Slowly, behind his heavy tread, The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head. Lean'd on his gate, he gazes--tears Are in his eyes, and in his ears The murmur of a thousand years. Before him he sees life unroll, A placid and continuous whole-- That general life, which does not cease, Whose secret is not joy, but peace; That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd If birth proceeds, if things subsist; The life of plants, and stones, and rain, The life he craves--if not in vain Fate gave, what chance shall not control, His sad lucidity of soul. You listen--but that wandering smile, Fausta, betrays you cold the while! Your eyes pursue the bells of foam Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. _Those gipsies_, so your thoughts I scan, _Are less, the poet more, than man._ _They feel not, though they move and see;_ _Deeper the poet feels; but he_ _Breathes, when he will, immortal air,_ _Where Orpheus and where Homer are._ _In the day's life, whose iron round_ _Hems us all in, he is not bound;_ _He leaves his kind, o'erleaps their pen,_ _And flees the common life of men._ _He escapes thence, but we abide--_ _Not deep the poet sees, but wide._ * * * * * The world in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love, Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, Remorse, grief, joy;--and were the scope Of these affections wider made, Man still would see, and see dismay'd, Beyond his passion's widest range, Far regions of eternal change. Nay, and since death, which wipes out man, Finds him with many an unsolved plan, With much unknown, and much untried, Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried, Still gazing on the ever full Eternal mundane spectacle-- This world in which we draw our breath, In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares Judge vain beforehand human cares; Whose natural insight can discern What through experience others learn; Who needs not love and power, to know Love transient, power an unreal show; Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways-- Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise! Rather thyself for some aim pray Nobler than this, to fill the day; Rather that heart, which burns in thee, Ask, not to amuse, but to set free; Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd For quiet, and a fearless mind. And though fate grudge to thee and me The poet's rapt security, Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from chance, have conquer'd fate. They, winning room to see and hear, And to men's business not too near, Through clouds of individual strife Draw homeward to the general life. Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd; To the wise, foolish; to the world, Weak;--yet not weak, I might reply, Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye, To whom each moment in its race,