Believe that there is that in the fact of truth, though it be only in the character of a single leaf earnestly studied, which may do its share in the great labor of the world: remember that it is by truth alone that the Arts can ever hold the position for which they were intended, as the most powerful instruments, the most gentle guides; that, of all classes, there is none to whom the celebrated words of Lessing, “That the destinies of a nation depend upon its young men between nineteen and twenty-five years of age,” can apply so well as to yourselves. Recollect, that your portion in this is most important: that your share is with the poet's share; that, in every careless thought or neglected doubt, you shelve your duty, and forsake your trust; fulfil and maintain these, whether in the hope of personal fame and fortune, or from a sense of power used to its intentions; and you may hold out both hands to the world. Trust it, and it will have faith in you; will hearken to the precepts you may have permission to impart.
Song
Oh! roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy-branch for me, Grown old before my time.
Oh! violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the olden time.
Morning Sleep
Another day hath dawned Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself Into the dark lap of advancing sleep. Meanwhile through the oblivion of the night The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled; And now the gradual sun begins to throw Its slanting glory on the heads of trees, And every bird stirs in its nest revealed, And shakes its dewy wings.
A blessed gift Unto the weary hath been mine to-night, Slumber unbroken: now it floats away:— But whether 'twere not best to woo it still, The head thus properly disposed, the eyes In a continual dawning, mingling earth And heaven with vagrant fantasies,—one hour,— Yet for another hour? I will not break The shining woof; I will not rudely leap Out of this golden atmosphere, through which I see the forms of immortalities. Verily, soon enough the laboring day With its necessitous unmusical calls Will force the indolent conscience into life.
The uncouth moth upon the window-panes Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze Flying towards the light. To an Eastern vale That light may now be waning, and across The tall reeds by the Ganges, lotus-paved, Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree. The rice-fields are all silent in the glow, All silent the deep heaven without a cloud, Burning like molten gold. A red canoe Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids Whose unzoned bosoms swell on the rich air; A lamp is in each hand; some mystic rite Go they to try. Such rites the birds may see, Ibis or emu, from their cocoa nooks,— What time the granite sentinels that watch The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend Their august lineaments;—what time Haroun Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew He was the Caliph who knocked soberly By Giafar's hand at their gates shut betimes;— What time prince Assad sat on the high hill 'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying For his lost brother's step;—what time, as now, Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds, And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time And bodily weight are for the wakeful only. Now they exist not: life is like that cloud, Floating, poised happily in mid-air, bathed In a sustaining halo, soft yet clear, Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven Its own wide home alike, earth far below Fading still further, further. Yet we see, In fancy, its green fields, its towers, and towns Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged And tedious travellers within iron cars, Its rivers with their ships, and laborers, To whose raised eye, as, stretched upon the sward, They may enjoy some interval of rest, That little cloud appears no living thing, Although it moves, and changes as it moves. There is an old and memorable tale Of some sound sleeper being borne away By banded fairies in the mottled hour Before the cockcrow, through unknown weird woods And mighty forests, where the boughs and roots Opened before him, closed behind;—thenceforth A wise man lived he, all unchanged by years. Perchance again these fairies may return, And evermore shall I remain as now, A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!
The spell Of Merlin old that ministered to fate, The tales of visiting ghosts, or fairy elves, Or witchcraft, are no fables. But his task Is ended with the night;—the thin white moon Evades the eye, the sun breaks through the trees, And the charmed wizard comes forth a mere man From out his circle. Thus it is, whate'er We know and understand hath lost the power Over us;—we are then the master. Still All Fancy's world is real; no diverse mark Is on the stores of memory, whether gleaned From childhood's early wonder at the charm That bound the lady in the echoless cave Where lay the sheath'd sword and the bugle horn,— Or from the fullgrown intellect, that works From age to age, exploring darkest truths, With sympathy and knowledge in one yoke Ploughing the harvest land.