Ultime
They tell me, ere the maple leaves grow brown once more,
And the wild deer don their great overcoats of gray,
That I must cross the stony threshold of death's door,
And leave this body like a pair of overalls worn a day
Outside the hall, or hung on some nail out of the way.
It seems odd, and yet I think, yea do know, I do feel
As little fear as any trodden dust, or dull cold clay,
To hear my Doc., Death's clerk, and attorney for my weal,
Say I am convicted and that there is no appeal.
Yet, while I have no fear, I feel a touch of deep regret—
Regrets that burn like red-hot iron in the soul,
That my day is but begun as my sun is set.
But there was that in my young life I could not control,
And now, to-night, as recollections o'er me roll,
I know no time that I loitered by the way;
But with a proud eye fixed on a lofty goal,
Pressed on, nor stopped, or turned aside a single day
To rest, or toy with aught that in my rough route lay.
And yet one time, but one, I do remember well,
My life's way lay by oaks, and talking streams, and flowers;
And there were birds, and singing bees, and a holy spell
Of dreamy wonder in the air and hallowed hours;
And from afar fair maids did beckon from their bowers.
I looked and loved. But lo! the leprous stain
Of penury, that so much of life's sweetness sours,
Was mine, and I pushed on in peril and deep pain,
Saying, Sweet scenes, when fame is mine we meet again.
Toiling for ever, chasing a phantom hope to earn
A place with men of mind and a moment's peace;
With the fevered soul on fire with thoughts that burn;
And revelling in rainbow beauties that I could not seize,
Or subdue, or reduce to shape or words; and these
Did unfit me for the stormy struggle with the real.
Vibrating like some insect pendent in the breeze
Between these varied visions and my worldly weal
I have gained neither the real nor the sweet ideal.
Quoting Seneca, who wrote on his desk of gold:
Dear sir! what is the use of wealth? you naively say.
Sir! in your life's craft with its well stocked hold,
Your money is the white oak planks that lay
Between you and the howling waves; these away,
And you are in the sea without friends or a pretence,
Then keep your head above the water if you may.
Besides, the days of Diogenes are over now, and hence
Philosophers in tubs are kept at the State's expense.
None have known me, nor have I myself the least part known
Until prisoned here by him of the sable shore
Till he can transport me to quarters of his own.
Here I have reflected and ran my fierce life o'er.
Ah! truly, much indeed have I to deplore,
Yet not one single act of malicious ill.
I meant well in all. Who could have done more?
And have I not tamed my hot and imperious will?
Have I not made my impulsive heart be still? so still!
Why have I been pursued in this small, low way;
Why have I been crossed in my every honest aim;
From my childhood on, even down to this dark day?
I claimed not much of men, and less, far less, of fame.
Was it because I could not, or that I would not, tame
And tone my cloud-born soul in suppliance to bow
Me down to dolts, and knaves, and clowns, that did proclaim
Them wise, and great, and good? Ah! even yet I trow
My spirit lives. I would not, could not, I will not now.
‘Know thyself!’ What had I to do with strife and war?
I smote, then held him to my heart and wept until he died.
And did I fear? this deep facial arrow's scar,
And a list of lesser ones have aye the thought belied,
And yet I do remember me I have turned aside
To avoid the hart I had sought the whole day long.
And why in stormy courts have I so zealous plied,
And plead, dark-browed, and hurled invective strong,
Then wept at night to think I might have done some wrong?
‘Know thyself!’ Had I known less of strife and flint-like men—
Had I been content to live on the leafy borders of the scene
Communing with the neglected dwellers of the fern-grown glen,
And glorious storm-stained peaks, with cloud-knit sheen,
And sullen iron brows, and belts of boundless green,
A peaceful, flowery path, content, I might have trod,
And carolled melodies that perchance might have been
Read with love and a sweet delight.
But I kiss the rod.
I have done as best I knew. The rest is with my God.
Come forward here to me, ye who have a fear of death,
Come down, far down, even to the dark waves' rim,
And take my hand, and feel my calm, low breath
How peaceful all! How still and sweet! The sight is dim,
And dreamy as a distant sea. And melodies do swim
Around us here as a far-off vesper's holy hymn.
