Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads Another Heaven, the boundless-no one yet Hath reach'd it; there hereafter shall arise The second Asgard, with another name. Thither, when o'er this present earth and Heavens The tempest of the latter days hath swept, And they from sight have disappear'd, and sunk, Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair; Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. There re-assembling we shall see emerge From the bright Ocean at our feet an earth More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits Self-springing, and a seed of man preserved, Who then shall live in peace, as now in THROUGH Alpine meadows soft-suffused The autumnal evening darkens round, Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods. Over his boiling cauldron broods. Swift rush the spectral vapors white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing-then blotting from sight! our Halt-through the cloud-drift something shines! High in the valley, wet and drear, Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way. The library, where tract and tome The garden, overgrown-yet mild, Those halls, too, destined to contain For rigorous teachers seized my youth. fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom; What dost thou in this living tomb ? Forgive me, masters of the mind! So much unlearnt, so much resign'd— Not as their friend, or child, I speak! Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, Till I possess my soul again; Till free my thoughts before me roll, For the world cries your faith is now Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, Achilles ponders in his tent, The kings of modern thought are dumb; Silent they are, though not content, And wait to see the future come. They have the grief men had of yore, But they contend and cry no more. Our fathers water'd with their tears For what avail'd it, all the noise What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the Etolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier, to have read, From the fierce tempest of thine age Ye slumber in your silent grave!— Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; Allow them! We admire with awe TO MARGUERITE-CONTINUED YES! in the sea of life enisled, But when the moon their hollows lights, And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Oh! then a longing like despair Who order'd, that their longing's fire THYRSIS 2 A MONODY, to commemorate the author's friend, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, who died at Florence, 1861 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills! In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same; The village street its haunted mansion lacks, And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name, And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks 1 Standing alone, under the title: To Marguerite. There are in the English language three elegiac poems so great that they eclipse and efface all the elegiac poetry we know; all of Italian, all of Greek. It is only because the latest born is yet new to us that it can seem strange or rash to say so. The Thyrsis of Mr. Arnold makes a third with Lycidas and Adonais. Thyrsis, like Lycidas, has a quiet and tender undertone which gives it something of sacred." (Swinburne.) Lovely all times she lies, lovely tonight! Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power Befalls me wandering through this upland dim. Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour; Now seldom come I, since I came with him. That single elm-tree bright Against the west-I miss it! is it gone? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by newbuilt rick. Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday! |