Last Words of a Sensitive Second-Rate Poet
OF A SENSITIVE SECOND-RATE POET .
Will , are you sitting and watching there yet? And I know, by a certain skill
That grows out of utter wakefulness, the night must be far spent, Will:
For, lying awake so many a night, I have learn'd at last to catch
From the crowing cock, and the clanging clock, and the sound of the beating watch,
A misty sense of the measureless march of Time, as he passes here,
Leaving my life behind him: and I know that the dawn is near.
But you have been watching three nights, Will, and you look'd so wan to-night,
I thought, as I saw you sitting there, in the sad monotonous light
Of the moody night-lamp near you, that I could not choose but close
My lids as fast, and lie as still, as tho' I lay in a dose:
For, I thought, " He will deem I am dreaming, and then he may steal away,
And sleep a little: and this will be well. " And truly, I dream'd, as I lay
Wide awake, but all as quiet, as tho', the last office done,
They had streak'd me out for the grave, Will, to which they will bear me anon.
Dream'd; for old things and places came dancing about my brain,
Like ghosts that dance in an empty house: and my thoughts went slipping again
By green back-ways forgotten to a stiller circle of time,
Where violets, faded for ever, seem'd blowing as once in their prime:
And I fancied that you and I, Will, were boys again as of old,
At dawn on the hill-top together, at eve in the field by the fold;
Till the thought of this was growing too wildly sweet to be borne,
And I oped mine eyes, and turn'd me round, and there, in the light forlorn,
I find you sitting beside me. But the dawn is at hand, I know.
Sleep a little. I shall not die to-night. You may leave me. Go.
Eh! is it time for the drink? must you mix it? it does me no good.
But thanks, old friend, true friend! I would live for your sake, if I could.
Ay, there are some good things in life, that fall not away with the rest.
And, of all best things upon earth, I hold that a faithful friend is the best.
For woman, Will, is a thorny flower: it breaks, and we bleed and smart:
The blossom falls at the fairest, and the thorn runs into the heart.
And woman's love is a bitter fruit; and, however he bite it, or sip,
There's many a man has lived to curse the taste of that fruit on his lip.
But never was any man yet, as I ween, be he whosoever he may,
That has known what a true friend is, Will, and wish'd that knowledge away.
You were proud of my promise, faithful despite of my fall,
Sad when the world seem'd over-sweet, sweet when the world turn'd gall:
Therefore, fair weather be yours, Will, whether it shines or pours,
And, if I can slip from out of my grave, my spirit will visit yours.
O woman-eyes that have smiled and smiled, O woman-lips that have kissed
The life-blood out of my heart, why thus for ever do you persist,
Pressing out of the dark all round, to bewilder my dying hours
With your ghostly sorceries brew'd from the breath of your poison-flowers?
Still, tho' the idol be broken, I see at their ancient revels,
The riven altar around, come dancing the selfsame devils.
Lente currite, lente currite, noctis equi!
Linger a little, O Time, and let me be saved ere I die!
How many a night 'neath her window have I walk'd in the wind and rain,
Only to look at her shadow fleet over the lighted pane!
Alas! 'twas her shadow that rested, 'twas herself that fleeted, you see,
And now I am dying, I know it: — dying, and where is she?
Dancing divinely, perchance, or, over her soft harp strings,
Using the past to give pathos to the little new song that she sings.
Bitter? I dare not be bitter in the few last hours left to live.
Needing so much forgiveness, God grant me at least to forgive.
There can be no space for the ghost of her face down in the narrow room,
And the mole is blind, and the worm is mute, and there must be rest in the tomb.
And just one failure more or less to a life that seems to be
(Whilst I lie looking upon it, as a bird on the broken tree
She hovers about, ere making wing for a land of lovelier growth,
Brighter blossom, and purer air, somewhere far off in the south,)
Failure, crowning failure, failure from end to end,
Just one more or less, what matter, to the many no grief can mend?
Not to know vice is virtue, not fate, however men rave:
And, next to this, I hold that man to be but a coward and a slave
Who bears the plague-spot upon him, and, knowing it, shrinks or fears
To brand it out, though the burning knife should hiss in his heart's hot tears.
Yet oh! the confident spirit once mine, to dare and to do!
Take the world into my hand, and shape it, and make it anew:
Gather all men in my purpose, men in their darkness and dearth,
Men in their meanness and misery, made of the dust of the earth,
Mould them afresh, and make out of them Man, with his spirit sublime,
Man, the great heir of Eternity, dragging the conquests of Time!
