The Voice of Science in Nineteenth-Century Literature Part 9

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how _she_ view'd thy self-control, Thy struggling task'd morality-- Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair.

And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wert afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek.

"Ah child," she cries, "that strife divine-- Whence was it, for it is not mine?

"There is no effort on _my_ brow-- I do not strive, I do not weep.

I rush with the swift spheres, and glow In joy, and, when I will, I sleep.

Yet that severe, that earnest air I saw, I felt it once--but where?

"I knew not yet the gauge of Time, Nor wore the manacles of s.p.a.ce.

I felt it in some other clime-- I saw it in some other place.

--'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of G.o.d."

SELF-DEPENDENCE

Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of pa.s.sionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: "Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: "Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amus.e.m.e.nt, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their s.h.i.+ning, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state G.o.d's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: "Resolve to be thyself; and know that he, Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

ALL IS WELL

Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed, Keep, keep it snug within your breast, And lay you down and take your rest; Forget in sleep the doubt and pain, And when you wake, to work again.

The wind it blows, the vessel goes, And where and whither, no ones knows.

'Twill all be well: no need of care; Though how it will, and when, and where, We cannot see, and can't declare.

In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, 'Tis not in vain, and not for nought, The wind it blows, the s.h.i.+p it goes, Though where and whither, no one knows.

TO SPEND UNCOUNTED YEARS OF PAIN

To spend uncounted years of pain, Again, again, and yet again, In working out in heart and brain The problem of our being here; To gather facts from far and near, Upon the mind to hold them clear, And, knowing more may yet appear, Unto one's latest breath to fear, The premature result to draw-- Is this the object, end, and law, And purpose of our being here?

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly; But westward, look, the land is bright.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE

Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labor, Weak s.h.i.+ps and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In h.e.l.l and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in h.e.l.l; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her, To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow; And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever G.o.ds may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

EDWARD FITZGERALD