To Fausta

To die be given us, or attain!Fierce work it were, to do again.

So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, prayedAt burning noon; so warriors said,Scarfed with the cross, who watched the milesOf dust which wreathed their struggling filesDown Lydian mountains; so, when snowsRound Alpine summits, eddying, rose,The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun,Crouched on his saddle, while the sunWent lurid down o’er flooded plainsThrough which the groaning Danube strainsTo the drear Euxine: so pray all,Whom labors, self-ordained, inthrall;Because they to themselves proposeOn this side the all-common closeA goal which, gained, may give repose.So pray they; and to stand againWhere they stood once, to them were pain;Pain to thread back and to renewPast straits, and currents long steered through.

But milder natures, and more free,--Whom an unblamed serenityHath freed from passions, and the stateOf struggle these necessitate;Whom schooling of the stubborn mindHath made, or birth hath found, resigned,--These mourn not, that their goings payObedience to the passing day.These claim not every laughing hourFor handmaid to their striding power;Each in her turn, with torch upreared,To await their march; and when appeared,Through the cold gloom, with measured race,To usher for a destined space(Her own sweet errands all foregone)The too imperious traveller on.These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,Time’s chafing prisoner, ask it now!

We left just ten years since, you say,That wayside inn we left to-day.Our jovial host, as forth we fare,Shouts greeting from his easy-chair.High on a bank our leader stands,Reviews and ranks his motley bands,Makes clear our goal to every eye,--The valley’s western boundary.A gate swings to! our tide hath flowedAlready from the silent road.The valley-pastures, one by one,Are threaded, quiet in the sun;And now, beyond the rude stone bridge,Slopes gracious up the western ridge.Its woody border, and the lastOf its dark upland farms, is past;Cool farms, with open-lying stores,Under their burnished sycamores,--All past! and through the trees we glideEmerging on the green hillside.There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign,Our wavering, many-colored line;There winds, up-streaming slowly stillOver the summit of the hill.And now, in front, behold outspreadThose upper regions we must tread,--Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells,The cheerful silence of the fells.

Some two hours’ march, with serious air,Through the deep noontide heats we fare;The red-grouse, springing at our sound,Skims, now and then, the shining ground;No life, save his and ours, intrudesUpon these breathless solitudes.Oh, joy! again the farms appear.Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer;There springs the brook will guide us down,Bright comrade, to the noisy town.Lingering, we follow down; we gainThe town, the highway, and the plain.And many a mile of dusty way,Parched and road-worn, we made that day;But, Fausta, I remember well,That as the balmy darkness fell,We bathed our hands with speechless glee,That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.

Once more we tread this self-same road,Fausta, which ten years since we trod;Alone we tread it, you and I,Ghosts of that boisterous company.Here, where the brook shines, near its head,In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,Capped with faint smoke, the noisy town,--Here sit we, and again unroll,Though slowly, the familiar whole.The solemn wastes of heathy hillSleep in the July sunshine still;The self-same shadows now, as then,Play through this grassy upland glen;The loose dark stones on the green wayLie strewn, it seems, where then they lay;On this mild bank above the stream,(You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam.Still this wild brook, the rushes cool,The sailing foam, the shining pool!These are not changed; and we, you say,Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they.

The gypsies, whom we met below,They too have long roamed to and fro;They ramble, leaving, where they pass,Their fragments on the cumbered grass.And often to some kindly placeChance guides the migratory race,Where, though long wanderings intervene,They recognize a former scene.The dingy tents are pitched; the firesGive to the wind their wavering spires;In dark knots crouch round the wild flameTheir children, as when first they came;They see their shackled beasts againMove, browsing, up the gray-walled lane.Signs are not wanting, which might raiseThe ghost in them of former days,--Signs are not wanting, if they would;Suggestions to disquietude.For them, for all, time’s busy touch,While it mends little, troubles much.Their joints grow stiffer--but the yearRuns his old round of dubious cheer;Chilly they grow--yet winds in March,Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch;They must live still--and yet, God knows,Crowded and keen the country grows;It seems as if, in their decay,The law grew stronger every day.So might they reason, so compare,Fausta, times past with times that are;But no! they rubbed through yesterdayIn their hereditary way,And they will rub through, if they can,To-morrow on the self-same plan,Till death arrive to supersede,For them, vicissitude and need.

