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Of love that never found his earthly close,
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ?
Or all the same as if he had not been ?
Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law
System and empire ? Sin itself be found
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ?
And only he, this wonder, dead, become
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life,
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself ?
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days,
The long mechanic pacings to and fro,
The set gray life, and apathetic end.
But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love ?
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou
Art more thro’ Love, and greater than thy years.
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
Will some one say, then why not ill for good ?
Why took ye not your pastime? To that man
My work shall answer, since I knew the right
And did it ; for a man is not as God,
But then most Godlike being most a man.
-So let me think 'tis well for thee and me
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow
To feel it ! for how hard it seem'd to me,
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,
Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full-tuned,-hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief !)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul !
For Love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love-
O this world's curse,-beloved but hated—came
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, “ Who is this ? behold thy bride,"
She push'd me from thee.
If the sense is hard
To alien ears, I did not speak to these-
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well.
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,
And all good things from evil, brought the night
In which we sat together and alone,
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart,
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,
That burn'd upon its object thro’ such tears
As flow but once a life.
To those caresses, when a hundred times
In that last kiss, which never was the last,
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth;
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd
In that brief night; the summer night, that paused
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung
Love-charm’d to listen : all the wheels of Time
Spun round in station, but the end had come.
O then like those, that clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose, There closing like an individual lifeIn one blind cry of passion and of pain, Like bitter accusation ev'n to death,
the whole of love and utter'd it, And bade adieu for ever.
Live-yet liveShall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all Life needs for life is possible to will Live happy! tend thy flowers : be tended by My blessing! should my shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, so put it back For calmer hours in memory's darkest hold, If unforgotten ! should it cross thy dreams, So might it come like one that looks content, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant light, Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freër, till thou wake refresh’d, Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv’n her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.