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THE BURIED LIFE

Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,

Though driving on with it eternally.

Light flows our war of mocking words,

and yet,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet !
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll,
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest.
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost

soul.

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Alas! is eren love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak ?
Are eren lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceald
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame

reproved ;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves and

yet The same heart beats in every human

breast ! But we, my love !-doth a like spell be

numb Our hearts, our voices ?-must we too be

dumb? Ah! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and bave our lips unchain'd ; For that which seals them hath been

deep-ordain'd! Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would beBy what distractions he would be pos

sess'd, How he would pour himself in every

strife, And well-nigh change his own identityThat it might keep from his capricious

play His genuine self, and force him to obey Even in bis own despite his being's law. Bade through the deep recesses of our

breast The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be

But often, in the world's most crowded

streets, But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless

force In tracking out true, original

course ; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which

beats So wild, so deep in us—to know Whence our lives come and where they

go. And many a man in his own breast then

delves, But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand

lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and

power; But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been

ourselvesHardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that

through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well-but 'tis not true! And then we will no more be rack'd With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Al, yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and

forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth up

borne As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs, and floating echoes, and con

vey A melancholy into all our day. Only-but this is rare-When a beloved band is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caressd-A bolt is shot back somewhere in our

breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies

plain, And what we mean, we say, and what

we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur ; and he

sees The meadows where it glides, the sun,

the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein be doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his

breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes. 1852.

Yet here is peace for ever new!
When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.
Then to their happy rest they pass !
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.
Calm soul of all things ! make it mine
To feel, amid the city's jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
Man did not make, and cannot mar.
The will to neither strive nor cry,
The power to feel with others give!
Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die
Before I have begun to live. 1852.

THE FUTURE

LINES

WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

A WANDERER is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
On the breast of the river of Time ;
Brimming with wonder and joy
He spreads out his arms to the light,
Rivets his gaze on the banks of the

stream.

In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye.
Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-

trees stand!
Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city's hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries

come! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy ; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd

out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. In the huge world, which roars hard by, Be others happy if they can ! But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan. I, on men's impious uproar hurld, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world And now keeps only in the grave.

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts

been. Whether he wakes Where the snowy mountainous pass, Echoing the screams of the eagles, Hems in its gorges the bed Of the new-born clear-flowing stream: Whether he first sees light Where the river in gleaming rings Sluggishly winds through the plain : Whether in sound of the swallowing sea-As is the world on the banks, So is the mind of the man.

Vainly does each, as he glides, Fable and dream Of the lands which the river of Time Had left ere he woke on its breast, Or shall reach when his eyes have been

closed. Only the tract where he sails He wots of ; only the thoughts, Raised by the objects be passes, are his. Who can see the green earth any more As she was by the sources of Time? Who imagines her fields as they lay In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? Who thinks as they thought, (breast The tribes who then roam'd on her Her vigorous, primitive sons ?

As the stars come out, and the night

wind Brings up the stream Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

1852.

What girl
Now reads in her bosom as clear
is Rebekah read, when she sate
At eve by the palm-shaded well ?
Who guards in her breast
As deep, as pellucid a spring
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ?

What bard,
At the height of his vision, can deem
Of God, of the world, of the soul,
With a plainness as near,
As flashing as Moses felt
When he lay in the night by his flock
On the starlit Arabian waste ?
Can rise and obey
The beck of the Spirit like him?
This tract which the river of Time
Sow flows through with us, is the plain.
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border'd by cities and hoarse
With a thousand cries is its stream.
And we on its breast, our minds
Are confused as the cries which we hear,
Changing and shot as the sights which

we see.

And we say that repose has fled
For ever the course of the river of Time.
That cities will crowd to its edge
In a blacker, incessanter line ;
That the din will be more on its banks,
Denser the trade on its stream,
Flatter the plain where it flows,
Fiercer the sun overhead.
That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
Drink of the feeling of quiet again.
But what was before us we know not,
And we know not what shall succeed.
Haply, the river of Time-
As it grows. as the towns on its marge
Fling their wavering lights
On a wider, statelier stream--
May acquire, if not the calm
Of its early mountainous shore,
Yet a solemn peace of its own.
And the width of the waters, the hush
of the gray expanse where he floats,
Freshiening its current and spotted with

foam As it draws to the Ocean, may strike Peace to the soul of the man on its

breastAs the pale waste ridens around him, As the banks fade dimmer away,

STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE

AUTHOR OF “OBERMANN”1 In front the awful Alpine track Crawls up its rocky stair ; The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, Close o'er it, in the air.

