Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession

Plus ne suis ce que j'ai été, Et ne le sçaurois jamais être.—Marot.

Non dubito, quin titulus libri nostri raritate sua quamplurimos alliciat ad legendum: inter quos nonnulli obliquæ opinionis, mente languidi, multi etiam maligni, et in ingenium nostrum ingrati accedent, qui temeraria sua ignorantia, vix conspecto titulo clamabunt: Nos vetita docere, hæresium semina jacere: piis auribus offendiculo, præclaris ingeniis scandalo esse: ... adeo conscientiæ suæ consulentes, ut nec Apollo, nec Musæ omnes, neque Angelus de cælo me ab illorum execratione vindicare queant: quibus et ego nunc consulo, ne scripta nostra legant, nec intelligant, nec meminerint: nam noxia sunt, venenosa sunt: Acherontis ostium est in hoc libro, lapides loquitur, caveant, ne cerebrum illis excutiat. Vos autem, qui æqua mente ad legendum venitis, si tantam prutentiæ discretionem adhibueritis, quantam in melle legendo apes, jam securi legite. Puto namque vos et utilitatis haud parum et voluptatis plurimum accepturos. Quod si qua repereritis, quæ vobis non placeant, mittite illa, nec utimini. Cætera tamen propterea non respuite. . . Ideo, si quid liberius dictum sit, ignoscite adolescentiæ nostræ, qui minor quam adolescens hoc opus composui.—''Hen. Corn. Agrippa, De Occult. Philosoph. in Præfat.''

V. A. XX.
 * January 1833.

Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me—thy soft breast Shall pant to mine—bend o'er me—thy sweet eyes, And loosened hair and breathing lips, arms Drawing me to thee—these build up a screen To shut me in with thee, and from all fear, So that I might unlock the sleepless brood Of fancies from my soul, their lurking-place, Nor doubt that each would pass, ne'er to return To one so watched, so loved and so secured. But what can guard thee but thy naked love? Ah, dearest, whoso sucks a poisoned wound Envenoms his own veins! Thou art so good, So calm—if thou shouldst wear a brow less light For some wild thought which but for me, were kept From out thy soul as from a sacred star! Yet till I have unlocked them it were vain To hope to sing; some woe would light on me; Nature would point at one whose quivering lip Was bathed in her enchantments, whose brow burned Beneath the crown to which her secrets knelt, Who learned the spell which can call up the dead, And then departed, smiling like a fiend Who has deceived God,—if such one should seek Again her altars and stand robed and crowned Amid the faithful! Sad confession first, Remorse and pardon and old claims renewed, Ere I can be—as I shall be no more.

I had been spared this shame, if I had sat By thee for ever from the first, in place Of my wild dreams of beauty and of good, Or with them, as an earnest of their truth: No thought nor hope, having been shut from thee, No vague wish unexplained, no wandering aim Sent back to bind on Fancy's wings and seek Some strange fair world where it might be a law; But, doubting nothing, had been led by thee, Thro' youth, and saved, as one at length awaked Who has slept through a peril. Ah vain, vain!

Thou lovest me; the past is in its grave, Tho' its ghost haunts us; till this much is ours, To cast away restraint, lest a worse thing Wait for us in the dark. Thou lovest me; And thou art to receive not love but faith, For which thou wilt be mine, and smile and take All shapes and shames, and veil without a fear That form which music follows like a slave: And I look to thee and I trust in thee, As in a Northern night one looks alway Unto the East for morn and spring and joy. Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state, And, resting on some few old feelings won Back by thy beauty, wouldst that I essay The task, which was to me what now thou art: And why should I conceal one weakness more?

Thou wilt remember one warm morn, when winter Crept aged from the earth, and spring's first breath Blew soft from the moist hills; the blackthorn boughs, So dark in the bare wood, when glistening In the sunshine were white with coming buds, Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks Had violets opening from sleep like eyes. I walked with thee who knew'st not a deep shame Lurked beneath smiles and careless words which sought To hide it till they wandered and were mute, As we stood listening on a sunny mound To the wind murmuring in the damp copse, Like heavy breathings of some hidden thing Betrayed by sleep; until the feeling rushed That I was low indeed, yet not so low As to endure the calmness of thine eyes. And so I told thee all, while the cool breast I leaned on altered not its quiet beating: And long ere words like a hurt bird's complaint Bade me look up and be what I had been, I felt despair could never live by thee: Thou wilt remember. Thou art not more dear Than song was once to me; and I ne'er sung But as one entering bright halls where all Will rise and shout for him: sure I must own That I am fallen, having chosen gifts Distinct from theirs—that I am sad and fain Would give up all to be but where I was, Not high as I had been if faithful found, But low and weak yet full of hope, and sure Of goodness as of life—that I would lose All this gay mastery of mind, to sit Once more with them, trusting in truth and love And with an aim—not being what I am.

