Rampolli Part 11

Psyche's wail is but a fluted sadness Heard from willows the moon silvereth; Psyche's tears are dews of morning redness, And her sighs the sweet night-violet's breath!

Yews o'ershade the myrtle of her probation; Much she loves for great has been her dole; Love leads through the paths of separation, Leads her to reunion's joyous goal.

She endures; bravely bears every burden, Dumb before the will of Fate bends low; Lies her bliss the patient tranquil word in; Her one cordial, feeling's overflow!

Preconviction--ah! the call, the token, Spreading wings the darksome sky to cleave!

'Tis but boding! 'tis but knowledge broken!

Truth's but what she truly doth believe!

Darkness hides the goal of Psyche's mission; For the eyes that tears so often gall Reach not to the summit of completion Where illusion's vaporous veil doth fall!

FROM CLAUDIUS.

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE CONTENTMENT

_THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE_.

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure; Thy father's very miniature!

That art thou, though thy father goes And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he, His face o'er thine did pose And said--Much has he sure of me, But no, 'tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small, But it is _his_ nose after all; For if thy nose his nose be not, Whence came the nose that thou hast got?

Sleep, boy! thy father only chose To tease me--that's his part!

Never you mind about his nose, But see you have his heart.

_CONTENTMENT_.

I am content. In triumph's tone My song, let people know!

And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so.

And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I.

The Mogul's gold, the Sultan's show, The hero's bliss, who, vext To find no other world below, Up to the moon looked next-- I'd none of them; for things like that Are only fit for laughing at.

My motto is--Content with this.

Gold--rank--I prize not such.

That which I have, my measure is; Wise men desire not much.

Men wish and wish, and have their will, And wish again, as hungry still.

And gold or honour, though it rings, Is but a brittle gla.s.s; Experience of changing things Might teach a very a.s.s!

Right often Many turns to None, And honour has but a short run.

To do right, to be good and clear, Is more than rank and gold; Then art thou always of good cheer, And blisses hast untold; Then art thou with thyself at one, And hatest no man, fearest none.

I am content. In triumph's tone, My song, let people know!

And many a mighty man, with throne And sceptre, is not so.

And if he is, why then, I cry, The man is just the same as I.

FROM GENESTET.

THREE PAIRS AND ONE.

You have two ears--and but one mouth: Let this, friend, be a token-- Much should be heard, and not so much Be spoken.

You have two eyes--and but one mouth: That is an indication-- Much must you see, but little serves Relation.

You have two hands--and but one mouth: Receive the hint you meet with-- For labour two, but only one To eat with.

FROM THE GERMAN

_SONG OF THE LONELY_.

Son, first-born, at home abiding!

All without is cold and bare: Hide me from the tempest's chiding Warm beside the Father's chair.

I am homesick, Lord of splendour!

Twilight fills my soul with fright: Let thy countenance befriend her, Shining from the halls of light.

I am homesick, loving Father!

Long years hath the pain increased: Soon, oh soon! thy children gather To the endless marriage-feast.

FROM PETRARCH.

PART I. SONNET LIX.

I am so weary with the burden old Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, That much I fear to perish from the ways, And fall into my enemy's grim fold.

True, a high friend, to free me, not with gold, Came, of ineffable and utmost grace-- Then straightway vanished from before my face, So that in vain I strive him to behold.

But his voice yet comes echoing below: O ye that labour, the way open lies!

Come unto me lest some one shut the gate!

--What heavenly grace--what love will--or what fate-- The pinions of a dove on me bestow That I may rest, and from the earth arise?