Chapter XII: Act II: Evening. The Summit of Etna (3)

So thou arraign’st her, her foe;
So we arraign her, her sons.
Yes, we arraign her! but she,
The weary Titan, with deaf
Ears, and labor-dimmed eyes,
Regarding neither to right
Nor left, goes passively by,
Staggering on to her goal;
Bearing on shoulders immense,
Atlanteän, the load,
Well-nigh not to be borne,
Of the too vast orb of her fate.

But was it thou--I think
Surely it was!--that bard
Unnamed, who, Goethe said,
_Had every other gift, but wanted love_--
Love, without which the tongue
Even of angels sounds amiss?

Charm is the glory which makes
Song of the poet divine.
Love is the fountain of charm.
How without charm wilt thou draw,
Poet! the world to thy way?
Not by the lightnings of wit,
Not by the thunder of scorn.
These to the world too are given;
Wit it possesses, and scorn:
Charm is the poet’s alone.
_Hollow and dull are the great,_
_And artists envious, and the mob profane._
We know all this, we know!
Cam’st thou from heaven, O child
Of light! but this to declare?
Alas! to help us forget
Such barren knowledge a while,
God gave the poet his song.

Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold;
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor’s heart
Broke on the field of his fame.

Ah! as of old, from the pomp
Of Italian Milan, the fair
Flower of marble of white
Southern palaces,--steps
Bordered by statues, and walks
Terraced, and orange bowers
Heavy with fragrance,--the blond
German Kaiser full oft
Longed himself back to the fields,
Rivers, and high-roofed towns
Of his native Germany; so,
So, how often! from hot
Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps
Blazing, and brilliant crowds,
Starred and jewelled, of men
Famous, of women the queens
Of dazzling converse; from fumes
Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain
That mount, that madden,--how oft
Heine’s spirit outworn
Longed itself out of the din,
Back to the tranquil, the cool
Far German home of his youth!

See! in the May afternoon,
O’er the fresh short turf of the Hartz,
A youth, with the foot of youth,
Heine! thou climbest again:
Up through the tall dark firs
Warming their heads in the sun,
Checkering the grass with their shade;
Up by the stream, with its huge
Moss-hung bowlders, and thin
Musical water half-hid;
Up o’er the rock-strewn slope,
With the sinking sun, and the air
Chill, and the shadows now
Long on the gray hillside,--
To the stone-roofed hut at the top!

Or, yet later, in watch
On the roof of the Brocken-tower
Thou standest, gazing!--to see
The broad red sun over field,
Forest, and city, and spire,
And mist-tracked steam of the wide,
Wide German land, going down
In a bank of vapors,--again
Standest, at nightfall, alone!

Or, next morning, with limbs
Rested by slumber, and heart
Freshened and light with the May,
O’er the gracious spurs coming down
Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks
And beechen coverts, and copse
Of hazels green, in whose depth
Ilse, the fairy transformed,
In a thousand water-breaks light
Pours her petulant youth;
Climbing the rock which juts
O’er the valley,--the dizzily perched
Rock,--to its iron cross
Once more thou cling’st; to the cross
Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh!

Goethe too had been there.[25]
In the long-past winter he came
To the frozen Hartz, with his soul
Passionate, eager; his youth
All in ferment. But he,
Destined to work and to live,
Left it, and thou, alas!
Only to laugh and to die.

But something prompts me: Not thus
Take leave of Heine! not thus
Speak the last word at his grave!
Not in pity, and not
With half censure: with awe
Hail, as it passes from earth
Scattering lightnings, that soul!

The Spirit of the world,
Beholding the absurdity of men,--
Their vaunts, their feats,--let a sardonic smile,
For one short moment, wander o’er his lips.
_That smile was Heine!_ For its earthly hour
The strange guest sparkled; now ’tis passed away.

That was Heine! and we,
Myriads who live, who have lived,
What are we all, but a mood,
A single mood, of the life
Of the Spirit in whom we exist,
Who alone is all things in one?

