The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 11

From the rank soil in which grim London shrouds Her dead,--the green halls of the ghastly crowds-- To bear his Mary's dust; the dust to lay By the clear rill, beside her father's clay, Amidst those scenes which saw the rapture-strife And growth of pa.s.sion--life's sweet storm of life, Consign the silent pulse, the mouldering heart, Deaf to the joy to meet--the woe to part; Rounding and binding there as into one Sad page, the tale of all beneath the sun; And there, before that grave--beneath the beam Of the lone stars, and by that starlit stream, To lead the pledge of the fresh morn of love, And while the pardoning skies seem'd soft above, Murmur, "For her sake, her, who, reconciled, Hears us in heaven, give me thy heart, my child!"

But first--before his conscious soul could dare For the consoling balm to pour the prayer, _Alone_ the shadows of the past to brave, Alone to commune with the accusing grave, And shrive repentance of its haunting gloom Before Life's true Confessional--the Tomb;-- Such made his dream!--Oh! not in vain the creed Of old that knit atonement with the dead!

The penitent offering, the l.u.s.trating tide, The wandering, haunted, hopeful homicide, Who sees the spot to which the furies urge, Where halt the h.e.l.l-hounds, and where drops the scourge, And the appeased Manes pitying sigh-- "Thou hast atoned! once more enjoy the sky!"

Such made the dream he rushes to fulfil!-- Round the new mound babbled the living rill; A name, the name that Arden's wife should bear, Sculptured the late and vain repentance there.

O'er the same bridge which once to rapture led, Went the same steps their pathway to the dead: Night after night the same lone shadow gave A tremulous darkness to the hurrying wave; Lost,--and then, lengthening from the neighbouring yews, Dimm'd the wan shimmer of the moonlit dews, Then gain'd a grave;--and from the mound was thrown, Still as the shadow of yon funeral stone!

II.

Meanwhile to Morvale!--Sorrow, like the wind Through trees, stirs varying o'er each human mind; Uprooting some, from some it doth but strew Blossom and leaf, which spring restores anew; From some, but shakes rich powers unknown in calm, And wakes the trouble to extract the balm.

Let weaker natures suffer and despair, Great souls s.n.a.t.c.h vigour from the stormy air; Grief not the languor,--Grief the action brings; And clouds the horizon but to nerve the wings.

Up from his heavy thought, one dawning day, The Indian, silent, rose, and went his way; Palace and pomp and wealth and ease resign'd, } As one new-born, he plunged amidst his kind, } Whither, with what intent, he scarce divined. } He turn'd to see, through mists obscure and dun, The domes and spires of the vex'd Babylon; Before him smiled the mead and waved the corn, And Nature's music swell'd the hymns of Morn.

A sense of freedom, of the large escape From the pent walls our customs round us shape; The imperfect sympathies which curse the few, Who ne'er the chase the many join pursue; The trite convention, with its cold control, Which thralls the habit, yet not links the soul; --The sense of freedom pa.s.s'd into his breast, But found no hope it flatter'd and caress'd; So the sad captive, when at length made free, Shrinks from the sunlight he had pined to see; Feels on the limb the custom of the chain, Each step a struggle and each breath a pain, And knows--return'd unto the world too late, No smile shall greet him at his lonely gate; Seal'd every eye, of old that watch'd and wept; The world he knew has vanish'd while he slept!

He wander'd on, alone, on foot,--alone, As in the waste his earlier steps had known.

Forth went the peasant--Adam's curse begun;-- Home went the peasant in the western sun; He heard the bleating fold, the lowing herd, The last shrill carol of the nestling bird!

He saw the rare lights of the hamlet gleam And fade;--the stars grow stiller on the stream; Swart, by the woodland, cower'd the gipsy tent Whence peer'd dark eyes that watch'd him as he went-- He paused and turn'd:--Him more the outlaws charm Than the trim hostel and the happy farm.

Strangers, like him, from antique lands afar, Aliens untamed where'er their wanderings are, High Syrian sires of old;[V]--dark fragments torn From the great creed of Isis,--now forlorn In rags--all earth their foe, and day by day Worn in the strife with social Jove away-- Wretched, 'tis true, yet less enslaved, their strife, Than our false peace with all this masque of life, Convention's lies,--the league with Custom made, The crimes of glory, and the frauds of trade.

Rest and rude food the lawless Nomads yield; The dews rise ghost-like from the whitening field, And ghost-like on the wanderer glides the sleep Through which the phantom Dreams their witching Sabbat keep!

At dawn, while yet, around the Indian, lay The dark, fantastic groups,--resumed the way; Before his steps the landscape spreads more free And fresh from man;--ev'n as a broadening sea, When, more and more the harbour left behind, The lone sail drifts before the strengthening wind.

Behold the sun!--how stately from the East, Bright from G.o.d's presence, comes the glorious Priest!

Deck'd as beseems the Mighty One to whom Heaven gives the charge to hallow and illume!

