Pauline - A Fragment of a Confession

Pauline, mine own, bend oer me thy soft breast     Shall pant to mine bend oer me thy sweet eyes,     And loosened hair, and breathing lips, arms     Drawing me to thee these build up a screen     To shut me in with thee, and from all fear,     So that I might unlock the sleepless brood     Of fancies from my soul, their lurking place,     Nor doubt that each would pass, neer to return     To one so watched, so loved, and so secured.     But what can guard thee but thy naked love?     Ah, dearest; whoso sucks a poisoned wound     Envenoms his own veins, thou art so good,     So calm if thou shouldst wear a brow less light     For some wild thought which, but for me, were kept     From out thy soul, as from a sacred star.     Yet till I have unlocked them it were vain     To hope to sing; some woe would light on me;     Nature would point at one, whose quivering lip     Was bathed in her enchantments whose brow burned     Beneath the crown, to which her secrets knelt;     Who learned the spell which can call up the dead,     And then departed, smiling like a fiend     Who has deceived God. If such one should seek     Again her altars, and stand robed and crowned     Amid the faithful: sad confession first,     Remorse and pardon, and old claims renewed,     Ere I can be as I shall be no more.     I had been spared this shame, if I had sate     By thee for ever, from the first, in place     Of my wild dreams of beauty and of good,     Or with them, as an earnest of their truth.     No thought nor hope, having been shut from thee,     No vague wish unexplained no wandering aim     Sent back to bind on Fancys wings, and seek     Some strange fair world, where it might be a law;     But doubting nothing, had been led by thee,     Thro youth, and saved, as one at length awaked,     Who has slept thro a peril. Ah! vain, vain!     Thou lovest me the past is in its grave,     Tho its ghost haunts us till this much is ours,     To cast away restraint, lest a worse thing     Wait for us in the darkness. Thou lovest me,     And thou art to receive not love, but faith,     For which thou wilt be mine, and smile, and take     All shapes, and shames, and veil without a fear     That form which music follows like a slave;     And I look to thee, and I trust in thee,     As in a Northern night one looks alway     Unto the East for morn, and spring a joy.     Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state,     And resting on some few old feelings, won     Back by thy beauty, wouldst that I essay     The task, which was to me what now thou art:     And why should I conceal one weakness more?     Thou wilt remember one warm morn, when Winter     Crept aged from the earth, and Springs first breath     Blew soft from the moist hills the black-thorn boughs,     So dark in the bare wood; when glistening     In the sunshine were white with coming buds,     Like the bright side of a sorrow and the banks     Had violets opening from sleep like eyes     I walked with thee, who knew not a deep shame     Lurked beneath smiles and careless words, which sought     To hide it till they wandered and were mute;     As we stood listening on a sunny mound     To the wind murmuring in the damp copse,     Like heavy breathings of some hidden thing     Betrayed by sleep until the feeling rushed     That I was low indeed, yet not so low     As to endure the calmness of thine eyes;     And so I told thee all, while the cool breast     I leaned on altered not its quiet beating;     And long ere words, like a hurt birds complaint,     Bade me look up and be what I had been,     I felt despair could never live by thee.     Thou wilt remember: thou art not more dear     Than song was once to me; and I neer sung     But as one entering bright halls, where all     Will rise and shout for him Sure I must own     That I am fallen having chosen gifts     Distinct from theirs that I am sad and fain     Would give up all to be but where I was;     Not high as I had been, if faithful found     But low and weak, yet full of hope, and sure     Of goodness as of life that I would lust     All this gay mastery of mind, to sit     Once more with them, trusting in truth and love.     And with an aim not being what I am.     Oh, Pauline! I am ruined! who believed     That tho my soul had floated from its sphere     Of wide dominion into the dim orb     Of self that it was strong and free as ever:     It has conformed itself to that dim orb,     Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and now     Must stay where it alone can be adored.     I have felt this in dreams in dreams in which     I seemed the fate from which I fled; I felt     A strange delight in causing my decay;     I was a fiend, in darkness chained for ever     Within some ocean-cave; and ages rolled,     Till thro the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, came     A white swan to remain with me; and ages     Rolled, yet I tired not of my first joy     In gazing on the peace of its pure wings.     And then I said, It is most fair to me,     Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered change     From the thick darkness sure its eyes are dim     Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbed     With sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me,     For it would seem, in light, beside its kind,     Withered tho here to me most beautiful.     And then I was a young witch, whose blue eyes,     As she stood naked by the river springs,     Drew down a god I watched his radiant form     Growing less radiant and it gladdened me;     Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshine     Upon my knees, singing to me of heaven,     He turned to look at me, ere I could lose     The grin with which I viewed his perishing.     And he shrieked and departed, and sat long     By his deserted throne but sunk at last,     Murmuring, as I kissed his lips and curled     Around him, I am still a god to thee.     Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall,     For all the wandering and all the weakness     Will he a saddest comment on the song.     And if, that done, I can be young again,     I will give up all gained as willingly     As one gives up a charm which shuts him out     From hope, or part, or care, in human kind.     