Of a past night, and a far different scene. The spring-tide's brimming flow Houses, with long white sweep, Girdled the glistening bay; Behind, through the soft air, The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away, But the same restless pacings to and fro, And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, And the same bright, calm moon. And the calm moonlight seems to say: That whirls the spirit from itself away, But fluctuates to and fro, Never by passion quite possess'd And never quite benumb'd by the world's sway? And I, I know not if to pray Still to be what I am, or yield and be Like all the other men I see. For most men in a brazen prison live, With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly Fresh products of their barren labour fall Never yet comes more near, Gloom settles slowly down over their breast; Jiriczek, Englische Dichter. 16 And while they try to stem The waves of mournful thought by which they are prest, And the rest, a few, Escape their prison and depart On the wide ocean of life anew. There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart Listeth, will sail; Nor doth he know how there prevail, Despotic on that sea, Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. The freshening wind and blackening waves. Only a driving wreck, And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck Grasping the rudder hard, Still bent to make some port he knows not where, And sterner comes the roar Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom Is there no life, but these alone? Madman or slave, must man be one? Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain! Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign Are yet untroubled and unpassionate; Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil, A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain- A world above man's head, to let him see How it were good to abide there, and breathe free; Is left to each man still! THE BURIED LIFE. [Empedocles etc. 1852.] LIGHT flows our war of mocking words, and yet, And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet But we, my love!-doth a like spell benumb Ah! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd! Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be-- Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; The buried stream, and seem to be But often, in the world's most crowded streets, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves— The nameless feelings that course through our breast, Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey Only-but this is rare— When a beloved hand is laid in ours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, |