Classic Poem

Scene — A Library and Balcony — A Summer Night .

F ESTUS alone . The last high upward slant of sun on the trees,
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall,
Seems to console earth for the glory gone.
Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus;
The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there;
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings!
Like pious prayers ye seem to soothe its end.
It will wake no more till the all-revealing day;
When, like a drop of water, greatened bright
Into a shadow, it shall show itself
With all its little tyrannous things and deeds,
Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God, —
Straight, like an infant's spirit, or a mocked
And mourning messenger of grace to man.
Would it had taken me too on its wing!
My end is nigh. Would I might die outright!
And slip the coil without waiting its unwind.
Who that hath lain lonely on a high hill,
In the imperious silence of full noon,
With nothing but the clear dark sky about him,
Like God's hand laid upon the head of earth —
But hath expected that some natural spirit
Should start out of the universal air —
And gathering his cloudy robe around him,
As one in act to teach mysterious things,
Explain that he must die? — that having got
As high as earth can lift him up — as far
Above that thing, the world, as flesh can mount —
Over the tyrant wind, and the clouded lightning,
And the round rainbow — and that having gained
A loftier and a more mysterious beauty
Of feeling — something like a starry darkness
Seizing the soul — say he must die — and vanish?
Who hath not, at such moments, felt as now
I feel, that to be happy we must die?
And here I rest — above the world and its ways;
The wind, opinion — and the rainbow, beauty —
And the thunder, superstition — I am free
Of all: — save death, what want I to be happy?
And shall I leave no trace, then, of my life?
The soul begetteth shadows of itself
Which do outlive their author: and are more
Substantial than all nature, and the red
Realities of flesh and blood, as echo
Is longer, louder, further than the voice
Of man can thunder, or his ear report.
And oft the world hath Deified its echoes.
A year! — and who shall find them? Can it be
The mind's works have been deathless — not the mind?
Or will the world's immortals die with me? —
The sages, and the heroes, and the bards, —
Whose verse set to the thunder of the seas,
Seems as immortal as their ceaseless music!
O God! I fain would deem Thou livest not:
And that this world hath sprung up from chance seed,
Unknown to thee; and is not reckoned on.
Hell solves all doubts. — Come to me, Lucifer!
L UCIFER . Lo! I am here: and ever prompt When called for.
How speed thy general pleasures?
F ESTUS . Bravely! joys
Are bubble-like — what makes them, bursts them, too.
And, like the milky way, there! dim with stars,
The soul that numbers most will shine the less.
L UCIFER . No matter — mind it not!
F ESTUS . Yet, joys of earth!
That ye should ruin spirits is too hard.
Who can avoid ye? who can say ye nay?
Or take his eyes from off ye? who so chaste?
L UCIFER . They have well-nigh unimmortalized myself.
F ESTUS . Yet have they nought to sate the pining spirit
Which doth enamor immortality.
No! they are all base, impure, ruinous —
The harlots of the heart. Forgive me, God:
I am getting too forlorn to live — too waste.
Aught that I can or do love, shoots by me,
Like a train upon an iron road. And yet
I need not now reproach mine arm or aim;
For I have winged each pleasure as it flew,
How swift or high soever in its flight.
We cannot live alone. The heart must have
A prop without, or it will fall and break.
But nature's common joys are common cheats.
As he who sails southwards, beholds, each night,
New constellations rise, all clear, and fair;
So, o'er the waters of the world, as we
Reach the mid zone of life, or go beyond,
Beauty and bounty still beset our course;
New beauties wait upon us everywhere;
New lights enlighten and new worlds attract.
But I have seen and I have done with all.