Spirit, who fillest us all!
Spirit, who utterest in each
New-coming son of mankind
Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt!
O thou, one of whose moods,
Bitter and strange, was the life
Of Heine,--his strange, alas!
His bitter life,--may a life
Other and milder be mine!
May’st thou a mood more serene,
Happier, have uttered in mine!
May’st thou the rapture of peace
Deep have imbreathed at its core;
Made it a ray of thy thought,
Made it a beat of thy joy!

_STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE._

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain side.

The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
Doth the Dead Guier’s stream complain,
Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
Over his boiling caldron broods.

Swift rush the spectral vapors white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing--then blotting from our sight!--
Halt--through the cloud-drift something shines!
High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear.

_Strike leftward!_ cries our guide; and higher
Mounts up the stony forest-way.
At last the encircling trees retire;
Look! through the showery twilight gray,
What pointed roofs are these advance?
A palace of the kings of France?

Approach, for what we seek is here!
Alight, and sparely sup, and wait
For rest in this outbuilding near;
Then cross the sward, and reach that gate;
Knock; pass the wicket. Thou art come
To the Carthusians’ world-famed home.

The silent courts, where night and day
Into their stone-carved basins cold
The splashing icy fountains play,
The humid corridors behold,
Where, ghost-like in the deepening night,
Cowled forms brush by in gleaming white!

The chapel, where no organ’s peal
Invests the stern and naked prayer!
With penitential cries they kneel
And wrestle; rising then, with bare
And white uplifted faces stand,
Passing the Host from hand to hand;
Each takes, and then his visage wan
Is buried in his cowl once more.
The cells!--the suffering Son of man
Upon the wall; the knee-worn floor;
And where they sleep, that wooden bed,
Which shall their coffin be when dead!

The library, where tract and tome
Not to feed priestly pride are there,
To hymn the conquering march of Rome,
Nor yet to amuse, as ours are:
They paint of souls the inner strife,
Their drops of blood, their death in life.

The garden, overgrown--yet mild,
See, fragrant herbs are flowering there:
Strong children of the Alpine wild
Whose culture is the brethren’s care;
Of human tasks their only one,
And cheerful works beneath the sun.

Those halls, too, destined to contain
Each its own pilgrim-host of old,
From England, Germany, or Spain,--
All are before me! I behold
The house, the brotherhood austere.
And what am I, that I am here?

For rigorous teachers seized my youth,
And purged its faith, and trimmed its fire,
Showed 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!
At whose behest I long ago
So much unlearned, so much resigned:
I come not here to be your foe!
I seek these anchorites, not in ruth,
To curse and to deny your truth;

Not as their friend, or child, I speak!
But as, on some far northern strand,
Thinking of his own gods, a Greek
In pity and mournful awe might stand
Before some fallen Runic stone;
For both were faiths, and both are gone.

Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride:
I come to shed them at their side.

Oh, hide me in your gloom profound,
Ye solemn seats of holy pain!
Take me, cowled forms, and fence me round,
Till I possess my soul again;
Till free my thoughts before me roll,
Not chafed by hourly false control!

For the world cries, your faith is now
But a dead time’s exploded dream;
My melancholy, sciolists say,
Is a passed mode, an outworn theme.--
As if the world had ever had
A faith, or sciolists been sad!

Ah! if it _be_ passed, take away,
At least, the restlessness, the pain!
Be man henceforth no more a prey
To these out-dated stings again!
The nobleness of grief is gone:
Ah, leave us not the fret alone!

But,--if you cannot give us ease,--
Last of the race of them who grieve,
Here leave us to die out with these
Last of the people who believe!
Silent, while years engrave the brow;
Silent--the best are silent now.

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 watered with their tears
This sea of time whereon we sail;
Their voices were in all men’s ears
Who passed within their puissant hail.
Still the same ocean round us raves,
But we stand mute, and watch the waves.

For what availed it, all the noise
And outcry of the former men?
Say, have their sons achieved more joys?
Say, is life lighter now than then?
The sufferers died, they left their pain;
The pangs which tortured them remain.

