eloquence. Thou shalt Behold joy reign in cities and in towns, Old age and youth alike contented dwell, And undulating beards of two spans long!