Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past; That on his landing he had been dismissed, And now was travelling towards his native home. This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with me."
He stooped, and straightway from the ground took up An oaken staff by me yet unobserved—
A staff which must have dropped from his slack hand And lay till now neglected in the grass.
Though weak his step and cautious, he appeared
To travel without pain, and I beheld With an astonishment but ill suppresed, His ghostly figure moving at my side; Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbear To turn from present hardships to the past, And speak of war, battle, and pestilence, Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared, On what he might himself have seen or felt. He all the while was in demeanour calm, Concise in answer; solemn and sublime
He might have seemed, but that in all he said There was a strange half-absence, as of one Knowing too well the importance of his theme, But feeling it no longer. Our discourse Soon ended, and together on we passed In silence through a wood gloomy and still. Up-turning, then, along an open field,
We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked, And earnestly to charitable care
Commended him as a poor friendless man, Belated and by sickness overcome. Assured that now the traveller would repose In comfort, I entreated that henceforth. He would not linger in the public ways, But ask for timely furtherance and help
Such as his state required.
With the same ghastly mildness in his look, He said, "My trust is in the God of Heaven, And in the eye of him who passes me!"
The cottage door was speedily unbarred, And now the soldier touched his hat once more With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice, Whose tone bespake reviving interests
Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned The farewell blessing of the patient man, And so we parted. Back I cast a look, And lingered near the door a little space, Then sought with quiet heart my distant home.
WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man, Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be, Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved, Through length of time, by patient exercise Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is
That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man Established by the sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffused, As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought, For commerce of thy nature with herself, Things that aspire to unconquerable life;
And yet we feel we cannot choose but feel- That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart It gives, to think that our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man, As long as he shall be the child of earth, Might almost "weep to have" what he may lose, Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,- Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare, Yet would the living Presence still subsist Victorious, and composure would ensue, And kindlings like the morning-presage sure Of day returning and of life revived. But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth By reason built, or passion, which itself Is highest reason in a soul sublime; The consecrated works of Bard and Sage, Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men, Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?
One day, when from my lips a like complaint Had fallen in presence of a studious friend, He with a smile made answer, that in truth 'Twas going far to seek disquietude; But on the front of his reproof confessed That he himself had oftentimes given way To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told,
That once in the stillness of a summer's noon, While I was seated in a rocky cave
By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced, The famous history of the errant knight Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts Beset me, and to height unusual rose, While listlessly I sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea.
On poetry and geometric truth,
And their high privilege of lasting life, From all internal injury exempt,
I mused; upon these chiefly: and at length, My senses yielding to the sultry air,
Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. I saw before me stretched a boundless plain Of sandy wilderness, all black and void, And as I looked around, distress and fear Came creeping over me, when at my side, Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared Upon a dromedary, mounted high. He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes: A lance he bore, and underneath one arm A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight
Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide Was present, one who with unerring skill
Would through the desert lead me; and while yet I looked and looked, self-questioned what this freight Which the new comer carried through the waste Could mean, the Arab told me that the stone (To give it in the language of the dream) Was "Euclid's Elements;" and "This," said he, "Is something of more worth;" and at the word Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in shape, In colour so resplendent, with command
That I should hold it to my ear. I did so, And heard that instant in an unknown tongue, Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, A loud prophetic blast of harmony; An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold Destruction to the children of the earth By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased The song, than the Arab with calm look declared That all would come to pass of which the voice Had given forewarning, and that he himself Was going then to bury those two books: The one that held acquaintance with the stars, And wedded soul to soul in purest bond Of reason, undisturbed by space or time; The other that was a god, yea many gods, Had voices more than all the winds, with power To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe, Through every clime, the heart of human kind. While this was uttering, strange as it may seem, I wondered not, although I plainly saw The one to be a stone, the other a shell; Nor doubted once but that they both were books, Having a perfect faith in all that passed.
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