The Vision
1.
I THOUGHT upon these things in solitude,
And mused upon them in the silent night;
The open graves, the recent scene of blood,
Were present to the soul's creative sight;
These mournful images my mind possess'd,
And mingled with the visions of my rest.
2.
Methought that I was travelling o'er a plain
Whose limits, far beyond all reach of sense,
The aching, anxious sight explored in vain.
How I came there I could not tell, nor whence;
Nor where my melancholy journey lay;
Only that soon the night would close upon my way.
3.
Behind me was a dolorous, dreary scene,
With huge and mouldering ruins widely spread;
Wastes which had whilome fertile regions been,
Tombs which had lost all record of the dead;
And where the dim horizon seem'd to close,
Far off the gloomy Pyramids arose.
4.
Full fain would I have known what lay before,
But lifted there in vain my mortal eye;
That point with cloud and mist was cover'd o'er,
As though the earth were mingled with the sky.
Yet thither, as some power unseen impell'd,
My blind, involuntary way I held.
5.
Across the plain innumerable crowds,
Like me, were on their destined journey bent,
Toward the land of shadows and of clouds:
One pace they travelled, to one point they went;—
A motley multitude of old and young,
Men of all climes and hues, and every tongue.
6.
Erelong I came upon a field of dead,
Where heaps of recent carnage fill'd the way;
A ghastly sight,—nor was there where to tread,
So thickly slaughter'd horse and man, they lay.
Methought that in that place of death I knew
Again the late-seen field of Waterloo.
7.
Troubled I stood, and doubtful where to go;
A cold, damp shuddering ran through all my frame;
Fain would I fly from that dread scene, when, lo!
A voice as from above pronounced my name;
And looking to the sound, by the way-side
I saw a lofty structure edified.
8.
Most like it seem'd to that aspiring Tower
Which old Ambition rear'd on Babel's plain,
As if he ween'd in his presumptuous power
To scale high Heaven, with daring pride profane;
Such was its giddy height; and round and round
The spiral steps in long ascension wound.
9.
Its frail foundations upon sand were placed,
And round about it mouldering rubbish lay;
For easily by time and storms defaced,
The loose materials crumbled in decay;
Rising so high, and built so insecure,
Ill might such perishable work endure.
10.
I not the less went up, and as I drew
Toward the top, more firm the structure seem'd,
With nicer art composed, and fair to view:
Strong and well-built, perchance, I might have deem'd
The pile, had I not seen and understood
Of what frail matter form'd, and on what base it stood
11.
There, on the summit, a grave personage
Received and welcomed me in courteous guise;
On his gray temples were the marks of age,
As one whom years, methought, should render wise.
I saw that thou wert fill'd with doubt and fear,
He said, and therefore have I call'd thee here.
12.
Hence from this eminence sublime I see
The wanderings of the erring crowd below,
And pitying thee in thy perplexity,
Will tell thee all that thou canst need to know
To guide thy steps aright. I bent my head
As if in thanks,—And who art thou? I said.
13.
He answer'd, I am Wisdom. Mother Earth
Me, in her vigor self-conceiving, bore;
And as from eldest time I date my birth,
Eternally with her shall I endure;
Her noblest offspring I, to whom alone
The course of sublunary things is known.
14.
Master! quoth I, regarding him, I thought
That Wisdom was the child divine of Heaven.
So, he replied, have fabling preachers taught,
And the dull World a light belief hath given.
But vainly would these fools my claim decry,—
Wisdom I am, and of the Earth am I.
15.
Thus while he spake I scann'd his features well;
Small but audacious was the Old Man's eye;
His countenance was hard, and seem'd to tell
Of knowledge less than of effrontery.
Instruct me then, I said, for thou shouldst know
From whence I came, and whither I must go.
16.
Art thou then one who would his mind perplex
With knowledge bootless even if attain'd?
Fond man! he answer'd;—wherefore shouldst thou vex
Thy heart with seeking what may not be gain'd?
Regard not what has been, nor what may be;
O Child of Earth, this Now is all that toucheth thee!
17.
He who performs the journey of to-day
Cares not if yesterday were shower or sun:
To-morrow let the heavens be what they may,
And what recks he?—his wayfare will be done.
Heedless of what hereafter may befall,
Live whilst thou livest, for this life is all!
18.