Therefore I mingled among them, deeming the poet should hold
All natures saved in his own, as the world in the ark was, of old;
All natures saved in his own to be types of a nobler race,
When the old world passeth away, and the new world taketh his place.
Triple fool in my folly; purblind and impotent worm,
Thinking to move the world, who could not myself stand firm!
Cheat of a worn-out trick, as one that on shipboard roves
Wherever the wind may blow, still deeming the continent moves.
Blowing the frothy bubble of life's brittle purpose away;
Child, ever chasing the morrow, who now cannot ransom a day:
Still I call'd Fame to lead onward, forgetting she follows behind
Those who know whither they walk thro' the praise or dispraise of mankind.
Friend, lay your hand in my own, and swear to me, when you have seen
My body borne out from the door, ere the grass on my grave shall be green,
You will burn every book I have written. And so perish, one and all,
Each trace of the struggle that fail'd with the life that I cannot recall.
Dust and ashes, earth's dross, which the mattock may give to the mole!
Something, secure of achievement survives, as I trust, with the soul.
Something? ... Ay, something comes back to me ... Think! that I might have been ... what?
Almost, I fancy at times, what I meant to have been, and am not.
Where was the fault? Was it strength fell short! And yet (I can speak of it now)
How my spirit sung like the resonant nerve of a warrior's battle bow
When the shaft has leapt from the string, what time, her first bright banner unfurl'd,
Song aim'd her arrowy purpose in me sharp at the heart of the world!
Was it the hand that falter'd, unskill'd? or was it the eye that deceived?
However I reason it out, there remains a failure time has not retrieved.
Comfort me not. For if aught be worse than failure from over-stress
Of a life's prime purpose, it is to sit down content with a little success.
Talk not of genius baffled. Genius is master of man.
Genius does what it must, and Talent does what it can.
Blot out my name, that the spirits of Shakspeare and Milton and Burns
Look not down on the praises of fools with a pity my soul yet spurns.
And yet, had I only the trick of an aptitude shrewd of its kind,
I should have lived longer, I think, more merry of heart and of mind.
Surely I knew (who better?) the innermost secret of each
Bird, and beast, and flower. Failed I to give to them speech?
All the pale spirits of storm, that sail down streams of the wind,
Thro' the cloven thunder-cloud, with wild hair blowing behind;
All the soft seraphs that float in the light of the crimson eve,
When Hesper begins to glitter, and the heavy woodland to heave:
And the white nymphs of the water, that dwell 'mid the lilies alone:
And the buskin'd maids for the love of whom the hoary oak-trees groan;
They came to my call in the forest; they crept to my feet from the river:
They softly look'd out of the sky when I sung, and their wings beat with breathless endeavour
The blocks of the broken thunder piling their stormy lattices,
Over the moaning mountain walls, and over the sobbing seas.
So many more reproachful faces around my bed!
Voices moaning about me: " Ah! couldst thou not heed what we said? "
Peace to the past! it skills not now: these thoughts that vex it in vain
Are but the dust of a broken purpose blowing about the brain
Which presently will be tenantless, when the wanton worms carouse,
And the mole builds over my bones his little windowless house.
It is growing darker and stranger, Will, and colder — dark and cold,
Dark and cold! Is the lamp gone out? Give me thy hand to hold.
No: 'tis life's brief candle burning down. Tears? tears, Will! Why,
This which we call dying is only ceasing to die.
The hard thing was to live, Will. With flowers and music, life,
Like a pagan sacrifice, leads us along to this dark High Priest with the knife.
Wherefore, if man be immortal (which faith in the days that are done
I have ever upheld 'neath the weight of that Present, which now is this Gone)
Should he fear lest his feeble unfolding from this cramp and chrysalis world
Of forces sheathed in himself, by the strongest not wholly unfurl'd,
This first of man's efforts at growth, howsoever it fail or succeed,
Be the last of his dealings with time, and the spirit stop short with the deed?
Pray for my soul, that she may find and fashion some fairer way
From the manifold modes of expression as yet unfound, unattempted, to say
The word within, which that handful of earth the hard sexton will shovel anon
On the lips of a buried man can surely not check, when its meaning is gone
To work on the world that death opens. I wait. There are ages in store.
But the love ... ah, the love, Will? the fair human face that I follow'd of yore,
It eludes me at last, and for ever! for ever I lose it! the most
I can gain from the grave, is — not this, but the knowledge of why it was lost.