As life wanes, all its cares, and strife, and toil,     Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees     Which grew by our youths home the waving mass     Of climbing plants, heavy with bloom and dew     The morning swallows with their songs like words,     All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts.     So aught connected with my early life     My rude songs or my wild imaginings,     How I look on them most distinct amid     The fever and the stir of after years!     I neer had ventured een to hope for this,     Had not the glow I felt at His award,     Assured me all was not extinct within.     Him whom all honor whose renown springs up     Like sunlight which will visit all the world;     So that een they who sneered at him at first,     Come out to it, as some dark spider crawls     From his foul nest, which some lit torch invades,     Yet spinning still new films for his retreat.     Thou didst smile, poet, but can we forgive?     Sun-treader life and light be thine for ever;     Thou art gone from us years go by and spring     Gladdens, and the young earth is beautiful,     Yet thy songs come not other bards arise,     But none like thee they stand thy majesties,     Like mighty works which tell some Spirit there     Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,     Till, its long task completed, it hath risen     And left us, never to return: and all     Rush in to peer and praise when all in vain.     The air seems bright with thy past presence yet,     But thou art still for me, as thou hast been     When I have stood with thee, as on a throne     With all thy dim creations gathered round     Like mountains, and I felt of mould like them,     And creatures of my own were mixed with them,     Like things half-lived, catching and giving life.     But thou art still for me, who have adored,     Tho single, panting but to hear thy name,     Which I believed a spell to me alone,     Scarce deeming thou wert as a star to men     As one should worship long a sacred spring     Scarce worth a moths flitting, which long grasses cross,     And one small tree embowers droopingly,     Joying to see some wandering insect won.     To live in its few rushes or some locust     To pasture on its boughs or some wild bird     Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air,     And then should find it but the fountain-head,     Long lost, of some great river washing towns     And towers, and seeing old woods which will live     But by its banks, untrod of human foot,     Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering     In light as some thing lieth half of life     Before Gods foot waiting a wondrous change     Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay     Its course in vain, for it does ever spread     Like a seas arm as it goes rolling on,     Being the pulse of some great country so     Wert thou to me and art thou to the world.     And I, perchance, half feel a strange regret,     That I am not what I have been to thee:     Like a girl one has loved long silently,     In her first loveliness, in some retreat,     When first emerged, all gaze and glow to view     Her fresh eyes, and soft hair, and lips which bleed     Like a mountain berry. Doubtless it is sweet     To see her thus adored but there have been     Moments, when all the world was in his praise,     Sweeter than all the pride of after hours.     Yet, Sun-treader, all hail! from my hearts heart     I bid thee hail! een in my wildest dreams,     I am proud to feel I would have thrown up all     The wreaths of fame which seemed oer-hanging me,     To have seen thee, for a moment, as thou art.     And if thou livest if thou lovest, spirit!     Remember me, who set this final seal     To wandering thought that one so pure as thou     Could never die. Remember me, who flung     All honor from my soul yet paused and said,     There is one spark of love remaining yet,     For I have nought in common with him shapes     Which followed him avoid me, and foul forms     Seek me, which neer could fasten on his mind;     And tho I feel how low I am to him,     Yet I aim not even to catch a tone     Of all the harmonies which he called up,     So one gleam still remains, altho the last     Remember me who praise thee een with tears,     For never more shall I walk calm with thee;     Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,     A melody, some wondrous singer sings,     Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,     They dream not to essay; yet it no less,     But more is honored. I was thine in shame,     And now when all thy proud renown is out,     I am a watcher, whose eyes have grown dim     With looking for some star which breaks on him,     Altered and worn, and weak, and full of tears.     Autumn has come like Spring returned to us,     Won from her girlishness like one returned     A friend that was a lover nor forgets     The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts     Of fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yet     With the old smile but yet so changed and still!     And here am I the scoffer, who have probed     Lifes vanity, won by a word again     Into my old life for one little word     Of this sweet friend, who lives in loving me,     Lives strangely on my thoughts, and looks, and words,     As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing     Its silent course of quietness and joy     O dearest, if indeed, I tell the past,     Mayst thou forget it as a sad sick dream;     Or if it linger my lost soul too soon     Sinks to itself, and whispers, we shall be     But closer linked two creatures whom the earth     Bears singly with strange feelings, unrevealed     But to each other; or two lonely things     Created by some Power, whose reign is done,     Having no part in God, or his bright world,     I am to sing; whilst ebbing day dies soft,     As a lean scholar dies, worn oer his book,     And in the heaven stars steal out one by one,     As hunted men steal to their mountain watch.     I must not think lest this new impulse die     In which I trust. I have no confidence,     So I will sing on fast as fancies come     Rudely the verse being as the mood it paints.     