[SHAKESPEARE][°]
Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask—Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
[p.116] 5Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know
10Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure,
Didst tread on earth unguess'd at.—Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
[YOUTH'S AGITATIONS][°]
When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,
From this poor present self which I am now;
When youth has done its tedious vain expense
Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;
°[5]Shall I not joy° youth's heats° are left behind,
°[6]And breathe more happy in an even clime°?—
Ah no, for then I shall begin to find
A thousand virtues in this hated time!
Then I shall wish its agitations back,
10And all its thwarting currents of desire;
Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,
°[12]And call this hurrying fever,° generous fire;
And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common—discontent.
[p.117]
[AUSTERITY OF POETRY][°]
°[1]That son of Italy° who tried to blow,
°[2]Ere Dante° came, the trump of sacred song,
°[3]In his light youth° amid a festal throng
Sate with his bride to see a public show.
5Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow
Youth like a star; and what to youth belong—
Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.
A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,
'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!
10Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found
°[11]A robe of sackcloth° next the smooth, white skin.
Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,
Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.
[WORLDLY PLACE][°]
Even in a palace, life may be led well!
So spake the imperial sage, purest of men,
°[3]Marcus Aurelius.° But the stifling den
Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
5Our freedom for a little bread we sell,
°[6]And drudge under some foolish° master's ken.°
[p.118] °[7]Who rates° us if we peer outside our pen—
Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?
Even in a palace! On his truth sincere,
10Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came;
And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here!
The aids to noble life are all within."