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Love And Death

Children of Fate, in the same breath
Created were they, Love and Death.
Such fair creations ne'er were seen,
Or here below, or in the heaven serene.
The first, the source of happiness,
The fount whence flows the greatest bliss
That in the sea of being e'er is found;
The last each sorrow gently lulls,
Each harsh decree of Fate annuls.
Fair child with beauty crowned,
Sweet to behold, not such
As cowards paint her in their fright,
She in young Love's companionship
Doth often take delight,
As they o'er mortal paths together fly,
Chief comforters of every loyal heart.
Nor ever is the heart more wise
Than when Love smites it, nor defies
More scornfully life's misery,
And for no other lord
Will it all dangers face so readily.
When thou thy aid dost lend,
O Love, is courage born, or it revives;
And wise in deeds the race of man becomes,
And not, as it is prone,
In fruitless thought alone.

And when first in our being's depth
This passion deep is born,
Though happy, we are still forlorn;
A languor strange doth o'er us steal;
A strange desire of death we feel.
I know not why, but such we ever prove
The first effect of true and potent love.
It may be, that this wilderness
Then first appals our sight;
And earth henceforth to us a dreary waste
Appears, without that new, supreme delight,
That in our thought is fondly traced;
And yet our hearts, foreboding, feel the storm
Within, that it may cause, the misery.
We long for rest, we long to flee,
Hoping some friendly haven may be found
Of refuge from the fierce desire,
That raging, roaring, darkens all around.

And when this formidable power
Hath his whole soul possessed,
And raging care will give his heart no rest,
How many times implored
With most intense desire,
Art thou, O Death, by the poor wretch, forlorn!
How oft at eve, how oft at dawn,
His weary frame upon the couch he throws,
Too happy, if he never rose,
In hopeless conflict with his pain,
Nor e'er beheld the bitter light again!
And oft, at sound of funeral bell,
And solemn chant, that guides
Departed souls unto eternal rest,
With sighs most ardent from his inmost breast,
How hath he envied him,
Who with the dead has gone to dwell!
The very humblest of his kind,
The simple, rustic hind, who knows
No charm that knowledge gives;
The lowliest country lass that lives,
Who, at the very thought of death,
Doth feel her hair in horror rise,
Will calmly face its agonies,
Upon the terrors of the tomb will gaze
With fixed, undaunted look,
Will o'er the steel and poison brood,
In meditative mood,
And in her narrow mind,
The kindly charm of dying comprehend:
So much the discipline of Love
Hath unto Death all hearts inclined!
Full often when this inward woe
Such pass has reached as mortal strength
No longer can endure,
The feeble body yields at length,
To its fierce blows, and timely, then,
Benignant Death her friendly power doth show:
Or else Love drives her hapless victims so,
Alike the simple clown,
And tender country lass,
That on themselves their desperate hands they lay,
And so are borne unto the shades below.
The world but laughs at their distress,
Whom heaven with peace and length of days doth bless.
To fervid, happy, restless souls
May fate the one or other still concede,
Sweet sovereigns, friendly to our race,
Whose power, throughout the universe,
Such miracles hath wrought,
As naught resembles, nor can aught,
Save that of Fate itself, exceed.
And thou, whom from my earliest years,
Still honored I invoke,
O lovely Death! the only friend
Of sufferers in this vale of tears,
If I have ever sought
Thy princely state to vindicate
From the affronts of the ungrateful crowd,
Do not delay, incline thy ear
Unto thy weary suppliant here!
These sad eyes close forever to the light,
And let me rest in peace serene,
O thou, of all the ages Queen!
Me surely wilt thou find, whate'er the hour,
When thou thy wings unfoldest to my prayer,
With front erect, the cruel power
Defying still, of Fate;
Nor will I praise, in fulsome mood,
The scourging hand, that with my blood,
The blood of innocence, is stained.
Nor bless it, as the human race
Is wont, through custom old and base:
Each empty hope, with which the world
Itself and children would beguile,
I'll cast aside, each comfort false and vile;
In thee alone my hope I'll place,
Thou welcome minister of grace!
In that sole thought supremely blest,
That day, when my unconscious head
May on thy virgin bosom rest.

