[THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY][°]
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
°[2]Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes°!
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
[p.124] Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
5Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head.
But when the fields are still,
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen;
°[9]Cross and recross° the strips of moon-blanch'd green,
10Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!
Here, where the reaper was at work of late—
In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves
°[13]His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,°
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
15Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—
Here will I sit and wait,
While to my ear from uplands far away
The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
°[19]With distant cries of reapers in the corn°—
20All the live murmur of a summer's day.
Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field,
And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.
Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
25Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
°[30]And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.°
°[31]And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book°—
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!
The story of the Oxford scholar poor,
[p.125] Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
35Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door,
One summer-morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore,
And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood,
And came, as most men deem'd, to little good,
40But came to Oxford and his friends no more.
But once, years after, in the country-lanes,
°[42]Two scholars, whom at college erst° he knew,
Met him, and of his way of life enquired;
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,
45His mates, had arts to rule as they desired
The workings of men's brains,
And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.
"And I," he said, "the secret of their art,
When fully learn'd, will to the world impart;
°[50]But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.°"
This said, he left them, and return'd no more.—
But rumours hung about the country-side,
That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
55In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,
The same the gipsies wore.
°[57]Shepherds had met him on the Hurst° in spring;
°[58]At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,°
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors
60Had found him seated at their entering.
But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.
And I myself seem half to know, thy looks,
And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
[p.126] And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
65I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;
Or in my boat I lie
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills.
°[69]And watch the warm, green-muffled° Cumner hills,
70And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.
For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
Returning home on summer-nights, have met
°[74]Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,°
75Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
As the punt's rope chops round;
And leaning backward in a pensive dream,
And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers
80And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.
And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—
Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come;
°[83]To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,°
Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam
Or cross a stile into the public way.
85Oft thou hast given them store
Of flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemony,
Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves
And purple orchises with spotted leaves—
90But none hath words she can report of thee.
°[91]And, above Godstow Bridge,° when hay-time's here
In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
[p.127] Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
°[95]To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass,°
Have often pass'd thee near
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown;
°[98]Mark'd thine outlandish° garb, thy figure spare,
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—
100But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!
At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
Where at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
105Children, who early range these slopes and late
For cresses from the rills,
Have known thee eying, all an April-day,
The springing pastures and the feeding kine;
And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,
110Through the long dewy grass move slow away.
°[111]In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood°—
Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
°[114]With scarlet patches tagg'd° and shreds of grey,
°[115] Above the forest-ground called Thessaly°—
The blackbird, picking food,
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
So often has he known thee past him stray
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,
120And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
And once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
[p.128] Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
°[125]Thy face tow'rd Hinksey° and its wintry ridge?
And thou hast climb'd the hill,
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall
°[129]The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall°—
°[130]Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.
But what—-I dream! Two hundred years are flown
Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
°[133]And the grave Glanvil° did the tale inscribe
That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls
135To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
And thou from earth art gone
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall grasses and white-flowering nettles wave
°[140]Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's° shade.
—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!
For what wears out the life of mortal men?
'Tis that from change to change their being rolls
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
145Exhaust the energy of strongest souls
And numb the elastic powers.
°[147]Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,°
And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
°[149]To the just-pausing Genius° we remit
150Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.
°[151]Thou hast not lived,° why should'st thou perish, so?
°[152]Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire°;
[p.129] Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead!
Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!
155The generations of thy peers are fled,
And we ourselves shall go;
But thou possessest an immortal lot,
And we imagine thee exempt from age
And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page,
°[160]Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.°
For early didst thou leave the world, with powers
Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;
Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
°[165] Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.°
O life unlike to ours!
Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,
Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
And each half lives a hundred different lives;
°[170]Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.°
Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Light half-believers of our casual creeds,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd,
Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
175Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd;
For whom each year we see
Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
Who hesitate and falter life away,
And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
°[180]Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too°
Yes, we await it!—but it still delays,
And then we suffer! and amongst us one,
[p.130] Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly
His seat upon the intellectual throne;
185And all his store of sad experience he
Lays bare of wretched days;
Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs,
And how the dying spark of hope was fed,
And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,
°[190]And all his hourly varied anodynes.°
This for our wisest! and we others pine,
And wish the long unhappy dream would end,
And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;
With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend,
195Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair—
But none has hope like thine!
Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray,
Roaming the country-side, a truant boy,
Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,
200And every doubt long blown by time away.
O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,
And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
Before this strange disease of modern life,
With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
205Its head o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife—
Fly hence, our contact fear!
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
°[208]Averse, as Dido° did with gesture stern°
From her false friend's approach in Hades turn,
210Wave us away, and keep thy solitude!
Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
°[212]Still clutching the inviolable shade,°
[p.131] With a free, onward impulse brushing through,
°[214]By night, the silver'd branches° of the glade—
215Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
On some mild pastoral slope
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales
Freshen thy flowers as in former years
With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
°[220]From the dark dingles,° to the nightingales!
But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For strong the infection of our mental strife,
Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
225Like us distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers,
And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;
And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
230Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
°[232]—As some grave Tyrian° trader, from the sea,
Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,
235The fringes of a southward-facing brow
°[236]Among the Ægæan isles°;
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,
°[238]Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,°
°[239]Green, bursting figs, and tunnies° steep'd in brine—
240 And knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The young light-hearted masters of the waves—
And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail;
[p.132] And day and night held on indignantly
°[244]O'er the blue Midland waters° with the gale,
245Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
To where the Atlantic raves
°[247]Outside the western straits°; and unbent sails
There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
°[249]Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come°;
°[250]And on the beach undid his corded bales.°
[THYRSIS][°]
A MONODY, TO COMMEMORATE THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, WHO DIED AT FLORENCE, 1861
°[1]How changed is here each spot man makes or fills°!
°[2]In the two Hinkseys° nothing keeps the same;
The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
°[4]And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,°
5And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks—
°[6]Are ye too changed, ye hills°?
See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men
To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays!
Here came I often, often, in old days—
10Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,
Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames
°[14]The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs°?
°[15]The Vale,° the three lone weirs,° the youthful Thames?—,
This winter-eve is warm,
Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
The tender purple spray on copse and briers!
°[19]And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,°
°[20]She needs not June for beauty's heightening,°
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!—
Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power
°[23]Befalls me wandering through this upland dim,°
°[24]Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour°;
25Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
That single elm-tree bright
Against the west—I miss it! is it gone?
We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
°[30]While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.°
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,
But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
And with the country-folk acquaintance made
By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
°[35]Here, too, our shepherd-pipes° we first assay'd.
Ah me! this many a year
My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!
Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
Into the world and wave of men depart;
°[40]But Thyrsis of his own will went away.°
°[41]It irk'd° him to be here, he could not rest.
He loved each simple joy the country yields,
°[43]He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,°
For that a shadow lour'd on the fields,
°[45]Here with the shepherds and the silly° sheep.
Some life of men unblest
He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head.
He went; his piping took a troubled sound
Of storms° that rage outside our happy ground;
°[50]He could not wait their passing, he is dead.°
So, some tempestuous morn in early June,
When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er,
Before the roses and the longest day—
When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
°[55]With blossoms red and white of fallen May°
And chestnut-flowers are strewn—
So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry,
From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,
Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
°[60]The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I°!
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?
°[62]Soon will the high Midsummer pomps° come on,
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
65Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;
Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
70And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
°[71]He hearkens not! light comer,° he is flown!
What matters it? next year he will return,
And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days.
With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
75And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,
And scent of hay new-mown.
°[77]But Thyrsis never more we swains° shall see;
°[78]See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,°
°[79]And blow a strain the world at last shall heed°—
°[80]For Time, not Corydon,° hath conquer'd thee!
Alack, for Corydon no rival now!—
But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,
Some good survivor with his flute would go,
°[84]Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate°;
°[85]And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,°
And relax Pluto's brow,
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
°[88]Of Proserpine,° among whose crowned hair
Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,
°[90]And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.°
O easy access to the hearer's grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!
For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,
°[94]She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,°
95She knew each lily white which Enna yields,
°[96]Each rose with blushing face°;
°[97]She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.°
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!
Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;
100And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!
Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?
