Is it for this, because the sound

Is fraught too deep with pain,

That, Obermann! the world around
So little loves thy strain?

Some secrets may the poet tell,

For the world loves new ways;

To tell too deep ones is not well—
It knows not what he says.

Yet of the spirits who have reign'd
In this our troubled day,

I know but two, who have attain'd,
Save thee, to see their way.

By England's lakes, in grey old age, His quiet home one keeps ; *

And one, the strong much-toiling sage,

In German Weimar sleeps.

But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken

From half of human fate;

And Goethe's course few sons of men

May think to emulate.

* Written in November, 1849.

For he pursued a lonely road,

His eyes on Nature's plan;

Neither made man too much a God,

Nor God too much a man.

Strong was he, with a spirit free

From mists, and sane, and clear;

Clearer, how much! than ours-yet we

Have a worse course to steer.

For though his manhood bore the blast

Of a tremendous time,

Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd

His tenderer youthful prime.

But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours

Of change, alarm, surprise

What shelter to grow ripe is ours?

What leisure to grow wise?

Like children bathing on the shore,

Buried a wave beneath,

The second wave succeeds, before

We have had time to breathe.

Too fast we live, too much are tried,

Too harass'd, to attain

Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide

And luminous view to gain.

And then we turn, thou sadder sage,

To thee! we feel thy spell

The hopeless tangle of our age,
Thou too hast scann'd it well!

Immoveable thou sittest, still

As death, composed to bear;
Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,

And icy thy despair.

Yes, as the son of Thetis said,

One hears thee saying now:

Greater by far than thou are dead;
Strive not! die also thou.

Ah, two desires toss about

The poet's feverish blood!

One drives him to the world without,

And one to solitude.

The glow, he cries, the thrill of life!

Where, where do these abound ?—

Not in the world, not in the strife

Of men, shall they be found.

He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife,

Knows how the day hath gone;

He only lives with the world's life

Who hath renounced his own.

To thee we come, then, Clouds are roll'd Where thou, O seer, art set;

Thy realm of thought is drear and cold

The world is colder yet!

And thou hast pleasures, too, to share

With those who come to thee!

Balms floating on thy mountain-air,

And healing sights to see.

How often, where the slopes are green

On Jaman, hast thou sate

By some high chalet-door, and seen

The summer day grow late,

And darkness steal o'er the wet grass

With the pale crocus starr'd,

And reach that glimmering sheet of glass Beneath the piny sward,

Lake Leman's waters, far below!

And watch'd the rosy light

Fade from the distant peaks of snow;

And on the air of night

Heard accents of the eternal tongue
Through the pine branches play!
Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young!
Listen'd, and wept Away!

Away the dreams that but deceive!

And thou, sad guide, adieu!

I go; fate drives me! but I leave

Half of my life with you.

We, in some unknown Power's employ,

Move on a rigorous line;

Can neither, when we will, enjoy,

Nor, when we will, resign.