Oh, Pauline! I am ruined! who believed That though my soul had floated from its sphere Of wide dominion into the dim orb Of self—that it was strong and free as ever. It has conformed itself to that dim orb, Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and now Must stay where it alone can be adored. I have felt this in dreams—in dreams in which I seemed the fate from which I fled; I felt A strange delight in causing my decay. I was a fiend in darkness chained for ever Within some ocean cave; and ages rolled, Till through the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, came A white swan to remain with me; and ages Rolled, yet I tired not of my first free joy In gazing on the peace of its pure wings: And then I said "It is most fair to me, "Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered change "From the thick darkness, sure its eyes are dim, "Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbed "With sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me, "For it would seem, in light beside its kind, "Withered, tho' here to me most beautiful." And then I was a young witch whose blue eyes, As she stood naked by the river springs, Drew down a god: I watched his radiant form Growing less radiant, and it gladdened me; Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshine. Upon my knees, singing to me of heaven, He turned to look at me, ere I could lose The grin with which I viewed his perishing: And he shrieked and departed and sat long By his deserted throne, but sunk at last Murmuring, as I kissed his lips and curled Around him, "I am still a god—to thee."

Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall, For all the wandering and all the weakness Will he a saddest comment on the song: And if, that done, I can be young again, I will give up all gained, as willingly As one gives up a charm which shuts him out From hope or part or care in human kind. As life wanes, all its cares and strife and toil Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees Which grew by our youth's home, the waving mass Of climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew, The morning swallows with their songs like words, All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts: So, aught connected with my early life, My rude songs or my wild imaginings, How I look on them—most distinct amid The fever and the stir of after years! I ne'er had ventured e'en to hope for this, Had not the glow I felt at award, Assured me all was not extinct within: whom all honour, whose renown springs up Like sunlight which will visit all the world, So that e'en they who sneered at him at first, Come out to it, as some dark spider crawls From his foul nets which some lit torch invades, Yet spinning still new films for his retreat. Thou didst smile, poet, but can we forgive?

Sun-treader, life and light be thine for ever! Thou art gone from us; years go by and spring Gladdens and the young earth is beautiful, Yet thy songs come not, other bards arise, But none like thee: they stand, thy majesties, Like mighty works which tell some spirit there Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn, Till, its long task completed, it hath risen And left us, never to return, and all Rush in to peer and praise when all in vain. The air seems bright with thy past presence yet, But thou art still for me as thou hast been When I have stood with thee as on a throne With all thy dim creations gathered round Like mountains, and I felt of mould like them, And with them creatures of my own were mixed, Like things half-lived, catching and giving life. But thou art still for me who have adored Tho' single, panting but to hear thy name, Which I believed a spell to me alone, Scarce deeming thou wast as a star to men! As one should worship long a sacred spring Scarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross, And one small tree embowers droopingly— Joying to see some wandering insect won To live in its few rushes, or some locust To pasture on its boughs, or some wild bird Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air: And then should find it but the fountain-head, Long lost, of some great river washing towns And towers, and seeing old woods which will live But by its banks untrod of human foot, Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering In light as some thing lieth half of life Before God's foot, waiting a wondrous change; Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay Its course in vain, for it does ever spread Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on, Being the pulse of some great country—so Wast thou to me, and art thou to the world! And I, perchance, half feel a strange regret That I am not what I have been to thee: Like a girl one has silently loved long In her first loveliness in some retreat, When, late emerged, all gaze and glow to view Her fresh eyes and soft hair and lips which bloom Like a mountain berry: doubtless it is sweet To see her thus adored, but there have been Moments when all the world was in our praise, Sweeter than any pride of after hours. Yet, sun-treader, all hail! From my heart's heart I bid thee hail! E'en in my wildest dreams, I proudly feel I would have thrown to dust The wreaths of fame which seemed o'er-hanging me, To see thee for a moment as thou art.

And if thou livest, if thou lovest, spirit! Remember me who set this final seal To wandering thought—that one so pure as thou Could never die. Remember me who flung All honour from my soul, yet paused and said "There is one spark of love remaining yet, "For I have nought in common with him, shapes "Which followed him avoid me, and foul forms "Seek me, which ne'er could fasten on his mind; "And though I feel how low I am to him, "Yet I aim not even to catch a tone "Of harmonies he called profusely up; "So, one gleam still remains, although the last." Remember me who praise thee e'en with tears, For never more shall I walk calm with thee; Thy sweet imaginings are as an air, A melody some wondrous singer sings, Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve, They dream not to essay; yet it no less, But more is honoured. I was thine in shame, And now when all thy proud renown is out, I am a watcher whose eyes have grown dim With looking for some star which breaks on him Altered and worn and weak and full of tears.

