That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls -No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! 135 140 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls; 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 145 And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, Our worn-out life, and are what we have been. 150 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so? Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead! Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire! 155 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, Because thou hadst - what we, alas! have not. 160 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, 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, 165 And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 170 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see 175 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too? 180 And then we suffer! and amongst us one, His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he 185 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, And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 This for our wisest! and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 195 With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, But none has hope like thine! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, 200 With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife - Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 205 210 With a free, onward impulse brushing through, 215 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 220 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; 225 Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! 230 235 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 240 The young light-hearted masters of the waves And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, 245 Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-wall'd town, 25 And the little grey church on the windy shore; She will not come though you call all day; Children dear, was it yesterday 30 We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 45 50 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 55 She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. "Twill be Easter-time in the world - ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee." |