The Vision of Sin

I had a vision when the night was late:A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,But that his heavy rider kept him down.And from the palace came a child of sin,And took him by the curls, and led him in,Where sat a company with heated eyes,Expecting when a fountain should arise:A sleepy light upon their brows and lips—As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes—Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes,By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes.

Then methought I heard a mellow sound,Gathering up from all the lower ground;Narrowing in to where they sat assembledLow voluptuous music winding trembled,Wov’n in circles: they that heard it sigh’d,Panted hand in hand with faces pale,Swung themselves, and in low tones replied;Till the fountain spouted, showering wideSleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail;Then the music touch’d the gates and died;Rose again from where it seem’d to fail,Storm’d in orbs of song, a growing gale;Till thronging in and in, to where they waited,As ’twere a hundred-throated nightingale,The strong tempestuous treble throbb’d and palpitated;Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound,Caught the sparkles, and in circles,Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes,Flung the torrent rainbow round:Then they started from their places,Moved with violence, changed in hue,Caught each other with wild grimaces,Half-invisible to the view,Wheeling with precipitate pacesTo the melody, till they flew,Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces,Twisted hard in fierce embraces,Like to Furies, like to Graces,Dash’d together in blinding dew:Till, kill’d with some luxurious agony,The nerve-dissolving melodyFlutter’d headlong from the sky.

And then I look’d up toward a mountain-tract,That girt the region with high cliff and lawn:I saw that every morning, far withdrawnBeyond the darkness and the cataract,God made himself an awful rose of dawn,Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold,From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near,A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold,Came floating on for many a month and year,Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken,And warn’d that madman ere it grew too late:But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken,When that cold vapour touch’d the palace-gate,And link’d again. I saw within my headA gray and gap-tooth’d man as lean as death,Who slowly rode across a wither’d heath,And lighted at a ruin’d inn, and said:

“Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin!Here is custom come your way;Take my brute, and lead him in,Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay.

“Bitter barmaid, waning fast!See that sheets are on my bed;What! the flower of life is past:It is long before you wed.

“Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour,At the Dragon on the heath!Let us have a quiet hour,Let us hob-and-nob with Death.

“I am old, but let me drink;Bring me spices, bring me wine;I remember, when I think,That my youth was half divine.

“Wine is good for shrivell’d lips,When a blanket wraps the day,When the rotten woodland drips,And the leaf is stamp’d in clay.

“Sit thee down, and have no shame,Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee:What care I for any name?What for order or degree?

“Let me screw thee up a peg:Let me loose thy tongue with wine:Callest thou that thing a leg?Which is thinnest? thine or mine?

“Thou shalt not be saved by works:Thou hast been a sinner too:Ruin’d trunks on wither’d forks,Empty scarecrows, I and you!

“Fill the cup, and fill the can:Have a rouse before the morn:Every moment dies a man,Every moment one is born.

“We are men of ruin’d blood;Therefore comes it we are wise.Fish are we that love the mud.Rising to no fancy-flies.

“Name and fame! to fly sublimeThro’ the courts, the camps, the schools,Is to be the ball of Time,Bandied by the hands of fools.

“Friendship!—to be two in one—Let the canting liar pack!Well I know, when I am gone,How she mouths behind my back.

“Virtue!—to be good and just—Every heart, when sifted well,Is a clot of warmer dust,Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell.

“O! we two as well can lookWhited thought and cleanly lifeAs the priest, above his bookLeering at his neighbour’s wife.

“Fill the cup, and fill the can:Have a rouse before the morn:Every moment dies a man,Every moment one is born.

“Drink, and let the parties rave:They are fill’d with idle spleen;Rising, falling, like a wave,For they know not what they mean.

“He that roars for libertyFaster binds a tyrant’s power;And the tyrant’s cruel gleeForces on the freer hour.

“Fill the can, and fill the cup:All the windy ways of menAre but dust that rises up,And is lightly laid again.

“Greet her with applausive breath,Freedom, gaily doth she tread;In her right a civic wreath,In her left a human head.

“No, I love not what is new;She is of an ancient house:And I think we know the hueOf that cap upon her brows.

“Let her go! her thirst she slakesWhere the bloody conduit runs:Then her sweetest meal she makesOn the first-born of her sons.

“Drink to lofty hopes that cool—Visions of a perfect State:Drink we, last, the public fool,Frantic love and frantic hate.

“Chant me now some wicked stave,Till thy drooping courage rise,And the glow-worm of the graveGlimmer in thy rheumy eyes.

“Fear not thou to loose thy tongue;Set thy hoary fancies free;What is loathsome to the youngSavours well to thee and me.

“Change, reverting to the years,When thy nerves could understandWhat there is in loving tears,And the warmth of hand in hand.

“Tell me tales of thy first love—April hopes, the fools of chance;Till the graves begin to move,And the dead begin to dance.

“Fill the can, and fill the cup:All the windy ways of menAre but dust that rises up,And is lightly laid again.

“Trooping from their mouldy densThe chap-fallen circle spreads:Welcome, fellow-citizens,Hollow hearts and empty heads!

“You are bones, and what of that?Every face, however full,Padded round with flesh and fat,Is but modell’d on a skull.

“Death is king, and Vivat Rex!Tread a measure on the stones,Madam—if I know your sex,From the fashion of your bones.

“No, I cannot praise the fireIn your eye—nor yet your lip:All the more do I admireJoints of cunning workmanship.

“Lo! God’s likeness—the ground-plan—Neither modell’d, glazed, or framed:Buss me thou rough sketch of man,Far too naked to be shamed!

“Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,While we keep a little breath!Drink to heavy Ignorance!Hob-and-nob with brother Death!

“Thou art mazed, the night is long,And the longer night is near:What! I am not all as wrongAs a bitter jest is dear.

“Youthful hopes, by scores, to all,When the locks are crisp and curl’d;Unto me my maudlin gallAnd my mockeries of the world.

“Fill the cup, and fill the can!Mingle madness, mingle scorn!Dregs of life, and lees of man:Yet we will not die forlorn.”

The voice grew faint: there came a further change:Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range:Below were men and horses pierced with worms,And slowly quickening into lower forms;By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross,Old plash of rains, and refuse patch’d with moss,Then some one spake: “Behold! it was a crimeOf sense avenged by sense that wore with time”.Another said: “The crime of sense becameThe crime of malice, and is equal blame”.And one: “He had not wholly quench’d his power;A little grain of conscience made him sour”.At last I heard a voice upon the slopeCry to the summit, “Is there any hope?”To which an answer peal’d from that high land.But in a tongue no man could understand;And on the glimmering limit far withdrawnGod made Himself an awful rose of dawn.

Imitated apparently from the dance in Shelley’s Triumph ofLife:—

The wild dance maddens in the van; and thoseMix with each other in tempestuous measureTo savage music, wilder as it grows.They, tortur’d by their agonising pleasure,Convuls’d, and on the rapid whirlwinds spunMaidens and youths fling their wild arms in air.As their feet twinkle, etc.

Every minute dies a man,Every minute one is born.

Every moment dies a man,And one and a sixteenth is born.

Another answer’d: “But a crime of sense!”“Give him new nerves with old experience.”

In Professor Tyndall’s reminiscences of Tennyson, inserted inTennyson’s Life, he says he once asked him for some explanation ofthis line, and the poet’s reply was:

“The gentle readers wax unkind,And, not so studious for the poet’s ease,Insist on knowing what he means, a hardAnd hapless situation for a bard”.

Come not, when I am dead,To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,To trample round my fallen head,And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crimeI care no longer, being all unblest:Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,And I desire to rest.Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:Go by, go by.