Autumn has come like spring returned to us, Won from her girlishness; like one returned A friend that was a lover, nor forgets The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts Of fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yet With the old smile, but yet so changed and still! And here am I the scoffer, who have probed Life's vanity, won by a word again Into my old life—by one little word Of this sweet friend who lives in loving me, Lives strangely on my thoughts and looks and words, As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing Its silent course of quietness and joy. O dearest, if indeed I tell the past, May'st thou forget it as a sad sick dream! Or if it linger—my lost soul too soon Sinks to itself and whispers we shall be But closer linked, two creatures whom the earth Bears singly, with strange feelings unrevealed Save to each other; or two lonely things Created by some power whose reign is done, Having no part in God or his bright world. I am to sing whilst ebbing day dies soft, As a lean scholar dies worn o'er his book, And in the heaven stars steal out one by one, As hunted men steal to their mountain watch. I must not think, lest this new impulse die In which I trust; I have no confidence: So I will sing on fast as fancies come; Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints.

I strip my mind bare, whose first elements I shall unveil—not as they struggled forth In infancy, nor as they now exist, When I am grown above them and can rule— But in that middle stage when they were full Yet ere I had disposed them to my will; And then I shall show how these elements Produced my present state, and what it is.

I am made up of an intensest life, Of a most clear idea of consciousness Of self, distinct from all its qualities, From all affections, passions, feelings, powers; And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all: But linked, in me, to self-supremacy, Existing as a centre to all things, Most potent to create and rule and call Upon all things to minister to it; And to a principle of restlessness Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all— This is myself; and I should thus have been Though gifted lower than the meanest soul. And of my powers, one springs up to save From utter death a soul with such desires Confined to clay—which is the only one Which marks me—an imagination which Has been a very angel, coming not In fitful visions but beside me ever And never failing me; so, though my mind Forgets not, not a shred of life forgets, Yet I can take a secret pride in calling The dark past up to quell it regally.

A mind like this must dissipate itself, But I have always had one lode-star; now, As I look back, I see that I have halted Or hastened as I looked towards that star— A need, a trust, a yearning after God: A feeling I have analysed but late, But it existed, and was reconciled With a neglect of all I deemed his laws, Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred. I felt as one beloved, and so shut in From fear: and thence I date my trust in signs And omens, for I saw God everywhere; And I can only lay it to the fruit Of a sad after-time that I could doubt Even his being—e'en the while I felt His presence, never acting from myself, Still trusted in a hand to lead me through All danger; and this feeling ever fought Against my weakest reason and resolve.

And I can love nothing—and this dull truth Has come the last: but sense supplies a love Encircling me and mingling with my life.

These make myself: I have long sought in vain To trace how they were formed by circumstance, Yet ever found them mould my wildest youth Where they alone displayed themselves, converted All objects to their use: now see their course!

They came to me in my first dawn of life Which passed alone with wisest ancient books All halo-girt with fancies of my own; And I myself went with the tale—a god Wandering after beauty, or a giant Standing vast in the sunset—an old hunter Talking with gods, or a high-crested chief Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos. I tell you, nought has ever been so clear As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives: I had not seen a work of lofty art, Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face, Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea, The deep groves and white temples and wet caves: And nothing ever will surprise me now— Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed, Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair.

And strange it is, that I who could so dream Should e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath— Aught low or painful; but I never doubted: So, as I grew, I rudely shaped my life To my immediate wants; yet strong beneath Was a vague sense of power though folded up— A sense that, though those shades and times were past, Their spirit dwelt in me, with them should rule.

Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down My soul till it was changed. I lost myself, And were it not that I so loathe that loss, I could recall how first I learned to turn My mind against itself; and the effects In deeds for which remorse were vain as for The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence Came cunning, envy, falsehood, all world's wrong That spotted me: at length I cleansed my soul. Yet long world's influence remained; and nought But the still life I led, apart once more, Which left me free to seek soul's old delights, Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace.

As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit; And song rose, no new impulse but the one With which all others best could be combined. My life has not been that of those whose heaven Was lampless save where poesy shone out; But as a clime where glittering mountain-tops And glancing sea and forests steeped in light Give back reflected the far-flashing sun; For music (which is earnest of a heaven, Seeing we know emotions strange by it, Not else to be revealed,) is as a voice, A low voice calling fancy, as a friend, To the green woods in the gay summer time: And she fills all the way with dancing shapes Which have made painters pale, and they go on While stars look at them and winds call to them As they leave life's path for the twilight world Where the dead gather. This was not at first For I scarce knew what I would do. I had An impulse but no yearning—only sang.

And first I sang as I in dream have seen Music wait on a lyrist for some thought, Yet singing to herself until it came. I turned to those old times and scenes where all That's beautiful had birth for me, and made Rude verses on them all; and then I paused— I had done nothing, so I sought to know What other minds achieved. No fear outbroke As on the works of mighty bards I gazed, In the first joy at finding my own thoughts Recorded, my own fancies justified, And their aspirings but my very own. With them I first explored passion and mind,— All to begin afresh! I rather sought To rival what I wondered at than form Creations of my own; if much was light Lent by the others, much was yet my own.