1 The author of Obermann, Étienne Pivert de Senancour, has little celebrity in France, his own country; and out of France he is almost unknown. But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melancholy eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits whom they touch and interest.

Senancour was born in 1770, He was educated for the priesthood, and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice ; broke away from the Seminary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, where he married ; returned to France in middle life, and followed thenceforward the career of a man of letters, but with harılly any fame or success. He died an old man in 1816, desiring that on his grave might be placed these words only: Eternité, deviens mon asile!

The influence of Rousseau, and certain affini. ties with more famous and fortunate authors of his own day,--Chateaubriand and Madame de Staöl, -are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though Obermann, a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almuost entirely of nature and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the sentimental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it is with them ; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters of Obermann ; the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world which our own time is but more fully bringing to light, --all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high.

Beside Obermann there is one other of Senancour's works which, for those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting; its title is, Libres Méditations d'un Solitaire Inconnu. (Arnold's note. The passage of George Sand alluded to may be found in her Questions d'Art et de Littérature. Sainte-Beuve has several times written of Senancour: especially in his Portraits Contemporains. Vol. I, and in Chateaubriand et son Groupe littéraire, Chap. 14.)

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Though here a moutain-murmur swells
Of many a dark-bough'd pine ;
Though, as you reall, you hear the bells
Of the high-pasturing kine-

Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,
And brooding mountain-bee,
There sobs I know not what ground-tone
Of human agony.

Is it for this, because the sound
Is fraught too deep with pain,
That, Obermann! the world around
So little loves thy strain ?

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 tril,
Too harass'd, to attain
Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's

wide
And luminous view to gain.
And then we turn, thou sadder sige,
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,
I hear thee saying now:
Greater by far than thou are dead;
Strive not ! die also thou !

Some secrets may the poet tell, For the world loves new ways; To tell too deep ones is not wellIt 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.

1 The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the Rhone. (Arnold.)

Ah ! two desires toss about
The poet's feverish blood.
One trives him to the world without,
And one to solitude.

he glow, he cries, the thrill of life, Vhere, where do these abound ot in the world, not in the strife f men, shall they be found. le who hath watch'd, not shared, the

strife, inows how the day hath gone. le only lives with the world's life, Vho hath renounced his own. 'o thee we come, then ! Clouds are rollid Vhere thou, O seer ! art set; 'hy realm of thought is drear and cold'he world is colder yet! Ind thou hast pleasures, too, to share Vith those who come to theeBalms floating on thy mountain-air, Ind healing sights to see. low often, where the slopes are green On Jaman, bast thou sate 35 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 playListen'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. I in the world must live ; but thou, Thou melancholy shade! Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, Condemn me, nor upbraid. For thou art gone away from earth, And place with those dost claim, The Children of the Second Birth, Whom the world could not tame;

And with that small, transfigured band,
Whom many a different way
Conducted to their common land,
Thou learn'st to think as they.
Christian and pagan, king and slave,
Soldier and anchorite,
Distinctions we esteem so grave,
Are nothing in their sight.
They do not ask, who pined unseen,
Who was on action hurl’d,
Whose one bond is, that all have been
Unspotted by the world.
There without anger thou wilt see
Him who obeys thy spell
No more, so he but rest, like thee,
Unsoil'd !-and so, farewell.
Farewell !-Whether thou now liest near
That much-loved inland sea,
The ripples of whose blue waves cheer
Vevey and Meillerie :
And in that gracious region bland,
Where with clear-rustling wave
The scented pines of Switzerland
Stand dark round thy green grave,
Between the dusty vineyard-walls
Issuing on that green place
The early peasant still recalls
The pensive stranger's face,
And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date
Ere he plods on again ;--
Or whether, by maligner fate,
Among the swarms of men,
Where between granite terraces
The blue Seine rolls her wave,
The Capital of Pleasure sees
The hardly-heard-of grave;-
Farewell! Under the sky we part,
In the stern Alpine dell.
O unstrung will! O broken heart!
A last, a last farewell!

1852. REQUIESCAT

STREW on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew ! In quiet she reposes;

Ah, would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required ;

She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her leart was tired, tired,

And now they let her be.

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