His, who unwillingly sees See! In the rocks of the world Where are they tending?—A God Years they have been in the wild! Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Ye move through the ranks, recall HEINE (FROM HEINE'S GRAVE) THE Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men 1867. That was Heine! and we, Of the Spirit in whom we exist, OBERMANN ONCE MORE 1867. Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d'un monde ? OBERMANN. GLION?—Ah, twenty years, it cuts 1 All meaning from a name ! White houses prank where once were huts. Glion, but not the same! And yet I know not! All unchanged The hills in their old order ranged; And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff And stony mounts the way, The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if Across the valley, on that slope, Its pines, under their branches, ope Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 1 Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva, will recollect Glion, the moun tain-village above the castle of Chillon. Glion now has hotels, pensions, and villas; but twenty years ago it was hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it,-huts through which goes that beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, fol lowed by so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun. (Arnold). And who but thou must be, in truth, Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, And to thy mountain-chalet come, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, Again I feel the words inspire The harmony from which man swerved -While thus I mused, night gently ran Then, still and sudden, Obermann Those pensive features well I knew, 1 Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Works, vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon. (Arnold). A mountain-flower was in his hand, A book was in his breast. Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd My soul, his eyes did rest. "And is it thou," he cried, 66 so long Held by the world which we Loved not, who turnest from the throng Back to thy youth and me? "And from thy world, with heart opprest, Choosest thou now to turn ?— Ah me! we anchorites read things best, Clearest their course discern ! "Thou fledst me when the ungenial earth, Man's work-place, lay in gloom. "Perceiv'st thou not the change of day? Ah! Carry back thy ken, What, some two thousand years! Survey The world as it was then! "Like ours it look'd in outward air. "Stout was its arm, each thew and bone Seem'd puissant and alive But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone, And so it could not thrive! "On that hard Pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell. Deep weariness and sated lust Made human life a hell. "In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, He drove abroad, in furious guise, "He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown'd his hair with flowers No easier nor no quicker pass'd The impracticable hours. "The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, And on her head was hurl'd. "And oh, we cried, that on this corse "-Down came the storm! O'er France it pass'd In sheets of scathing fire; All Europe felt that fiery blast, "Down came the storm! In ruins fell "The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky, "Upon them plies the race of man Ye live,' I cried, 'ye work and plan, "Poor fragments of a broken world "That glow of central fire is done Knit all your parts, and kept you one-- "The past, its mask of union on, "Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead, Your social order too! Where tarries he, the Power who said: See, I make all things new? "The millions suffer still, and grieve, And what can helpers heal With old-world cures men half believe "And yet men have such need of joy! "Ah, not the emotion of that past, Some new such hope must dawn at last, Or man must toss in pain. Composed to bear, I lived and died, "(If Paris that brief flight allow) "But thou, whom fellowship of mood "O thou, who, ere thy flying span "Despair not thou as I despair'd, "He breaks the winter of the past; Millions, whose life in ice lay fast, Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. "What though there still need effort, strife? Though much be still unwon? Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life! Death's frozen hour is done! |