I paused again: a change was coming—came: I was no more a boy, the past was breaking Before the future and like fever worked. I thought on my new self, and all my powers Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed On all things: schemes and systems went and came, And I was proud (being vainest of the weak) In wandering o'er thought's world to seek some one To be my prize, as if you wandered o'er The White Way for a star.

And my choice fell Not so much on a system as a man— On one, whom praise of mine shall not offend, Who was as calm as beauty, being such Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,— Believing in them and devoting all His soul's strength to their winning back to peace; Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake, Clothed in all passion's melodies: such first Caught me and set me, slave of a sweet task, To disentangle, gather sense from song: Since, song-inwoven, lurked there words which seemed A key to a new world, the muttering Of angels, something yet unguessed by man. How my heart leapt as still I sought and found Much there, I felt my own soul had conceived, But there living and burning! Soon the orb Of his conceptions dawned on me; its praise Lives in the tongues of men, men's brows are high When his name means a triumph and a pride; So, my weak hands may well forbear to shame What seemed decreed my fate: I threw myself To meet it, I was vowed to liberty, Men were to be as gods and earth as heaven, And I—ah, what a life was mine to prove! My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline, I shall go mad, if I recall that time!

Oh let me look back ere I leave for ever The time which was an hour one fondly waits For a fair girl that comes a withered hag! And I was lonely, far from woods and fields, And amid dullest sights, who should be loose As a stag; yet I was full of bliss, who lived With Plato and who had the key to life; And I had dimly shaped my first attempt, And many a thought did I build up on thought, As the wild bee hangs cell to cell; in vain, For I must still advance, no rest for mind.

'Twas in my plan to look on real life, Which was all new to me; my theories Were firm, so them I left, to look and learn Mankind, its cares, hopes, fears, its woes and joys; And, as I pondered on their ways, I sought How best life's end might be attained—an end Comprising every joy. I deeply mused.

And suddenly without heart-wreck I awoke As from a dream: I said, "'Twas beautiful, "Yet but a dream, and so adieu to it!" As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow Strange towers and high-walled gardens thick with trees, Where song takes shelter and delicious mirth From laughing fairy creatures peeping over, And on the morrow when he comes to lie For ever 'neath those garden-trees fruit-flushed Sung round by fairies, all his search is vain. First went my hopes of perfecting mankind, Next—faith in them, and then in freedom's self And virtue's self, then my own motives, ends, And aims and loves, and human love went last. I felt this no decay, because new powers Rose as old feelings left—wit, mockery, Light-heartedness; for I had oft been sad, Mistrusting my resolves, but now I cast Hope joyously away: I laughed and said "No more of this!" I must not think: at length I looked again to see if all went well.

My powers were greater: as some temple seemed My soul, where nought is changed and incense rolls Around the altar, only God is gone And some dark spirit sitteth in his seat. So, I passed through the temple and to me Knelt troops of shadows, and they cried "Hail, king! "We serve thee now and thou shalt serve no more! "Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!" And I said "Are ye strong? Let fancy bear me "Far from the past!" And I was borne away, As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind, O'er deserts, towers and forests, I being calm. And I said "I have nursed up energies, "They will prey on me." And a band knelt low And cried "Lord, we are here and we will make "Safe way for thee in thine appointed life! "But look on us!" And I said "Ye will worship "Me; should my heart not worship too?" They shouted "Thyself, thou art our king!" So, I stood there Smiling—oh, vanity of vanities! For buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit With which I looked out how to end my course; I felt once more myself, my powers—all mine; I knew while youth and health so lifted me That, spite of all life's nothingness, no grief Came nigh me, I must ever be light-hearted; And that this knowledge was the only veil Betwixt joy and despair: so, if age came, I should be left—a wreck linked to a soul Yet fluttering, or mind-broken and aware Of my decay. So a long summer morn Found me; and ere noon came, I had resolved No age should come on me ere youth was spent, For I would wear myself out, like that morn Which wasted not a sunbeam; every hour I would make mine, and die.