Will , are you sitting and watching there yet? And I know, by a certain skill
That grows out of utter wakefulness, the night must be far spent, Will:
For, lying awake so many a night, I have learn'd at last to catch
From the crowing cock, and the clanging clock, and the sound of the beating watch,
A misty sense of the measureless march of Time, as he passes here,
Leaving my life behind him: and I know that the dawn is near.
But you have been watching three nights, Will, and you look'd so wan to-night,
I thought, as I saw you sitting there, in the sad monotonous light
Of the moody night-lamp near you, that I could not choose but close
My lids as fast, and lie as still, as tho' I lay in a dose:
For, I thought, " He will deem I am dreaming, and then he may steal away,
And sleep a little: and this will be well. " And truly, I dream'd, as I lay
Wide awake, but all as quiet, as tho', the last office done,
They had streak'd me out for the grave, Will, to which they will bear me anon.
Dream'd; for old things and places came dancing about my brain,
Like ghosts that dance in an empty house: and my thoughts went slipping again
By green back-ways forgotten to a stiller circle of time,
Where violets, faded for ever, seem'd blowing as once in their prime:
And I fancied that you and I, Will, were boys again as of old,
At dawn on the hill-top together, at eve in the field by the fold;
Till the thought of this was growing too wildly sweet to be borne,
And I oped mine eyes, and turn'd me round, and there, in the light forlorn,
I find you sitting beside me. But the dawn is at hand, I know.
Sleep a little. I shall not die to-night. You may leave me. Go.
Eh! is it time for the drink? must you mix it? it does me no good.
But thanks, old friend, true friend! I would live for your sake, if I could.
Ay, there are some good things in life, that fall not away with the rest.
And, of all best things upon earth, I hold that a faithful friend is the best.
For woman, Will, is a thorny flower: it breaks, and we bleed and smart:
The blossom falls at the fairest, and the thorn runs into the heart.
And woman's love is a bitter fruit; and, however he bite it, or sip,
There's many a man has lived to curse the taste of that fruit on his lip.
But never was any man yet, as I ween, be he whosoever he may,
That has known what a true friend is, Will, and wish'd that knowledge away.
You were proud of my promise, faithful despite of my fall,
Sad when the world seem'd over-sweet, sweet when the world turn'd gall:
Therefore, fair weather be yours, Will, whether it shines or pours,
And, if I can slip from out of my grave, my spirit will visit yours.
O woman-eyes that have smiled and smiled, O woman-lips that have kissed
The life-blood out of my heart, why thus for ever do you persist,
Pressing out of the dark all round, to bewilder my dying hours
With your ghostly sorceries brew'd from the breath of your poison-flowers?
Still, tho' the idol be broken, I see at their ancient revels,
The riven altar around, come dancing the selfsame devils.
Lente currite, lente currite, noctis equi!
Linger a little, O Time, and let me be saved ere I die!
How many a night 'neath her window have I walk'd in the wind and rain,
Only to look at her shadow fleet over the lighted pane!
Alas! 'twas her shadow that rested, 'twas herself that fleeted, you see,
And now I am dying, I know it: — dying, and where is she?
Dancing divinely, perchance, or, over her soft harp strings,
Using the past to give pathos to the little new song that she sings.
Bitter? I dare not be bitter in the few last hours left to live.
Needing so much forgiveness, God grant me at least to forgive.
There can be no space for the ghost of her face down in the narrow room,
And the mole is blind, and the worm is mute, and there must be rest in the tomb.
And just one failure more or less to a life that seems to be
(Whilst I lie looking upon it, as a bird on the broken tree
She hovers about, ere making wing for a land of lovelier growth,
Brighter blossom, and purer air, somewhere far off in the south,)
Failure, crowning failure, failure from end to end,
Just one more or less, what matter, to the many no grief can mend?
Not to know vice is virtue, not fate, however men rave:
And, next to this, I hold that man to be but a coward and a slave
Who bears the plague-spot upon him, and, knowing it, shrinks or fears
To brand it out, though the burning knife should hiss in his heart's hot tears.
Yet oh! the confident spirit once mine, to dare and to do!
Take the world into my hand, and shape it, and make it anew:
Gather all men in my purpose, men in their darkness and dearth,
Men in their meanness and misery, made of the dust of the earth,
Mould them afresh, and make out of them Man, with his spirit sublime,
Man, the great heir of Eternity, dragging the conquests of Time!