Friendship hath passed me like a ship at sea;
And I have seen no more of it. I had
A friend with whom, in boyhood, I was wont
To learn, think, laugh, weep, strive, and love, together;
For we were alway rivals in all things —
Together up high springy hills, to trace
A runnel to its birthplace — to pursue
A river — to search, haunt old ruined towers,
And muse in them — to scale the cloud-clad hills
While thunders murmured in our very ear;
To leap the lair of the live cataract,
And pray its foaming pardon for the insult;
To dare the broken tree-bridge across the stream;
To crouch behind the broad white waterfall,
Tongue of the glen, like to a hidden thought —
Dazzled, and deafened, yet the more delighted;
To reach the rock which makes the fall and pool
There to feel safe, or not to care if not;
To fling the free foot over my native hills,
Which seemed to breathe the bracing breeze we loved
The more it lifted up our loosened locks,
That nought might be between us and the skies;
Or, hand in hand, leap, laughing, with closed eyes,
In Trent's death-loving deeps; yet was she kind
Ever to us; and bare us buoyant up,
And followed our young strokes, and cheered us on —
Even as an elder sister bending above
A child, to teach it how to order its feet —
As quick we dashed, in reckless rivalry,
To reach, perchance, some long, green floating flag —
Just when the sun's hot lip first touched the stream,
Reddening to be so kissed; and we rejoiced,
As breasting it on we went over depth and death,
Strong in the naked strife of elements,
Toying with danger in as little fear
As with a maiden's ringlets. And oft, at night,
Bewildered and bewitched by favorite stars,
We would breathe ourselves amid unfooted snows,
For there is poetry where aught is pure;
Or over the still dark heath, leap along, like harts,
Through the broad moonlight; for we felt wheree'er
We leapt the golden gorse, or lowly ling,
We could not be from home. — That friend is gone.
There's the whole universe before our souls.
Where shall we meet next? Shall we meet again?
Oh! might it be in some far happy world,
That I might light upon his lonely soul,
Hard by some broad blue stream, where high the hills,
Wood-bearded, sweep to its brink — musing, as wont,
With love-like sadness, upon sacred things;
For much in youth we loved and mused on them.
To say what ought to be to human wills,
And measure mortals sternly; to explore
The bearings of men's duties and desires;
To note the nature and the laws of mind;
To balance good with evil; and compare
The nature and necessity of each;
To long to see the ends and end of things;
Or, if no end there be, the endless, then,
As suns look into space; these were our joys —
Our hopes — our meditations — our attempts.
And, if I have enjoyed more love than others,
It is but superior suffering, and is more
Than balanced by the loss of one we love.
And love, itself, hath passed. One fond, fair girl
Remains; one only, and she loves me still.
But it is not love I feel: it is pure kindness.
How shall I find another like my last?
The golden and the gorgeous loveliness —
A sunset beauty! Ah! I saw it set.
My heart, alas! set with it. I have drained
Life of all love, as doth an iron rod
The Heaven's of lightning; I have done with it,
And all its waking woes, and dreamed-of joys.
No more shall beauty star the air I live in;
And no more will I wake at dead of night,
And hearken to the roaring of the wind,
As though it came to carry one away —
Claiming for sin. Ah! I am lost forever.
To earn the world's delights by equal sins
Seems the great aim of life — the aim succeeds.
Here it is madness, and perdition there.
And, but for thee, I had renounced these joys —
These cursed joys my soul now writhes among,
Like to a half-crushed reptile on a rose: —
Ay, but for thee, I might have now been happy!
L UCIFER . Why charge, why wrong me thus?
When first I knew thee,
I deemed it thine ambition to be damned.
Thine every thought, almost, had gone from good,
As far as finite is from infinite;
And then thou wast as near to me as now.
Thou hadst declined in worship, and in wish
To please thy God; nor wouldst thou e'er repent.
What more need I to justify attempt?
Have I shrunk back from granting aught I promised?
Thy love of knowledge — is that satisfied?
F ESTUS . It is. Yet knowledge is a doubtful boon —
Root of all good and fruit of all that's bad.
I have caused face to face with elements,
Yea, learned the luminous language of the skies,
And the angelic kindred of high Heaven;
The bright articulations of all spheres, —
Impetuous hearted orbs, and mountain-maned,
Aye circling onwards breathless through the air —
And wisest stars which speak themselves in signs
Too sacred to be explicable here;
And now what better am I? — nearer God?
When the void finds a voice mine answer know.
L UCIFER . What better or what worse thou canst not tell.
For, good and evil! Wherein differ they?
Do they not both accrue from the same cause, —
As ripeness and decay? Light, light alone
Of hues, how contrary soever, is
The common cause.
F ESTUS . Distractor of God's truth!
Shall not His word suffice the living world?
L UCIFER . Thou canst not have lacked joys?
F ESTUS . We seek them oft
Among our own delusions, pains, and follies.
L UCIFER . Hath not care perished from thy heart, as did
The viper flung from the apostle's hand?
F ESTUS . Ay; and, like that, all care will cease in fire.
Dark wretched thoughts, like ice-isles in a stream,
Choke up my mind, and clash; — and to no end.
In spite of all we suffer and enjoy,
There comes this question, over and over again,
Driven into the brain as a pile is driven —
What shall become of us hereafter? what
Is it we shall do? how feel, how be?
