CXXVI. Our life is a false nature-'tis not in The harmony of things,—this hard decree, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew— Disease, death, bondage-all the woes we see And worse, the woes we see not-which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly-'tis a base (57) Our right of thought-our last and only place Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, Too brightly on on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Should be the light which streams here, to illume Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, And shadows forth its glory. There is given His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. CXXX. Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled— My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years-though few, yet full of fate :- Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain-shall they not mourn? CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Lost the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! (58) Had it but been from hands less near-in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart?-Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if I have not taken for the sake But let that pass-I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! CXXXV. That curse shall be Forgiveness.—Have I not— Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. |