I kept my rising indignation down,
That I might hear what farther he would teach;
Yet on my darken'd brow the instinctive frown,
Gathering at that abominable speech,
Maintain'd its place: he mark'd it, and pursued,
Tuning his practised tongue to subtle flattery's mood:—
19.
Do I not know thee,—that from earliest youth
Knowledge hath been thy only heart's desire?
Here seeing all things as they are in truth,
I show thee all to which thy thoughts aspire:
No vapors here impede the exalted sense,
Nor mists of earth attain this eminence.
20.
Whither thy way, thou askest me, and what
The region dark whereto thy footsteps tend,
And where, by one inevitable lot,
The course of all yon multitude must end.
Take thou this glass, whose perfect power shall aid
Thy faulty vision, and therewith explore the shade.
21.
Eager I look'd; but seeing with surprise
That the same darkness still the view o'erspread,
Half angrily I turn'd away mine eyes.
Complacent then the Old Man smiled and said,
Darkness is all! what more wouldst thou descry?
Rest now content, for farther none can spy.
22.
Now mark me, Child of Earth! he thus pursued;
Let not the hypocrites thy reason blind,
And to the quest of some unreal good
Divert with dogmas vain thine erring mind:
Learn thou, whate'er the motive they may call,
That Pleasure is the aim, and Self the spring of all.
23.
This is the root of knowledge. Wise are they
Who to this guiding principle attend;
They, as they press along the world's highway,
With single aim pursue their steady end;
No vain compunction checks their sure career;
No idle dreams deceive; their heart is here.
24.
They from the nature and the fate of man,
Thus clearly understood, derive their strength;
Knowing that as from nothing they began,
To nothing they must needs return at length;
This knowledge steels the heart and clears the mind,
And they create on earth the Heaven they find.
25.
Such, I made answer, was the Tyrant's creed
Who bruised the nations with his iron rod,
Till on yon field the wretch received his meed
From Britain, and the outstretch'd arm of God.
Behold him now,—Death ever in his view,
The only change for him,—and Judgment to ensue!
26.
Behold him when the unbidden thoughts arise
Of his old passions and unbridled power;
As the fierce tiger in confinement lies,
And dreams of blood that he must taste no more,—
Then waking in that appetite of rage,
Frets to and fro within his narrow cage.
27.
Hath he not chosen well? the Old Man replied;
Bravely he aim'd at universal sway;
And never earthly Chief was glorified
Like this Napoleon in his prosperous day.
All-ruling Fate itself hath not the power
To alter what has been: and he has had his hour
28.
Take him, I answer'd, at his fortune's flood;
Russia his friend, the Austrian wars surceased,
When Kings, his creatures some, and some subdued,
Like vassals waited at his marriage feast;
And Europe like a map before him lay,
Of which he gave at will, or took away.
29.
Call then to mind Navarre's heroic chief,
Wandering by night and day through wood and glen,
His country's sufferings like a private grief
Wringing his heart: would Mina even then
Those perils and that sorrow have foregone
To be that Tyrant on his prosperous throne?
30.
But wherefore name I him whose arm was free?
A living hope his noble heart sustain'd,
A faith which bade him through all dangers see
The triumph his enduring country gain'd.
See Hofer with no earthly hope to aid,—
His country lost, himself to chains and death betray'd!
31.
By those he served deserted in his need;
Given to the unrelenting Tyrant's power,
And by his mean revenge condemn'd to bleed,—
Would he have barter'd, in that awful hour,
His heart, his conscience, and his sure renown,
For the malignant murderer's crimes and crown?
32.
Him too, I know, a worthy thought of fame
In that dread trance upheld;—the foresight sure
That in his own dear country his good name
Long as the streams and mountains should endure;
The herdsmen on the hills should sing his praise,
And children learn his deeds through all succeeding days.
33.
Turn we to those in whom no glorious thought
Lent its strong succor to the passive mind;
Nor stirring enterprise within them wrought;—
Who to their lot of bitterness resign'd,
Endured their sorrows by the world unknown,
And look'd for their reward to Death alone:
34.
Mothers within Gerona's leaguer'd wall,
Who saw their famish'd children pine and die;—
Widows surviving Zaragoza's fall
To linger in abhorr'd captivity;—
Yet would not have exchanged their sacred woe
For all the empire of their miscreant foe!
35.
Serene the Old Man replied, and smiled with scorn,
Behold the effect of error! thus to wear
The days of miserable life forlorn,
Struggling with evil and consumed with care;—
Poor fools, whom vain and empty hopes mislead!