I strip my mind bare whose first elements     I shall unveil not as they struggled forth     In infancy, nor as they now exist,     That I am grown above them, and can rule them,     But in that middle stage when they were full,     Yet ere I had disposed them to my will;     And then I shall show how these elements     Produced my present state, and what it is.     I am made up of an intensest life,     Of a most clear idea of consciousness     Of self distinct from all its qualities,     From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;     And thus far it exists, if tracked in all,     But linked in me, to self-supremacy,     Existing as a centre to all things,     Most potent to create, and rule, and call     Upon all things to minister to it;     And to a principle of restlessness     Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all     This is myself; and I should thus have been,     Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.     And of my powers, one springs up to save     From utter death a soul with such desires     Confined to clay which is the only one     Which marks me an imagination which     Has been an angel to me coming not     In fitful visions, but beside me ever,     And never failing me; so tho my mind     Forgets not not a shred of life forgets     Yet I can take a secret pride in calling     The dark past up to quell it regally.     A mind like this must dissipate itself,     But I have always had one lode-star; now,     As I look back, I see that I have wasted,     Or progressed as I looked toward that star     A need, a trust, a yearning after God,     A feeling I have analysed but late,     But it existed, and was reconciled     With a neglect of all I deemed His laws,     Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.     I felt as one beloved, and so shut in     From fear and thence I date my trust in signs     And omens for I saw God everywhere;     And I can only lay it to the fruit     Of a sad after-time that I could doubt     Even His being having always felt     His presence never acting from myself,     Still trusting in a hand that leads me through     All dangers; and this feeling still has fought     Against my weakest reason and resolves.     And I can love nothing and this dull truth     Has come the last but sense supplies a love     Encircling me and mingling with my life.     These make myself for I have sought in vain     To trace how they were formed by circumstance,     For I still find them turning my wild youth     Where they alone displayed themselves, converting     All objects to their use now see their course!     They came to me in my first dawn of life,     Which passed alone with wisest ancient books,     All halo-girt with fancies of my own,     And I myself went with the tale, a god,     Wandering after beauty or a giant,     Standing vast in the sunset an old hunter,     Talking with gods or a high-crested chief,     Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos;     I tell you, nought has ever been so clear     As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives.     I had not seen a work of lofty art,     Nor womans beauty, nor sweet natures face,     Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those     On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea:     The deep groves, and white temples, and wet caves     And nothing ever will surprise me now     Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,     Who bound my forehead with Proserpines hair.     An strange it is, that I who could so dream,     Should eer have stooped to aim at aught beneath     Aught low, or painful, but I never doubted;     So as I grew, I rudely shaped my life     To my immediate wants, yet strong beneath     Was a vague sense of power folded up     A sense that tho those shadowy times were past,     Their spirit dwelt in me, and I should rule.     Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down     My soul, till it was changed. I lost myself,     And were it not that I so loathe that time,     I could recall how first I learned to turn     My mind against itself; and the effects,     In deeds for which remorse were vain, as for     The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence     Came cunning, envy, falsehood, which so long     Have spotted me at length I was restored,     Yet long the influence remained; and nought     But the still life I led, apart from all,     Which left my soul to seek its old delights,     Could eer have brought me thus far back to peace.     As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit:     And song rose no new impulse but the one     With which all others best could be combined.     My life has not been that of those whose heaven     Was lampless, save where poesy shone out;     But as a clime, where glittering mountain-tops,     And glancing sea, and forests steeped in light,     Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;     For music, (which is earnest of a heaven,     Seeing we know emotions strange by it,     Not else to be revealed) is as a voice,     A low voice calling Fancy, as a friend,     To the green woods in the gay summer time.     And she fills all the way with dancing shapes,     Which have made painters pale; and they go on     While stars look at them, and winds call to them,     As they leave lifes path for the twilight world,     Where the dead gather. This was not at first,     For I scarce knew what I would do. I had     No wish to paint, no yearning but I sang.     And first I sang, as I in dream have seen,     Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,     Yet singing to herself until it came.     I turned to those old times and scenes, where all     Thats beautiful had birth for me, and made     Rude verses on them all; and then I paused     I had done nothing, so I sought to know     What mind had yet achieved. No fear was mine     As I gazed on the works of mighty bards,     In the first joy at finding my own thoughts     Recorded, and my powers exemplified,     And feeling their aspirings were my own.     