Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 4

to the other hand
As knowing not what to do,--
So I, being checked, am with my path at strife?Which led to such a chasm, and there doth end.?False path! it cost me priceless years of life,
My well-beloved friend.
There fell a flute when Ganymede went up--?The flute that he was wont to play upon:?It dropped beside the jonquil's milk-white cup,
And freckled cowslips wan--
Dropped from his heedless hand when, dazed and mute,?He sailed upon the eagle's quivering wing,?Aspiring, panting--aye, it dropped--the flute
Erewhile a cherished thing.
Among the delicate grasses and the bells?Of crocuses that spotted a rill side,?I picked up such a flute, and its clear swells
To my young lips replied.
I played thereon, and its response was sweet;?But lo, they took from me that solacing reed.?"O shame!" they said; "such music is not meet;
Go up like Ganymede.
"Go up, despise these humble grassy things,?Sit on the golden edge of yonder cloud."?Alas! though ne'er for me those eagle wings
Stooped from their eyry proud.
My flute! and flung away its echoes sleep;?But as for me, my life-pulse beateth low;?And like a last-year's leaf enshrouded deep
Under the drifting snow,
Or like some vessel wrecked upon the sand?Of torrid swamps, with all her merchandise,?And left to rot betwixt the sea and land,
My helpless spirit lies.
Rueing, I think for what then was I made;?What end appointed for--what use designed??Now let me right this heart that was bewrayed--
Unveil these eyes gone blind.
My well-beloved friend, at noon to-day?Over our cliffs a white mist lay unfurled,?So thick, one standing on their brink might say,
Lo, here doth end the world.
A white abyss beneath, and nought beside;?Yet, hark! a cropping sound not ten feet down:?Soon I could trace some browsing lambs that hied
Through rock-paths cleft and brown.
And here and there green tufts of grass peered through,?Salt lavender, and sea thrift; then behold?The mist, subsiding ever, bared to view
A beast of giant mould.
She seemed a great sea-monster lying content?With all her cubs about her: but deep--deep--?The subtle mist went floating; its descent
Showed the world's end was steep.
It shook, it melted, shaking more, till, lo,?The sprawling monster was a rock; her brood?Were boulders, whereon sea-mews white as snow
Sat watching for their food.
Then once again it sank, its day was done:?Part rolled away, part vanished utterly,?And glimmering softly under the white sun,
Behold! a great white sea.
O that the mist which veileth my To-come?Would so dissolve and yield unto mine eyes?A worthy path! I'd count not wearisome
Long toil, nor enterprise,
But strain to reach it; ay, with wrestlings stout?And hopes that even in the dark will grow?(Like plants in dungeons, reaching feelers out),
And ploddings wary and slow.
Is there such path already made to fit?The measure of my foot? It shall atone?For much, if I at length may light on it
And know it for mine own.
But is there none? why, then, 'tis more than well:?And glad at heart myself will hew one out,?Let me he only sure; for, sooth to tell,
The sorest dole is doubt--
Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars?All sweetest colors in its dimness same;?A soul-mist, through whose rifts familiar stare
Beholding, we misname.
A ripple on the inner sea, which shakes?Those images that on its breast reposed;?A fold upon a wind-swayed flag, that breaks
The motto it disclosed.
O doubt! O doubt! I know my destiny;?I feel thee fluttering bird-like in my breast;?I cannot loose, but I will sing to thee,
And flatter thee to rest.
There is no certainty, "my bosom's guest,"?No proving for the things whereof ye wot;?For, like the dead to sight unmanifest,
They are, and they are not.
But surely as they are, for God is truth,?And as they are not, for we saw them die,?So surely from the heaven drops light for youth,
If youth will walk thereby.
And can I see this light? It may be so;?"But see it thus and thus," my fathers said.?The living do not rule this world; ah no!
It is the dead, the dead.
Shall I be slave to every noble soul,?Study the dead, and to their spirits bend;?Or learn to read my own heart's folded scroll,
And make self-rule my end?
Thought from without--O shall I take on trust,?And life from others modelled steal or win;?Or shall I heave to light, and clear of rust
My true life from within?
O, let me be myself! But where, O where,?Under this heap of precedent, this mound?Of customs, modes, and maxims, cumbrance rare,
Shall the Myself be found?
O thou Myself, thy fathers thee debarred?None of their wisdom, but their folly came?Therewith; they smoothed thy path, but made it hard
For thee to quit the same.
With glosses they obscured God's natural truth,?And with tradition tarnished His revealed;?With vain protections they endangered youth,
With layings bare they sealed.
What aileth thee, myself? Alas! thy hands?Are tied with old opinions--heir and son,?Thou hast inherited thy father's lands
And all his debts thereon.
O that some power would give me Adam's eyes!?O for the straight simplicity of Eve!?For I see nought, or grow, poor