While the white curtains, waving to and fro, Fan the sick air;
And pityingly the shadows come and go, With gentle human care, Compassionate and dumb.
The dusty day is done,
The night begun;
While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep!
Is there no magic in the touch
Of fingers thou dost love so much?
Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now; Or, with its mute caress,
The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press Upon thy weary lid and aching brow; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep!
The bells are swinging,
Their little golden circlet in a flutter
The candles flare
With fresher gusts of air;
The beetle's drone
Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan;
Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt alone.
OUR life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power,
With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter, The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; Till all are ringing,
They make us what we were not, what they
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows. Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind? The mind can make Substances, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep, - for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.
I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of a mild declivity, the last As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill Was crowned with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, Not by the sport of nature, but of man : These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing, the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself, but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful; And both were young, yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had looked Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which colored all his objects; he had ceased To live within himself: she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously, Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share : Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother, but no more; 't was much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; Herself the solitary scion left
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer ; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couched among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruined walls that had survived the names Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fastened near a fountain; and a man, when she Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumbered around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven.
Of a time-honored race. It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not, and why?
Time taught him a deep answer
Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood, Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned; Within an antique oratory stood
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better in her home, A thousand leagues from his, She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, Daughters and sons of beauty, Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be? - she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved him
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock That in the antique oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then
As in that hour a moment o'er nis face The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reeled around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been,
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, And the remembered chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back
THIS life, and all that it contains, to him Is but a tissue of illuminous dreams Filled with book-wisdom, pictured thought and love
That on its own creations spends itself. All things he understands, and nothing does.
And thrust themselves between him and the Profusely eloquent in copious praise
What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love; O, she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul! her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things, And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth, Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compassed round With hatred and contention; pain was mixed In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men, And made him friends of mountains
And the quick Spirit of the universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret. Be it so.
FROM "THE EXCURSION," BOOK I.
O, MANY are the poets that are sown By nature; men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine;
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse (Which, in the docile season of their youth, It was denied them to acquire, through lack Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, Or haply by a temper too severe, Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame), Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led By circumstance to take unto the height The measure of themselves, these favored beings, All but a scattered few, live out their time, Husbanding that which they possess within, And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest
Are often those of whom the noisy world Hears least.
He had no times of study, and no place; All places and all times to him were one. His soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved, And sounded only when the spirit blew,
« ZurückWeiter » |