“Merciful is my Father, my all, Merciful, merciful! Here the white-cheeked lilies, so tall, Sing in their place by the jasper wall: Merciful, merciful!”
Note.—The origin of this lyric may possibly be of interest. A young friend had lost an only sister and, in an outburst of passionate sorrow, had exclaimed “O God if I could hear her speak.” Brooding over his sorrow, I retired to rest one evening and without attempting to embody my sympathy in words, I fell into a quiet slumber which lasted until day light. On waking, I had a vivid recollection of having seen in dream the youth kneeling by his sister’s grave and of having heard the words of his sister’s spirit chanted from the empyrean with inexpressible sweetness as if responding to his yearning exclamation. The words I heard in my dream I wrote down immediately lest their exactness and coherency might be lost. I was not at that time aware that Kubla Khan originated in a somewhat similar manner. As the occurrence, if standing alone, might seem difficult to believe, I refer to Coleridge’s poem merely to justify in some degree the publication of such a freak of the imagination.
BOUND TO THE WHEEL.
I. Must I grind in this prison for ever? No respite from morn till night; Shall I never again, oh, never! Commune with the spirits of light That dwell by the crystalline river Which flows by the Sibylline height?— Which sings near the Sibylline height?
II. I sigh for that region romantic, Far away from the turmoil and strife Of cities that render men frantic In a desperate struggle for life; For ’tis here that ambition gigantic Cuts into the heart like a knife,— Lies cold on the heart like a knife.
III. There Beauty sits thronéd in glory, The bards kiss her brow and adore, Then tell to the world the sweet story That millions repeat evermore; The youth and the patriarch hoary Bend over the musical lore,— Never tire of the mystical lore.
IV. It is there the perpetual graces, Inhabiting bowers of bliss, Give welcome to wearisome faces That ’scape from a region like this, A world in whose gaudiest places The serpent is sure to hiss,— The black-crested serpent will hiss.
V. I know now the fate of Ixion As I never could know it before; And under the eyes of Orion,— Storm-bound on a desolate shore,— Or under the paws of the Lion, I sigh for the sorrows he bore;— I know, too, what Sisyphus bore.