What helps it now, that Byron bore,
With haughty scorn which mocked the smart,
Through Europe to the Ætolian 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
Carried thy lovely wail away,
Musical through Italian trees
Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?
Inheritors of thy distress,
Have restless hearts one throb the less?

Or are we easier, to have read,
O Obermann! the sad, stern page,
Which tells us how thou hidd’st thy head
From the fierce tempest of thine age
In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau,
Or chalets near the Alpine snow?

Ye slumber in your silent grave!--
The world, which for an idle day
Grace to your mood of sadness gave,
Long since hath flung her weeds away.
The eternal trifler breaks your spell;
But we--we learnt your lore too well!

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age,
More fortunate, alas! than we,
Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity.
Sons of the world, oh! speed those years;
But, while we wait, allow our tears!

Allow them! We admire with awe
The exulting thunder of your race;
You give the universe your law,
You triumph over time and space:
Your pride of life, your tireless powers,
We praise them, but they are not ours.

We are like children reared in shade
Beneath some old-world abbey wall,
Forgotten in a forest-glade,
And secret from the eyes of all.
Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves,
Their abbey, and its close of graves!

But, where the road runs near the stream,
Oft through the trees they catch a glance
Of passing troops in the sun’s beam,--
Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance;
Forth to the world those soldiers fare,
To life, to cities, and to war.

And through the woods, another way,
Faint bugle-notes from far are borne,
Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,
Round some old forest-lodge at morn.
Gay dames are there, in sylvan green;
Laughter and cries--those notes between!

The banners flashing through the trees
Make their blood dance, and chain their eyes;
That bugle-music on the breeze
Arrests them with a charmed surprise.
Banner by turns and bugle woo:
_Ye shy recluses, follow too!_

O children, what do ye reply?
“Action and pleasure, will ye roam
Through these secluded dells to cry
And call us? but too late ye come!
Too late for us your call ye blow,
Whose bent was taken long ago.

“Long since we pace this shadowed nave;
We watch those yellow tapers shine,
Emblems of hope over the grave,
In the high altar’s depth divine.
The organ carries to our ear
Its accents of another sphere.

“Fenced early in this cloistral round
Of revery, of shade, of prayer,
How should we grow in other ground?
How can we flower in foreign air?
--Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease;
And leave our desert to its peace!”

_STANZAS_

IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF OBERMANN.[26]

NOVEMBER, 1849.

In front the awful Alpine track
Crawls up its rocky stair;
The autumn storm-winds drive the rack,
Close o’er it, in the air.

Behind are the abandoned baths[27]
Mute in their meadows lone;
The leaves are on the valley-paths,
The mists are on the Rhone,--

The white mists rolling like a sea;
I hear the torrents roar.
--Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee;
I feel thee near once more.

I turn thy leaves; I feel their breath
Once more upon me roll;
That air of languor, cold, and death,
Which brooded o’er thy soul.

Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe’er thou art,
Condemned to cast about,
All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,
For comfort from without!

A fever in these pages burns
Beneath the calm they feign;
A wounded human spirit turns,
Here, on its bed of pain.

Yes, though the virgin mountain air
Fresh through these pages blows;
Though to these leaves the glaciers spare
The soul of their mute snows;

Though here a mountain murmur swells
Of many a dark-boughed pine;
Though, as you read, you hear the bells
Of the high-pasturing kine,--

Yet through the hum of torrent lone,
And brooding mountain bee,
There sobs I know not what ground-tone
Of human agony.

Is it for this, because the sound
Is fraught too deep with pain,
That, Obermann! the world around
So little loves thy strain?

Some secrets may the poet tell,
For the world loves new ways:
To tell too deep ones is not well,--
It knows not what he says.

Yet, of the spirits who have reigned
In this our troubled day,
I know but two who have attained,
Save thee, to see their way.

By England’s lakes, in gray old age,
His quiet home one keeps;
And one, the strong much-toiling sage,
In German Weimar sleeps.

But Wordsworth’s eyes avert their ken
From half of human fate;
And Goethe’s course few sons of men
May think to emulate.