They reap their sufferings for their only meed.
36.
O false one, I exclaim'd, whom canst thou fool
With such gross sophisms, but the wicked heart?
The pupils of thine own unhappy school
Are they who choose the vain and empty part;
How oft in age, in sickness, and in woe,
Have they complain'd that all was vanity below!
37.
Look at that mighty Gaznevide, Mahmood,
When, pining in his Palace of Delight,
He bade the gather'd spoils of realms subdued
Be spread before him to regale his sight,
Whate'er the Orient boasts of rich and rare,—
And then he wept to think what toys they were!
38.
Look at the Russian minion when he play'd
With pearls and jewels which surpass'd all price;
And now apart their various hues array'd,
Blended their colors now in union nice,
Then, weary of the bawbles, with a sigh,
Swept them aside, and thought that all was vainty!
39.
Wean'd by the fatal Messenger from pride,
The Syrian through the streets exposed his shroud;
And one that ravaged kingdoms far and wide
Upon the bed of sickness cried aloud,
What boots my empire in this mortal throe?
For the Grave calls me now, and I must go!
40.
Thus felt these wretched men, because decay
Had touch'd them in their vitals; Death stood by;
And Reason, when the props of flesh gave way,
Purged as with euphrasy the mortal eye.
Who seeks for worldly honors, wealth, or power,
Will find them vain indeed at that dread hour!
41.
These things are vain; but all things are not so;
The virtues and the hopes of human-kind!—
Yea, by the God who, ordering all below,
In his own image made the immortal mind,
Desires there are which draw from Him their birth,
And bring forth lasting fruits for Heaven and Earth.
42.
Therefore through evil and through good content,
The righteous man performs his part assign'd;
In bondage lingering, or with sufferings spent,
Therefore doth peace support the heroic mind;
And from the dreadful sacrifice of all,
Meek woman doth not shrink at Duty's call.
43.
Therefore the Martyr clasps the stake in faith,
And sings thanksgiving while the flames aspire;
Victorious over agony and death,
Sublime he stands, and triumphs in the fire,
As though to him Elijah's lot were given,
And that the chariot and the steeds of Heaven.
I THOUGHT upon these things in solitude,
And mused upon them in the silent night;
The open graves, the recent scene of blood,
Were present to the soul's creative sight;
These mournful images my mind possess'd,
And mingled with the visions of my rest.
2.
Methought that I was travelling o'er a plain
Whose limits, far beyond all reach of sense,
The aching, anxious sight explored in vain.
How I came there I could not tell, nor whence;
Nor where my melancholy journey lay;
Only that soon the night would close upon my way.
3.
Behind me was a dolorous, dreary scene,
With huge and mouldering ruins widely spread;
Wastes which had whilome fertile regions been,
Tombs which had lost all record of the dead;
And where the dim horizon seem'd to close,
Far off the gloomy Pyramids arose.
4.
Full fain would I have known what lay before,
But lifted there in vain my mortal eye;
That point with cloud and mist was cover'd o'er,
As though the earth were mingled with the sky.
Yet thither, as some power unseen impell'd,
My blind, involuntary way I held.
5.
Across the plain innumerable crowds,
Like me, were on their destined journey bent,
Toward the land of shadows and of clouds:
One pace they travelled, to one point they went;—
A motley multitude of old and young,
Men of all climes and hues, and every tongue.
6.
Erelong I came upon a field of dead,
Where heaps of recent carnage fill'd the way;
A ghastly sight,—nor was there where to tread,
So thickly slaughter'd horse and man, they lay.
Methought that in that place of death I knew
Again the late-seen field of Waterloo.
7.
Troubled I stood, and doubtful where to go;
A cold, damp shuddering ran through all my frame;
Fain would I fly from that dread scene, when, lo!
A voice as from above pronounced my name;
And looking to the sound, by the way-side
I saw a lofty structure edified.
8.
Most like it seem'd to that aspiring Tower
Which old Ambition rear'd on Babel's plain,
As if he ween'd in his presumptuous power
To scale high Heaven, with daring pride profane;
Such was its giddy height; and round and round
The spiral steps in long ascension wound.
9.
Its frail foundations upon sand were placed,
And round about it mouldering rubbish lay;
For easily by time and storms defaced,
The loose materials crumbled in decay;
Rising so high, and built so insecure,
Ill might such perishable work endure.