How, as he comes,--through the Great Temple, EARTH, Peels the rich Jubilee of grateful mirth!

The infant flowers their odour-censers swinging, Through aisled glades Air's Anthem-Chorus ringing; While, like some soul lifted aloft by love, High and alone the sky-lark halts above, High, o'er the sparkling dews, the glittering corn, Hymns his frank happiness and hails the morn!

He stands upon the green hill's lighted brow, And sees the world at smiling peace below, Hamlet and farm, and thy best type, Desire Of the sad Heart,--the heaven-ascending spire!

He stood and mused, and thus his musing ran:-- "How strong, how feeble, is thine art, O Man!

Thou coverest Earth with wonders--at thy hand Curbs the meek water, blooms the subject land: Why halts thy magic here?--Why only deck'd Earth's sterile surface, mournful Architect?

Why art thou powerless o'er the world within?

Why raise the Eden, yet retain the sin?

Why, while the earth, thou but enjoy'st an hour, Proclaims thy splendour and attests thy power, Why o'er the spirit does thy sorcery cease?-- Lo the sweet landscape round thee lull'd in peace!

Why wakes each heart to sorrow, care, and strife?

Why with yon temple so at war the life?

Why all so slight the variance, or in grief Or guilt,--the sum of suffering and relief, Between the desert's son whose wild content Redeems no waste, enthralls no element, And ye the Magians?--ye the giant birth Of Lore and Science--Brahmins of the Earth?

Behold the calm steer drinking in the stream, Behold the glad bird glancing in the beam.

Say, know ye pleasure,--ye, the Eternal Heirs Of stars and spheres--life's calm content, like theirs?

Your stores enrich, your powers exalt, the few, And curse the millions wealth and power subdue; And ev'n the few!--what lord of luxury knows The joy in strife, the sweetness in repose, Which bless the houseless Arab?--Still behind } Ease waits Disgust, and with the falling wind } Droop the dull sails ordain'd to speed the mind. } Increasing wants the sum of care increase, The piled-up knowledge but sepulchres peace, Ye quell the instincts, the free love, frank hate, And bid hard Reason hold the scales of Fate-- What is your gain?--from each slain instinct springs A hydra pa.s.sion, poisoning while it stings; Free love, foul l.u.s.t;--the frank hate's manly strife A plotting mask'd dissimulating life;-- Truth flies the world--one falsehood taints the sky Each form a phantom, and each word a lie!

"Yet what am I?--the crush'd and baffled foe, Who dared the strife, yet would denounce the blow.

What arms had I against this world to wield?

What mail the naked savage heart to shield?

To this h.o.a.r world I brought the trusts of youth, Warm zeal for men, and fix'd repose in truth-- Amongst the young I look'd for young desires, Love which adores, and Honour which aspires-- Amongst the old, for souls set free from all The earthlier chains which young desires enthrall, Serene and gentle both to soothe and chide, The sires to pity, yet the seers to guide-- And lo! this civilised and boasted plan, This order'd ring and harmony of man, One hideous, cynic, levelling orgy, where Youth Age's ice, and Age Youth's fever share-- The unwrinkled brow, the calculating brain, The pa.s.sion balanced with the weights of gain, And Age more hotly clutching than the boy At the lewd bauble and the gilded toy.

"Why should I murmur?--why accuse the strong?

I own Earth's law--the conquer'd are the wrong, Am I ambitious?--in this world I stand Closed from the race, an Alien in the land.

Dare I to love?--O soul, O heart, forget That dream, that frenzy!--what is left me yet?

Revenge!"--His dark eyes flash'd--yet straightway died The pa.s.sionate lightning--"No!--revenge denied!

All the wild man in the tame slave is dead, The currents stagnate in the girded bed!

Back to my desert!--yet, O sorcerer's draught, O smooth false world,--what soul that once has quaff'd, Renounces not the ancient manliness?

_Now_, could the Desert the charm'd victim bless?

Can the caged bird, escaped from bondage, share As erst the freedom of the hardy air?

Can the poor peasant, lured by Wealth's caprice To marts and domes, find the old native peace In the old hut?--on-rushing is the mind: It ne'er looks back on what it leaves behind.

Once cut the cable and unfurl the sail, And spreads the boundless sea, and drifts the hurrying gale!

"Come then, my Soul, thy thoughts thy desert be!

Thy dreams thy comrades!--I escape to thee!

Within, the gates unbar, the airs expand, No bound but Heaven confines the Spirit's Land!

Such luxury yet as what of Nature lives In Art's lone wreck, the lingering instinct gives; Joy in the sun, and mystery in the star, Light of the Unseen, commune with the Far; Man's law,--his fellow, ev'n in scorn, to save, And hope in some just World beyond the Grave!"

So went he on, and day succeeds to day, Untired the step, though purposeless the way; At night his pause was at the lowliest door, The beggar'd heart makes brothers of the Poor; They who most writhe beneath Man's social wrong, But love the feeble when they hate the strong.

