[LINES][°]
WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
°[4]Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand!
5Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!
[p.76] Sometimes a child will cross the glade
10To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
°[14]What endless, active life is here°!
15What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.
Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod
Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out,
And, eased of basket and of rod,
20Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout.
°[21]In the huge world,° which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can!
But in my helpless cradle I
°[24]Was breathed on by the rural Pan.°
25I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd,
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world
And now keeps only in the grave.
Yet here is peace for ever new!
30When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.
Then to their happy rest they pass!
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
35The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
[p.77] Calm soul of all things! make it mine
To feel, amid the city's jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
40Man did not make, and cannot mar.
The will to neither strive nor cry,
°[42]The power to feel with others give°!
Calm, calm me more! nor let me die
Before I have begun to live.
[THE STRAYED REVELLER][°]
The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening.
A YOUTH. [CIRCE].°
The Youth. Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
The bright procession
5Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
Thou standest, smiling
Down on me! thy right arm,
Lean'd up against the column there,
10Props thy soft cheek;
Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
°[12]The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,°
I held but now.
[p.78] Is it, then, evening
15So soon? I see, the night-dews,
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones
On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
20Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, Goddess,
Waves thy white robe!
Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper?
The Youth. When the white dawn first
25Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,
Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, Goddess!
I sprang up, I threw round me
30My dappled fawn-skin;
Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,
I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drench'd in dew—
35Came swift down to join
°[36]The rout° early gather'd
In the town, round the temple,
°[38]Iacchus'° white fane°
On yonder hill.
40Quick I pass'd, following
The wood-cutters' cart-track
Down the dark valley;—I saw
On my left, through, the beeches,
[p.79] Thy palace, Goddess,
45Smokeless, empty!
Trembling, I enter'd; beheld
The court all silent,
°[48]The lions sleeping,°
On the altar this bowl.
50I drank, Goddess!
And sank down here, sleeping,
On the steps of thy portico.
Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
55Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,
Through the delicate, flush'd marble,
The red, creaming liquor,
Strown with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
60Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
The Youth. Thanks, gracious one!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
65More soft, ah me,
More subtle-winding
°[67]Than Pan's flute-music!°
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
70 Circe. Hist! Thou—within there!
°[71]Come forth, Ulysses°!
°[72]Art° tired with hunting?
°[73]While we range° the woodland,
°[74]See what the day brings.°
[p.80] 75 Ulysses. Ever new magic!
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus' darling—
80Or some youth beloved of Pan,
°[81]Of Pan and the Nymphs°?
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
85Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants—
His fawn-skin, half untied,
90Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,
That he sits, overweigh'd
By fumes of wine and sleep,
So late, in thy portico?
What youth, Goddess,—what guest
95Of Gods or mortals?
Circe. Hist! he wakes!
I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
The Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth
100To thy side, Goddess, from within?
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah, and I see too
105His sailor's bonnet,
[p.81] His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,
°[107]With one arm bare°!—
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumours
°[110]The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger?
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes' son?
Ulysses. I am Ulysses.
115And thou, too, sleeper?
Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast follow'd
Through the islands some divine bard,
By age taught many things,
°[120]Age and the Muses°;
And heard him delighting
The chiefs and people
In the banquet, and learn'd his songs,
Of Gods and Heroes,
125Of war and arts,
And peopled cities,
Inland, or built
By the grey sea.—If so, then hail!
I honour and welcome thee.
130The Youth. The Gods are happy.
They turn on all sides
Their shining eyes,
And see below them
°[134]The earth and men.°
°[135]They see Tiresias°
Sitting, staff in hand,
[p.82] On the warm, grassy
°[138]Asopus° bank,
His robe drawn over
140His old, sightless head,
Revolving inly
°[142]The doom of Thebes.°
°[143]They see the Centaurs°
In the upper glens
°[145]Of Pelion,° in the streams,
Where red-berried ashes fringe
The clear-brown shallow pools,
With streaming flanks, and heads
Rear'd proudly, snuffing
150The mountain wind.
They see the Indian
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moor'd to
A floating isle thick-matted
155With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants,
And the dark cucumber.
He reaps, and stows them,
Drifting—drifting;—round him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
160Flow the cool lake-waves,
°[161]The mountains ring them.°
They see the Scythian
On the wide stepp, unharnessing
His wheel'd house at noon.