And thus I sought To chain my spirit down which erst I freed For flights to fame: I said "The troubled life Of genius, seen so gay when working forth Some trusted end, grows sad when all proves vain— How sad when men have parted with truth's peace For falsest fancy's sake, which waited first As an obedient spirit when delight Came without fancy's call: but alters soon, Comes darkened, seldom, hastens to depart, Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears. But I shall never lose her; she will live Dearer for such seclusion. I but catch A hue, a glance of what I sing: so, pain Is linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tell Half the bright sights which dazzle me; but now Mine shall be all the radiance: let them fade Untold—others shall rise as fair, as fast! And when all's done, the few dim gleams transferred,"— (For a new thought sprang up how well it were, Discarding shadowy hope, to weave such lays As straight encircle men with praise and love, So, I should not die utterly,—should bring One branch from the gold forest, like the knight Of old tales, witnessing I had been there)— "And when all's done, how vain seems e'en success— The vaunted influence poets have o'er men! 'Tis a fine thing that one weak as myself, Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words He utters in his solitude shall move Men like a swift wind—that tho' dead and gone, New eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams Of love come true in happier frames than his. Ay, the still night brings thoughts like these, but morn Comes and the mockery again laughs out At hollow praises, smiles allied to sneers; And my soul's idol ever whispers me To dwell with him and his unhonoured song: And I foreknow my spirit, that would press First in the struggle, fail again to make All bow enslaved, and I again should sink. And then know that this curse will come on us, To see our idols perish; we may wither, No marvel, we are clay, but our low fate Should not extend to those whom trustingly We sent before into time's yawning gulf, To face what dread may lurk in darkness there. To find the painter's glory pass, and feel Music can move us not as once, or, worst, To weep decaying wits ere the frail body Decays! Nought makes me trust some love is true, But the delight of the contented lowness With which I gaze on him I'd keep for ever Above me; I to rise and rival him? Feed his fame rather from my heart's best blood, Wither unseen that he may flourish still."

Pauline, my soul's friend, thou dost pity yet How this mood swayed me when that soul found thine, When I had set myself to live this life, Defying all past glory. Ere thou camest I seemed defiant, sweet, for old delights Had flocked like birds again; music, my life, Nourished me more than ever; then the lore Loved for itself and all it shows—that king Treading the purple calmly to his death, While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk, The giant shades of fate, silently flitting, Pile the dim outline of the coming doom; And him sitting alone in blood while friends Are hunting far in the sunshine; and the boy With his white breast and brow and clustering curls Streaked with his mother's blood, but striving hard To tell his story ere his reason goes. And when I loved thee as love seemed so oft, Thou lovedst me indeed: I wondering searched My heart to find some feeling like such love, Believing I was still much I had been. Too soon I found all faith had gone from me, And the late glow of life, like change on clouds, Proved not the morn-blush widening into day, But eve faint-coloured by the dying sun While darkness hastens quickly. I will tell My state as though 'twere none of mine—despair Cannot come near us—this it is, my state. Souls alter not, and mine must still advance; Strange that I knew not, when I flung away My youth's chief aims, their loss might lead to loss Of what few I retained, and no resource Be left me: for behold how changed is all! I cannot chain my soul: it will not rest In its clay prison, this most narrow sphere: It has strange impulse, tendency, desire, Which nowise I account for nor explain, But cannot stifle, being bound to trust All feelings equally, to hear all sides: How can my life indulge them? yet they live, Referring to some state or life unknown.

My selfishness is satiated not, It wears me like a flame; my hunger for All pleasure, howsoe'er minute, grows pain; I envy—how I envy him whose soul Turns its whole energies to some one end, To elevate an aim, pursue success However mean! So, my still baffled hope Seeks out abstractions; I would have one joy, But one in life, so it were wholly mine, One rapture all my soul could fill: and this Wild feeling places me in dream afar In some vast country where the eye can see No end to the far hills and dales bestrewn With shining towers and towns, till I grow mad Wellnigh, to know not one abode but holds Some pleasure, while my soul could grasp the world, But must remain this vile form's slave. I look With hope to age at last, which quenching much, May let me concentrate what sparks it spares.

This restlessness of passion meets in me A craving after knowledge: the sole proof Of yet commanding will is in that power Repressed; for I beheld it in its dawn, The sleepless harpy with just-budding wings, And I considered whether to forego All happy ignorant hopes and fears, to live, Finding a recompense in its wild eyes. And when I found that I should perish so, I bade its wild eyes close from me for ever, And I am left alone with old delights; See! it lies in me a chained thing, still prompt To serve me if I loose its slightest bond: I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.

How should this earth's life prove my only sphere? Can I so narrow sense but that in life Soul still exceeds it? In their elements My love outsoars my reason; but since love Perforce receives its object from this earth While reason wanders chainless, the few truths Caught from its wanderings have sufficed to quell Love chained below; then what were love, set free, Which, with the object it demands, would pass Reason companioning the seraphim? No, what I feel may pass all human love Yet fall far short of what my love should be. And yet I seem more warped in this than aught, Myself stands out more hideously: of old I could forget myself in friendship, fame, Liberty, nay, in love of mightier souls; But I begin to know what thing hate is— To sicken and to quiver and grow white— And I myself have furnished its first prey. Hate of the weak and ever-wavering will, The selfishness, the still-decaying frame... But I must never grieve whom wing can waft Far from such thoughts—as now. Andromeda! And she is with me: years roll, I shall change, But change can touch her not—so beautiful With her fixed eyes, earnest and still, and hair Lifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze, And one red beam, all the storm leaves in heaven, Resting upon her eyes and hair, such hair, As she awaits the snake on the wet beach By the dark rock and the white wave just breaking At her feet; quite naked and alone; a thing I doubt not, nor fear for, secure some god To save will come in thunder from the stars. Let it pass! Soul requires another change. I will be gifted with a wondrous mind, Yet sunk by error to men's sympathy, And in the wane of life, yet only so As to call up their fears; and there shall come A time requiring youth's best energies; And lo, I fling age, sorrow, sickness off, And rise triumphant, triumph through decay.

