A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side.
He spake the Great King heard; Felt the slow-rolling word
Swell his attentive soul;
Breathed deeply as it died,
And drain'd his mighty bowl.
MODERATE tasks and moderate leisure, Quiet living, strict-kept measure Both in suffering and in pleasure- 'Tis for this thy nature yearns.
But so many books thou readest, But so many schemes thou breedest, But so many wishes feedest,
That thy poor head almost turns.
And (the world's so madly jangled, Human things so fast entangled) Nature's wish must now be strangled
For that best which she discerns.
So it must be! yet, while leading A strain'd life, while overfeeding, Like the rest, his wit with reading,
No small profit that man earns,
Who through all he meets can steer him, Can reject what cannot clear him, Cling to what can truly cheer him;
Who each day more surely learns
That an impulse, from the distance Of his deepest, best existence,
To the words, 'Hope, Light, Persistence,' Strongly sets and truly burns.
MIST clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses
Hem me round everywhere;
A vague dejection
Weighs down my soul.
Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings
Pass countless moods.
Far hence, in Asia,
On the smooth convent-roofs,
On the gold terraces,
Of holy Lassa,
Bright shines the sun.
Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses; In their cool gallery, By yellow Tiber, They still look fair.
Strange unloved uproar* Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon
Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm.
Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa,
A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms.
No bolder robber Erst abode ambush'd
Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight
Spied prey afar.
* Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.
The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-glass Its due reversal;
Their hour is gone.
With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere.
The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments
I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end.
The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy. Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality,
Brings round to all men
Some undimm'd hours.
To die be given us, or attain! Fierce work it were, to do again.
So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarf'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o'er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine;-so pray all, Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gain'd, may give repose.
So pray they; and to stand again
Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew
Past straits, and currents long steer'd through.
But milder natures, and more free- Whom an unblamed serenity
Hath freed from passions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate;
Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd- These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the passing day.
These claim not every laughing Hour For handmaid to their striding power; Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd, To await their march; and when appear'd, Through the cold gloom, with measured race, To usher for a destined space
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