10.
I not the less went up, and as I drew
Toward the top, more firm the structure seem'd,
With nicer art composed, and fair to view:
Strong and well-built, perchance, I might have deem'd
The pile, had I not seen and understood
Of what frail matter form'd, and on what base it stood
11.
There, on the summit, a grave personage
Received and welcomed me in courteous guise;
On his gray temples were the marks of age,
As one whom years, methought, should render wise.
I saw that thou wert fill'd with doubt and fear,
He said, and therefore have I call'd thee here.
12.
Hence from this eminence sublime I see
The wanderings of the erring crowd below,
And pitying thee in thy perplexity,
Will tell thee all that thou canst need to know
To guide thy steps aright. I bent my head
As if in thanks,—And who art thou? I said.
13.
He answer'd, I am Wisdom. Mother Earth
Me, in her vigor self-conceiving, bore;
And as from eldest time I date my birth,
Eternally with her shall I endure;
Her noblest offspring I, to whom alone
The course of sublunary things is known.
14.
Master! quoth I, regarding him, I thought
That Wisdom was the child divine of Heaven.
So, he replied, have fabling preachers taught,
And the dull World a light belief hath given.
But vainly would these fools my claim decry,—
Wisdom I am, and of the Earth am I.
15.
Thus while he spake I scann'd his features well;
Small but audacious was the Old Man's eye;
His countenance was hard, and seem'd to tell
Of knowledge less than of effrontery.
Instruct me then, I said, for thou shouldst know
From whence I came, and whither I must go.
16.
Art thou then one who would his mind perplex
With knowledge bootless even if attain'd?
Fond man! he answer'd;—wherefore shouldst thou vex
Thy heart with seeking what may not be gain'd?
Regard not what has been, nor what may be;
O Child of Earth, this Now is all that toucheth thee!
17.
He who performs the journey of to-day
Cares not if yesterday were shower or sun:
To-morrow let the heavens be what they may,
And what recks he?—his wayfare will be done.
Heedless of what hereafter may befall,
Live whilst thou livest, for this life is all!
18.
I kept my rising indignation down,
That I might hear what farther he would teach;
Yet on my darken'd brow the instinctive frown,
Gathering at that abominable speech,
Maintain'd its place: he mark'd it, and pursued,
Tuning his practised tongue to subtle flattery's mood:—
19.
Do I not know thee,—that from earliest youth
Knowledge hath been thy only heart's desire?
Here seeing all things as they are in truth,
I show thee all to which thy thoughts aspire:
No vapors here impede the exalted sense,
Nor mists of earth attain this eminence.
20.
Whither thy way, thou askest me, and what
The region dark whereto thy footsteps tend,
And where, by one inevitable lot,
The course of all yon multitude must end.
Take thou this glass, whose perfect power shall aid
Thy faulty vision, and therewith explore the shade.
21.
Eager I look'd; but seeing with surprise
That the same darkness still the view o'erspread,
Half angrily I turn'd away mine eyes.
Complacent then the Old Man smiled and said,
Darkness is all! what more wouldst thou descry?
Rest now content, for farther none can spy.
22.
Now mark me, Child of Earth! he thus pursued;
Let not the hypocrites thy reason blind,
And to the quest of some unreal good
Divert with dogmas vain thine erring mind:
Learn thou, whate'er the motive they may call,
That Pleasure is the aim, and Self the spring of all.
23.
This is the root of knowledge. Wise are they
Who to this guiding principle attend;
They, as they press along the world's highway,
With single aim pursue their steady end;
No vain compunction checks their sure career;
No idle dreams deceive; their heart is here.
24.
They from the nature and the fate of man,
Thus clearly understood, derive their strength;
Knowing that as from nothing they began,
To nothing they must needs return at length;
This knowledge steels the heart and clears the mind,
And they create on earth the Heaven they find.
25.
Such, I made answer, was the Tyrant's creed
Who bruised the nations with his iron rod,
Till on yon field the wretch received his meed
From Britain, and the outstretch'd arm of God.
Behold him now,—Death ever in his view,
The only change for him,—and Judgment to ensue!
26.
Behold him when the unbidden thoughts arise
Of his old passions and unbridled power;
As the fierce tiger in confinement lies,
And dreams of blood that he must taste no more,—
Then waking in that appetite of rage,
Frets to and fro within his narrow cage.
27.
