Classic Poem

I.

A SOUL that out of Nature's deep
From inner fires had birth;
Yet not as rocks or rosebuds peep:
Nor came it to the earth

II.

A drop of rain at random blown;
A star-point burning high,
Lit in the dark, and as alone
As Lyra in the sky:

III.

Nor ushered in with stormy air,
Sea-shock, or earthquake-jars;
Nor born to fame beneath some rare
Conspiracy of stars;

IV.

Nor fortune-crowned with benefits:
The life was larger lent,
Made up of many opposites
In contradiction blent: —

V.

A nature affable and grand,
Yet cold as headland snow,
Large-handed, liberal to demand,
Though still to proffer slow;

VI.

That shunned to share the roaring cup,
The toast, and cheerings nine,
Nor cared to sit alone to sup
The pleasure of the wine;

VII.

Yet genial oft by flash and fit;
High manners, courage mild, —
God gave him these, and savage wit
As to an Indian child:

VIII.

And gave him more than this indeed, —
The wisdom to descry
A weathercock in the waving weed,
A clock-face in the sky.

IX.

But he, amid these bowers and dales
A larger life-breath drew,
Beneath more cordial sunshine, gales,
And skies of sounder blue,

X.

Than wait on all. Beside the brook,
With far forgetful eye,
Or toward the deep hills, would he look,
Watching the glory die;

XI.

Brooding in dim solicitude
On earlier, other times,
And yon dark-purple wing of wood
That o'er the mountain climbs;

XII.

And fancies thick like flower-buds bright;
Rare thoughts in affluence rank,
Came at the onset of the light,
Nor with the sunset sank.

XIII.

He slept not, but the dream had way,
And his watch abroad was cast
With the earliest light of the earliest day;
And, when the light fell fast,

XIV.

He stood in the river-solitudes
To mark the daylight go;
And low in the dusk of the wailing woods
He heard the night-hawk blow.

XV.

The night-hawk, and the whippoorwill
Across the plashes dim,
Calling her mate from bower and hill,
Made prophecy for him:

XVI.

The night-hawk and the bird bereaved,
His airy calendars,
He stood; till night had, unperceived,
Surrounded him with stars.

XVII.

Oh! dear the look of upward eyes
Lifted with pleading might,
A smile to bless and humanize,
A hand to fold aright;

XVIII.

A silver voice to lead and lull;
Slight step, and streamy hair, —
But, oh! she was too beautiful
That he should call her fair.

XIX.

A love to pay, a life to give,
Was hers, — for this she strove;
And he, too, loved, and would not live
To live out of her love.

XX.

And childhood came his smile beneath,
And lingered hour on hour,
With sweepy lids, and innocent breath
Like the grape-hyacinth flower.

XXI.

For this, for all, his heart was full;
Yet, to the deeper mind,
All outward passion seemed to dull
That inmost sense refined

XXII.

That broods and feeds where few have trod;
And seeks to pass apart,
Imaging nature, man, and God,
In silence in the heart.

XXIII.

He saw — for to that secret eye
God's hidden things were spread —
The wiser world in darkness lie,
And Faith by Falsehood led.

XXIV.

Virtue and Envy, side by side;
Blind Will that walks alone;
And mighty throngs that come and glide,
Unknowing and unknown;

XXV.

Great lights! but quenched; strength, foresight, skill,
Gone without deed or name;
And happy accidents that still
Misplace the wreaths of fame;

XXVI.

Religion, but a bruited word
'Twixt foes who difference view
Between our Saviour, God the Lord,
And Jesus Christ the Jew!

XXVII.

Yet unto all, one wall and fold;
One bed that all must share, —
The miser brooding holy gold,
The fool, and spendthrift heir;

XXVIII.

Still through the years the wrinkled chuff
Acre to acre rolled;
And he, too, will have land enough
When his mouth is filled with mould.

XXIX.

