Come, let me sound thy depths, unquiet sea
Of thought and passion; let thy wild waves be
Calm for a moment. Thou mysterious mind —
No human eye may see, no fetters bind;
Within me, ever near me as a friend
That whilst I know I fail to comprehend;
Fountain, whence sweet and bitter waters flow,
The source of happiness, the cause of woe, —
Of all that spreads o'er life enchantment's spell,
Or binds it by anticipated hell; —
Come let me talk with thee, allotted part
Of immortality — my own deep heart!
Yes, deep and hidden now, but soon unsealed,
Must thou thy deepest thoughts and secrets yield:
Like the old sea, put off the shrouding gloom
That makes thee now a prison-house and tomb;
Spectres and sins that undisturbed have lain,
Must hear the judgement-voice and live again.
Then woe or bliss for thee: — thy ocean-mate,
Material only in its birth and fate,
Its rage rebuked, its captive hosts set free,
And homage paid, shall shrink away, and be
With all the mutinous billows o'er it hurled,
Less than a dew-drop on a rose impearled!
But thou — but thou — or darker, or more fair
The sentence and the doom that waits thee there.
No rock will hide thee in its friendly breast,
No death dismiss thee to eternal rest;
The solid earth thrilled by the trumpet's call,
Like a sere leaf shall tremble ere it fall, —
From heaven to hell on EYE extend and shine,
That can forgotten deeds and thoughts divine —
How wilt thou brook that day, that glance, frail heart of mine?
Spirit within me, speak; and through the veil
That hides thee from my vision, tell thy tale;
That so the present and the past may be
Guardians and prophets to futurity.
Spirit by which I live, thou art not dumb,
I hear thy voice; I called and thou art come;
I hear thy still and whispering voice of thought
Thus speak, with memories and musings fraught: —
" Mortal, Immortal, would desires like these
Had claimed thy prime, employed thine hours of ease!
But then, within thee burned th' enthusiast's fire,
Wild love of freedom, longings for thy lyre; —
And ardent visions of romantic youth,
Too fair for time, and oh! too frail for truth!
Aspirings nurst by solitude and pride,
Worlds to the dreamer, dreams to all beside;
Bright vague imaginings of bliss to be,
None ever saw, yet none despaired to see,
And aimless energies that bade the mind
Launch like a ship and leave the world behind.
But duty disregarded, reason spurned,
Knowledge despised, and wisdom all unlearned,
Punished the rebel who refused to bow,
And stamped SELF-TORTURER on th' enthusiast's brow.
" No earthly happiness exists for such,
They shrink like insects from the gentlest touch:
A breath can raise them, but a breath can kill,
And such wert thou — how sad the memory still!
Without a single real grief to own,
Yet ever mourning fancied joys o'erthrown; —
Viewing mankind with delicate disdain,
Unshared their pleasures, unrelieved their pain;
Self, thy sole object, interest, aim, end, view,
The circle's centre, oft the circle too.
" 'Tis past! 'tis past! — and never more may rise
The wasted hours I now have learned to prize;
Youth, like a summer sun, hath sunk to rest,
But left no glory lingering in its west.
Maturer life hath real sorrows brought,
And made me blush for those that such once thought;
Fancy is bankrupt for her golden schemes,
Tried in the world they proved but glittering dreams;
Remembrance views with unavailing tears,
the accusing phantoms of departed years,
While Hope too often lays her anchor by,
Or only lifts to heaven a troubled eye;
Too oft forebodings agonize the soul,
As lamentation filled the prophet's roll.
" Why do I speak of this? though sad, though true,
I know a calmer mood, a brighter view:
The restless ocean hath its hours of rest,
And sleep may visit those by pain opprest;
More shade than sunlight o'er his heart may sweep,
Who yet is cheerful, nay, may seldom weep;
And he may learn, though late, and by degrees,
To love his neighbour and desire to please;
Rejoice o'er those who never go astray,
And those who do, assist to find their way:
Life he may look on with a sobered eye,
And how to live, think less than how to die;
Love all that's fair on earth, or near or far,
Yet deem the fairest but a shooting star,
And strive to point his spirit's inward sight,
To orb for ever fixed, for ever bright;
Mourn countless sins, yet trust to be forgiven,
And feel a hesitating hope of heaven!"