And thus it is that I supply the chasm 'Twixt what I am and all I fain would be: But then to know nothing, to hope for nothing, To seize on life's dull joys from a strange fear Lest, losing them, all's lost, and nought remains!

There's some vile juggle with my reason here; I feel I but explain to my own loss These impulses: they live no less the same. Liberty! what though I despair? my blood Rose never at a slave's name proud as now. Oh sympathies, obscured by sophistries!— Why else have I sought refuge in myself, But from the woes I saw and could not stay? Love! is not this to love thee, my Pauline? I cherish prejudice, lest I be left Utterly loveless? witness my belief In poets, though sad change has come there too; No more I leave myself to follow them— Unconsciously I measure me by them— Let me forget it: and I cherish most My love of England—how her name, a word Of hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat!

Pauline, could I but break the spell! Not now— All's fever—but when calm shall come again, I am prepared: I have made life my own. I would not be content with all the change One frame should feel, but I have gone in thought Thro' all conjuncture, I have lived all life When it is most alive, where strangest fate New-shapes it past surmise—the throes of men Bit by some curse or in the grasp of doom Half-visible and still-increasing round, Or crowning their wide being's general aim.

These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend, As one breathing his weakness to the ear Of pitying angel—dear as a winter flower, A slight flower growing alone, and offering Its frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun, Yet joyous and confiding like the triumph Of a child: and why am I not worthy thee? I can live all the life of plants, and gaze Drowsily on the bees that flit and play, Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill, Or open in the night of sounds, to look For the dim stars; I can mount with the bird Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree, Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens; Or like a fish breathe deep the morning air In the misty sun-warm water; or with flower And tree can smile in light at the sinking sun, Just as the storm comes, as a girl would look On a departing lover—most serene.

Pauline, come with me, see how I could build A home for us, out of the world, in thought! I am uplifted: fly with me, Pauline!

Night, and one single ridge of narrow path Between the sullen river and the woods Waving and muttering, for the moonless night Has shaped them into images of life, Like the uprising of the giant-ghosts, Looking on earth to know how their sons fare: Thou art so close by me, the roughest swell Of wind in the tree-tops hides not the panting Of thy soft breasts. No, we will pass to morning— Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods. How the sun brightens in the mist, and here, Half in the air, like creatures of the place, Trusting the element, living on high boughs That swing in the wind—look at the silver spray Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract Amid the broken rocks! Shall we stay here With the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come Dive we down—safe! See this our new retreat Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs, Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping down To a small pool whose waters lie asleep Amid the trailing boughs turned water-plants: And tall trees overarch to keep us in, Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts And in the dreamy water one small group Of two or three strange trees are got together Wondering at all around, as strange beasts herd Together far from their own land: all wildness, No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all, And tongues of bank go shelving in the lymph, Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head, And old grey stones lie making eddies there, The wild-mice cross them dry-shod. Deeper in! Shut thy soft eyes—now look—still deeper in! This is the very heart of the woods all round Mountain-like heaped above us; yet even here One pond of water gleams; far off the river Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one— One thin clear sheet has overleaped and wound Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend O'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl, And through their roots long creeping plants out-stretch Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on, Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread, It winds, all noiselessly through the deep wood Till thro' a cleft way, thro' the moss and stone, It joins its parent-river with a shout. Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods! See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky! Nothing but sky appears, so close the roots And grass of the hill-top level with the air— Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats laden With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick, Floating away in the sun in some north sea. Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air, The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us, Where small birds reel and winds take their delight! Water is beautiful, but not like air: See, where the solid azure waters lie Made as of thickened air, and down below, The fern-ranks like a forest spread themselves As though each pore could feel the element; Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way, Float with me there, Pauline!—but not like air.

Down the hill! Stop—a clump of trees, see, set On a heap of rock, which look o'er the far plain: So, envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest And peer from their spread boughs; wide they wave, looking At the muleteers who whistle on their way, To the merry chime of morning bells, past all The little smoking cots, mid fields and banks And copses bright in the sun. My spirit wanders: Hedgerows for me—those living hedgerows where The bushes close and clasp above and keep Thought in—I am concentrated—I feel; But my soul saddens when it looks beyond: I cannot be immortal, taste all joy.

