No More Learning

the tyrant whom I sing, descried
Ere long his error, that, till then, his dart
Not yet beneath the gown had pierced my heart,
And brought a puissant lady as his guide,
'Gainst whom of small or no avail has been
Genius, or force, to strive or supplicate.
These two transform'd me to my present state,
Making of breathing man a laurel green,
Which loses not its leaves though wintry blasts be keen.

What my amaze, when first I fully learn'd
The wondrous change upon my person done,
And saw my thin hairs to those green leaves turn'd
(Whence yet for them a crown I might have won);
My feet wherewith I stood, and moved, and run--
Thus to the soul the subject members bow--
Become two roots upon the shore, not now
Of fabled Peneus, but a stream as proud,
And stiffen'd to a branch my either arm!
Nor less was my alarm,
When next my frame white down was seen to shroud,
While, 'neath the deadly leven, shatter'd lay
My first green hope that soar'd, too proud, in air,
Because, in sooth, I knew not when nor where
I left my latter state; but, night and day,
Where it was struck, alone, in tears, I went,
Still seeking it alwhere, and in the wave;
And, for its fatal fall, while able, gave
My tongue no respite from its one lament,
For the sad snowy swan both form and language lent.

Thus that loved wave--my mortal speech put by
For birdlike song--I track'd with constant feet,
Still asking mercy with a stranger cry;
But ne'er in tones so tender, nor so sweet,
Knew I my amorous sorrow to repeat,
As might her hard and cruel bosom melt:
Judge, still if memory sting, what then I felt!
But ah! not now the past, it rather needs
Of her my lovely and inveterate foe
The present power to show,
Though such she be all language as exceeds.
She with a glance who rules us as her own,
Opening my breast my heart in hand to take,
Thus said to me: "Of this no mention make. "
I saw her then, in alter'd air, alone,
So that I recognised her not--O shame
Be on my truant mind and faithless sight!
And when the truth I told her in sore fright,
She soon resumed her old accustom'd frame,
While, desperate and half dead, a hard rock mine became.

As spoke she, o'er her mien such feeling stirr'd,
That from the solid rock, with lively fear,
"Haply I am not what you deem," I heard;
And then methought, "If she but help me here,
No life can ever weary be, or drear;
To make me weep, return, my banish'd Lord! "
I know not how, but thence, the power restored,
Blaming no other than myself, I went,
And, nor alive, nor dead, the long day past.
But, because time flies fast,
And the pen answers ill my good intent,
Full many a thing long written in my mind
I here omit; and only mention such
Whereat who hears them now will marvel much.
Death so his hand around my vitals twined,
Not silence from its grasp my heart could save,
Or succour to its outraged virtue bring:
As speech to me was a forbidden thing,
To paper and to ink my griefs I gave--
Life, not my own, is lost through you who dig my grave.

I fondly thought before her eyes, at length,
Though low and lost, some mercy to obtain;
And this the hope which lent my spirit strength.
Sometimes humility o'ercomes disdain,
Sometimes inflames it to worse spite again;
This knew I, who so long was left in night,
That from such prayers had disappear'd my light;
Till I, who sought her still, nor found, alas!
Even her shade, nor of her feet a sign,
Outwearied and supine,
As one who midway sleeps, upon the grass
Threw me, and there, accusing the brief ray,
Of bitter tears I loosed the prison'd flood,
To flow and fall, to them as seem'd it good.
Ne'er vanish'd snow before the sun away,
As then to melt apace it me befell,
Till, 'neath a spreading beech a fountain swell'd;
Long in that change my humid course I held,--
Who ever saw from Man a true fount well?
And yet, though strange it sound, things known and sure I tell.

The soul from God its nobler nature gains
(For none save He such favour could bestow)
And like our Maker its high state retains,
To pardon who is never tired, nor slow,
If but with humble heart and suppliant show,
For mercy for past sins to Him we bend;
And if, against his wont, He seem to lend,
Awhile, a cold ear to our earnest prayers,
'Tis that right fear the sinner more may fill;
For he repents but ill
His old crime for another who prepares.
Thus, when my lady, while her bosom yearn'd
With pity, deign'd to look on me, and knew
That equal with my fault its penance grew,
To my old state and shape I soon return'd.
But nought there is on earth in which the wise
May trust, for, wearying braving her afresh,
To rugged stone she changed my quivering flesh.
So that, in their old strain, my broken cries
In vain ask'd death, or told her one name to deaf skies.

A sad and wandering shade, I next recall,
Through many a distant and deserted glen,
That long I mourn'd my indissoluble thrall.
At length my malady seem'd ended, when
I to my earthly frame return'd again,
Haply but greater grief therein to feel;
Still following my desire with such fond zeal
That once (beneath the proud sun's fiercest blaze,
Returning from the chase, as was my wont)
Naked, where gush'd a font,
My fair and fatal tyrant met my gaze;
I whom nought else could pleasure, paused to look,
While, touch'd with shame as natural as intense,
Herself to hide or punish my offence,
She o'er my face the crystal waters shook
--I still speak true, though truth may seem a lie--
Instantly from my proper person torn,
A solitary stag, I felt me borne
In winged terrors the dark forest through,
As still of my own dogs the rushing storm I flew
My song! I never was that cloud of gold
Which once descended in such precious rain,
Easing awhile with bliss Jove's amorous pain;
I was a flame, kindled by one bright eye,
I was the bird which gladly soar'd on high,
Exalting her whose praise in song I wake;
Nor, for new fancies, knew I to forsake
My first fond laurel, 'neath whose welcome shade
Ever from my firm heart all meaner pleasures fade.

MACGREGOR.




SONNET XX.

_Se l' onorata fronde, che prescrive. _

TO STRAMAZZO OF PERUGIA, WHO INVITED HIM TO WRITE POETRY.


If the world-honour'd leaf, whose green defies
The wrath of Heaven when thunders mighty Jove,
Had not to me prohibited the crown
Which wreathes of wont the gifted poet's brow,
I were a friend of these your idols too,
Whom our vile age so shamelessly ignores:
But that sore insult keeps me now aloof
From the first patron of the olive bough:
For Ethiop earth beneath its tropic sun
Ne'er burn'd with such fierce heat, as I with rage
At losing thing so comely and beloved.