Festus · Scene 28 (2/2) (2/2)

| Festus | I am alone.⁠— Alone? He clings around me like the clouds Upon a hill. When will the clouds roll off? When will sun visit me? O! Thou great God! In whose right hand the elements are atoms⁠— In whose eye, light and darkness but a wink⁠— Who, in Thine anger, like a blast of cold, Dost make the mountains shake like chattering teeth⁠— Have mercy! Pity me! For it is Thou Who hast fixed me to this test. Wilt Thou not save? Forgive me, Father! but I long to die:⁠— I long to live to Thee, a pure, free mind. Take again, God! and thou, fair Earth, the form And spirit which, at first, ye lent me. Such as they were, I have used them. Let them part. I weary of this world; and, like the dove, Urged o’er life’s barren flood, sweep, tired, back To thee who sent’st me forth. Bear with me, God! I am not worthy of thy wrath, nor love!⁠— Oh! that the things which have been were not now In memory’s resurrection! But the past Bears in her arms the present and the future; And what can perish while perdition is? From the hot, angry, crowding courts of doubt Within the breast, it is sweet to escape, and soothe The soul in looking upon natural beauty. Oh! earth, like man her son, is half divine. There is not a leaf within this quiet spot, But which I seem to know; should miss, if gone. I could run over its features, hour by hour. The quaintly figured beds⁠—the various flowers⁠— The mazy paths all cunningly converged⁠— The black yew hedge, like a beleaguering host, Round some fair garden province⁠—here and there, The cloud-like laurel clumps sleep, soft and fast, Pillowed by their own shadows⁠—and beyond, The ripe and ruddy fruitage⁠—the sharp firs’ Fringe, like an eyelash, on the faint-blue west⁠— The white owl, wheeling from the grey old church⁠— Its age-peeled pinnacles; and tufted top⁠— The oaks, which spread their broad arms in the blast, And bid storms come, and welcome; there they stand, To whom a summer passes like a smile:⁠— And the proud peacock towers himself there and screams, Ruffling the imperial purples of his neck. O’er all, the giant poplars, which maintain Equality with clouds half way up Heaven; Which whisper with the winds none else can see, And how to angels as they wing by them;⁠— The lonely, bowery, woodland view before⁠— And, making all more beautiful, thou, sweet moon, Leading slow pomp, as triumphing o’er Heaven! High riding in thy loveless, deathless brightness, And in thy cold, unconquerable beauty, As though there were nothing worthy in the world Even to lie below thee, face to God. And Night, in her own name, and God’s again, Hath dipped the earth in dew;⁠—and there she lies, Even like a heart all trembling with delight, Till passion murder power to speak⁠—so mute. Young maiden moon! just looming into light⁠— I would that aspect never might be changed; Nor that fine form, so spirit-like, be spoiled With fuller light. Oh! keep that brilliant shape; Keep the delicious honor of thy youth, Sweet sister of the sun, more beauteous thou Than he sublime. Shine on, nor dread decay. It may take meaner things; but thy bright look, Smiling away an immortality, Assures it us⁠—nay, it seems, half, to give. Earth may decease. God will not part with thee, Fair ark of light, and every blessedness! Yes, earth, this earth, may foul the face of life, Like some swart mole on beauty’s breast⁠—or dead, Stiff, mangled reptile, some clear well⁠—while thou Shalt shine, aye brilliant, on creation’s corse, Like to a diamond on a dead man’s hand; Whence God shall pluck thee to His breast, or bid Beam ’mid His lightning locks. What are earth’s joys To watching thee, tending thy bright flock over The fields of Heaven? Thy light misleadeth not, Though eyes which image Heaven oft lure to Hell;⁠— Thy smile betrayeth not⁠—though sweet as that Which wins and damns. Mother, and maid of light! That, like a God, redeems the world to Heaven⁠— Making us one with thee, and with the sun, And with the stars in glory⁠—lovely moon! I am immortal as thyself; and we Shall look upon each other yet, in Heaven, Often⁠—but never, never more on earth. Am I to die so soon? This death⁠—the thought Comes oh my heart as through a burning glass. I cannot bend mine eyes to earth, but thence It riseth, spectre-like, to mock⁠—nor towards The west, where sunset is, whose long bright pomp Makes men in love with change⁠—but there it lowers Eve’s last, still lingering, darkening, cloud; and on The escutcheon of the morn, it is there⁠—it is there! But fears will come upon the bravest mind, Like the white moon upon the crimson west. I have attractions for all miseries: And every course of thought, within my heart, Leaves a new layer of woe. But it must end. It will all be one, hereafter. Let it be! My bosom, like the grave, holds all quenched passions. It is not that I have not found what I sought⁠— But, that the world⁠—tush! I shall see it die. I hate, and shall outlive the hypocrite. Stealthily, slowly, like the polar sun, Who peeps by fits above the air-walled world⁠— The heavenly fief, he knows and feels his own, My heart o’erlooks the Paradise of life Which it hath lost, in cold, reluctant joy. I live and see all beauteous things about me, But feel no nature prompting from within To meet and profit by them. I am like That fabled forest of the Apennine, Which leafless lives; whereto the spring’s bright showers, Summer’s heat breathless, autumn’s fruitful juice, Nothing avail;⁠—nor winter’s killing cold. Yet have I done, said, thought, in time now past, What, rather than remember, I would die, Or do again. It is the thinking on’t, And the repentance, maddens. I have thought Upon such things so long and grievously, My lip have grown like to a cliff-chafed sea, Pale with a tidal passion; and my soul, Once high and bright and self-sustained as Heaven, Unsettled now for life or death, feels like The grey gull balanced on her bowlike wings, Between two black waves seeking where to dive. Long we live, thinking nothing of our fate, For in the morn of life we mark it not⁠— It falls behind; but as our day goes down We catch it lengthening with a giant’s stride, And ushering us unto the feet of night. Dark thoughts, like spots upon the sun, revolve In troops fox days together round my soul, Disfiguring and dimming. Death! oh death! The past, the present, and the future, like The dog three-headed, by the gates of woe Sitting, seem ready to devour me each. I dare not look on them. I dare not think. The very best deeds I have ever done Seem worthy reprobation, have to be Repented of. But have I done aught good? Oh that my soul were calmer! Grant me, God! Thy peace; that added, I can smile and die. Thy Spirit only is reality: All things beside are folly, falsehood, shame. |