This is death. With folded hands I wait and welcome him;
And yet a few, so few, were kind, I would live and be known,
That their sweet deeds might be bread on the waters thrown.
I go, I know not where, but know I will not die,
And know I will be gainer going to that somewhere;
For in that hereafter, afar beyond the bended sky,
Bread and butter will not figure in the bill of fare,
Nor will the soul be judged by what the flesh may wear.
But with all my time my own, once in the dapple skies,
I will collect my fancies now floating in the air
And arrange them, a jewel set, that in a show-case lies
And when you come will show you them in a sweet surprise.
It was my boy-ambition to be read beyond the brine,
But this you know was when life looked fair and tall,
Erewhile this occidental rim was my dream's confine,
And now at last I make no claim to be read at all,
And write with this wild hope, and e'en that is small,
That when the last pick-axe lies rusting in the ravine,
And its green bent hill-sides echo the shepherd's call,
Some curious wight will thumb this through, saying, ‘Well, I ween
He was not a poet, but yet, and yet, he might have been.’
Above all on this green earth a grumbler I do despise,
Pouring o'er all a sea of tears and untimely groans,
As if he alone had stood upon the bridge of sighs;
And yet I wail. But mind you my murmurs and low moans,
(Not heard till I am gone) are not of you, or Smith, or Jones,
But fate. Good folks. The world the best I ever trod.
Yet lapidaries tell of flaws in the fairest stones,
And maybe after all, my crosses, my losses, and the rod,
Are but rounds in a ladder leading me thus soon to God.
But to conclude. Do not stick me down in the cold wet mud,
As if I wished to hide, or was ashamed of what I had done,
Or my friends wanted to plant me like an Irish spud.
No, when this the first short quarter of my life is run,
Let me ascend in clouds of smoke up to the sun.
And as for these lines, they are a rough, wild-wood bouquet,
Plucked from my mountains in the dusk of life, as one
Without taste or time to select, or put in good array
Grasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the brink, and hastes away.
And the wild deer don their great overcoats of gray,
That I must cross the stony threshold of death's door,
And leave this body like a pair of overalls worn a day
Outside the hall, or hung on some nail out of the way.
It seems odd, and yet I think, yea do know, I do feel
As little fear as any trodden dust, or dull cold clay,
To hear my Doc., Death's clerk, and attorney for my weal,
Say I am convicted and that there is no appeal.
Yet, while I have no fear, I feel a touch of deep regret—
Regrets that burn like red-hot iron in the soul,
That my day is but begun as my sun is set.
But there was that in my young life I could not control,
And now, to-night, as recollections o'er me roll,
I know no time that I loitered by the way;
But with a proud eye fixed on a lofty goal,
Pressed on, nor stopped, or turned aside a single day
To rest, or toy with aught that in my rough route lay.
And yet one time, but one, I do remember well,
My life's way lay by oaks, and talking streams, and flowers;
And there were birds, and singing bees, and a holy spell
Of dreamy wonder in the air and hallowed hours;
And from afar fair maids did beckon from their bowers.
I looked and loved. But lo! the leprous stain
Of penury, that so much of life's sweetness sours,
Was mine, and I pushed on in peril and deep pain,
Saying, Sweet scenes, when fame is mine we meet again.
Toiling for ever, chasing a phantom hope to earn
A place with men of mind and a moment's peace;
With the fevered soul on fire with thoughts that burn;
And revelling in rainbow beauties that I could not seize,
Or subdue, or reduce to shape or words; and these
Did unfit me for the stormy struggle with the real.
Vibrating like some insect pendent in the breeze
Between these varied visions and my worldly weal
I have gained neither the real nor the sweet ideal.
Quoting Seneca, who wrote on his desk of gold:
Dear sir! what is the use of wealth? you naively say.
Sir! in your life's craft with its well stocked hold,
Your money is the white oak planks that lay
Between you and the howling waves; these away,
And you are in the sea without friends or a pretence,
Then keep your head above the water if you may.
