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| ONE of this mood I do remember well: | |
| We name him not—what now are earthly names? | |
| In humble dwelling born, retired, remote; | |
| In rural quietude, ’mong hills, and streams, | |
| And melancholy deserts, where the Sun | 5 |
| Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here | |
| And there, watching his little flock, or heard | |
| The ploughman talking to his steers. His hopes, | |
| His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling, | |
| Among the dews and holy mountain airs: | 10 |
| And fancy coloured them with every hue | |
| Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams | |
| Of childhood fled away—those rainbow dreams | |
| So innocent and fair, that withered Age, | |
| Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye, | 15 |
| And passing all between, looked fondly back | |
| To see them once again ere he departed: | |
| These fled away, and anxious thought, that wished | |
| To go, yet whither knew not well to go, | |
| Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile. | 20 |
| He listened, and heard from far the voice of Fame, | |
| Heard, and was charmed: and deep and sudden vow | |
| Of resolution made to be renowned: | |
| And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. | |
| His parents saw—his parents whom God made | 25 |
| Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope. | |
| The ancient page he turned, read much, thought much, | |
| And with old bards of honourable name | |
| Measured his soul severely; and looked up | |
| To fame, ambitious of no second place. | 30 |
| Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair. | |
| And out before him opened many a path | |
| Ascending, where the laurel highest waved | |
| Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring; | |
| But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized, | 35 |
| The harp he loved, loved better than his life, | |
| The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held | |
| The ear of thought a captive to its song. | |
| He searched, and meditated much, and whiles, | |
| With rapturous hand, in secret touched the lyre, | 40 |
| Aiming at glorious strains; and searched again | |
| For theme deserving of immortal verse; | |
| Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied; | |
| Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still. | |
| |
| Thus stood his mind, when him round came a cloud. | 45 |
| Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud | |
| Of ills we mention not: enough to say, | |
| ’Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom. | |
| He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes, | |
| One after one, put out, as nearer still | 50 |
| It drew his soul; but fainted not at first, | |
| Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man | |
| Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst | |
| Endure whate’er should come, without a sigh | |
| Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs, | 55 |
| The bitterest cup that Time could measure out; | |
| And, having done, look up, and ask for more. | |
| |
| He called Philosophy, and with his heart | |
| Reasoned. He called Religion, too, but called | |
| Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. | 60 |
| Ashamed to be o’ermatched by earthly woes, | |
| He sought, and sought with eye that dimmed apace, | |
| To find some avenue to light, some place | |
| On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain. | |
| Darker and darker still the darkness grew. | 65 |
| At length he sank; and Disappointment stood | |
| His only comforter, and mournfully | |
| Told all was past. His interest in life, | |
| In being, ceased; and now he seemed to feel, | |
| And shuddered as he felt, his powers of mind | 70 |
| Decaying in the spring-time of his day. | |
| The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure; | |
| Memory gave up her charge; Decision reeled; | |
| And from her flight Fancy returned, returned | |
| Because she found no nourishment abroad. | 75 |
| The blue heavens withered; and the moon and sun, | |
| And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn | |
| And evening withered; and the eyes, and smiles, | |
| And faces of all men and women, withered, | |
| Withered to him; and all the universe, | 80 |
| Like something which had been, appeared, but now | |
| Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried | |
| No more to hope, wished to forget his vow, | |
| Wished to forget his harp; then ceased to wish. | |
| That was his last; enjoyment now was done. | 85 |
| He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear. | |
| Of being sensible, and sensible | |
| Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God | |
| Had made superfluously, and needed not | |
| To build creation with; but back again | 90 |
| To nothing threw, and left it in the void, | |
| With everlasting sense that once it was. | |
| |
| Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent | |
| Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe! | |
| And who can tell how many, glorious once, | 95 |
| To others and themselves of promise full, | |
| Conducted to this pass of human thought, | |
| This wilderness of intellectual death, | |
| Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth, | |
| Leaving no vestige of memorial there! | 100 |
| |
| It was not so with him. When thus he lay, | |
| Forlorn of heart, withered and desolate, | |
| As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds, | |
| Selecting from its fallen sisters, chase, | |
| Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes, | 105 |
| And leave it there alone, to be forgotten | |
| Eternally, God passed in mercy by— | |
| His praise be ever new!—and on him breathed, | |
| And bade him live, and put into his hands | |
| A holy harp, into his lips a song, | 110 |
| That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time. | |
| Ambitious now but little to be praised | |
| Of men alone; ambitious most to be | |
| Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have | |
| His name recorded in the Book of Life. | 115 |
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