And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence : To which his Spirit may oppose Itself and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory!
COULD I remount the river of my years To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, I would not trace again the stream of hours Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, But bid it flow as now-until it glides Into the number of the nameless tides.
What is this Death?―a quiet of the heart? The whole of that of which we are a part? For life is but a vision-what I see
Of all which lives alone is life to me, And being so-the absent are the dead, Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread A dreary shroud around us, and invest With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.
The absent are the dead, for they are cold, And ne'er can be what once we did behold; And they are changed, and cheerless,- -or if yet The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided-equal must it be If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; It may be both-but one day end it must In the dark union of insensate dust.
The under-earth inhabitants-are they But mingled millions decomposed to clay? The ashes of a thousand ages spread Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?
Or have they their own language? and a sense
Of breathless being? darken'd and intense
As midnight in her solitude?- O Earth!
Where are the past ?-and whereíore had they birth?
The dead are thy inheritors-and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
Of thy profundity is in the grave, The ebon'd portal of thy peopled cave, Where I would walk in spirit, and behold Our elements resolved to things untold, And fathom hidden wonders, and explore The essence of great bosoms now no more.
ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staël- Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more, Their memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee, How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!
ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.
AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee! And thou wert sick, and yet was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here. And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife
We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, But in the after-silence on the shore When all is lost, except a little life.
I am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite-
Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful !-if thou
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!- Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel A hollow agony which will not heal, For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep; Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like thee; For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, And be avenged, or turn them into friend; But thou in safe implacability
Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded, And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spareAnd thus upon the world-trust in thy truthAnd the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth
On things that were not, and on things that are— Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, And found a nobler duty than to part. But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, For present anger, and for future gold- And buying other's grief at any price. And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, The early truth, which was thy proper praise, Did not still walk beside thee-but at times, And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell In Janus-spirits-the significant eye Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd- The acquiescence in all things which tend, No matter how, to the desirèd end-
All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won- I would not do by thee as thou hast done!
MANFRED.*
A DRAMATIC POEM.
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps-partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains.
MANFRED alone.-Scene, a Gothic Gallery.-Time, Midnight.
Man. THE lamp must be replenish'd, but even then It will not burn so long as I must watch: My slumbers-if I slumber-are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the forms of breathing men. But grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. Philosophy and science, and the springs Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, I have essay'd, and in my mind there is A power to make these subject to itself- But they avail not: I have done men good, And I have met with good even among men- But this avail'd not: I have had my foes,
And none have baffled, many fallen before me— But this avail'd not :-Good, or evil, life,
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,
Have been to me as rain unto the sands,
*Finished in February, 1817, but not published. Probably published in the spring of that year.
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,
And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, Or lurking love of something on the earth.-
Mysterious Agency!
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe!
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light- Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell In subtler essence-ye, to whom the tops Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things- I call upon ye by the written charm Which gives me power upon you-
They come not yet.-Now by the voice of him Who is the first among you-by this sign, Which makes you tremble-by the claims of him Who is undying,-Rise! appear !- -Appear!
If it be so.-Spirits of earth and air, Ye shall not thus elude me by a power, Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, A wandering hell in the eternal space; By the strong curse which is upon my soul, The thought which is within me and around me, I do compel ye to my will.-Appear!
[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery: it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.
Mortal to thy bidding bow'd,
From my mansion in the cloud,
Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer's sunlight gilds
With the azure and vermilion, Which is mix'd for my pavilion; Though thy quest may be forbidden, On a star-beam I have ridden; To thine adjuration bow'd, Mortal! be thy wish avow'd!
Voice of the SECOND SPIRIT.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains: They crown'd him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Around his waist are forests braced,
The Avalanche in his hand; But ere it fall, that thundering ball Must pause for my command.
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