155 Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starr'd; I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit-there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 160 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruit'd tree Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 165 There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, 170 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my But I count the gray barbarian lower than the 175 I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage-what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 180 Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 185 Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 190 Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. ULYSSES (From the same) It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 5 That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, 15 Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 20 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 25 Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved To follow knowledge like a sinking star, This labour, by slow prudence to make mild Meet adoration to my household gods, with me That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I are old; 50 Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 55 The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Come, my Push off, and sitting well in order smite It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: We are not now that strength which in old days are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 70 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. THE EPIC (INTRODUCTION TO MORTE D'ARTHUR) (From Poems, 1842) At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,- |