The poet, to whose mighty heartHeaven doth a quicker pulse impart,Subdues that energy to scanNot his own course, but that of man.Though he move mountains, though his dayBe passed on the proud heights of sway,Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,Though he hath borne immortal pains,Action and suffering though he know,--He hath not lived, if he lives so.He sees, in some great-historied land,A ruler of the people stand,Sees his strong thought in fiery floodRoll through the heaving multitude,Exults--yet for no moment’s spaceEnvies the all-regarded place.Beautiful eyes meet his, and heBears to admire uncravingly;They pass: he, mingled with the crowd,Is in their far-off triumphs proud.

From some high station he looks down,At sunset, on a populous town;Surveys each happy group which fleets,Toil ended, through the shining streets,--Each with some errand of its own,--And does not say, I am alone.He sees the gentle stir of birthWhen morning purifies the earth;He leans upon a gate, and seesThe pastures, and the quiet trees.Low, woody hill, with gracious bound,Folds the still valley almost round;The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn,Is answered from the depth of dawn;In the hedge straggling to the stream,Pale, dew-drenched, half-shut roses gleam.But, where the farther side slopes down,He sees the drowsy new-waked clownIn his white quaint-embroidered frockMake, whistling, toward his mist-wreathed flock,Slowly, behind his heavy tread,The wet, flowered grass heaves up its head.Leaned on his gate, he gazes: tearsAre in his eyes, and in his earsThe murmur of a thousand years.Before him he sees life unroll,A placid and continuous whole,--That general life, which does not cease,Whose secret is not joy, but peace;That life, whose dumb wish is not missedIf birth proceeds, if things subsist;The life of plants, and stones, and rain,The life he craves--if not in vainFate gave, what chance shall not control,His sad lucidity of soul.

You listen; but that wandering smile,Fausta, betrays you cold the while!Your eyes pursue the bells of foamWashed, eddying, from this bank, their home.Those gypsies--so your thoughts I scan--Are less, the poet more, than man.They feel not, though they move and see.Deeper the poet feels; but heBreathes, when he will, immortal air,Where Orpheus and where Homer are.In the day’s life, whose iron roundHems us all in, he is not bound;He leaves his kind, o’erleaps their pen,And flees the common life of men.He escapes thence, but we abide.Not deep the poet sees, but wide.

The world in which we live and moveOutlasts aversion, outlasts love,Outlasts each effort, interest, hope,Remorse, grief, joy; and, were the scopeOf these affections wider made,Man still would see, and see dismayed,Beyond his passion’s widest range,Far regions of eternal change.Nay, and since death, which wipes out man,Finds him with many an unsolved plan,With much unknown, and much untried,Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried,Still gazing on the ever fullEternal mundane spectacle,--This world in which we draw our breath,In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death.

Blame thou not, therefore, him who daresJudge vain beforehand human cares;Whose natural insight can discernWhat through experience others learn;Who needs not love and power, to knowLove transient, power an unreal show;Who treads at ease life’s uncheered ways:Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise!Rather thyself for some aim pray,Nobler than this, to fill the day;Rather that heart, which burns in thee,Ask, not to amuse, but to set free;Be passionate hopes not ill resignedFor quiet, and a fearless mind.And though fate grudge to thee and meThe poet’s rapt security,Yet they, believe me, who awaitNo gifts from chance, have conquered fate.They, winning room to see and hear,And to men’s business not too near,Through clouds of individual strifeDraw homeward to the general life.Like leaves by suns not yet uncurled;To the wise, foolish; to the world,Weak: yet not weak, I might reply,Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye,To whom each moment in its race,Crowd as we will its neutral space,Is but a quiet watershedWhence, equally, the seas of life and death are fed.

Enough, we live! and if a lifeWith large results so little rife,Though bearable, seem hardly worthThis pomp of worlds, this pain of birth;Yet, Fausta, the mute turf we tread,The solemn hills around us spread,This stream which falls incessantly,The strange-scrawled rocks, the lonely sky,If I might lend their life a voice,Seem to bear rather than rejoice.And even could the intemperate prayerMan iterates, while these forbear,For movement, for an ampler sphere,Pierce Fate’s impenetrable ear;Not milder is the general lotBecause our spirits have forgot,In action’s dizzying eddy whirled,The something that infects the world.