And then I first explored passion and mind;     And I began afresh; I rather sought     To rival what I wondered at, than form     Creations of my own; so much was light     Lent back by others, yet much was my own     I paused again a change was coming on,     I was no more a boy the past was breaking     Before the coming, and like fever worked.     I first thought on myself and here my powers     Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed     On all things: schemes and systems went and came,     And I was proud (being vainest of the weak),     In wandering oer them, to seek out some one     To be my own; as one should wander oer     The white way for a star.     .         .         .         .         .     On one, whom praise of mine would not offend,     Who was as calm as beauty being such     Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,     Believing in them, and devoting all     His souls strength to their winning back to peace;     Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,     Clothed in all passions melodies, which first     Caught me, and set me, as to a sweet task,     To gather every breathing of his songs,     And woven with them there were words, which seemed     A key to a new world; the muttering     Of angels, of something unguessed by man.     How my heart beat, as I went on, and found     Much there! I felt my own mind had conceived,     But there living and burning; soon the whole     Of his conceptions dawned on me; their praise     Is in the tongues of men; mens brows are high     When his name means a triumph and a pride;     So my weak hands may well forbear to dim     What then seemed my bright fate: I threw myself     To meet it. I was vowed to liberty,     Men were to be as gods, and earth as heaven.     And I ah! what a life was mine to be,     My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,     I shall go mad if I recall that time.     .         .         .         .         .     O let me look back, eer I leave for ever     The time, which was an hour, that one waits     For a fair girl, that comes a withered hag.     And I was lonely far from woods and fields,     And amid dullest sights, who should be loose     As a stag yet I was full of joy who lived     With Plato and who had the key to life.     And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,     And many a thought did I build up on thought,     As the wild bee hangs cell to cell in vain;     For I must still go on: my mind rests not.     Twas in my plan to look on real life,     Which was all new to me; my theories     Were firm, so I left them, to look upon     Men, and their cares, and hopes, and fears, and joys;     And, as I pondered on them all, I sought     How best lifes end might be attained an end     Comprising every joy. I deeply mused.     And suddenly, without heart-wreck, I awoke     As from a dream I said, twas beautiful,     Yet but a dream; and so adieu to it.     As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow     Strange towers, and walled gardens, thick with trees,     Where singing goes on, and delicious mirth,     And laughing fairy creatures peeping over,     And on the morrow, when he comes to live     For ever by those springs, and trees, fruit-flushed     And fairy bowers all his search is vain.     Well I remember . . .     First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,     And faith in them then freedom in itself,     And virtue in itself and then my motives ends,     And powers and loves; and human love went last.     I felt this no decay, because new powers     Rose as old feelings left wit, mockery,     And happiness; for I had oft been sad.     Mistrusting my resolves: but now I cast     Hope joyously away I laughed and said,     No more of this I must not think; at length     I lookd again to see how all went on.     My powers were greater as some temple seemed     My soul, where nought is changed, and incense rolls     Around the altar only God is gone,     And some dark spirit sitteth in His seat!     So I passed through the temple: and to me     Knelt troops of shadows; and they cried, Hail, king!     We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more!     Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!     And I said, Are ye strong let fancy bear me     Far from the past. And I was borne away     As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,     Oer deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm;     And I said, I have nursed up energies,     They will prey on me. And a band knelt low,     And cried, Lord, we are here, and we will make     A way for thee in thine appointed life     O look on us! And I said, Ye will worship     Me; but my heart must worship too. They shouted,     Thyself thou art our king! So I stood there     Smiling . . .     And buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit     With which I looked out how to end my days;     I felt once more myself my powers were mine;     I found that youth or health so lifted me,     That, spite of all lifes vanity, no grief     Came nigh me I must ever be light-hearted;     And that this feeling was the only veil     Betwixt me and despair: so if age came,     I should be as a wreck linked to a soul     Yet fluttering, or mind-broken, and aware     Of my decay. So a long summer morn     Found me; and eer noon came, I had resolved     No age should come on me, ere youths hopes went,     For I would wear myself out like that morn     Which wasted not a sunbeam every joy     I would make mine, and die; and thus I sought     To chain my spirit down, which I had fed     With thoughts of fame. I said, the troubled life     Of genius seen so bright when working forth     Some trusted end, seems sad, when all in vain     Most sad, when men have parted with all joy     For their wild fancys sake, which waited first,     As an obedient spirit, when delight     Came not with her alone, but alters soon,     Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart,     Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.     But I shall never lose her; she will live     Brighter for such seclusion I but catch     A hue, a glance of what I sing; so pain     Is linked with pleasure, for I neer may tell     The radiant sights which dazzle me; but now     They shall be all my own, and let them fade     Untold others shall rise as fair, as fast.     