_Now_, each unworthy act At once through all my senses thrills; Each instance vile of human worthlessness, My soul with holy anger fills.

This arrogant, this foolish age, Which feeds itself on empty hopes, Absorbed in trifles, virtue's enemy, Which idly clamors for utility, And has not sense enough to see How _useless_ all life thenceforth must become, I feel _beneath_ me, and its judgments laugh To scorn. The motley crew, The foes of every lofty thought, Who laugh at _thee_, I trample under foot.

To that, which thee inspires, What pa.s.sion yieldeth not?

What other, save this one, Controls our hearts' desires?

Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate, The love of power, love of fame, What are they but an empty name, Compared with it? And this, The source, the spring of all, That sovereign reigns within the breast, Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed.

Life hath no value, meaning hath, Save but for thee, our only hope and stay; The sole excuse for Fate, That cruelly hath placed us here, To undergo such useless misery; For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool, To life still fondly clings, Nor calls on death to end his sufferings.

Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought, Long years of sorrow I endure, And bear of weary life the strain; But not in vain!

And I would still return, In spite of all my sad experience, Towards such a goal, my course to recommence; For through the sands, and through the viper-brood Of this, our mortal wilderness, My steps I ne'er so wearily have dragged To thee, that all the danger and distress Were not repaid by such pure happiness.

O what a world, what new immensity, What paradise is that, To which, so oft, by thy stupendous charm Impelled, I seem to soar! Where I Beneath a brighter light am wandering, And my poor earthly state, And all life's bitter truths forget!

Such are, I ween, the dreams Of the Immortals. Ah, what _but_ a dream, Art thou, sweet thought, The truth, that thus embellished?

A dream, an error manifest!

But of a nature, still divine, An error brave and strong, That will with truth the fight prolong, And oft for truth doth compensate; Nor leave us e'er, till summoned hence by Fate.

And surely thou, my thought, Thou sole sustainer of my days, The cause beloved of sorrows infinite, In Death alone wilt be extinguished quite; For by sure signs within my soul I feel Thy sovereign sway, perpetual.

All other fancies sweet The aspect of the truth Hath weakened ever. But whene'er I turn To gaze again on her, of whom with thee To speak, is all I live for, ah, That great delight increases still, That frenzy fine, the breath of life, to me!

Angelic beauty! Every lovely face, On which I gaze, A phantom seems to me, That vainly strives to copy thee, Of all the graces that our souls inthral, Sole fount, divine original!

Since first I thee beheld, Of what most anxious care of mine, Hast thou not been the end and aim?

What day has ever pa.s.sed, what hour, When I thought not of thee? What dream of mine Has not been haunted by thy face divine?

Angelic countenance, that we In dreams, alas, alone may see, What else on earth, what in the universe, Do I e'er ask, or hope for, more, Than those dear eyes forever to behold?

Than thy sweet thought still in my heart to hold?

LOVE AND DEATH.

Children of Fate, in the same breath Created were they, Love and Death.

Such fair creations ne'er were seen, Or here below, or in the heaven serene.

The first, the source of happiness, The fount whence flows the greatest bliss That in the sea of being e'er is found; The last each sorrow gently lulls, Each harsh decree of Fate annuls.

Fair child with beauty crowned, Sweet to behold, not such As cowards paint her in their fright, She in young Love's companionship Doth often take delight, As they o'er mortal paths together fly, Chief comforters of every loyal heart.

Nor ever is the heart more wise Than when Love smites it, nor defies More scornfully life's misery, And for no other lord Will it all dangers face so readily.

When thou thy aid dost lend, O Love, is courage born, or it revives; And wise in deeds the race of man becomes, And not, as it is p.r.o.ne, In fruitless thought alone.

And when first in our being's depth This pa.s.sion deep is born, Though happy, we are still forlorn; A languor strange doth o'er us steal; A strange desire of death we feel.

I know not why, but such we ever prove The first effect of true and potent love.

