style="font-size:15px;"> Revenge!"—His dark eyes flash'd—yet straightway diedThe passionate 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 compassion, 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 hell 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 God 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 glass
Of the calm wave, as by the bank you pass
Scaring the lazy trout—delight no more;
The god of fields is dead—Pan's lusty reign is o'er!
Solemn and earnest—yet to holier eyes
Not void of glory, arch the sober'd skies