And when alls done, the few dim gleams transferred,     (For a new thought sprung up that it were well     To leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such lays     As would encircle me with praise and love;     So I should not die utterly I should bring     One branch from the gold forest, like the night     Of old tales, witnessing I had been there,)     And when alls done, how vain seems een success,     And all the influence poets have oer men!     Tis a fine thing that one, weak as myself,     Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words     He utters in his solitude shall move     Men like a swift wind that tho he be forgotten,     Fair eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams     Of love come true in happier frames than his.     Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but morn     Came, and the mockery again laughed out     At hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers;     And my souls idol seemed to whisper me     To dwell with him and his unhonoured name     And I well knew my spirit, that would be     First in the struggle, and again would make     All bow to it; and I would sink again.     .         .         .         .         .     And then know that this curse will come on us,     To see our idols perish we may wither,     Nor marvel we are clay; but our low fate     Should not extend them, whom trustingly,     We sent before into Times yawning gulf,     To face what eer may lurk in darkness there     To see the painters glory pass, and feel     Sweet music move us not as once, or worst,     To see decaying wits ere the frail body     Decays. Nought makes me trust in love so really,     As the delight of the contented lowness     With which I gaze on souls Id keep for ever     In beauty Id be sad to equal them;     Id feed their fame een from my hearts best blood,     Withering unseen, that they might flourish still.     .         .         .         .         .     Pauline, my sweet friend, thou dost not forget     How this mood swayed me, when thou first wert mine,     When I had set myself to live this life,     Defying all opinion. Ere thou camest     I was most happy, sweet, for old delights     Had come like birds again; music, my life,     I nourished more than ever, and old lore     Loved for itself, and all it shows the king     Treading the purple calmly to his death,     While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,     The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,     Pile the dim outline of the coming doom,     And him sitting alone in blood, while friends     Are hunting far in the sunshine; and the boy,     With his white breast and brow and clustering curls     Streaked with his mothers blood, and striving hard     To tell his story ere his reason goes,     And when I loved thee, as Ive loved so oft,     Thou lovedst me, and I wondered, and looked in     My heart to find some feeling like such love,     Believing I was still what I had been;     And soon I found all faith had gone from me,     And the late glow of life changing like clouds,     Twas not the morn-blush widening into day,     But evening, coloured by the dying sun     While darkness is quick hastening: I will tell     Sly state as though twere none of mine despair     Cannot come near me thus it is with me.     Souls alter not, and mine must progress still;     And this I knew not when I flung away     My youths chief aims. I neer supposed the     Of what few I retained; for no resource     Awaits me now behold the change of all.     I cannot chain my soul, it will not rest     In its clay prison; this most narrow sphere     It has strange powers, and feelings, and desires,     Which I cannot account for, nor explain,     But which I stifle not, being bound to trust     All feelings equally to hear all sides:     Yet I cannot indulge them, and they live,     Referring to some state or life unknown. . . .     My selfishness is satiated not,     It wears me like a flame; my hunger for     All pleasure, howsoeer minute, is pain;     I envy how I envy him whose mind     Turns with its energies to some one end!     To elevate a sect, or a pursuit,     However mean so my still baffled hopes     Seek out abstractions; I would have but one     Delight on earth, so it were wholly mine;     One rapture all my soul could fill and this     Wild feeling places me in dream afar,     In some wide country, where the eye can see     No end to the far hills and dales bestrewn     With shining towers and dwellings. I grow mad     Well-nigh, to know not one abode but holds     Some pleasure for my soul could grasp them all,     But must remain with this vile form. I look     With hope to age at last, which quenching much,     May let me concentrate the sparks it spares.     This restlessness of passion meets in me     A craving after knowledge: the sole proof     Of a commanding will is in that power     Repressed; for I beheld it in its dawn,     That sleepless harpy, with its budding wings,     And I considered whether I should yield     All hopes and fears, to live alone with it,     Finding a recompense in its wild eyes;     And when I found that I should perish so,     I bade its wild eyes close from me for ever;     And I am left alone with my delights,     So it lies in me a chained thing still ready     To serve me, if I loose its slightest bond     I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.     And thus I know this earth is not my sphere,     For I cannot so narrow me, but that     I still exceed it; in their elements     My love would pass my reason but since here     Love must receive its object from this earth,     While reason will be chainless, the few truths     Caught from its wanderings have sufficed to quell     All love below; then what must be that love     Which, with the object it demands, would quell     Reason, tho it soared with the seraphim?     No what I feel may pass all human love,     Yet fall far short of what my love should be;     And yet I seem more warped in this than aught     For here myself stands out more hideously.     I can forget myself in friendship, fame,     Or liberty, or love of mighty souls.     .         .         .         .         .     