105I know the wood which hides the daffodil,
°[106]I know the Fyfield tree,°
I know what white, what purple fritillaries
The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
°[109]Above by Ensham,° down by Sandford,° yields,
110And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries;
I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?—
But many a dingle on the loved hill-side,
With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
115High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises,
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time;
Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,
And only in the hidden brookside gleam
120Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.
Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,
Above the locks, above the boating throng,
°[123]Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,°
Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among
125And darting swallows and light water-gnats,
We track'd the shy Thames shore?
Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell
Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass,
Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?—
130They all are gone, and thou art gone as well!
Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night
In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.
I see her veil draw soft across the day,
I feel her slowly chilling breath invade
°[135]The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent° with grey;
I feel her finger light
Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train;—
The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
The heart less bounding at emotion new,
140And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again.
And long the way appears, which seem'd so short
To the less practised eye of sanguine youth;
And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
145Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare!
Unbreachable the fort
Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall;
And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,
And near and real the charm of thy repose,
°[150]And night as welcome as a friend would fall.°
But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss
Of quiet!—Look, adown the dusk hill-side,
A troop of Oxford hunters going home,
As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!
°[155]From hunting with the Berkshire° hounds they come.
Quick! let me fly, and cross
Into yon farther field!—'Tis done; and see,
Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify
The orange and pale violet evening-sky,
160Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!
I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,
The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,
The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright,
And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out.
165I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,
Yet, happy omen, hail!
°[167]Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale°
(For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep
The morningless and unawakening sleep
170Under the flowery oleanders pale),
Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!—
Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,
These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,
That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;
°[175]To a boon southern country he is fled,°
And now in happier air,
°[177]Wandering with the great Mother's° train divine
(And purer or more subtle soul than thee,
I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see)
180Within a folding of the Apennine,
Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!—
Putting his sickle to the perilous grain
In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,
For thee the Lityerses-song again
185Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;
Sings his Sicilian fold,
His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes—
And how a call celestial round him rang,
And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang
°[190]And all the marvel of the golden skies.°
There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here
°[192]Sole° in these fields! yet will I not despair.
Despair I will not, while I yet descry
'Neath the mild canopy of English air
195That lonely tree against the western sky.
Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear,
Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee
°[198]Fields where soft sheep° from cages pull the hay,
Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
°[200]Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?°
A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,
°[202]Shy to illumin; and I seek it too.°
This does not come with houses or with gold,
With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
205'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold—
But the smooth-slipping weeks
Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone;
210Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.
Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest was bound;
Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!
Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power,
215If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
And this rude Cumner ground,
Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,
Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!
220And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.
What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
225Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat—
It fail'd, and thou wast mute!
Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light,
And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,
230Left human haunt, and on alone till night.
Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!
'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,
Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.
Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,
235Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
To chase fatigue and fear:
Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
Dost thou ask proof? our tree yet crowns the hill,
240Our scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.
[RUGBY CHAPEL][°]
November 1857
Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,
5Fade into dimness apace,
Silent;—hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the school-room windows;—but cold,
10Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
°[13]Thou, my father! art laid.°
There thou dost lie, in the gloom
15Of the autumn evening. But ah!
°[16]That word, gloom,° to my mind
Brings thee back, in the light
Of thy radiant vigour, again;
In the gloom of November we pass'd
20Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impair'd not the ray
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness, clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand
In the autumn evening, and think
25Of bygone autumns with thee.
Fifteen years have gone round
Since thou arosest to tread,
In the summer-morning, the road
Of death, at a call unforeseen,
30Sudden. For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade
Rested as under the boughs
°[33]Of a mighty oak,° have endured
Sunshine and rain as we might,
35Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee.
°[37]O strong soul, by what shore°
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left vain!
40Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labour-house vast
Of being, is practised that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!
Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
45Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live—
Prompt, unwearied, as here!
Still thou upraisest with zeal
50The humble good from the ground,
Sternly repressest the bad!