O God, where do they tend—these struggling aims? What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seems To bound all? can there be a "waking" point Of crowning life? The soul would never rule; It would be first in all things, it would have Its utmost pleasure filled, but, that complete, Commanding, for commanding, sickens it. The last point I can trace is—rest beneath Some better essence than itself, in weakness; This is "myself," not what I think should be: And what is that I hunger for but God?

My God, my God! let me for once look on thee As though nought else existed, we alone! And as creation crumbles, my soul's spark Expands till I can say,—Even from myself I need thee and I feel thee and I love thee. I do not plead my rapture in thy works For love of thee, nor that I feel as one Who cannot die: but there is that in me Which turns to thee, which loves or which should love.

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress? Why have I laboured to put out my life? Is it not in my nature to adore, And e'en for all my reason do I not Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him—now? Can I forego the trust that he loves me? Do I not feel a love which only ... O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed! I have denied thee calmly—do I not Pant when I read of thy consummate power, And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash The brightest gleams of earth's philosophy? Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? If I am erring save me, madden me, Take from me powers and pleasures, let me die Ages, so I see thee! I am knit round As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride, Yet though my wandering dreams have seen all shapes Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee— Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee In the damp night by weeping Olivet, Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less, Or dying with thee on the lonely cross, Or witnessing thine outburst from the tomb.

A mortal, sin's familiar friend, doth here Avow that he will give all earth's reward, But to believe and humbly teach the faith, In suffering and poverty and shame, Only believing he is not unloved.

And now, my Pauline, I am thine for ever! I feel the spirit which has buoyed me up Desert me, and old shades are gathering fast; Yet while the last light waits, I would say much, This chiefly, it is gain that I have said Somewhat of love I ever felt for thee But seldom told; our hearts so beat together That speech seemed mockery; but when dark hours come, And joy departs, and thou, sweet, deem'st it strange A sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove, Look on this lay I dedicate to thee, Which through thee I began, which thus I end, Collecting the last gleams to strive to tell How I am thine, and more than ever now That I sink fast: yet though I deeplier sink, No less song proves one word has brought me bliss, Another still may win bliss surely back. Thou knowest, dear, I could not think all calm, For fancies followed thought and bore me off, And left all indistinct; ere one was caught Another glanced; so, dazzled by my wealth, I knew not which to leave nor which to choose, For all so floated, nought was fixed and firm. And then thou said'st a perfect bard was one Who chronicled the stages of all life, And so thou bad'st me shadow this first stage. 'Tis done, and even now I recognize The shift, the change from last to past—discern Faintly how life is truth and truth is good. And why thou must be mine is, that e'en now In the dim hush of night, that I have done, Despite the sad forebodings, love looks through— Whispers,—E'en at the last I have her still, With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist, And clouds float white above like broods of swans. How the blood lies upon her cheek, outspread As thinned by kisses! only in her lips It wells and pulses like a living thing, And her neck looks like marble misted o'er With love-breath,—a Pauline from heights above, Stooping beneath me, looking up—one look As I might kill her and be loved the more.

So, love me—me, Pauline, and nought but me, Never leave loving! Words are wild and weak, Believe them not, Pauline! I stained myself But to behold thee purer by my side, To show thou art my breath, my life, a last Resource, an extreme want: never believe Aught better could so look on thee; nor seek Again the world of good thoughts left for mine! There were bright troops of undiscovered suns, Each equal in their radiant course; there were Clusters of far fair isles which ocean kept For his own joy, and his waves broke on them Without a choice; and there was a dim crowd Of visions, each a part of some grand whole: And one star left his peers and came with peace Upon a storm, and all eyes pined for him; And one isle harboured a sea-beaten ship, And the crew wandered in its bowers and plucked Its fruits and gave up all their hopes of home; And one dream came to a pale poet's sleep, And he said, "I am singled out by God, "No sin must touch me." Words are wild and weak, But what they would express is,—Leave me not, Still sit by me with beating breast and hair Loosened, be watching earnest by my side, Turning my books or kissing me when I Look up—like summer wind! Be still to me A help to music's mystery which mind fails To fathom, its solution, no mere clue! O reason's pedantry, life's rule prescribed! I hopeless, I the loveless, hope and love. Wiser and better, know me now, not when You loved me as I was. Smile not! I have Much yet to dawn on you, to gladden you.