But I begin to know what thing hate is     To sicken, and to quiver, and grow white,     And I myself have furnished its first prey.     All my sad weaknesses, this wavering will,     This selfishness, this still decaying frame . . .     But I must never grieve while I can pass     Far from such thoughts as now Andromeda!     And she is with me years roll, I shall change,     But change can touch her not so beautiful     With her dark eyes, earnest and still, and hair     Lifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze;     And one red-beam, all the storm leaves in heaven,     Resting upon her eyes and face and hair,     As she awaits the snake on the wet beach,     By the dark rock, and the white wave just breaking     At her feet; quite naked and alone, a thing     You doubt not, nor fear for, secure that God     Will come in thunder from the stars to save her.     Let it pass I will call another change.     I will be gifted with a wondrous soul,     Yet sunk by error to mens sympathy,     And in the wane of life; yet only so     As to call up their fears, and there shall come     A time requiring youths best energies;     And straight I fling age, sorrow, sickness off,     And I rise triumphing over my decay.     .         .         .         .         .     And thus it is that I supply the chasm     Twixt what I am and all that I would be.     But then to know nothing to hope for nothing     To seize on lifes dull joys from a strange tear,     Lest, being them, alls lost, and nought remains     .         .         .         .         .     Theres some vile juggle with my reason here     I feel I but explain to my own loss     These impulses they live no less the same.     Liberty! what though I despair my blood     Rose not at a slaves name proudlier than now,     And sympathy obscured by sophistries.     Why have not I sought refuge in myself,     But for the woes I saw and could not stay     And love! do I not love thee, my Pauline?     .         .         .         .         .     I cherish prejudice, lest I be left     Utterly loveless witness this belief     In poets, tho sad change has come there too;     No more I leave myself to follow them:     Unconsciously I measure me by them.     Let me forget it; and I cherish most     My love of England how her name a word     Of hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat! . . .     .         .         .         .         .     Pauline, I could do any thing not now     Alls fever but when calm shall come again     I am prepared I have made life my own     I would not be content with all the change     One frame should feel but I have gone in thought     Thro all conjuncture I have lived all life     When it is most alive where strangest fate     New shapes it past surmise the tales of men     Bit by some curse or in the grasp of doom     Half-visible and still increasing round,     Or crowning their wide beings general aim. . . .     .         .         .         .         .     These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,     As one breathing his weakness to the ear     Of pitying angel dear as a winter flower.     A slight flower growing alone, and offering     Its frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,     Yet and confiding, like the triumph     Of a child and why am I not worthy thee?     .         .         .         .         .     I can live all the life of plants, and gaze     Drowsily on the bees that flit and play,     Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,     Or open in the night of sounds, to look     For the dim stars; I can mount with the bird,     Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves     And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,     Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens     Or like a fish breathe in the morning air     In the misty sun-warm water or with flowers     And trees can smile in light at the sinking sun,     Just as the storm comes as a girl would look     On a departing lover most serene.     Pauline, come with me see how I could build     A home for us, out of the world; in thought     I am inspired come with me, Pauline!     Night, and one single ridge of narrow path     Between the sullen river and the woods     Waving and muttering for the moonless night     Has shaped them into images of life,     Like the upraising of the giant-ghosts,     Looking on earth to know how their sons fare.     Thou art so close by me, the roughest swell     Of wind in the tree-tops hides not the panting     Of thy soft breasts; no we will pass to morning     Morning the rocks, and vallies, and old woods.     How the sun brightens in the mist, and here,     Half in the air, like creatures of the place,     Trusting the element living on high boughs     That swing in the wind look at the golden spray,     Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract,     Amid the broken rocks shall we stay here     With the wild hawks? no, ere the hot noon come     Dive we down safe; see this our new retreat     Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,     Dark, tangled, old and green still sloping down     To a small pool whose waters lie asleep     Amid the trailing boughs turned water plants     And tall trees over-arch to keep us in,     Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,     And in the dreamy water one small group     Of two or three strange trees are got together,     Wondering at all around as strange beasts herd     Together far from their own land all wildness     No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,     And tongues of bank go shelving in the waters,     Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,     And old grey stones lie making eddies there;     The wild mice cross them dry-shod deeper in     Shut thy soft eyes now look still deeper in:     This is the very heart of the woods all round,     Mountain-like, heaped above us; yet even here     One pond of water gleams far off the river     Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one     One thin clear sheet has over-leaped and wound     Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies     Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend     Oer it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,     And thro their roots long creeping plants stretch out     Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,     Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined     To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread     It winds, all noiselessly, thro the deep wood,     Till thro a cleft way, thro the moss and stone,     It joins its parent-river with a shout.     