Laud not to me the optimists who call Each knave a brother--Parasites of all-- Praise not as genial his indifferent eye, Who lips the cant of mock philanthropy; He who loathes ill must more than half which lies In this ill world with generous scorn despise; Yet of the wrong he hates, the grief he shares, His lip rebuke, his soul compa.s.sion, wears; The Hermit's wrath bespeaks the Preacher's hope Who loves men most--men call the Misanthrope!

At times with honest toil reposed--at times Where gnawing wants beset despairing crimes, Both still betray'd the sojourn of his soul, Here wise to cheer, there fearless to control.

His that strange power the Church's Fathers had To awe the fierce and to console the sad; For he, like them, had sinn'd;--like them had known Life's wild extremes;--their trials were his own!

Were we as rich in charity of deed As gold--what rock would bloom not with the seed?

We give our alms, and cry--"What can we more?"

One hour of time were worth a load of ore!

Give to the ignorant our own wisdom!--give Sorrow our comfort,--lend to those who live In crime, the counsels of our virtue,--share With souls our souls, and Satan shall despair!

Alas, what converts one man, who would take The cross and staff, and house with Guilt, could make!

Still, in his breast, 'midst much that well might shame The virtues Christians in themselves proclaim, There dwelt the Ancient Heathen;--still as strong Doubts in Heaven's justice,--curses for man's wrong.

Revenge, denied indeed, still rankled deep In thought--and dimm'd the day, and marr'd the sleep And there were hours when from the h.e.l.l within Faded the angel that had saved from sin; When the fell Fury, beckoning through the gloom, Cried "Life for life--thou hast betray'd the tomb!"

For the grim Honour of the ancient time Deem'd vengeance duty and forgiveness crime; And the stern soul fanatic conscience scared, For blood _not_ shed, and injury weakly spared;-- Woe, if in hours like these, O more than woe, Had the roused tiger met the pardon'd foe!

Nor when his instinct of the life afar Soar'd from the soil and task'd the unanswering star, Came more than _Hope_--that reflex-beam of Faith-- That fitful moonlight on the unknown path; And not the glory of the joyous sun, That fills with light whate'er it shines upon; From which the smiles of G.o.d as brightly fall On the lone charnel as the festive hall!

Now Autumn closes on the fading year, The chill wind moaneth through the woodlands sere; At morn the mists lie mournful on the hill,-- The hum of summer's populace is still!

Hush'd the rife herbage, mute the choral tree, The blithe cicala, and the murmuring bee; The plashing reed, the furrow on the gla.s.s Of the calm wave, as by the bank you pa.s.s Scaring the lazy trout,--delight no more; The G.o.d of fields is dead--Pan's l.u.s.ty reign is o'er!

Solemn and earnest--yet to holier eyes Not void of glory, arch the sober'd skies Above the serious earth!--The changes wrought Type our own change from pa.s.sion into thought.

What though our path at every step is strewn With leaves that shadow'd in the summer noon; Through the clear s.p.a.ce more vigorous comes the air, And the star pierces where the branch is bare.

What though the birds desert the chiller light; To brighter climes the wiser speed their flight.

So happy Souls at will expand the wing, And, trusting Heaven, re-settle into Spring.

An old man sat beneath the yellowing beech, Vow'd to the Cross, and wise the Word to teach.

A patriarch priest, from earth's worst tempters pure, Gold and Ambition!--sainted and obscure!

Before his knee (the Gospel in his hands, And sunshine at his heart), a youthful listener stands!

The old man spoke of Christ--of Him who bore } Our form, our woes;--that man might evermore } In succouring woe-worn man, the G.o.d, made Man, adore! } "My child," he said, "in the far-heathen days, Hope was a dream, Belief an endless maze; The wise perplex'd, yet still with glimpse sublime Of ports dim-looming o'er the seas of Time Guess'd HIM unworshipp'd yet--the Power above Or Dorian Phoebus, or Pelasgic Jove!

Guess'd the far realm, not won by Charon's oar Not the pale joys the brave who gain abhor; No cold Elysium where the very Blest Envy the living and deplore the rest;[W]

Where ev'n the spirit, as the form, a ghost, Dreams back life's conflicts on the shadowy coast, Hears but the clashing steel, the armed train, And waves the airy spear, and murders hosts again!

More just the prescience of the eternal goal, Which gleam'd 'mid Cyprian shades, on Zeno's soul, Or shone to Plato in the lonely cave; G.o.d in all s.p.a.ce, and life in every grave!

Wise lore and high,--but for the _few_ conceived; By schools discuss'd, but not by crowds believed.

The angel-ladder touch'd the heavenly steep, But at its foot the patriarchs did but sleep; They did not preach to nations 'Lo your G.o.d;'

No thousands follow'd where their footsteps trod; Not to the fisherman they said 'Arise!'

Not to the lowly they reveal'd the skies;-- Aloof and lone their shining course they ran Like stars too high to gild the world of man:[X]