And vaster visions did he win
From cloud, and mountain bars,
And revelations that within
Fell like a storm of stars!

XXX.

Yet checked and crossed by doubt and night;
Dim gulfs, and solitudes
Of the deep mind; or warmth and light
Broke from its shifting moods,

XXXI.

As when in many-weathered March
May-buds break up through snow,
And, spilt like milk, beneath the larch
The little bluets blow;

XXXII.

Beneath the lilac and the larch,
In many a splash and spot;
Nor belting sea, nor heaven's blue arch,
Bound in where these were not —

XXXIII.

With Love and Peace: yet strangely sank
Cold sorrow on his soul,
For human wisdom, and the blank
Summation of the whole.

XXXIV.

Nor seemed it fit, that one, unnerved
And faint, should rouse the earth;
Or build with those whose zeal had served
But to incense his mirth.

XXXV.

Troubled to tears, he stood and gazed, —
Unknowing where to weep,
To spend his cries o'er fabrics razed,
Or a safe silence keep;

XXXVI.

Renouncing human life and lore;
Love's calm, and love's excess,
Experience and allegiance, for
A higher passiveness.

XXXVII.

So to drink full of Nature, much
Recipient, still to woo
Her windy walk, where pine-trees touch
Against the ribby blue;

XXXVIII.

To find her feet by singing rills,
Adoring and alone, —
O'er grassy fields, to the still hills,
Her solemn seat and throne!

XXXIX.

Sore struggle! yet, when passed, that seemed
A crowning conquest o'er
Himself and human bands: he deemed
The victory more and more,

XL.

And like that warfare urged upon
Unkingly lust and ease,
Which the fifth Henry waged and won;
Or that Lydiades.

XLI.

Who left his looser life with tears,
And in the fire of youth
Lived grave and chaste, Arcadian years
And reigned; — kings, heroes, both!

XLII.

Ah, so — but not to him returned,
Our monarch, meed like this,
But sterner kin his grief had spurned,
And bitter friends were his.

XLIII.

Distrust and Fear beside him took,
With Shame, their hateful stands;
And Sorrow passed, and struck the book
Of knowledge from his hands.

XLIV.

He saw, with absent, sorrowing heed,
All that had looked so fair;
His secret walk was wild with weed,
His gardens washed and bare:

XLV.

The very woods were filled with strife;
Fierce beaks and warring wings
Clashed in his face; the heart and life
Of those deep-hidden springs,

XLVI.

No more his spirit cared to quaff:
Great Nature lost her place, —
Pushed from her happy heights, and half
Degraded of her grace.

XLVII.

And so he saw the morning white,
As eyes with tears opprest,
The last heart-breaking gleam of light
That dies along the West.

XLVIII.

And so he saw the opening flower
Dry in the August sheaf,
And on green Summer's top and tower,
Only the turning leaf:

XLIX.

For Summer's darkest green, explored,
Betrays the crimson blight;
As, in the heart of darkness cored,
Red sparks and seeds of light.
L.

And lightning lurk, ready to leap
Abroad, beyond reclaim;
To bathe a world in splendour deep,
Or snatch in folding flame.

LI.

He saw, with manners, age, and mode,
Opinion rise and sink,
The jarring clash of creed and code,
And knew not what to think; —

LII.

Beliefs of ritual and of race; —
And hard it was to tell
Why good should come by gift of grace,
And wrong be chargeable.

LIII.

Before him burned attainless towers!
Behind, a comfortless
Dim valley, waste with poison-flowers,
And weeds of barrenness.

LIV.

The early ray, the early dream,
Had vanished; faint and chill
Like winter, did the morning stream
On woodland, house, and hill:

LV.

Yet, as of old, he ranged apart
By river-bank and bed,
And mused in bitterness of heart;
And to himself he said, —

LVI.

" Tear sullen Monkshood where he stands
Tall by the garden walk;
With burning pricks and venom-glands,
Pluck off the nettle's stalk;

LVII.

