English

Yes, pray thy God to give, whate'er thou art,
Some work to be by thee with reverence wrought:
Some trumpet note obeyed, some good fight fought,
Ere thou lay down thy weapons and depart.
Brood on thyself, until thy lamp be spent;
Bind all thy force to compass and invent;
But shun the reveries of voluptuous thought,
Day musings, the floralia of the heart
And vain imaginations: else may start
Beside the portals of thy tower or tent,
Rending thy trance with dissonant clang and jar,
A summons that shall drive thee wild to hear —

And thus the mind by its own impulse deep,
As lightning instantly enlighteneth,
May cleave the shades of sin, the shapes of death
That pace it round all day and never sleep,
That watch the wall all night and pace it round —
Yet not its own. In man's extremity
God lends the light we use, the strength we keep.
So let us use that light, that we may be
Oh, not perhaps with others thronged and crowned
But at the last in white arrayment found, —
So daily use it, that the mystery
Of life we touch: in cloud and wind and tree,

But Thought, like a mailed archer helmed and tall,
Treads ever on the outward battlement,
Striving to pierce — through embrasure and rent —
The secret of the gloom that girdleth all,
The immeasurable gulf and interval,
Nor heeds the random showers about him sent —
But whilst the cloudy squadrons tramp and wheel,
Busy with weight and bar and implement,
He casteth where to make his missiles fall —
Training his engine now, now lower, now higher,
As a strong archer sets his bow of steel.

Still, like a city, seated on a height
Appears my soul, and gathered in her place:
Whilst, faintly hovering, swarm about her base,
Still nearer drawing with the nearer night,
Dim cloudlike groups of men and groups of horse,
Outposts and riders of some mightier Force
That lies along the hills; while from them thrown
Rise shadowing shafts with storms of summoning stone,
And the bolt falleth where the cross-bolt fell;
Till Doubt contends with Hope, and Fear conspires
To thwart them both: so that the soul retires

CANTO THE SECOND

Conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?
DANTE . [ Inferno , v. 120.]

I

In Coron's bay floats many a galley light,
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright,
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast tonight:
A feast for promised triumph yet to come,
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home.
This hath he sworn by Alla and his sword;
And faithful to his firman and his word,
His summon'd prows collect along the coast,
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast.

Not the round natural world, not the deep mind,
The reconcilement holds: the blue abyss
Collects it not; our arrows sink amiss;
And but in Him may we our import find.
The agony to know, the grief, the bliss
Of toil, is vain and vain! clots of the sod
Gathered in heat and haste, and flung behind
To blind ourselves and others, — what but this
Still grasping dust, and sowing toward the wind?
No more thy meaning seek, thine anguish plead;
But, leaving straining thought, and stammering word,
Across the barren azure pass to God;

Tall , stately plants, with spikes and forks of gold,
Crowd every slope: my heart repeats its cry, —
A cry for strength, for strength and victory;
The will to strive, the courage overbold
That would have moved me once to turn indeed,
And level with the dust each lordly weed.
But now I weep upon my wayside walks,
And sigh for those fair days, when glorying
I stood a boy amid the mullein-stalks,
And dreamed myself like him the Lion-King;
There, where his shield shed arrows, and the clank

Wherefore , with this belief, held like a blade, —
Gathering my strength and purpose, fair and slow,
I wait; resolved to carry it to the heart
Of that dark doubt in one collected blow;
And stand at guard with spirit undismayed,
Nor fear the Opposer's anger, arms, or art;
When, from a hiding near, behold him start
With a fresh weapon of my weakness made;
And goad me with myself, and urge the attack,
While I strike short, and still give back and back
While the foe rages. Then from that disgrace

Sometimes , when winding slow by brook and bower,
Beating the idle grass, — of what avail,
I ask, are these dim fancies, cares, and fears?
What though from every bank I drew a flower, —
Bloodroot, king-orchis, or the pearlwort pale, —
And set it in my verse with thoughtful tears?
What would it count, though I should sing my death,
And muse and mourn with as poetic breath
As, in damp garden walks, the autumn gale
Sighs o'er the fallen floriage? What avail
Is the swan's voice, if all the hearers fail?

By nature fierce, at length subdued and mild
To each kind office of a duteous child,
Who a dark sire guides through the pressing throng:
See how yon terrier gently leads along
The feeble beggar to his customed stand,
With piteous tale to woo the bounteous hand;
In willing bonds, but master of the way,
Ne'er leads that trusted friend his charge astray,
With slow, soft step, as conscious of his care,
As if his own deep sorrows formed the prayer;
Should yielding charity the scrip supply,