Obermann

In front the awful Alpine track     Crawls up its rocky stair;     The autumn storm-winds drive the rack     Close oer it, in the air.     Behind are the abandond baths     Mute in their meadows lone;     The leaves are on the valley paths;     The mists are on the Rhone,     The white mists rolling like a sea.     I hear the torrents roar.     Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee!     I feel thee near once more.     I turn thy leaves: I feel their breath     Once more upon me roll;     That air of languor, cold, and death,     Which brooded oer thy soul.     Fly hence, poor Wretch, whoeer thou art,     Condemnd to cast about,     All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,     For comfort from without:     A fever in these pages burns     Beneath the calm they feign;     A wounded human spirit turns     Here, on its bed of pain.     Yes, though the virgin mountain air     Fresh through these pages blows,     Though to these leaves the glaciers spare     The soul of their white snows,     Though here a mountain murmur swells     Of many a dark-boughd pine,     Though, as you read, you hear the bells     Of the high-pasturing kine,     Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,     And brooding mountain bee,     There sobs I know not what ground tone     Of human agony.     Is it for this, because the sound     Is fraught too deep with pain,     That, Obermann! the world around     So little loves thy strain?     Some secrets may the poet tell,     For the world loves new ways.     To tell too deep ones is not well;     It knows not what he says.     Yet of the spirits who have reignd     In this our troubled day,     I know but two, who have attaind,     Save thee, to see their way.     By Englands lakes, in grey old age,     His quiet home one keeps;     And one, the strong much-toiling Sage,     In German Weimar sleeps.     But Wordsworths eyes avert their ken     From half of human fate;     And Goethes course few sons of men     May think to emulate.     For he pursued a lonely road,     His eyes on Natures plan;     Neither made man too much a God,     Nor God too much a man.     Strong was he, with a spirit free     From mists, and sane, and clear;     Clearer, how much! than ours: yet we     Have a worse course to steer.     For though his manhood bore the blast     Of Europes stormiest time,     Yet in a tranquil world was passd     His tenderer youthful prime.     But we, brought forth and reard in hours     Of change, alarm, surprise,     What shelter to grow ripe is ours?     What leisure to grow wise?     Like children bathing on the shore,     Buried a wave beneath,     The second wave succeeds, before     We have had time to breathe.     Too fast we live, too much are tried,     Too harassd, to attain     Wordsworths sweet calm, or Goethes wide     And luminous view to gain.     And then we turn, thou sadder Sage!     To thee: we feel thy spell.     The hopeless tangle of our age,     Thou too hast scannd it well.     Immovable thou sittest; still     As death; composd to bear.     Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,     And icy thy despair.     Yes, as the Son of Thetis said,     One hears thee saying now,     Greater by far than thou are dead:     Strive not: die also thou.,     Ah! Two desires toss about     The poets feverish blood.     One drives him to the world without,     And one to solitude.     The glow, he cries, the thrill of life,     Where, where do these abound?     Not in the world, not in the strife     Of men, shall they be found.     He who hath watchd, not shard, the strife,     Knows how the day hath gone;     He only lives with the worlds life     Who hath renouncd his own.     To thee we come, then. Clouds are rolld     Where thou, O Seer, art set;     Thy realm of thought is drear and cold,     The world is colder yet!     And thou hast pleasures too to share     With those who come to thee:     Balms floating on thy mountain air,     And healing sights to see.     How often, where the slopes are green     On Jaman, hast thou sate     By some high chalet door, and seen     The summer day grow late,     And darkness steal oer the wet grass     With the pale crocus starrd,     And reach that glimmering sheet of glass     Beneath the piny sward,     Lake Lemans waters, far below:     And watchd the rosy light     Fade from the distant peaks of snow:     And on the air of night     Heard accents of the eternal tongue     Through the pine branches play:     Listend. and felt thyself grow young;     Listend, and wept Away!     Away the dreams that but deceive     And thou, sad Guide, adieu!     I go; Fate drives me: but I leave     Half of my life with you.     We, in some unknown Powers employ,     Move on a rigorous line:     Can neither, when we will, enjoy;     Nor, when we will, resign.     I in the world must live: but thou,     Thou melancholy Shade!     Wilt not, if thou canst see me now,     Condemn me, nor upbraid.     For thou art gone away from earth,     And place with those dost claim,     The Children of the Second Birth     Whom the world could not tame;     And with that small transfigurd Band,     Whom many a different way     Conducted to their common land,     Thou learnst to think as they.     Christian and pagan, king and slave,     Soldier and anchorite,     Distinctions we esteem so grave,     Are nothing in their sight.     They do not ask, who pind unseen,     Who was on action hurld,     Whose one bond is that all have been     Unspotted by the world.     There without anger thou wilt see     Him who obeys thy spell     No more, so he but rest, like thee,     Unsoild:, and so, Farewell     Farewell!, Whether thou now liest near     That much-lovd inland sea,     The ripples of whose blue waves cheer     Vevey and Meillerie,     And in that gracious region bland,     Where with clear-rustling wave     The scented pines of Switzerland     Stand dark round thy green grave,     Between the dusty vineyard walls     Issuing on that green place     The early peasant still recalls     The pensive strangers face,     And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date     Ere he plods on again;     Or whether, by maligner Fate,     Among the swarms of men,     Where between granite terraces     The blue Seine rolls her wave,     The Capital of Pleasure sees     Thy hardly-heard-of grave,     Farewell! Under the sky we part,     In this stern Alpine dell.     O unstrung will! O broken heart!     A last, a last farewell!