It may be, that this wilderness Then first appals our sight; And earth henceforth to us a dreary waste Appears, without that new, supreme delight, That in our thought is fondly traced; And yet our hearts, foreboding, feel the storm Within, that it may cause, the misery.

We long for rest, we long to flee, Hoping some friendly haven may be found Of refuge from the fierce desire, That raging, roaring, darkens all around.

And when this formidable power Hath his whole soul possessed, And raging care will give his heart no rest, How many times implored With most intense desire, Art thou, O Death, by the poor wretch, forlorn!

How oft at eve, how oft at dawn, His weary frame upon the couch he throws, Too happy, if he never rose, In hopeless conflict with his pain, Nor e'er beheld the bitter light again!

And oft, at sound of funeral bell, And solemn chant, that guides Departed souls unto eternal rest, With sighs most ardent from his inmost breast, How hath he envied him, Who with the dead has gone to dwell!

The very humblest of his kind, The simple, rustic hind, who knows No charm that knowledge gives; The lowliest country la.s.s that lives, Who, at the very thought of death, Doth feel her hair in horror rise, Will calmly face its agonies, Upon the terrors of the tomb will gaze With fixed, undaunted look, Will o'er the steel and poison brood, In meditative mood, And in her narrow mind, The kindly charm of dying comprehend: So much the discipline of Love Hath unto Death all hearts inclined!

Full often when this inward woe Such pa.s.s has reached as mortal strength No longer can endure, The feeble body yields at length, To its fierce blows, and timely, then, Benignant Death her friendly power doth show: Or else Love drives her hapless victims so, Alike the simple clown, And tender country la.s.s, That on themselves their desperate hands they lay, And so are borne unto the shades below.

The world but laughs at their distress, Whom heaven with peace and length of days doth bless.

To fervid, happy, restless souls May fate the one or other still concede, Sweet sovereigns, friendly to our race, Whose power, throughout the universe, Such miracles hath wrought, As naught resembles, nor can aught, Save that of Fate itself, exceed.

And thou, whom from my earliest years, Still honored I invoke, O lovely Death! the only friend Of sufferers in this vale of tears, If I have ever sought Thy princely state to vindicate From the affronts of the ungrateful crowd, Do not delay, incline thy ear Unto thy weary suppliant here!

These sad eyes close forever to the light, And let me rest in peace serene, O thou, of all the ages Queen!

Me surely wilt thou find, whate'er the hour, When thou thy wings unfoldest to my prayer, With front erect, the cruel power Defying still, of Fate; Nor will I praise, in fulsome mood, The scourging hand, that with my blood, The blood of innocence, is stained.

Nor bless it, as the human race Is wont, through custom old and base: Each empty hope, with which the world Itself and children would beguile, I'll cast aside, each comfort false and vile; In thee alone my hope I'll place, Thou welcome minister of grace!

In that sole thought supremely blest, That day, when my unconscious head May on thy virgin bosom rest.

TO HIMSELF.

Nor wilt thou rest forever, weary heart.

The last illusion is destroyed, That I eternal thought. Destroyed!

I feel all hope and all desire depart, For life and its deceitful joys.

Forever rest! Enough! Thy throbbings cease!

Naught can requite thy miseries; Nor is earth worthy of thy sighs.

Life is a bitter, weary load, The world a slough. And now, repose!

Despair no more, but find in Death The only boon Fate on our race bestows!

Still, Nature, art thou doomed to fall, The victim scorned of that blind, brutal power That rules and ruins all.

ASPASIA.

At times thy image to my mind returns, Aspasia. In the crowded streets it gleams Upon me, for an instant, as I pa.s.s, In other faces; or in lonely fields, At noon-tide bright, beneath the silent stars, With sudden and with startling vividness, As if awakened by sweet harmony, The splendid vision rises in my soul.