For he pursued a lonely road,
His eyes on Nature’s plan;
Neither made man too much a god,
Nor God too much a man.

Strong was he, with a spirit free
From mists, and sane and clear;
Clearer, how much! than ours--yet we
Have a worse course to steer.

For, though his manhood bore the blast
Of a tremendous time,
Yet in a tranquil world was passed
His tenderer youthful prime.

But we, brought forth and reared in hours
Of change, alarm, surprise,--
What shelter to grow ripe is ours?
What leisure to grow wise?

Like children bathing on the shore,
Buried a wave beneath,
The second wave succeeds before
We have had time to breathe.

Too fast we live, too much are tried,
Too harassed, to attain
Wordsworth’s sweet calm, or Goethe’s wide
And luminous view to gain.

And then we turn, thou sadder sage,
To thee! we feel thy spell!
--The hopeless tangle of our age,
Thou too hast scanned it well.

Immovable thou sittest, still
As death, composed to bear;
Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,
And icy thy despair.

Yes, as the son of Thetis said,
I hear thee saying now:
_Greater by far than thou are dead;_
_Strive not! die also thou!_

Ah! two desires toss about
The poet’s feverish blood;
One drives him to the world without,
And one to solitude.

_The glow_, he cries, _the thrill of life,_
_Where, where do these abound?_
Not in the world, not in the strife
Of men, shall they be found.

He who hath watched, not shared, the strife,
Knows how the day hath gone:
He only lives with the world’s life,
Who hath renounced his own.

To thee we come, then! Clouds are rolled
Where thou, O seer! art set;
Thy realm of thought is drear and cold--
The world is colder yet.

And thou hast pleasures, too, to share
With those who come to thee,--
Balms floating on thy mountain air,
And healing sights to see.

How often, where the slopes are green
On Jaman, hast thou sate
By some high chalet-door, and seen
The summer day grow late;

And darkness steal o’er the wet grass
With the pale crocus starred,
And reach that glimmering sheet of glass
Beneath the piny sward,--

Lake Leman’s waters, far below;
And watched the rosy light
Fade from the distant peaks of snow;
And on the air of night

Heard accents of the eternal tongue
Through the pine branches play,--
Listened, and felt thyself grow young!
Listened, and wept-- Away!

Away the dreams that but deceive!
And thou, sad guide, adieu!
I go, fate drives me; but I leave
Half of my life with you.

We, in some unknown Power’s employ,
Move on a rigorous line;
Can neither, when we will, enjoy,
Nor, when we will, resign.

I in the world must live; but thou,
Thou melancholy shade!
Wilt not, if thou canst see me now,
Condemn me, nor upbraid.

For thou art gone away from earth,
And place with those dost claim,
The children of the second birth,
Whom the world could not tame;

And with that small transfigured band,
Whom many a different way
Conducted to their common land,
Thou learn’st to think as they

Christian and Pagan, king and slave,
Soldier and anchorite,
Distinctions we esteem so grave,
Are nothing in their sight.

They do not ask, who pined unseen,
Who was on action hurled,
Whose one bond is, that all have been
Unspotted by the world.

There without anger thou wilt see
Him who obeys thy spell
No more, so he but rest, like thee,
Unsoiled; and so, farewell!

Farewell! Whether thou now liest near
That much-loved inland sea,
The ripples of whose blue waves cheer
Vevey and Meillerie;

And in that gracious region bland,
Where with clear-rustling wave
The scented pines of Switzerland
Stand dark round thy green grave,--

Between the dusty vineyard-walls
Issuing on that green place,
The early peasant still recalls
The pensive stranger’s face,--

And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date
Ere he plods on again;
Or whether, by maligner fate,
Among the swarms of men,--

Where between granite terraces
The blue Seine rolls her wave,
The Capital of Pleasure sees
Thy hardly-heard-of grave,--

Farewell! Under the sky we part,
In this stern Alpine dell.
O unstrung will! O broken heart!
A last, a last farewell!