Still, like a trumpet, doth rouse
Those who with half-open eyes
Tread the border-land dim
55'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,
Succourest!—this was thy work,
°[57]This was thy life upon earth.°
What is the course of the life
°[59]Of mortal men on the earth°?—
60Most men eddy about
Here and there—eat and drink,
Chatter and love and hate,
Gather and squander, are raised
Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust,
65Striving blindly, achieving
Nothing; and then they die—
Perish;—and no one asks
Who or what they have been,
More than he asks what waves,
70In the moonlit solitudes mild
Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd,
Foam'd for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirst
Ardent, unquenchable, fires,
75Not with the crowd to be spent,
Not without aim to go round
In an eddy of purposeless dust,
Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah yes! some of us strive
80Not without action to die
Fruitless, but something to snatch
From dull oblivion, nor all
Glut the devouring grave!
We, we have chosen our path—
85Path to a clear-purposed goal,
Path of advance!—but it leads
A long, steep journey, through sunk
Gorges, o'er mountains in snow.
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth—
90Then, on the height, comes the storm.
Thunder crashes from rock
To rock, the cataracts reply,
°[93]Lightnings dazzle our eyes.°
Roaring torrents have breach'd
95The track, the stream-bed descends
In the place where the wayfarer once
Planted his footstep—the spray
Boils o'er its borders! aloft
The unseen snow-beds dislodge
°[100]Their hanging ruin°; alas,
Havoc is made in our train!
Friends, who set forth at our side,
Falter, are lost in the storm.
We, we only are left!
105ith frowning foreheads, with lips
Sternly compress'd, we strain on,
On—and at nightfall at last
Come to the end of our way,
To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks;
110Where the gaunt and taciturn host
Stands on the threshold, the wind
Shaking his thin white hairs—
Holds his lantern to scan
Our storm-beat figures, and asks:
115Whom in our party we bring?
Whom we have left in the snow?
Sadly we answer: We bring
Only ourselves! we lost
Sight of the rest in the storm.
120Hardly ourselves we fought through,
Stripp'd, without friends, as we are.
Friends, companions, and train,
°[123]The avalanche swept from our side.°
But thou would'st not alone
125Be saved, my father! alone
Conquer and come to thy goal,
Leaving the rest in the wild.
We were weary, and we
Fearful, and we in our march
130Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still
Beckonedst the trembler, and still
Gavest the weary thy hand.
If, in the paths of the world,
135Stones might have wounded thy feet,
Toil or dejection have tried
Thy spirit, of that we saw
Nothing—to us thou wast still
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!
140Therefore to thee it was given
Many to save with thyself;
And, at the end of thy day,
O faithful shepherd! to come,
°[144]Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.°
145And through thee I believe
In the noble and great who are gone;
Pure souls honour'd and blest
By former ages, who else—
Such, so soulless, so poor,
150Is the race of men whom I see—
Seem'd but a dream of the heart,
Seem'd but a cry of desire.
Yes! I believe that there lived
Others like thee in the past,
155Not like the men of the crowd
Who all round me to-day
Bluster or cringe, and make life
Hideous, and arid, and vile;
But souls temper'd with fire,
160Fervent, heroic, and good,
Helpers and friends of mankind.
Servants of God!—or sons
Shall I not call you? becaus
Not as servants ye knew
165Your Father's innermost mind,
His, who unwillingly sees
One of his little ones lost—
Yours is the praise, if mankind
Hath not as yet in its march
170Fainted, and fallen, and died!
°[171]See! In the rocks° of the world
Marches the host of mankind,
A feeble, wavering line.
Where are they tending?—A God
175Marshall'd them, gave them their goal.
Ah, but the way is so long!
Years they have been in the wild!
Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks,
Rising all round, overawe;
180Factions divide them, their host
Threatens to break, to dissolve.
—Ah, keep, keep them combined!
Else, of the myriads who fill
That army, not one shall arrive;
185Sole they shall stray: in the rocks
Stagger for ever in vain,
Die one by one in the waste.
Then, in such hour of need
Of your fainting, dispirited race,
°[190]Ye,° like angels, appear,
Radiant with ardour divine!
Beacons of hope, ye appear!
Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
195Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
Panic, despair, flee away.
Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
200Praise, re-inspire the brave!
Order, courage, return.
Eyes rekindling, and prayers,
Follow your steps as ye go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
205Strengthen the wavering line,
Stablish, continue our march,
On, to the bound of the waste,
°[208]On, to the City of God.°