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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The Ruling Thought

Most sweet, most powerful,
Controller of my inmost soul;
The terrible, yet precious gift
Of heaven, companion kind
Of all my days of misery,
O thought, that ever dost recur to me;

Of thy mysterious power
Who speaketh not? Who hath not felt
Its subtle influence?
Yet, when one is by feeling deep impelled
Its secret joys and sorrows to unfold,
The theme seems ever new however old.

How isolated is my mind,
Since thou in it hast come to dwell!
As by some magic spell,
My other thoughts have all,
Like lightning, disappeared;
And thou, alone, like some huge tower,
In a deserted plain,
Gigantic, solitary, dost remain.

How worthless quite,
Save but for thee, have in my sight
All earthly things, and life itself become!
How wearisome its days;
And all its works, and all its plays,
A vain pursuit of pleasures vain,
Compared with the felicity,
The heavenly joy, that springs from thee!

As from the naked rocks
Of the rough Apennine,
The weary pilgrim turns his longing eyes
To the bright plain that in the distance lies;
So from the rough and barren intercourse
Of worldly men, to thee I gladly turn,
As to a Paradise, my weary mind,
And sweet refreshment for my senses find.

It seems to me incredible, that I
This dreary world, this wretched life,
So full of folly and of strife,
Without thy aid, could have so long endured;
Nor can I well conceive,
How one's desires _could_ cling
To other joys than those which thou dost bring.

Never, since first I knew
By hard experience what life is,
Could fear of death my soul subdue.
To-day, a jest to me appears,
That which the silly world,
Praising at times, yet ever hates and fears,
The last extremity!
If danger comes, I, with undaunted mien,
Its threats encounter with a smile serene.

I always hated coward souls,
And meanness held in scorn.
_Now_, each unworthy act
At once through all my senses thrills;
Each instance vile of human worthlessness,
My soul with holy anger fills.
This arrogant, this foolish age,
Which feeds itself on empty hopes,
Absorbed in trifles, virtue's enemy,
Which idly clamors for utility,
And has not sense enough to see
How _useless_ all life thenceforth must become,
I feel _beneath_ me, and its judgments laugh
To scorn. The motley crew,
The foes of every lofty thought,
Who laugh at _thee_, I trample under foot.

To that, which thee inspires,
What passion yieldeth not?
What other, save this one,
Controls our hearts' desires?
Ambition, avarice, disdain, and hate,
The love of power, love of fame,
What are they but an empty name,
Compared with it? And this,
The source, the spring of all,
That sovereign reigns within the breast,
Eternal laws have on our hearts impressed.

Life hath no value, meaning hath,
Save but for thee, our only hope and stay;
The sole excuse for Fate,
That cruelly hath placed us here,
To undergo such useless misery;
For thee alone, the wise man, not the fool,
To life still fondly clings,
Nor calls on death to end his sufferings.

Thy joys to gather, thou sweet thought,
Long years of sorrow I endure,
And bear of weary life the strain;
But not in vain!
And I would still return,
In spite of all my sad experience,
Towards such a goal, my course to recommence;
For through the sands, and through the viper-brood
Of this, our mortal wilderness,
My steps I ne'er so wearily have dragged
To thee, that all the danger and distress
Were not repaid by such pure happiness.

O what a world, what new immensity,
What paradise is that,
To which, so oft, by thy stupendous charm
Impelled, I seem to soar! Where I
Beneath a brighter light am wandering,
And my poor earthly state,
And all life's bitter truths forget!
Such are, I ween, the dreams
Of the Immortals. Ah, what _but_ a dream,
Art thou, sweet thought,
The truth, that thus embellished?
A dream, an error manifest!
But of a nature, still divine,
An error brave and strong,
That will with truth the fight prolong,
And oft for truth doth compensate;
Nor leave us e'er, till summoned hence by Fate.
And surely thou, my thought,
Thou sole sustainer of my days,
The cause beloved of sorrows infinite,
In Death alone wilt be extinguished quite;
For by sure signs within my soul I feel
Thy sovereign sway, perpetual.
All other fancies sweet
The aspect of the truth
Hath weakened ever. But whene'er I turn
To gaze again on her, of whom with thee
To speak, is all I live for, ah,
That great delight increases still,
That frenzy fine, the breath of life, to me!