Lobelia from the rivage break,
With Arum's blistering bell;
And, over all, let the bundle reek
With the smilax' loathly smell;

LVIII.

Fools' parsley from the graves of fools,
With deadly darnels bring;
Yew, garget, dogwood of the pools,
And the fen's unwholesome spring;

LIX.

And hemlock pull; and snatch from bees
Half-drugged, the red-bud rare,
And laurel; but prick in with these
The shaft of a lily fair;

LX.

And bind them up; rank blossom, sting,
Bough, berry, poison rife,
Embodying and embleming
The gleanings of a life. "

LXI.

Yet was not she, the lily-flower,
'Mid failings and misdeeds,
The fruit of many a scattered hour,
Yet fairer for the weeds?

LXII.

And was she not, through shade and shower,
In patient beauty drest,
Though lonely in her place and power,
Enough to save the rest?

LXIII.

Perhaps; yet darker gloomed the vale,
And dawned the turrets fair,
Beyond the height of ladder's scale,
Or any step of stair.

LXIV.

And yearned his soul for sharper change, —
And knowledge of the light;
Yet not by station, staff, or range
Of human toil or flight,

LXV.

Would he ascend; choosing alone
With grief to make his bed,
Like those whose godhead is their own;
On whom the curse is said, —

LXVI.

Who kindle to themselves a fire,
And in the light thereof
Walk, and are lost. But his desire
Was still for wiser love;

LXVII.

And sought but in the holy place;
And scarcely sought, but found
In still reception: failing this,
All life in death seemed drowned.

LXVIII.

Yet sometimes, doubting, discord-tost,
Came voices to his side, —
Echoes of youth, and friendships lost,
Or lost, or left aside.

LXIX.

Faces, wherein deep histories are,
Began to float and flee,
And hover darkly, like a far
Forgotten memory;

LXX.

Dim gardens, where a silent creek
Stole onward, margin-mossed;
And walks, with here and there a streak
Of dusky odour crossed,

LXXI.

Stirring the wells of tears. He saw
The vision of his youth,
With holy grief, with holy awe:
The temple-towers of Truth

LXXII.

Broke nearer; like a thunder-flash
Again came back the dream,
And light in many a bar and dash,
Like moonlight, flake, and beam,

LXXIII.

Or when wild clouds of middle air
Through hurrying gaps reveal
Arcturus, or the sailing star
That spurs Orion's heel; —

LXXIV.

Heaven's lights! yet covered as we look;
So, momently to view,
Came back the sparkle of the brook,
And fields his childhood knew;

LXXV.

Fair faith and love, with peace almost;
Yet, in that ray serene,
He only saw a glory lost,
And what he might have been.

LXXVI.

The precious grains his hands had spilled
Had fallen to others; they
Had passed before, his place was filled,
And the world rolled away.

LXXVII.

Too late he learned that Nature's parts
Whereto we lean and cling,
Change, but as change our human hearts,
Nor grow by worshipping;

LXXVIII.

And that her presence, fair or grand,
In these faint fields below,
Importeth little, seen beyond
Our welfare, or our woe.

LXXIX.

Nor good from ill can we release, —
But weigh the world in full;
Not separate taken, part and piece,
But indiscerptible.

LXXX.

In law and limit, tempests blow;
Tides swing from shore to shore;
And so the forest-tree will grow
As grew the tree before.

LXXXI.

Too late he learned by land and sea
This bitter truth to glean, —
That he who would know what shall be,
Must ponder what hath been;

LXXXII.

Nor unto fear or falsehood yield
His strength, the good to baulk;
Nor fold his arms beside the field,
But with the furrow walk,

LXXXIII.

Ready to cast his grain; and slower
To faint, more credulous,
Believing well that but by our
Own hands God helpeth us.

LXXXIV.

And who would find out Wisdom's grot,
To make her footsteps his, —
Must learn to look where it is not,
As well as where it is.