Up for the glowing day leave the old woods:     See, they part, like a ruined arch, the sky!     Nothing but sky appears, so close the root     And grass of the hill-top level with the air     Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats, laden     With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,     Floating away in the sun in some north sea.     Air, air fresh life-blood thin and searching air     The clear, dear breath of God, that loveth us:     Where small birds reel and winds take their delight.     Water is beautiful, but not like air.     See, where the solid azure waters lie,     Made as of thickened air, and down below,     The fern-ranks, like a forest spread themselves,     As tho each pore could feel the element;     Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way     Float with me there, Pauline, but not like air.     Down the hill stop a clump of trees, see, set     On a heap of rocks, which look oer the far plains,     And envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest,     And peer from their spread boughs. There they wave, looking     At the muleteers, who whistle as they go     To the merry chime of their morning bells and all     The little smoking cots, and fields, and banks,     And copses, bright in the sun; my spirit wanders.     Hedge-rows for me still, living, hedge-rows, where     The bushes close, and clasp above, and keep     Thought in I am concentrated I feel;     But my soul saddens when it looks beyond;     I cannot be immortal, nor taste all.     O God! where does this tend these straggling aims!1     What would I have? what is this sleep, which seems     To bound all? can there be a waking point     Of crowning life? The soul would never rule     It would be first in all things it would have     Its utmost pleasure filled but that complete     Commanding for commanding sickens it.     The last point that I can trace is, rest beneath     Some better essence than itself in weakness;     This is myself not what I think should be,     And what is that I hunger for but God?     My God, my God! let me for once look on thee     As tho nought else existed: we alone.     And as creation crumbles, my souls spark     Expands till I can say, Even from myself     I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee;     I do not plead my rapture in thy works     For love of thee or that I feel as one     Who cannot die but there is that in me     Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.     Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?     Why have I laboured to put out my life?     Is it not in my nature to adore,     And een for all my reason do I not     Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him? Now.     Can I forego the trust that he loves me?     Do I not feel a love which only ONE . . .     O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed,     I have denied thee calmly do I not     Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds,     And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash     The brightest gleams of earths philosophy?     Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? . . .     If I am erring save me, madden me,     Take from me powers, and pleasures let me die     Ages, so I see thee: I am knit round     As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride,     Yet tho my wandering dreams have seen all shapes     Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee     Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee,     In the damp night by weeping Olivet,     Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less     Or dying with thee on the lonely cross     Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!     A mortal, sins familiar friend doth here     Avow that he will give all earths reward,     But to believe and humbly teach the faith,     In suffering, and poverty, and shame,     Only believing he is not unloved. . . .     And now, my Pauline, I am thine for ever!     I feel the spirit which has buoyed me up     Deserting me: and old shades gathering on;     Yet while its last light waits, I would say much,     And chiefly, I am glad that I have said     That love which I have ever felt for thee,     But seldom told; our hearts so beat together,     That speech is mockery, but when dark hours come:     And I feel sad; and thou, sweet, deemst it strange;     A sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove.     Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,     Which thro thee I began, and which I end,     Collecting the last gleams to strive to tell     That I am thine, and more than ever now     That I am sinking fast yet tho I sink     No less I feel that thou hast brought me bliss,     And that I still may hope to win it back.     Thou knowst, dear friend, I could not think all calm,     For wild dreams followed me, and bore me off,     And all was indistinct. Ere one was caught     Another glanced: so dazzled by my wealth,     Knowing not which to leave nor which to choose,     For all my thoughts so floated, nought was fixed     And then thou saidst a perfect bard was one     Who shadowed out the stages of all life,     And so thou badest me tell this my first stage:     Tis done: and even now I feel all dim the shift     Of thought. These are my last thoughts; I discern     Faintly immortal life, and truth, and good.     And why thou must be mine is, that een now,     In the dim hush of night that I have done     With fears and sad forebodings: I look thro     And say, Een at the last I have her still,     With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven,     When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,     And clouds float white in the sun like broods of swans.     