And there are times when burning memory flows
In on the mind, that saving it would slay,
As did the lava-floods which choked of yore
The Cyclopean cities — brimming up
Brasslike their mighty moulds. And shall the past
Thus ruinously perfect aye remain;
Or present, past, and coming, all be one,
In natural mystery? Like snow, which lies
Down-wreathed round the lips of some black pit,
Thoughts which obscure the truth accumulate,
And those which solve it in it lose themselves;
And there is no true knowledge till descent,
Nor then till after. What shall make the truth
Visible? Through the smoky glass of sense
The blessed sun would never know himself.
All truth is one. All error is alike.
The shadow of a mountain hath no more
Substance than hath a dead and moss-mailed pine's;
But only more gigantic impotence.
L UCIFER . Hast thou not had thine every quest?
F ESTUS . Save one.
L UCIFER . I proffer now the power which thou dost long for.
Say but the word, and thou shalt press a throne
But less than mine — the scarcely less than God's; —
A throne, at which earth's puny potentates
May sue for slavedoms — and be satisfied.
F ESTUS . I have had enough of the infinities:
I am moderate now. I will have the throne of earth.
L UCIFER . Thou shalt. Yet, mind! — with that, the world must end.
F ESTUS . I can survive.
L UCIFER . Nay, die with it must thou.
F ESTUS . Why should I die? I am egg-full of life:
And life's as serious a thing as death.
The world is in its first young quarter yet;
I dare not, cannot credit it shall die.
I will not have it, then.
L UCIFER . It matters not;
I know thou wilt never have ease at heart
Until thou hast thy soul's whole, full desire;
Whenever that may happen, all is done.
F ESTUS . Well, then — be it now! I live but for myself —
The whole world but for me. Friends, loves, and all
I sought, abandon me. It is time to die.
I am yet young; yet have I been deserted,
And wronged, by those whom most I have loved and served.
Sun, moon, and stars! may they all fall on me,
When next I trust another — man or woman.
Earth rivals Hell too often, at the best.
All hearts are stronger for the being hollow.
And that was why mine was no match for theirs.
The pith is out of it now. — Lord of the world!
It will not directly perish?
L UCIFER . Not, perhaps. —
Thou wilt have all fame, while thou livest, now.
F ESTUS . I care not: fame is folly: for, it is, sure,
Far more to be well known of God than man.
With all my sins I feel that I am God's.
L UCIFER . Farewell, then, for a time!
F ESTUS . I am alone. —
Alone? He clings around me like the clouds
Upon a hill. When will the clouds roll off?
When will sun visit me? Oh! Thou great God!
In whose right hand the elements are atoms —
In whose eye, light and darkness but a wink —
Who, in Thine anger, like a blast of cold,
Dost make the mountains shake like chattering teeth —
Have mercy! Pity me! For it is Thou
Who hast fixed me to this test. Wilt Thou not save?
Forgive me, Father! but I long to die: —
I long to live to Thee, a pure, free mind.
Take again, God! and thou, fair Earth, the form
And spirit which, at first, ye lent me.
Such as they were, I have used them. Let them part.
I weary of this world; and, like the dove,
Urged o'er life's barren flood, sweep, tired, back
To thee who sent'st me forth. Bear with me, God!
I am not worthy of thy wrath, nor love! —
Oh! that the things which have been were not now
In memory's resurrection! But the past
Bears in her arms the present and the future;
And what can perish while perdition is?
From the hot, angry, crowding courts of doubt
Within the breast, it is sweet to escape, and soothe
The soul in looking upon natural beauty.
Oh! earth, like man her son, is half divine.
There is not a leaf within this quiet spot,
But which I seem to know; should miss, if gone.
I could run over its features, hour by hour.
The quaintly figured beds — the various flowers —
The mazy paths all cunningly converged —
The black yew hedge, like a beleaguering host,
Round some fair garden province — here and there,
The cloud-like laurel clumps sleep, soft and fast,
Pillowed by their own shadows — and beyond,
The ripe and ruddy fruitage — the sharp firs'
Fringe, like an eyelash, on the faint-blue west —
The white owl, wheeling from the gray old church, —
Its age-peeled pinnacles, and tufted top —
The oaks, which spread their broad arms in the blast,
And bid storms come, and welcome; there they stand,
To whom a summer passes like a smile: —
And the proud peacock towers himself there, and screams,
Ruffling the imperial purples of his neck.
