INSURRECTION. To A.
I
POOR soul! a captive in a prison-house
Dreaming of pastures, is not more degraded
Through rags and shackles and the insidious louse,
And naked splendour of the body faded,
Than our uneasy spirit, dimly haunted
By vision of some state, some wisdom whole;
Prophetic down unhoped-for distance; taunted;
Dissentient and disquiet guest, the soul.
II
Would I were done with flesh, or flesh with me,
—Frailty from frailty seeking prop and stay!—
Would that from all such trammels I were free,
Hindered no more by quagmires of the clay,
Then with an energy controlled and fierce
Might I on greater secrets turn, and fight
Through with unswathed and polished weapon; pierce
Through to some wisdom, to some lake of light.
A sinewy spirit, muscular and lean,
Should be my captain, striding ever on
Over harsh mountains where the wind blew keen,
Peak after peak, till the last peak was won.
Angry I strive, loving the world I hate,
Hating the flesh I love; but all in vain.
Freed for an hour, then, fall’n from ghostly state,
Sink to the clasp of siren foes again.