Besides, the days of Diogenes are over now, and hence
Philosophers in tubs are kept at the State's expense.
None have known me, nor have I myself the least part known
Until prisoned here by him of the sable shore
Till he can transport me to quarters of his own.
Here I have reflected and ran my fierce life o'er.
Ah! truly, much indeed have I to deplore,
Yet not one single act of malicious ill.
I meant well in all. Who could have done more?
And have I not tamed my hot and imperious will?
Have I not made my impulsive heart be still? so still!
Why have I been pursued in this small, low way;
Why have I been crossed in my every honest aim;
From my childhood on, even down to this dark day?
I claimed not much of men, and less, far less, of fame.
Was it because I could not, or that I would not, tame
And tone my cloud-born soul in suppliance to bow
Me down to dolts, and knaves, and clowns, that did proclaim
Them wise, and great, and good? Ah! even yet I trow
My spirit lives. I would not, could not, I will not now.
‘Know thyself!’ What had I to do with strife and war?
I smote, then held him to my heart and wept until he died.
And did I fear? this deep facial arrow's scar,
And a list of lesser ones have aye the thought belied,
And yet I do remember me I have turned aside
To avoid the hart I had sought the whole day long.
And why in stormy courts have I so zealous plied,
And plead, dark-browed, and hurled invective strong,
Then wept at night to think I might have done some wrong?
‘Know thyself!’ Had I known less of strife and flint-like men—
Had I been content to live on the leafy borders of the scene
Communing with the neglected dwellers of the fern-grown glen,
And glorious storm-stained peaks, with cloud-knit sheen,
And sullen iron brows, and belts of boundless green,
A peaceful, flowery path, content, I might have trod,
And carolled melodies that perchance might have been
Read with love and a sweet delight.
But I kiss the rod.
I have done as best I knew. The rest is with my God.
Come forward here to me, ye who have a fear of death,
Come down, far down, even to the dark waves' rim,
And take my hand, and feel my calm, low breath
How peaceful all! How still and sweet! The sight is dim,
And dreamy as a distant sea. And melodies do swim
Around us here as a far-off vesper's holy hymn.
This is death. With folded hands I wait and welcome him;
And yet a few, so few, were kind, I would live and be known,
That their sweet deeds might be bread on the waters thrown.
I go, I know not where, but know I will not die,
And know I will be gainer going to that somewhere;
For in that hereafter, afar beyond the bended sky,
Bread and butter will not figure in the bill of fare,
Nor will the soul be judged by what the flesh may wear.
But with all my time my own, once in the dapple skies,
I will collect my fancies now floating in the air
And arrange them, a jewel set, that in a show-case lies
And when you come will show you them in a sweet surprise.
It was my boy-ambition to be read beyond the brine,
But this you know was when life looked fair and tall,
Erewhile this occidental rim was my dream's confine,
And now at last I make no claim to be read at all,
And write with this wild hope, and e'en that is small,
That when the last pick-axe lies rusting in the ravine,
And its green bent hill-sides echo the shepherd's call,
Some curious wight will thumb this through, saying, ‘Well, I ween
He was not a poet, but yet, and yet, he might have been.’
Above all on this green earth a grumbler I do despise,
Pouring o'er all a sea of tears and untimely groans,
As if he alone had stood upon the bridge of sighs;
And yet I wail. But mind you my murmurs and low moans,
(Not heard till I am gone) are not of you, or Smith, or Jones,
But fate. Good folks. The world the best I ever trod.
Yet lapidaries tell of flaws in the fairest stones,
And maybe after all, my crosses, my losses, and the rod,
Are but rounds in a ladder leading me thus soon to God.
But to conclude. Do not stick me down in the cold wet mud,
As if I wished to hide, or was ashamed of what I had done,
Or my friends wanted to plant me like an Irish spud.
No, when this the first short quarter of my life is run,
Let me ascend in clouds of smoke up to the sun.
And as for these lines, they are a rough, wild-wood bouquet,
Plucked from my mountains in the dusk of life, as one
Without taste or time to select, or put in good array
Grasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the brink, and hastes away.
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