How the blood lies upon her cheek, all spread     As thinned by kisses; only in her lips     It wells and pulses like a living thing,     And her neck looks, like marble misted oer     With love-breath, a dear thing to kiss and love,     Standing beneath me looking out to me,     As I might kill her and be loved for it.     Love me love me, Pauline, love nought but me;     Leave me not. All these words are wild and weak,     Believe them not, Pauline. I stooped so low     But to behold thee purer by my side,     To show thou art my breath my life a last     Resource an extreme want: never believe     Aught better could so look to thee, nor seek     Again the world of good thoughts left for me.     There were bright troops of undiscovered suns.     Each equal in their radiant course. There were     Clusters of far fair isles, which ocean kept     For his own joy, and his waves broke on them     Without a choice. And there was a dim crowd     Of visions, each a part of the dim whole.     And a star left his peers and came with peace     Upon a storm, and all eyes pined for him,     And one isle harboured a sea-beaten ship,     And the crew wandered in its bowers, and plucked     Its fruits, and gave up all their hopes for home.     And one dream came to a pale poets sleep,     And he said, I am singled out by God,     No sin must touch me. I am very weak,     But what I would express is, Leave me not,     Still sit by me with beating breast, and hair     Loosened watching earnest by my side,     Turning my books, or kissing me when I     Look up like summer wind. Be still to me     A key to musics mystery, when mind fails,     A reason, a solution and a clue,     You see I have thrown off my prescribed rules:     I hope in myself and hope, and pant, and love     Youll find me better know me more than when     You loved me as I was. Smile not; I have     Much yet to gladden you to dawn on you.     No more of the past Ill look within no more     I have too trusted to my own wild wants     Too trusted to myself to intuition.     Draining the wine alone in the still night,     And seeing how as gathering films arose,     As by an inspiration life seemed bare     And grinning in its vanity, and ends     Hard to be dreamed of, stared at me as fixed,     And others suddenly became all foul,     As a fair witch turned an old hag at night.     No more of this we will go hand in hand,     I will go with thee, even as a child,     Looking no further than thy sweet commands.     And thou hast chosen where this life shall be     The land which gave me thee shall be our home,     Where nature lies all wild amid her lakes     And snow-swathed mountains, and vast pines all girt     With ropes of snow where nature lies all bare,     Suffering none to view her but a race     Most stinted and deformed like the mute dwarfs     Which wait upon a naked Indian queen.     And there (the time being when the heavens are thick     With storms) Ill sit with thee while thou dost sing     Thy native songs, gay as a desert bird     Who crieth as he flies for perfect joy,     Or telling me old stories of dead knights,     Or I will read old lays to thee how she,     The fair pale sister, went to her chill grave     With power to love, and to be loved, and live.     Or will go together, like twin gods     Of the infernal world, with scented lamp     Over the dead to call and to awake     Over the unshaped images which lie     Within my minds cave only leaving all     That tells of the past doubts. So when spring comes,     And sunshine comes again like an old smile,     And the fresh waters, and awakened birds,     And budding woods await us I shall be     Prepared, and we will go and think again,     And all old loves shall come to us but changed     As some sweet thought which harsh words veiled before;     Feeling God loves us, and that all that errs,     Is a strange dream which death will dissipate;     And then when I am firm well seek again     My own land, and again I will approach     My old designs, and calmly look on all     The works of my past weakness, as one views     Some scene where danger met him long before     Ah! that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!     But whateer come of it and tho it fade,     And tho ere the cold morning all be gone     As it will be; tho music wait for me,     And fair eyes and bright wine, laughing like sin,     Which steals back softly on a soul half saved;     And I be first to deny all, and despise     This verse, and these intents which seem so fair;     Still this is all my own, this moments pride,     No less I make an end in perfect joy.     Een in my brightest time, a lurking fear     Possessed me. I well knew my weak resolves,     I felt the witchery that makes mind sleep     Over its treasures as one half afraid     To make his riches definite but now     These feelings shall not utterly be lost,     I shall not know again that nameless care,     Lest leaving all undone in youth, some new     And undreamed end reveal itself too late:     For this song shall remain to tell for ever,     That when I lost all hope of such a change     Suddenly Beauty rose on me again.     No less I make an end in perfect joy,     For I, having thus again been visited,     Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits,     And tho this weak soul sink, and darkness come,     Some little word shall light it up again,     And I shall see all clearer and love better;     I shall again go oer the tracts of thought,     As one who has a right; and I shall live     With poets calmer purer still each time,     And beauteous shapes will come to me again,     And unknown secrets will be trusted me,     Which were not mine when wavering but now     I shall be priest and lover, as of old.     Sun-treader, I believe in God, and truth,     And love; and as one just escaped from death     Would bind himself in bands of friends to feel     He lives indeed so, I would lean on thee;     Thou must be ever with me most in gloom     When such shall come but chiefly when I die,     For I seem dying, as one going in the dark     To fight a giant and live thou for ever,     And be to all what thou hast been to me     All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of me,     Know my last state is happy free from doubt,     Or touch of fear. Love me and wish me well!     RICHMOND,     October 22, 1832.