_OBERMANN ONCE MORE._

(COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.)

_Savez-vous quelque bien qui console du regret d’un monde?_
OBERMANN.

Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts[28]
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 turf, the pines, the sky!
The hills in their old order ranged;
The lake, with Chillon by;

And ’neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff
And stony mounts the way,
The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if
I left them yesterday.

Across the valley, on that slope,
The huts of Avant shine;
Its pines, under their branches, ope
Ways for the pasturing kine.

Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare,
Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass,
Invite to rest the traveller there
Before he climb the pass,--

The gentian-flowered pass, its crown[29]
With yellow spires aflame;
Whence drops the path to Allière down,
And walls where Byron came;[30]

By their green river, who doth change
His birth-name just below,
Orchard and croft and full-stored grange
Nursed by his pastoral flow.

But stop! to fetch back thoughts that stray
Beyond this gracious bound,
The cone of Jaman, pale and gray,
See, in the blue profound!

Ah, Jaman! delicately tall
Above his sun-warmed firs,--
What thoughts to me his rocks recall,
What memories he stirs!

And who but thou must be, in truth,
Obermann! with me here?
Thou master of my wandering youth,
But left this many a year!

Yes, I forget the world’s work wrought,
Its warfare waged with pain:
An eremite with thee, in thought
Once more I slip my chain,--

And to thy mountain chalet come,
And lie beside its door,
And hear the wild bee’s Alpine hum,
And thy sad, tranquil lore.

Again I feel the words inspire
Their mournful calm; serene,
Yet tinged with infinite desire
For all that _might_ have been,--

The harmony from which man swerved
Made his life’s rule once more;
The universal order served,
Earth happier than before.

--While thus I mused, night gently ran
Down over hill and wood.
Then, still and sudden, Obermann
On the grass near me stood.

Those pensive features well I knew,--
On my mind, years before,
Imaged so oft, imaged so true!
--A shepherd’s garb he wore;

A mountain flower was in his hand,
A book was in his breast.
Bent on my face, with gaze which scanned
My soul, his eyes did rest.

“And is it thou,” he cried, “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 fled’st me when the ungenial earth,
Man’s work-place, lay in gloom:
Return’st thou in her hour of birth,
Of hopes and hearts in bloom?

“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 looked in outward air.
Its head was clear and true,
Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare,
No pause its action knew;

“Stout was its arm, each thew and bone
Seemed 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,
The Roman noble lay;
He drove abroad, in furious guise,
Along the Appian Way.

“He made a feast, drank fierce and fast,
And crowned his hair with flowers;
No easier nor no quicker passed
The impracticable hours.

“The brooding East with awe beheld
Her impious younger world.
The Roman tempest swelled and swelled,
And on her head was hurled.

“The East bowed low before the blast
In patient, deep disdain;
She let the legions thunder past,
And plunged in thought again.

“So well she mused, a morning broke
Across her spirit gray;
A conquering, new-born joy awoke,
And filled her life with day.

“‘Poor world!’ she cried, ‘so deep accurst,
That runn’st from pole to pole
To seek a draught to slake thy thirst.--
Go, seek it in thy soul!’

“She heard it, the victorious West,
In crown and sword arrayed;
She felt the void which mined her breast,
She shivered and obeyed.

“She vailed her eagles, snapped her sword,
And laid her sceptre down;
Her stately purple she abhorred,
And her imperial crown.

“She broke her flutes, she stopped her sports,
Her artists could not please.
She tore her books, she shut her courts,
She fled her palaces.

“Lust of the eye, and pride of life,
She left it all behind,
And hurried, torn with inward strife,
The wilderness to find.

“Tears washed the trouble from her face;
She changed into a child;
’Mid weeds and wrecks she stood,--a place
Of ruin,--but she smiled!

“Oh, had I lived in that great day,
How had its glory new
Filled earth and heaven, and caught away
My ravished spirit too!

“No thoughts that to the world belong
Had stood against the wave
Of love which set so deep and strong
From Christ’s then open grave.