Angelic beauty! Every lovely face,
On which I gaze,
A phantom seems to me,
That vainly strives to copy thee,
Of all the graces that our souls inthral,
Sole fount, divine original!

Since first I thee beheld,
Of what most anxious care of mine,
Hast thou not been the end and aim?
What day has ever passed, what hour,
When I thought not of thee? What dream of mine
Has not been haunted by thy face divine?
Angelic countenance, that we
In dreams, alas, alone may see,
What else on earth, what in the universe,
Do I e'er ask, or hope for, more,
Than those dear eyes forever to behold?
Than thy sweet thought still in my heart to hold?

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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To The Beloved

Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,
Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,
Save, when in visions of the night revealed,
Or seen in daydreams bright,
When all the fields are filled with light,
And Nature's smile is sweet,
Say, hast thou blessed
Some golden age of innocence,
And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?
Or hath Fate's envious doom
Reserved thee for some happier day to come?

To see thee e'er alive,
No hope remains to me;
Unless perchance, when from this body free,
My wandering spirit, lone,
O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.
E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn
Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,
Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way:
But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if
One were in looks and acts and words thy peer,
Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.

Amidst the deepest grief
That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned,
Could one but love thee on this earth,
Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee,
He would be happy in his misery:
And I most clearly see, how, still,
As in my earliest days,
Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.
Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought;
And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem
Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.

Along the valleys where is heard
The song of the laborious husbandman,
And where I sit and moan
O'er youth's illusions gone;
Along the hills, where I recall with tears,
The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years,
At thought of thee, my heart revives again.
O could I still thy image dear retain,
In this dark age, and in this baleful air!
To loss of thee, O let me be resigned,
And in thy image still some comfort find!

If thou art one of those
Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind
Refused in earthly form to clothe,
Nor would subject unto the pain and strife
Of this, our frail and dreary life;
Or if thou hast a mansion fair,
Amid the boundless realms of space,
That lighted is by a more genial sun,
And breathest there a more benignant air;
From here, where brief and wretched are our days,
Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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To Himself

Nor wilt thou rest forever, weary heart.
The last illusion is destroyed,
That I eternal thought. Destroyed!
I feel all hope and all desire depart,
For life and its deceitful joys.
Forever rest! Enough! Thy throbbings cease!
Naught can requite thy miseries;
Nor is earth worthy of thy sighs.
Life is a bitter, weary load,
The world a slough. And now, repose!
Despair no more, but find in Death
The only boon Fate on our race bestows!
Still, Nature, art thou doomed to fall,
The victim scorned of that blind, brutal power
That rules and ruins all.

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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The Resurrection

I thought I had forever lost,
Alas, though still so young,
The tender joys and sorrows all,
That unto youth belong;

The sufferings sweet, the impulses
Our inmost hearts that warm;
Whatever gives this life of ours
Its value and its charm.

What sore laments, what bitter tears
O'er my sad state I shed,
When first I felt from my cold heart
Its gentle pains had fled!

Its throbs I felt no more; my love
Within me seemed to die;
Nor from my frozen, senseless breast
Escaped a single sigh!

I wept o'er my sad, hapless lot;
The life of life seemed lost;
The earth an arid wilderness,
Locked in eternal frost;

The day how dreary, and the night
How dull, and dark, and lone!
The moon for me no brightness had,
No star in heaven shone.

And yet the old love was the cause
Of all the tears I shed;
Still in my inmost breast I felt
The heart was not yet dead.

My weary fancy still would crave
The images it loved,
And its capricious longings still
A source of sorrow proved.

But e'en that lingering spark of grief
Was soon within me spent,
And I the strength no longer had
To utter a lament.

And there I lay, stunned, stupefied,
Nor asked for comfort more;
My heart to hopeless, blank despair
Itself had given o'er.

How changed, alas, was I from him
Who once with passion thrilled,
Whose ardent soul was ever, once,
With sweet illusions filled!

The swallow to my window, still,
Would come, to greet the dawn;
But his sweet song no echo found
In my poor heart, forlorn.

Nor pleased me more, in autumn gray,
Upon the hill-side lone,
The cheerful vesper-bell, or light
Of the departing sun.

In vain the evening star I saw
Above the silent vale,
And vainly warbled in the grove
The plaintive nightingale.

