Of thy mysterious power Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt Its subtle influence? Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold, The theme seems ever new however old.
How isolated is my mind, Since thou in it hast come to dwell! As by some magic spell, My other thoughts have all, Like lightning, disappeared; And thou, alone, like some huge tower, In a deserted plain, Gigantic, solitary, dost remain.
How worthless quite, Save but for thee, have in my sight All earthly things, and life itself become! How wearisome its days; And all its works, and all its plays, A vain pursuit of pleasures vain, Compared with the felicity, The heavenly joy, that springs from thee!
As from the naked rocks Of the rough Apennine, The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes To the bright plain that in the distance lies; So from the rough and barren intercourse Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn, As to a Paradise, my weary mind, And sweet refreshment for my senses find.
It seems to me incredible, that I This dreary world, this wretched life, So full of folly and of strife, Without thy aid, could have so long endured; Nor can I well conceive, How one’s desires could cling To other joys than those which thou dost bring.
Never, since first I knew By hard experience what life is, Could fear of death my soul subdue. To-day, a jest to me appears, That which the silly world, Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears, The last extremity! If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien, Its threats encounter with a smile serene.
I always hated coward souls, And meanness held in scorn. Now, each unworthy act At once through all my senses thrills; Each instance vile of human worthlessness, My soul with holy anger fills. This arrogant, this foolish age, Which feeds itself on empty hopes, Absorbed in trifles, virtue’s enemy, Which idly clamors for utility, And has not sense enough to see How useless all life thenceforth must become, I feel beneath me, and its judgments laugh To scorn. The motley crew, The foes of every lofty thought, Who laugh at thee, I trample under foot.
To that, which thee inspires, What passion yieldeth not? What other, save this one, Controls our hearts’ desires? Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate, The love of power, love of fame, What are they but an empty name, Compared with it? And this, The source, the spring of all, That sovereign reigns within the breast, Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed.
Life hath no value, meaning hath, Save but for thee, our only hope and stay; The sole excuse for Fate, That cruelly hath placed us here, To undergo such useless misery; For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool, To life still fondly clings, Nor calls on death to end his sufferings.
Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought, Long years of sorrow I endure, And bear of weary life the strain; But not in vain! And I would still return, In spite of all my sad experience, Towards such a goal, my course to recommence; For through the sands, and through the viper-brood Of this, our mortal wilderness, My steps I ne’er so wearily have dragged To thee, that all the danger and distress Were not repaid by such pure happiness.