“No cloister-floor of humid stone
Had been too cold for me;
For me no Eastern desert lone
Had been too far to flee.

“No lonely life had passed too slow,
When I could hourly scan
Upon his cross, with head sunk low,
That nailed, thorn-crownèd Man;
“Could see the Mother with the Child
Whose tender winning arts
Have to his little arms beguiled
So many wounded hearts!

“And centuries came, and ran their course;
And, unspent all that time,
Still, still went forth that Child’s dear force,
And still was at its prime.

“Ay, ages long endured his span
Of life,--’tis true received,--
That gracious Child, that thorn-crowned Man!
--He lived while we believed.

“While we believed, on earth he went,
And open stood his grave;
Men called from chamber, church, and tent,
And Christ was by to save.

“Now he is dead! Far hence he lies
In the lorn Syrian town;
And on his grave, with shining eyes,
The Syrian stars look down.

“In vain men still, with hoping new,
Regard his death-place dumb,
And say the stone is not yet to,
And wait for words to come.

“Ah! from that silent sacred land
Of sun, and arid stone,
And crumbling wall, and sultry sand,
Comes now one word alone!

“From David’s lips that word did roll;
’Tis true and living yet,--
_No man can save his brother’s soul,_
_Nor pay his brother’s debt._

“Alone, self-poised, henceforward man
Must labor; must resign
His all too human creeds, and scan
Simply the way divine;

“But slow that tide of common thought,
Which bathed our life, retired;
Slow, slow the old world wore to naught,
And pulse by pulse expired.

“Its frame yet stood without a breach,
When blood and warmth were fled;
And still it spake its wonted speech,
But every word was dead.

“And oh! we cried, that on this corse
Might fall a freshening storm!
Rive its dry bones, and with new force
A new-sprung world inform!

“--Down came the storm! O’er France it passed
In sheets of scathing fire.
All Europe felt that fiery blast,
And shook as it rushed by her.

“Down came the storm! In ruins fell
The worn-out world we knew.
It passed, that elemental swell:
Again appeared the blue;

“The sun shone in the new-washed sky.
--And what from heaven saw he?
Blocks of the past, like icebergs high,
Float on a rolling sea!

“Upon them plies the race of man
All it before endeavored:
‘Ye live,’ I cried, ‘ye work and plan,
And know not ye are severed!

“‘Poor fragments of a broken world,
Whereon men pitch their tent!
Why were ye too to death not hurled
When your world’s day was spent?

“‘That glow of central fire is done
Which with its fusing flame
Knit all your parts, and kept you one;
But ye, ye are the same!

“‘The past, its mask of union on,
Had ceased to live and thrive:
The past, its mask of union gone,
Say, is it more alive?

“‘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
For woes they wholly feel?

“‘And yet men have such need of joy!
But joy whose grounds are true,
And joy that should all hearts employ
As when the past was new.

“‘Ah! not the emotion of that past,
Its common hope, were vain!
Some new such hope must dawn at last,
Or man must toss in pain.

“‘But now the old is out of date,
The new is not yet born.
And who can be _alone_ elate,
While the world lies forlorn?’

“Then to the wilderness I fled.
There among Alpine snows
And pastoral huts I hid my head,
And sought and found repose.

“It was not yet the appointed hour.
Sad, patient, and resigned,
I watched the crocus fade and flower,
I felt the sun and wind.

“The day I lived in was not mine:
Man gets no second day.
In dreams I saw the future shine,
But ah! I could not stay!

“Action I had not, followers, fame.
I passed obscure, alone.
The after-world forgets my name,
Nor do I wish it known.

“Composed to bear, I lived and died,
And knew my life was vain.
With fate I murmur not, nor chide.
At Sèvres by the Seine

“(If Paris that brief flight allow)
My humble tomb explore!
It bears: _Eternity, be thou
My refuge!_ and no more.