Of thought and passion; let thy wild waves be
Calm for a moment. Thou mysterious mind —
No human eye may see, no fetters bind;
Within me, ever near me as a friend
That whilst I know I fail to comprehend;
Fountain, whence sweet and bitter waters flow,
The source of happiness, the cause of woe, —
Of all that spreads o'er life enchantment's spell,
Or binds it by anticipated hell; —
Come let me talk with thee, allotted part
Of immortality — my own deep heart!
Yes, deep and hidden now, but soon unsealed,
Must thou thy deepest thoughts and secrets yield:
Like the old sea, put off the shrouding gloom
That makes thee now a prison-house and tomb;
Spectres and sins that undisturbed have lain,
Must hear the judgement-voice and live again.
Then woe or bliss for thee: — thy ocean-mate,
Material only in its birth and fate,
Its rage rebuked, its captive hosts set free,
And homage paid, shall shrink away, and be
With all the mutinous billows o'er it hurled,
Less than a dew-drop on a rose impearled!
But thou — but thou — or darker, or more fair
The sentence and the doom that waits thee there.
No rock will hide thee in its friendly breast,
No death dismiss thee to eternal rest;
The solid earth thrilled by the trumpet's call,
Like a sere leaf shall tremble ere it fall, —
From heaven to hell on EYE extend and shine,
That can forgotten deeds and thoughts divine —
How wilt thou brook that day, that glance, frail heart of mine?
Spirit within me, speak; and through the veil
That hides thee from my vision, tell thy tale;
That so the present and the past may be
Guardians and prophets to futurity.
Spirit by which I live, thou art not dumb,
I hear thy voice; I called and thou art come;
I hear thy still and whispering voice of thought
Thus speak, with memories and musings fraught: —
" Mortal, Immortal, would desires like these
Had claimed thy prime, employed thine hours of ease!
But then, within thee burned th' enthusiast's fire,
Wild love of freedom, longings for thy lyre; —
And ardent visions of romantic youth,
Too fair for time, and oh! too frail for truth!
Aspirings nurst by solitude and pride,
Worlds to the dreamer, dreams to all beside;
Bright vague imaginings of bliss to be,
None ever saw, yet none despaired to see,
And aimless energies that bade the mind
Launch like a ship and leave the world behind.
But duty disregarded, reason spurned,
Knowledge despised, and wisdom all unlearned,
Punished the rebel who refused to bow,
And stamped SELF-TORTURER on th' enthusiast's brow.
" No earthly happiness exists for such,
They shrink like insects from the gentlest touch:
A breath can raise them, but a breath can kill,
And such wert thou — how sad the memory still!
Without a single real grief to own,
Yet ever mourning fancied joys o'erthrown; —
Viewing mankind with delicate disdain,
Unshared their pleasures, unrelieved their pain;
Self, thy sole object, interest, aim, end, view,
The circle's centre, oft the circle too.
" 'Tis past! 'tis past! — and never more may rise
The wasted hours I now have learned to prize;
Youth, like a summer sun, hath sunk to rest,
But left no glory lingering in its west.
Maturer life hath real sorrows brought,
And made me blush for those that such once thought;
Fancy is bankrupt for her golden schemes,
Tried in the world they proved but glittering dreams;
Remembrance views with unavailing tears,
the accusing phantoms of departed years,
While Hope too often lays her anchor by,
Or only lifts to heaven a troubled eye;
Too oft forebodings agonize the soul,
As lamentation filled the prophet's roll.
" Why do I speak of this? though sad, though true,
I know a calmer mood, a brighter view:
The restless ocean hath its hours of rest,
And sleep may visit those by pain opprest;
More shade than sunlight o'er his heart may sweep,
Who yet is cheerful, nay, may seldom weep;
And he may learn, though late, and by degrees,
To love his neighbour and desire to please;
Rejoice o'er those who never go astray,
And those who do, assist to find their way:
Life he may look on with a sobered eye,
And how to live, think less than how to die;
Love all that's fair on earth, or near or far,
Yet deem the fairest but a shooting star,
And strive to point his spirit's inward sight,
To orb for ever fixed, for ever bright;
Mourn countless sins, yet trust to be forgiven,
And feel a hesitating hope of heaven!"