165He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal—
Mares' milk, and bread
[p.83] °[167]Baked on the embers°;—all around
The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
170And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
Sitting in his cart,
He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bustard-fowl,
175The track, a straight black line,
Furrows the rich soil; here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topp'd with rough-hewn,
Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer
°[180]The sunny waste.°
They see the ferry
On the broad, clay-laden.
°[183]Lone Chorasmian stream°;—thereon
With snort and strain,
185Two horses, strongly swimming, tow
The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
To either bow
Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief,
With shout and shaken spear,
190Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern
The cowering merchants, in long robes,
Sit pale beside their wealth
Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
Of gold and ivory,
195Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,
Jasper and chalcedony,
°[197]And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.°
[p.84] The loaded boat swings groaning
In the yellow eddies;
200The Gods behold them.
They see the Heroes
Sitting in the dark ship
On the foamless, long-heaving
Violet sea,
205At sunset nearing
°[206]The Happy Islands.°
These things, Ulysses,
The wise bards also
Behold and sing.
210But oh, what labour!
O prince, what pain!
They too can see
Tiresias;—but the Gods,
Who give them vision,
215Added this law:
That they should bear too
His groping blindness,
His dark foreboding,
His scorn'd white hairs;
°[220]Bear Hera's anger°
Through a life lengthen'd
To seven ages.
They see the Centaurs
On Pelion;—then they feel,
225They too, the maddening wine
Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain
They feel the biting spears
[p.85] °[228]Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive,
°[229]Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel
230High on a jutting rock in the red stream
°[231]Alcmena's dreadful son°
Ply his bow;—such a price
The Gods exact for song:
To become what we sing.
235They see the Indian
On his mountain lake; but squalls
Make their skiff reel, and worms
In the unkind spring have gnawn
Their melon-harvest to the heart.—They see
240The Scythian; but long frosts
Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,
Till they too fade like grass; they crawl
Like shadows forth in spring.
They see the merchants
°[245]On the Oxus stream°;—but care
Must visit first them too, and make them pale.
Whether, through whirling sand,
A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst
Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,
250In the wall'd cities the way passes through,
Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,
On some great river's marge,
Mown them down, far from home.
°[254]They see the Heroes°
255Near harbour;—but they share
Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,
°[257]Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°;
[p.86] Or where the echoing oars
Of Argo first
°[260]Startled the unknown sea.°
°[261]The old Silenus°
Came, lolling in the sunshine,
From the dewy forest-coverts,
This way, at noon.
265Sitting by me, while his Fauns
Down at the water-side
Sprinkled and smoothed
His drooping garland,
He told me these things.
270But I, Ulysses,
Sitting on the warm steps,
Looking over the valley,
All day long, have seen,
Without pain, without labour,
°[275]Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°—
°[276]Sometimes a Faun with torches°—
And sometimes, for a moment,
Passing through the dark stems
Flowing-robed, the beloved,
280The desired, the divine,
Beloved Iacchus.
Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!
Ah, glimmering water,
Fitful earth-murmur,
285Dreaming woods!
Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess,
And thou, proved, much enduring,
[p.87] Wave-toss'd Wanderer!
Who can stand still?
290Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me—
The cup again!
Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild, thronging train,
295The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
[MORALITY]
We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides,
The spirit bloweth and is still,
In mystery our soul abides.
5 But tasks in hours of insight will'd
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.
With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
10Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.
Not till the hours of light return,
All we have built do we discern.
Then, when the clouds are off the soul,
When thou dost bask in Nature's eye,
[p.88] 15Ask, how she view'd thy self-control,
Thy struggling, task'd morality—
Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air.
Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair.
And she, whose censure thou dost dread,
20Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek,
See, on her face a glow is spread,
A strong emotion on her cheek!
"Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine,
Whence was it, for it is not mine?
25"There is no effort on my brow—
I do not strive, I do not weep;
I rush with the swift spheres and glow
In joy, and when I will, I sleep.
Yet that severe, that earnest air,
30 I saw, I felt it once—but where?
"I knew not yet the gauge of time,
Nor wore the manacles of space;
I felt it in some other clime,
I saw it in some other place.
35 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod,
And lay upon the breast of God."
[DOVER BEACH][°]
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
[p.89] Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
5Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
10Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
°[15]Sophocles° long ago
°[16]Heard it on the Ægæan,° and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
20Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
25Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
30To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
[p.90] Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
35And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.