How worshipped once, ye G.o.ds, what a delight To me, what torture, too! Nor do I e'er The odor of the flowery fields inhale, Or perfume of the gardens of the town, That I recall thee not, as on that day, When in thy sumptuous rooms, so redolent Of all the fragrant flowers of the spring, Arrayed in robe of violet hue, thy form Angelic I beheld, as it reclined On dainty cushions languidly, and by An atmosphere voluptuous surrounded; When thou, a skilful Syren, didst imprint Upon thy children's round and rosy lips Resounding, fervent kisses, stretching forth Thy neck of snow, and with thy lovely hand, The little, unsuspecting innocents Didst to thy hidden, tempting bosom press.

The earth, the heavens transfigured seemed to me, A ray divine to penetrate my soul.

Then in my side, not unprotected quite, Deep driven by thy hand, the shaft I bore, Lamenting sore; and not to be removed, Till twice the sun his annual round had made.

A ray divine, O lady! to my thought Thy beauty seemed. A like effect is oft By beauty caused, and harmony, that seem The mystery of Elysium to reveal.

The stricken mortal fondly worships, then, His own ideal, creature of his mind, Which of his heaven the greater part contains.

Alike in looks, in manners, and in speech, The real and ideal seem to him, In his confused and pa.s.sion-guided soul.

But not the woman, but the dream it is, That in his fond caresses, he adores.

At last his error finding, and the sad exchange, He is enraged, and most unjustly, oft, The woman chides. For rarely does the mind Of woman to that high ideal rise; And that which her own beauty oft inspires In generous lovers, she imagines not, Nor could she comprehend. Those narrow brows, Cannot such great conceptions hold. The man, Deceived, builds false hopes on those l.u.s.trous eyes, And feelings deep, ineffable, nay, more Than manly, vainly seeks in her, who is By nature so inferior to man.

For as her limbs more soft and slender are, So is her mind less capable and strong.

Nor hast thou ever known, Aspasia, Or couldst thou comprehend the thoughts that once Thou didst inspire in me. Thou knowest not What boundless love, what sufferings intense, What ravings wild, what savage impulses, Thou didst arouse in me; nor will the time E'er come when thou could'st understand them. So, Musicians, too, are often ignorant Of the effects they with the hand and voice Produce on him that listens. Dead is _that_ Aspasia, that I so loved, aye, dead Forever, who was once sole object of My life; save as a phantom, ever dear, That comes from time to time, and disappears.

Thou livest still, not only beautiful, But in thy beauty still surpa.s.sing all; But oh, the flame thou didst enkindle once, Long since has been extinguished; _thee_, indeed, I never loved, but that Divinity, Once living, buried now within my heart.

Her, long time, I adored; and was so pleased With her celestial beauty, that, although I from the first thy nature knew full well, And all thy artful and coquettish ways, Yet _her_ fair eyes beholding still in _thine_, I followed thee, delighted, while she lived; Deceived? Ah, no! But by the pleasure led, Of that sweet likeness, that allured me so, A long and heavy servitude to bear.

Now boast; thou can'st! Say, that to thee alone Of all thy s.e.x, my haughty head I bowed, To thee alone, of my unconquered heart An offering made. Say, that thou wast the first-- And surely wast the last--that in my eye A suppliant look beheld, and me before Thee stand, timid and trembling (how I blush, In saying it, with anger and with shame), Of my own self deprived, thy every wish, Thy every word submissively observing, At every proud caprice becoming pale, At every sign of favor brightening, And changing color at each look of thine.

The charm is over, and, with it, the yoke Lies broken, scattered on the ground; and I Rejoice. 'Tis true my days are laden with Ennui; yet after such long servitude, And such infatuation, I am glad My judgment, freedom to resume. For though A life bereft of love's illusions sweet, Is like a starless night, in winter's midst, Yet some revenge, some comfort can I find For my hard fate, that here upon the gra.s.s, Outstretched in indolence I lie, and gaze Upon the earth and sea and sky, and smile.