Yet thou, eternal, lonely wanderer, Who, thoughtful, lookest on this earthly scene, Must surely understand What all our sighs and sufferings mean; What means this death, This color from our cheeks that fades, This pa.s.sing from the earth, and losing sight Of every dear, familiar scene.

Well must thou comprehend The reason of these things; must see The good the morning and the evening bring: Thou knowest, thou, what love it is That brings sweet smiles unto the face of spring; The meaning of the Summer's glow, And of the Winter's frost and snow, And of the silent, endless flight of Time.

A thousand things to thee their secrets yield, That from the simple shepherd are concealed.

Oft as I gaze at thee, In silence resting o'er the desert plain, Which in the distance borders on the sky, Or following me, as I, by slow degrees, My flocks before me drive; And when I gaze upon the stars at night, In thought I ask myself, "Why all these torches bright?

What mean these depths of air, This vast, this silent sky, This nightly solitude? And what am I?"

Thus to myself I talk; and of this grand, Magnificent expanse, And its untold inhabitants, And all this mighty motion, and this stir Of things above, and things below, No rest that ever know, But as they still revolve, must still return Unto the place from which they came,-- Of this, alas, I find nor end nor aim!

But thou, immortal, surely knowest all.

_This_ I well know, and feel; From these eternal rounds, And from my being frail, Others, perchance, may pleasure, profit gain; To _me_ life is but pain.

My flock, now resting there, how happy thou, That knowest not, I think, thy misery!

O how I envy thee!

Not only that from suffering Thou seemingly art free; That every trouble, every loss, Each sudden fear, thou canst so soon forget; But more because thou sufferest No weariness of mind.

When in the shade, upon the gra.s.s reclined, Thou seemest happy and content, And great part of the year by thee In sweet release from care is spent.

But when _I_ sit upon the gra.s.s And in the friendly shade, upon my mind A weight I feel, a sense of weariness, That, as I sit, doth still increase And rob me of all rest and peace.

And yet I wish for nought, And have, till now, no reason to complain.

What joy, how much I cannot say; But thou _some_ pleasure dost obtain.

My joys are few enough; But not for that do I lament.

Ah, couldst thou speak, I would inquire: Tell me, dear flock, the reason why Each weary breast can rest at ease, While all things round him seem to please; And yet, if _I_ lie down to rest, I am by anxious thoughts oppressed?

Perhaps, if I had wings Above the clouds to fly, And could the stars all number, one by one, Or like the lightning leap from rock to rock, I might be happier, my dear flock, I might be happier, gentle moon!

Perhaps my thought still wanders from the truth, When I at others' fortunes look: Perhaps in every state beneath the sun, Or high, or low, in cradle or in stall, The day of birth is fatal to us all.

CALM AFTER STORM.

The storm hath pa.s.sed; I hear the birds rejoice; the hen, Returned into the road again, Her cheerful notes repeats. The sky serene Is, in the west, upon the mountain seen: The country smiles; bright runs the silver stream.

Each heart is cheered; on every side revive The sounds, the labors of the busy hive.

The workman gazes at the watery sky, As standing at the door he sings, His work in hand; the little wife goes forth, And in her pail the gathered rain-drops brings; The vendor of his wares, from lane to lane, Begins his daily cry again.

The sun returns, and with his smile illumes The villas on the neighboring hills; Through open terraces and balconies, The genial light pervades the cheerful rooms; And, on the highway, from afar are heard The tinkling of the bells, the creaking wheels Of waggoner, his journey who resumes.

Cheered is each heart.

Whene'er, as now, doth life appear A thing so pleasant and so dear?

When, with such love, Does man unto his books or work return?

Or on himself new tasks impose?

When is he less regardful of his woes?

O pleasure, born of pain!

O idle joy, and vain, Fruit of the fear just pa.s.sed, which shook The wretch who life abhorred, yet dreaded death!

With which each neighbor held his breath, Silent, and cold, and wan, Affrighted sore to see The lightnings, clouds, and winds arrayed, To do us injury!

O Nature courteous!

These are thy boons to us, These the delights to mortals given!

Escape from pain, best gift of heaven!

Thou scatterest sorrows with a bounteous hand; Grief springs spontaneous; If, by some monstrous growth, miraculous, Pleasure at times is born of pain, It is a precious gain!

O human race, unto the G.o.ds so dear!

Too happy, in a respite brief From any grief!

Then only blessed, When Death releases thee unto thy rest!

THE VILLAGE SAt.u.r.dAY NIGHT.

The damsel from the field returns, The sun is sinking in the west; Her bundle on her head she sets, And in her hand she bears A bunch of roses and of violets.

To-morrow is a holiday, And she, as usual, must them wear Upon her bodice, in her hair.

The old crone sits among her mates, Upon the stairs, and spins; And, looking at the fading light, Of good old-fashioned times she prates, When she, too, dressed for holidays, And with light heart, and limb as light, Would dance at night With the companions of her merry days.

The twilight shades around us close, The sky to deepest blue is turned; From hills and roofs the shadows fall, And the new moon her face of silver shows.

And now the cheerful bell Proclaims the coming festival.

By its familiar voice How every heart is cheered!

The children all in troops, Around the little square Go, leaping here and there, And make a joyful sound.

Meanwhile the ploughman, whistling, returns Unto his humble nest, And thinks with pleasure of his day of rest.

Then, when all other lights are out, And all is silent round, The hammer's stroke we hear, We hear the saw of carpenter, Who with closed doors his vigil keeps, Toils o'er his lamp and strives so hard, His work to finish ere the dawn appear.

The dearest day of all the week Is this, of hope and joy so full; To-morrow, sad and dull, The hours will bring, for each must in his thought His customary task-work seek.

Thou little, sportive boy, This blooming age of thine Is like to-day, so full of joy; And is the day, indeed, That must the sabbath of thy life precede.

Enjoy, it, then, my darling child, Nor speed the flying hours!

I say to thee no more: Alas, in this sad world of ours, How far exceeds the holiday, The day that goes before!

THE RULING THOUGHT.

Most sweet, most powerful, Controller of my inmost soul; The terrible, yet precious gift Of heaven, companion kind Of all my days of misery, O thought, that ever dost recur to me;

Of thy mysterious power Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt Its subtle influence?

Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold, The theme seems ever new however old.

How isolated is my mind, Since thou in it hast come to dwell!

As by some magic spell, My other thoughts have all, Like lightning, disappeared; And thou, alone, like some huge tower, In a deserted plain, Gigantic, solitary, dost remain.

How worthless quite, Save but for thee, have in my sight All earthly things, and life itself become!

How wearisome its days; And all its works, and all its plays, A vain pursuit of pleasures vain, Compared with the felicity, The heavenly joy, that springs from thee!

As from the naked rocks Of the rough Apennine, The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes To the bright plain that in the distance lies; So from the rough and barren intercourse Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn, As to a Paradise, my weary mind, And sweet refreshment for my senses find.

It seems to me incredible, that I This dreary world, this wretched life, So full of folly and of strife, Without thy aid, could have so long endured; Nor can I well conceive, How one's desires _could_ cling To other joys than those which thou dost bring.

Never, since first I knew By hard experience what life is, Could fear of death my soul subdue.

To-day, a jest to me appears, That which the silly world, Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears, The last extremity!

If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien, Its threats encounter with a smile serene.

I always hated coward souls, And meanness held in scorn.