“But thou, whom fellowship of mood
Did make from haunts of strife
Come to my mountain solitude,
And learn my frustrate life;

“O thou, who, ere thy flying span
Was past of cheerful youth,
Didst find the solitary man,
And love his cheerless truth,--

“Despair not thou as I despaired,
Nor be cold gloom thy prison!
Forward the gracious hours have fared,
And see! the sun is risen!

“He breaks the winter of the past;
A green, new earth appears.
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.

“The world’s great order dawns in sheen
After long darkness rude,
Divinelier imaged, clearer seen,
With happier zeal pursued.

“With hope extinct, and brow composed,
I marked the present die;
Its term of life was nearly closed,
Yet it had more than I.

“But thou, though to the world’s new hour
Thou come with aspect marred,
Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power,
Which best befits its bard;

“Though more than half thy years be past,
And spent thy youthful prime;
Though, round thy firmer manhood cast,
Hang weeds of our sad time

“Whereof thy youth felt all the spell,
And traversed all the shade,--
Though late, though dimmed, though weak, yet tell
Hope to a world new-made!

“Help it to fill that deep desire,
The want which crazed our brain,
Consumed our soul with thirst like fire,
Immedicable pain;

“Which to the wilderness drove out
Our life, to Alpine snow,
And palsied all our word with doubt,
And all our work with woe.

“What still of strength is left, employ,
This end to help attain:
_One common wave of thought and joy_
_Lifting mankind again!_”

--The vision ended. I awoke
As out of sleep, and no
Voice moved: only the torrent broke
The silence, far below.

Soft darkness on the turf did lie;
Solemn, o’er hut and wood,
In the yet star-sown nightly sky,
The peak of Jaman stood.

Still in my soul the voice I heard
Of Obermann! Away
I turned; by some vague impulse stirred,
Along the rocks of Naye,--

Past Sonchaud’s piny flanks I gaze,
And the blanched summit bare
Of Malatrait, to where in haze
The Valais opens fair,

And the domed Velan, with his snows,
Behind the upcrowding hills,
Doth all the heavenly opening close
Which the Rhone’s murmur fills;

And glorious there, without a sound,
Across the glimmering lake,
High in the Valais-depth profound,
I saw the morning break.

NOTES.

NOTE [1], PAGE 2.

_Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen._

The name Europe (Εὐρώπη, _the wide prospect_) probably describes the appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mæander, which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them.

NOTE [2], PAGE 8.

_Mycerinus._

“After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He abhorred his father’s courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any of their kings had done. To him there came an oracle from the city of Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in the seventh year from that time.”--HERODOTUS.

NOTE [3], PAGE 37.

_Stagirius._

Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom’s works.

NOTE [4], PAGE 51.

_That wayside inn we left to-day._

Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake Country will find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside inn at Wythburn, on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick; its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago; and the passage over the Wythburn Fells to Watendlath.

NOTE [5], PAGE 59.

_Sohrab and Rustum._

The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm’s “History of Persia,” as follows:--

“The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum’s early amours. He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, whose armies he commanded; and soon obtained a renown beyond that of all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved to do under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time, they parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage; the second, the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father; the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as death to the aged hero; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum quite frantic: he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab’s death, he burned his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to Seistan, where it was interred; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To reconcile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she revealed the truth; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days.”

NOTE [6], PAGE 94.

_Balder Dead._

“Balder the Good having been tormented with terrible dreams, indicating that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled Æsir, who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger. Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When this was done, it became a favorite pastime of the Æsir, at their meetings, to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes; for, do they what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was regarded by all as a great honor shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld the scene, he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the Æsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they were throwing darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him.

“‘Ay,’ said Frigga, ’neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I have exacted an oath from all of them.’

“‘What!’ exclaimed the woman, ‘have all things sworn to spare Balder?’

“‘All things,’ replied Frigga, ‘except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave an oath from.’

“As soon as Loki heard this, he went away, and, resuming his natural shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled. There he found Hödur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness; and going up to him said, ‘Why dost thou not also throw something at Balder?’ “‘Because I am blind,’ answered Hödur, ‘and see not where Balder is, and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.’

“‘Come, then,’ said Loki, ‘do like the rest, and show honor to Balder by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place where he stands.’