Therefore I mingled among them, deeming the poet should hold
All natures saved in his own, as the world in the ark was, of old;
All natures saved in his own to be types of a nobler race,
When the old world passeth away, and the new world taketh his place.
Triple fool in my folly; purblind and impotent worm,
Thinking to move the world, who could not myself stand firm!
Cheat of a worn-out trick, as one that on shipboard roves
Wherever the wind may blow, still deeming the continent moves.
Blowing the frothy bubble of life's brittle purpose away;
Child, ever chasing the morrow, who now cannot ransom a day:
Still I call'd Fame to lead onward, forgetting she follows behind
Those who know whither they walk thro' the praise or dispraise of mankind.
Friend, lay your hand in my own, and swear to me, when you have seen
My body borne out from the door, ere the grass on my grave shall be green,
You will burn every book I have written. And so perish, one and all,
Each trace of the struggle that fail'd with the life that I cannot recall.
Dust and ashes, earth's dross, which the mattock may give to the mole!
Something, secure of achievement survives, as I trust, with the soul.
Something? ... Ay, something comes back to me ... Think! that I might have been ... what?
Almost, I fancy at times, what I meant to have been, and am not.
Where was the fault? Was it strength fell short! And yet (I can speak of it now)
How my spirit sung like the resonant nerve of a warrior's battle bow
When the shaft has leapt from the string, what time, her first bright banner unfurl'd,
Song aim'd her arrowy purpose in me sharp at the heart of the world!
Was it the hand that falter'd, unskill'd? or was it the eye that deceived?
However I reason it out, there remains a failure time has not retrieved.
Comfort me not. For if aught be worse than failure from over-stress
Of a life's prime purpose, it is to sit down content with a little success.
Talk not of genius baffled. Genius is master of man.
Genius does what it must, and Talent does what it can.
Blot out my name, that the spirits of Shakspeare and Milton and Burns
Look not down on the praises of fools with a pity my soul yet spurns.
And yet, had I only the trick of an aptitude shrewd of its kind,
I should have lived longer, I think, more merry of heart and of mind.
Surely I knew (who better?) the innermost secret of each
Bird, and beast, and flower. Failed I to give to them speech?
All the pale spirits of storm, that sail down streams of the wind,
Thro' the cloven thunder-cloud, with wild hair blowing behind;
All the soft seraphs that float in the light of the crimson eve,
When Hesper begins to glitter, and the heavy woodland to heave:
And the white nymphs of the water, that dwell 'mid the lilies alone:
And the buskin'd maids for the love of whom the hoary oak-trees groan;
They came to my call in the forest; they crept to my feet from the river:
They softly look'd out of the sky when I sung, and their wings beat with breathless endeavour
The blocks of the broken thunder piling their stormy lattices,
Over the moaning mountain walls, and over the sobbing seas.
So many more reproachful faces around my bed!
Voices moaning about me: " Ah! couldst thou not heed what we said? "
Peace to the past! it skills not now: these thoughts that vex it in vain
Are but the dust of a broken purpose blowing about the brain
Which presently will be tenantless, when the wanton worms carouse,
And the mole builds over my bones his little windowless house.
It is growing darker and stranger, Will, and colder — dark and cold,
Dark and cold! Is the lamp gone out? Give me thy hand to hold.
No: 'tis life's brief candle burning down. Tears? tears, Will! Why,
This which we call dying is only ceasing to die.
The hard thing was to live, Will. With flowers and music, life,
Like a pagan sacrifice, leads us along to this dark High Priest with the knife.
Wherefore, if man be immortal (which faith in the days that are done
I have ever upheld 'neath the weight of that Present, which now is this Gone)
Should he fear lest his feeble unfolding from this cramp and chrysalis world
Of forces sheathed in himself, by the strongest not wholly unfurl'd,
This first of man's efforts at growth, howsoever it fail or succeed,
Be the last of his dealings with time, and the spirit stop short with the deed?
Pray for my soul, that she may find and fashion some fairer way
From the manifold modes of expression as yet unfound, unattempted, to say
The word within, which that handful of earth the hard sexton will shovel anon
On the lips of a buried man can surely not check, when its meaning is gone
To work on the world that death opens. I wait. There are ages in store.
But the love ... ah, the love, Will? the fair human face that I follow'd of yore,
It eludes me at last, and for ever! for ever I lose it! the most
I can gain from the grave, is — not this, but the knowledge of why it was lost.
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