Have hundreds of our brothers, fellow-men, Signed by their names the awfullest decree
That between them and all the world could be ; Those few small letters, when thus written, said. "The writer, though he live, is living dead; The world of man, of beauty, and of bloom, This visible earth, but serves him for a tomb,— He feels no more its glories or its gains, His soul can only know its purging pains,- Here from the trails of sin however sure, He needs that suffering to be perfect-pure."
Think of the fingers that have dared to hold This fateful relic! Some with grasp so bold, You would believe that nothing but the pride Of glory won, ambition satisfied,
Or joy of meed long toiled for, could command Such full composure in an aged hand :
And yet the most of those, who hither brought Their Being's sacrifice were men well taught
In the world's wisdom, men who had lived through All that life gives to suffer and to do;
Who had grown old in wars of spirit and arm,
But found in Victory no victorious charm
Against the clouding armament of Ill,
Licensed on earth by God's unsounded will.
Some might be young,-by strange heart-prescience led To know that Life is but a sick man's bed,
On which, with aching head and limbs, we lie Through the hot Night of our humanity, Waiting for Death, our Lucifer,-so blest
Is he, through whose deep-drugged and senseless rest No Dreams can pierce,—and thus they did but crave To seek this stupor in the cloisteral grave;
These held the Pen, as valour holds a sword Against the foe that doubted of its word; Yet others still might be,-young too and fair, Strong too, but only strengthened by Despair, Who,-when that closing moment came at last, That one thin line, which lay between the Past And the unknown bleak Future, -that deep trench, Which, now leapt over, by a fearful wrench
Of almost natural instincts, held the soul,
Once the world's freeman, once without controul Working and wandering, bound to a new law, Captive in Faith and prisoner in Awe,— Caught up this Pen, and quiveringly traced
he names, that thence could never be effaced, With moveless eyes and pale-blue lips convulsed, As if the salient blood were all repulsed
To its free source,—as if within their clutch They had a poisoned dagger, and its touch Was on their living flesh;-yet they, even they, Found in these precincts Joy, we will not say, But, what is better, Peace ;-they asked no more; Happy the wave that breaks upon the shore !
The Traun rises in the mountains of Upper Austria, and loses itself in the Danube above Linz. Its course is remarkable for the combination of the best features of Alpine scenery with the grace and elegance of the Southern landscape.
My heart is in a mountain mood, Though I am bound to tread the plain, She will away for ill or good,-
I cannot lure her back again; So let her go,-God speed her flight O'er teeming glebe and columned town, I know that she will rest ere night, By the remembered banks of Traun.
And she will pray her sister Muse, Sister, companion, friend, and guide, Her every art and grace to use, For love of that well-cherished tide
But words are weak,-she cannot reach
By such poor steps that Beauty's crown ; How can the Muse to others teach
What were to me the banks of Traun?
She can repeat the faithful tale That "where thy genial waters flow, All objects the rare crystal hail, And cast their voices far below; And there the stedfast echoes rest, Till the old Sun himself goes down, Till darkness falls on every breast, Even on thine, transparent Traun!"
And she can say, "Where'er thou art, Brawling 'mid rocks, or calm-embayed, Outpouring thy abundant heart In ample lake or deep cascade,- Whatever dress thy sides adorn, Fresh-dewy leaves or fir-stems brown, Or ruby-dripping barbery thorn, Thou art thyself, delightful Traun !
"No glacier-mountains, harshly bold, Whose peaks disturb the summer air, And make the gentle blue so cold,
And hurt our warmest thoughts, are there;
But upland meadows, lush with rills, Soft-green as is the love-bird's down, And quaintest forms of pine-clad hills, Are thy fit setting, jewelled Traun !"
But the wise Muse need not be told, Though fair and just her song may seem, The same has oft been sung of old, Of many a less deserving stream; For where would be the worth of sight, If Love could feed on blank renown? They who have loved the Traun aright Have sat beside the banks of Traun.
MOUNT! I have watched thee, at the fall of dew,
Array thee in thy panoply of gold,—
And then cast over it thy rosy vest,—
And last that awful robe that looks so cold,
Thy ghastly spectre-dress of nameless hue :
Then thou art least of earth, and then I love thee best.
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