I see him again at his dwelling,
Where, over the little lake,
The rose-trees droop in their beauty
To meet the image they make.
Though years have whitened his temples
His eyes have the first look still,
Save a shade of settled sadness,
A forecast of coming ill.
For in that pleasant dwelling,
On the rack of ceaseless pain,
Lies he who smiled so sweetly,
And prays for ease in vain.
And I know that his heart is breaking,
When, over those dear eyes,
The darkness slowly gathers,
And the loved and loving dies.
A grave is scooped on the hillside
Where often, at eve or morn,
He lays the blooms of the garden-
He, and his youngest born.
And well I know that a brightness
From his life has passed away,
And a smile from the green earth's beauty, And a glory from the day.
But I behold, above him,
In the far blue deeps of air, Dim battlements shining faintly, And a throng of faces there;
See over crystal barrier
The airy figures bend,
Like those who are watching and waiting
The coming of a friend.
And one there is among them,
With a star upon her brow,
In her life a lovely woman,
A sinless seraph now.
I know the sweet calm features;
The peerless smile I know,
And I stretch my arms with transport
From where I stand below.
And the quick tears drown my eyelids,
But the airy figures fade,
And the shining battlements darken
And blend with the evening shade.
I am gazing into the twilight
Where the dim-seen meadows lie,
And the wind of night is swaying
The trees with a heavy sigh.
Right upward on the road of fame With sounding steps the poet came; Born and nourished in miracles,
His feet were shod with golden bells, Or where he stepped the soil did peal As if the dust were glass and steel. The gallant child where'er he came Threw to each fact a tuneful name. The things whereon he cast his eyes Could not the nations rebaptize,
Nor Time's snows hide the names he set,
Nor last posterity forget.
Yet every scroll whereon he wrote
In latent fire his secret thought,
Fell unregarded to the ground,
Unseen by such as stood around.
The pious wind took it away,
The reverent darkness hid the lay.
Methought like water-haunting birds
Divers or dippers were his words,
And idle clowns beside the mere
At the new vision gape and jeer.
But when the noisy scorn was past,
Emerge the winged words in haste.
New bathed, new - trimmed, on healthy
wing,
Right to the heaven they steer and sing.
A Brother of the world, his song
Sounded like a tempest strong
Which tore from oaks their branches
broad,
And stars from the ecliptic road.
Times wore he as his clothing-weeds.
He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.
As melts the iceberg in the seas,
As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze,
As snow-banks thaw in April's beam,
The solid kingdoms like a dream
Resist in vain his motive strain,
They totter now and float amain.
For the Muse gave special charge
His learning should be deep and large, 40
This poem was begun as early as 1831, probably earlier, and received additions for more than twenty years, but was never completed. In its early form, it was entitled, "The Discon tented Poet, A Masque,"
And his training should not scant
The deepest lore of wealth or want:
His flesh should feel, his eyes should read
Every maxim of dreadful Need;
In its fulness he should taste
Life's honeycomb, but not too fast;
Full fed, but not intoxicated;
He should be loved; he should be hated
A blooming child to children dear,
His heart should palpitate with fear. 50
And well he loved to quit his home
And, Calmuck, in his wagon roam
To read new landscapes and old skies;-
But oh, to see his solar eyes
Like meteors which chose their way
And rived the dark like a new day!
Not lazy grazing on all they saw,
Each chimney-pot and cottage door,
Farm-gear and village picket-fence,
But, feeding on magnificence,
They bounded to the horizon's edge
Aid searched with the sun's privilege.
Landward they reached the mountains old
Where pastoral tribes their flocks infold,
Saw rivers run seaward by cities high
And the seas wash the low-hung sky;
Saw the endless rack of the firmament
And the sailing moon where the cloud
was rent,
And through man and woman and sea and
WRITTEN IN NAPLES
We are what we are made; each following day
Is the Creator of our human mould
Not less than was the first; the all-wise
God
Gilds a few points in every several life,
And as each flower upon the fresh hillside,
And every colored petal of each flower,
Is sketched and dyed, each with a new
design,
Its spot of purple, and its streak of brown, So each man's life shall have its proper lights,
And a few joys, a few peculiar charms, 10
For him round-in the melancholy hours
And reconcile him to the common days.
Not many men see beauty in the fogs
Of close low pine-woods in a river town;
Yet unto me not morn's magnificence,
Nor the red rainbow of a summer eve,
Nor Rome, nor joyful Paris, nor the halls
Of rich men blazing hospitable light,
Nor wit, nor eloquence,-no, nor even the
song
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