“Hödur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless.”--_Edda._

NOTE [7], PAGE 131.

_Tristram and Iseult._

“In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises. The king of Ireland, at Tristram’s solicitations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter’s confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers.

“After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews.--Tristram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands. He married her, more out of gratitude than love. Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits.

“Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he dispatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to accompany him to Brittany,” etc.--DUNLOP’S _History of Fiction_.

NOTE [8], PAGE 167.

_That son of Italy who tried to blow._

Giacopone di Todi.

NOTE [9], PAGE 172.

_Recalls the obscure opposer he outweighed._

Gilbert de la Porrée, at the Council of Rheims in 1148.

NOTE [10], PAGE 173.

_Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried._

The Montanists.

NOTE [11], PAGE 174.

_Monica._

See St. Augustine’s “Confessions,” book ix. chapter 11.

NOTE [12], PAGE 175.

_My Marguerite smiles upon the strand._

See, among “Early Poems,” the poem called “A Memory-Picture,” p. 23.

NOTE [13], PAGE 199.

_The Hunter of the Tanagræan Field._

Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity appearing in both earth and sky.

NOTE [14], PAGE 200.

_O’er the sun-reddened western straits._

Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably took its name from the redness of the west under which the Greeks saw it.

NOTE [15], PAGE 222.

_Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat._

The _gentiana lutea_.

NOTE [16], PAGE 246.

_Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth._

See the Fragments of Parmenides:--

......κοῦραι δʹ ὁδὀν ἡγεμόνευον,
ἡλἱαδες κοῦραι, προλιποῦσαι δὠματα νυκτός,
εἰς ϕάος............

NOTE [17], PAGE 291.

_The Scholar-Gypsy._

“There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gypsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gypsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others; that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”--GLANVIL’S _Vanity of Dogmatizing_, 1661.

NOTE [18], PAGE 299.

_Thyrsis._

Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece, “The Scholar-Gypsy.”

NOTE [19], PAGE 305.

_Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing._

Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers. Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, raised him to heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. See SERVIUS, _Comment. in Virgil. Bucol._, v. 20 and viii. 68.

NOTE [20], PAGE 312.

_Ah! where is he, who should have come._

The author’s brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, and author of “Oakfield, or Fellowship in the East,” died at Gibraltar, on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859.

NOTE [21], PAGE 313.

_So moonlit, saw me once of yore._

See the poem, “A Summer Night,” p. 278.

NOTE [22], PAGE 313.

_My brother! and thine early lot._

See Note 20.

NOTE [23], PAGE 317.

_I saw the meeting of two
Gifted women._

Charlotte Brontë and Harriet Martineau.

NOTE [24], PAGE 320.

_Whose too bold dying song._

See the last lines written by Emily Brontë, in “Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.”

NOTE [25], PAGE 334.

_Goethe too had been there._

See _Harzreise im Winter_, in Goethe’s _Gedichte_.

NOTE [26], PAGE 342.

The author of _Obermann_, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, _Obermann_, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.

Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the Seminary of St. Sulpice; broke away from the seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only: _Éternité, deviens mon asile!_

The influence of Rousseau, and certain affinities with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,--Chateaubriand and Madame de Staël,--are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though _Obermann_, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them; of all writers, he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces by which modern life is and has been impelled lives in the letters of _Obermann_; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but now fully bringing to light,--all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.

Besides _Obermann_, there is one other of Senancour’s works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting: its title is _Libres Méditations d’un Solitaire Inconnu_.

NOTE [27], PAGE 342.

_Behind are the abandoned baths._

The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone.

NOTE [28], PAGE 348.

_Glion? Ah! twenty years, it cuts._

Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva will recollect Glion, the mountain 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, followed by so many foot-travellers on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun.

NOTE [29], PAGE 349.

_The gentian-flowered pass, its crown._

See Note 15.

NOTE [30], PAGE 349.

_And walls where Byron came._

Montbovon. See Byron’s Journal, in his “Works,” vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon.

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