And to thy mountain-chalet come, And lie beside its door, And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, And thy sad, tranquil lore! Again I feel the words inspire Their mournful calm; serene, Yet tinged with infinite desire For all that _might_ have been-- The harmony from which man swerved Made his life's rule once more! The universal order served, Earth happier than before! --While thus I mused, night gently ran Down over hill and wood. Then, still and sudden, Obermann On the grass near me stood. Those pensive features well I knew, On my mind, years before, Imaged so oft! imaged so true! --A shepherd's garb he wore, A mountain-flower was in his hand, A book was in his breast. Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd My soul, his eyes did rest. "And is it thou," he cried, "so long Held by the world which we Loved not, who turnest from the throng Back to thy youth and me? "And from thy world, with heart opprest, Choosest thou _now_ to turn?-- Ah me! we anchorites read things best, Clearest their course discern! "Thou fledst me when the ungenial earth, Man's work-place, lay in gloom. Return'st thou in her hour of birth, Of hopes and hearts in bloom? "Perceiv'st thou not the change of day? Ah! Carry back thy ken, What, some two thousand years! Survey The world as it was then! "Like ours it look'd in outward air. Its head was clear and true, Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare, No pause its action knew; "Stout was its arm, each thew and bone Seem'd puissant and alive-- But, ah! its heart, its heart was stone, And so it could not thrive! "On that hard Pagan world disgust And secret loathing fell. Deep weariness and sated lust Made human life a hell. "In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way. "He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown'd his hair with flowers-- No easier nor no quicker pass'd The impracticable hours. "The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, And on her head was hurl'd. "The East bow'd low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again. "So well she mused, a morning broke Across her spirit grey; A conquering, new-born joy awoke, And fill'd her life with day. "'Poor world,' she cried, 'so deep accurst, That runn'st from pole to pole To seek a draught to slake thy thirst-- Go, seek it in thy soul!