No more of the past! I'll look within no more. I have too trusted to my own lawless wants, Too trusted my vain self, vague intuition— Draining soul's wine alone in the still night, And seeing how, as gathering films arose, As by an inspiration life seemed bare And grinning in its vanity, while ends Foul to be dreamed of, smiled at me as fixed, And fair, while others changed from fair to foul As a young witch turns an old hag at night. No more of this! We will go hand in hand, I with thee, even as a child—love's slave, Looking no farther than his liege commands. And thou hast chosen where this life shall be: The land which gave me thee shall be our home, Where nature lies all wild amid her lakes And snow-swathed mountains and vast pines begirt With ropes of snow—where nature lies all bare, Suffering none to view her but a race Or stinted or deformed, like the mute dwarfs Which wait upon a naked Indian queen. And there (the time being when the heavens are thick With storm) I'll sit with thee while thou dost sing Thy native songs, gay as a desert bird Which crieth as it flies for perfect joy, Or telling me old stories of dead knights; Or I will read great lays to thee—how she, The fair pale sister, went to her chill grave With power to love and to be loved and live: Or will go together, like twin gods Of the infernal world, with scented lamp Over the dead, to call and to awake, Over the unshaped images which lie Within my mind's cave: only leaving all, That tells of the past doubt. So, when spring comes With sunshine back again like an old smile, And the fresh waters and awakened birds And budding woods await us, I shall be Prepared, and we will question life once more, Till its old sense shall come renewed by change, Like some clear thought which harsh words veiled before; Feeling God loves us, and that all which errs, Is but a dream which death will dissipate. And then what need of longer exile? Seek My England, and, again there, calm approach All I once fled from, calmly look on those The works of my past weakness, as one views Some scene where danger met him long before. Ah that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!

But whate'er come of it, and though it fade, And though ere the cold morning all be gone, As it may be;—tho' music wait to wile, And strange eyes and bright wine lure, laugh like sin Which steals back softly on a soul half saved, And I the first deny, decry, despise, With this avowal, these intents so fair,— Still be it all my own, this moment's pride! No less I make an end in perfect joy. E'en in my brightest time, a lurking fear Possessed me: I well knew my weak resolves, I felt the witchery that makes mind sleep Over its treasure, as one half afraid To make his riches definite: but now These feelings shall not utterly be lost, I shall not know again that nameless care Lest, leaving all undone in youth, some new And undreamed end reveal itself too late: For this song shall remain to tell for ever That when I lost all hope of such a change, Suddenly beauty rose on me again. No less I make an end in perfect joy, For I, who thus again was visited, Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits, And, though this weak soul sink and darkness whelm, Some little word shall light it, raise aloft, To where I clearlier see and better love, As I again go o'er the tracts of thought Like one who has a right, and I shall live With poets, calmer, purer still each time, And beauteous shapes will come for me to seize, And unknown secrets will be trusted me, Which were denied the waverer once; but now I shall be priest and prophet as of old.

Sun-treader, I believe in God and truth And love; and as one just escaped from death Would bind himself in bands of friends to feel He lives indeed, so, I would lean on thee! Thou must be ever with me, most in gloom If such must come, but chiefly when I die, For I seem, dying, as one going in the dark To fight a giant: but live thou for ever, And be to all what thou hast been to me! All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of me Know my last state is happy, free from doubt Or touch of fear. Love me and wish me well.

October 22, 1832.

Note
Je crains bien que mon pauvre ami ne soit pas toujours parfaitement compris dans ce qui reste à lire de cet étrange fragment—mais il est moins propre que tout autre à éclaircir ce qui de sa nature ne peut jamais être que songe et confusion. D'ailleurs je ne sais trop si en cherchant à mieux co-ordonner certaines parties l'on ne courrait pas le risque de nuire au seul mérite auquel une production si singulière peut prétendre—celui de donner une idée assez précise du genre qu'elle n'a fait qu'ébaucher. Ce début sans prétention, ce remuement des passions qui va d'abord en accroissant et puis s'apaise par degrés, ces élans de l'âme, ce retour soudain sur soi-même, et par-dessus tout, la tournure d'esprit tout particulière de mon ami, rendent les changemens presque impossibles. Les raisons qu'il fait valoir ailleurs, et d'autres encore plus puissantes, ont fait trouver grâce à mes yeux pour cet écrit qu'autrement je lui eusse conseillé de jeter au feu. Je n'en crois pas moins au grand principe de toute composition—à ce principe de Shakespeare, de Raffaelle, de Beethoven, d'où il suit que la concentration des idées est due bien plus à leur conception qu'à leur mise en exécution: j'ai tout lieu de craindre que la première de ces qualités ne soit encore étrangère à mon ami, et je doute fort qu'un redoublement de travail lui fasse acquérir la seconde. Le mieux serait de brûler ceci; mais que faire?

Je crois que dans ce qui suit il fait allusion à un certain examen qu'il fit autrefois de l'âme, ou plutôt de son âme, pour découvrir la suite des objets auxquels il lui serait possible d'atteindre, et dont chacun une fois obtenu devait former une espèce de plateau d'où l'on pouvait apercevoir d'autres buts, d'autres projets, d'autres jouissances qui, à leur tour, devaient être surmontés. Il en résultait que l'oubli et le sommeil devaient tout terminer. Cette idée, que je ne saisis pas parfaitement, lui est peut-être aussi inintelligible qu'à moi.

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