Hath he not chosen well? the Old Man replied;
Bravely he aim'd at universal sway;
And never earthly Chief was glorified
Like this Napoleon in his prosperous day.
All-ruling Fate itself hath not the power
To alter what has been: and he has had his hour
28.
Take him, I answer'd, at his fortune's flood;
Russia his friend, the Austrian wars surceased,
When Kings, his creatures some, and some subdued,
Like vassals waited at his marriage feast;
And Europe like a map before him lay,
Of which he gave at will, or took away.
29.
Call then to mind Navarre's heroic chief,
Wandering by night and day through wood and glen,
His country's sufferings like a private grief
Wringing his heart: would Mina even then
Those perils and that sorrow have foregone
To be that Tyrant on his prosperous throne?
30.
But wherefore name I him whose arm was free?
A living hope his noble heart sustain'd,
A faith which bade him through all dangers see
The triumph his enduring country gain'd.
See Hofer with no earthly hope to aid,—
His country lost, himself to chains and death betray'd!
31.
By those he served deserted in his need;
Given to the unrelenting Tyrant's power,
And by his mean revenge condemn'd to bleed,—
Would he have barter'd, in that awful hour,
His heart, his conscience, and his sure renown,
For the malignant murderer's crimes and crown?
32.
Him too, I know, a worthy thought of fame
In that dread trance upheld;—the foresight sure
That in his own dear country his good name
Long as the streams and mountains should endure;
The herdsmen on the hills should sing his praise,
And children learn his deeds through all succeeding days.
33.
Turn we to those in whom no glorious thought
Lent its strong succor to the passive mind;
Nor stirring enterprise within them wrought;—
Who to their lot of bitterness resign'd,
Endured their sorrows by the world unknown,
And look'd for their reward to Death alone:
34.
Mothers within Gerona's leaguer'd wall,
Who saw their famish'd children pine and die;—
Widows surviving Zaragoza's fall
To linger in abhorr'd captivity;—
Yet would not have exchanged their sacred woe
For all the empire of their miscreant foe!
35.
Serene the Old Man replied, and smiled with scorn,
Behold the effect of error! thus to wear
The days of miserable life forlorn,
Struggling with evil and consumed with care;—
Poor fools, whom vain and empty hopes mislead!
They reap their sufferings for their only meed.
36.
O false one, I exclaim'd, whom canst thou fool
With such gross sophisms, but the wicked heart?
The pupils of thine own unhappy school
Are they who choose the vain and empty part;
How oft in age, in sickness, and in woe,
Have they complain'd that all was vanity below!
37.
Look at that mighty Gaznevide, Mahmood,
When, pining in his Palace of Delight,
He bade the gather'd spoils of realms subdued
Be spread before him to regale his sight,
Whate'er the Orient boasts of rich and rare,—
And then he wept to think what toys they were!
38.
Look at the Russian minion when he play'd
With pearls and jewels which surpass'd all price;
And now apart their various hues array'd,
Blended their colors now in union nice,
Then, weary of the bawbles, with a sigh,
Swept them aside, and thought that all was vainty!
39.
Wean'd by the fatal Messenger from pride,
The Syrian through the streets exposed his shroud;
And one that ravaged kingdoms far and wide
Upon the bed of sickness cried aloud,
What boots my empire in this mortal throe?
For the Grave calls me now, and I must go!
40.
Thus felt these wretched men, because decay
Had touch'd them in their vitals; Death stood by;
And Reason, when the props of flesh gave way,
Purged as with euphrasy the mortal eye.
Who seeks for worldly honors, wealth, or power,
Will find them vain indeed at that dread hour!
41.
These things are vain; but all things are not so;
The virtues and the hopes of human-kind!—
Yea, by the God who, ordering all below,
In his own image made the immortal mind,
Desires there are which draw from Him their birth,
And bring forth lasting fruits for Heaven and Earth.
42.
Therefore through evil and through good content,
The righteous man performs his part assign'd;
In bondage lingering, or with sufferings spent,
Therefore doth peace support the heroic mind;
And from the dreadful sacrifice of all,
Meek woman doth not shrink at Duty's call.
43.
Therefore the Martyr clasps the stake in faith,
And sings thanksgiving while the flames aspire;
Victorious over agony and death,
Sublime he stands, and triumphs in the fire,
As though to him Elijah's lot were given,
And that the chariot and the steeds of Heaven.
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