O'er all, the giant poplars, which maintain
Equality with clouds half way up Heaven;
Which whisper with the winds none else can see,
And bow to angels as they wing by them; —
The lonely, bowery, woodland view before —
And, making all more beautiful, thou, sweet moon,
Leading slow pomp, as triumphing o'er Heaven!
High riding in thy loveless, deathless brightness,
And in thy cold, unconquerable beauty,
As though there were nothing worthy in the world
Even to lie below thee, face to God.
And Night, in her own name, and God's again,
Hath dipped the earth in dew; — and there she lies,
Even like a heart all trembling with delight,
Till passion murder power to speak — so mute.
Young maiden moon! just looming into light —
I would that aspect never might be changed;
Nor that fine form, so spirit-like, be spoiled
With fuller light. Oh! keep that brilliant shape;
Keep the delicious honor of thy youth,
Sweet sister of the sun, more beauteous thou
Than he sublime. Shine on, nor dread decay.
It may take meaner things; but thy bright look,
Smiling away an immortality,
Assures it us — nay, it seems, half, to give.
Earth may decease. God will not part with thee,
Fair ark of light, and every blessedness!
Yes, earth, this earth, may foul the face of life,
Like some swart mole on beauty's breast — or dead,
Stiff, mangled reptile, some clear well — while thou
Shalt shine, aye brilliant, on creation's corse,
Like to a diamond on a dead man's hand;
Whence God shall pluck thee to his breast, or bid
Beam 'mid His lightning locks. What are earth's joys
To watching thee, tending thy bright flock over
The fields of Heaven? Thy light misleadeth not,
Though eyes which image Heaven oft lure to Hell; —
Thy smile betrayeth not — though sweet as that
Which wins and damns. Mother, and maid of light!
That, like a God, redeems the world to Heaven —
Making us one with thee, and with the sun,
And with the stars in glory — lovely moon!
I am immortal as thyself; and we
Shall look upon each other yet, in Heaven,
Often — but never, never more on earth.
Am I to die so soon? This death — the thought
Comes on my heart as through a burning glass.
I cannot bend mine eyes to earth, but thence
It riseth, spectre-like, to mock — nor towards
The west, where sunset is, whose long bright pomp
Makes men in love with change — but there it lowers
Eve's last, still lingering, darkening, cloud; and on
The escutcheon of the morn, it is there — it is there!
But fears will come upon the bravest mind,
Like the white moon upon the crimson west.
I have attractions for all miseries:
And every course of thought, within my heart,
Leaves a new layer of woe. But it must end.
It will all be one, hereafter. Let it be!
My bosom, like the grave, holds all quenched passions.
It is not that I have not found what I sought —
But, that the world — tush! I shall see it die.
I hate, and shall outlive the hypocrite.
Stealthily, slowly, like the polar sun,
Who peeps by fits above the air-walled world —
The heavenly fief, he knows and feels his own,
My heart o'erlooks the Paradise of life
Which it hath lost, in cold, reluctant joy.
I live and see all beauteous things about me,
But feel no nature prompting from within
To meet and profit by them. I am like
That fabled forest of the Apennine,
Which leafless lives; whereto the spring's bright showers,
Summer's heat breathless, autumn's fruitful juice,
Nothing avail; — nor winter's killing cold.
Yet have I done, said, thought, in time now past,
What, rather than remember, I would die,
Or do again. It is the thinking on 't,
And the repentance, maddens. I have thought
Upon such things so long and grievously,
My lips have grown like to a cliff-chafed sea,
Pale with a tidal passion; and my soul,
Once high and bright and self-sustained as Heaven,
Unsettled now for life or death, feels like
The gray gull balanced on her bowlike wings,
Between two black waves seeking where to dive.
Long we live, thinking nothing of our fate,
For in the morn of life we mark it not —
It falls behind; but as our day goes down
We catch it lengthening with a giant's stride,
And ushering us unto the feet of night.
Dark thoughts, like spots upon the sun, revolve
In troops for days together round my soul,
Disfiguring and dimming. Death! oh death!
The past, the present, and the future, like
The dog three-headed, by the gates of woe
Sitting, seem ready to devour me each.
I dare not look on them. I dare not think.
The very best deeds I have ever done
Seem worthy reprobation, have to be
Repented of. But have I done aught good?
Oh that my soul were calmer! Grant me, God!
Thy peace; that added, I can smile and die.
Thy Spirit only is reality:
All things beside are folly, falsehood, shame.