TO CRITIAS.
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Why, when the world’s great mindHath finally inclined,Why,” you say, Critias, “be debating still?Why, with these mournful rhymesLearned in more languid climes,Blame our activityWho, with such passionate will,Are what we mean to be?” Critias, long since, I know(For Fate decreed it so),Long since the world hath set its heart to live;Long since, with credulous zealIt turns life’s mighty wheel,Still doth for laborers sendWho still their labor give,And still expects an end. Yet, as the wheel flies round,With no ungrateful soundDo adverse voices fall on the world’s ear.Deafened by his own stir,The rugged laborerCaught not till then a senseSo glowing and so nearOf his omnipotence. So, when the feast grew loudIn Susa’s palace proud,A white-robed slave stole to the great king’s side.He spake--the great king heard;Felt the slow-rolling wordSwell his attentive soul;Breathed deeply as it died,And drained his mighty bowl. _THE SECOND BEST._ Moderate tasks and moderate leisure,Quiet living, strict-kept measureBoth 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 strangledFor that best which she discerns. So it _must_ be! yet, while leadingA strained life, while over-feeding,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 distanceOf his deepest, best existence,To the words, “Hope, Light, Persistence,”Strongly sets and truly burns. _CONSOLATION._ Mist clogs the sunshine.Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejectionWeighs down my soul. Yet, while I languish,Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves,And countless beingsPass countless moods. Far hence, in Asia,On the smooth convent-roofs,On the gold terraces,Of holy Lassa,Bright shines the sun. Gray time-worn marblesHold the pure Muses;In their cool gallery,By yellow Tiber,They still look fair. Strange unloved uproar[A]Shrills round their portal;Yet not on HeliconKept they more cloudlessTheir noble calm. Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemmedCity of Africa,A blind, led beggar,Age-bowed, asks alms. No bolder robberErst abode ambushedDeep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesightSpied prey afar. Saharan sand-windsSeared his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won.For him the presentHolds only pain. Two young, fair lovers,Where the warm June-wind,Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them,Stand, tranced in joy. With sweet, joined voices,And with eyes brimming,“Ah!” they cry, “Destiny,Prolong the present!Time, stand still here!” The prompt stern goddessShakes her head, frowning:Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;Their hour is gone. With weak indulgenceDid the just goddessLengthen their happiness,She lengthened alsoDistress elsewhere. The hour whose happyUnalloyed momentsI would eternalize,Ten thousand mournersWell pleased see end. The bleak, stern hour,Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,Is passed by othersIn warmth, light, joy. Time, so complained of,Who to no one manShows partiality,Brings round to all menSome undimmed hours. [A] Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849. _RESIGNATION._
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