And you, ye furtive glances, bright,
From gentle eyes that rove,
The sweet, the gracious messages
Of first immortal Love;

The soft, white hand, that tenderly
My own hand seemed to woo;
All, all your magic spells were vain,
My torpor to subdue.

Of every pleasure quite bereft,
Sad but of tranquil mien;
A state of perfect littleness,
Yet with a face serene;

Save for the lingering wish, indeed,
In death to sink to rest,
The force of all desire was spent
In my exhausted breast.

As some poor, feeble wanderer,
With age and sorrow bent,
The April of my years, alas,
Thus listlessly I spent;

Thus listlessly, thus wearily,
Didst thou consume, O heart,
Those golden days, ineffable,
So swiftly that depart.

_Who_, from this heavy, heedless rest
Awakens me again?
What new, what magic power is this,
I feel within me reign?

Ye motions sweet, ye images,
Ye throbs, illusions blest,
Ah, no,--ye are not then shut out
Forever from this breast?

The glorious light of golden days
Do ye again unfold?
The old affections that I lost,
Do I once more behold?

Now, as I gaze upon the sky,
Or on the verdant fields,
Each thing with sorrow me inspires,
And each a pleasure yields.

The mountain, forest, and the shore
Once more my heart rejoice;
The fountain speaks to me once more,
The sea hath found a voice.

Who, after all this apathy,
Restores to me my tears?
Each moment, as I look around,
How changed the world appears!

Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart,
Beguiled thee of thy pain?
Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope
I ne'er shall see again.

Nature bestowed these impulses,
And these illusions blest;
Their inborn influence, in me,
By suffering was suppressed;

But not annulled, not overcome
By cruel blows of Fate;
Nor by the inauspicious frown
Of Truth, importunate!

I know she has no sympathy
For fond imaginings;
I know that Nature, too, is deaf,
Nor heeds our sufferings;

That for our _good_ she nothing cares,
Our _being_, only heeds;
And with the sight of our distress
Her wild caprices feeds.

I know the poor man pleads in vain,
For others' sympathy;
That scornfully, or heedlessly,
All from his presence flee;

That both for genius and for worth,
This age has no respect;
That all who cherish lofty aims
Are left to cold neglect.

And you, ye eyes so tremulous
With lustre all divine,
I know how false your splendors are,
Where no true love doth shine.

No love mysterious and profound
Illumes you with its glow;
Nor gleams one spark of genial fire
Beneath that breast of snow.

Nay, it is wont to laugh to scorn
Another's tender pain;
The fervent flame of heavenly love
To treat with cold disdain.

Yet I with thankfulness once more
The old illusions greet,
And feel, with shock of pleased surprise,
The heart within me beat.

To thee alone this force renewed,
This vital power I owe;
From thee alone, my faithful heart,
My only comforts flow.

I feel it is the destiny
Of every noble mind,
In Fate, in Fortune, Beauty, and the World,
An enemy to find:

But while thou liv'st, nor yield'st to Fate,
Contending without fear,
I will not tax with cruelty
The power that placed me here.

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Psalm XC

O God, the everlasting One,
In Thee alone, from sire to son,
Through generations all, our race
Hath found a sure abiding place.

Before the mountains rose from earth,
Before the world itself had birth,
Ere yet the heav'ns were spread abroad,
Thou wast and art eternal God.

But man, the creature of Thy breath,
Thou humblest to the deeps of death;
Few days and sad thou giv'st and then
“Return,” Thou say'st, “ye sons of men.”

For, lo, the space of thousand years
To Thine unchanging eye appears
As yesterday to mortal sight,
When passed, or as a watch of night.

As comes a flood on those who sleep,
So over man Thy wrath doth sweep.
As fades the freshness of the grass,
So swiftly doth his vigour pass.

As grass at morn he flourisheth;
Cut down, at eve he lies in death;
Like flame Thy wrath against us burns,
And all our life to anguish turns.

Thou our iniquities hast set
Before Thy face, unpardon'd yet;
Our secret sins, in darkness done,
Thy light reveals them ev'ry one.

And all our days beneath the blast
Of Thy consuming wrath are past;
Our barren lives from year to year
Ev'n as an idle tale appear.
In seventy years our race is run,
And what if here and there an one,
Through greater strength four-score attains
He only added sorrow gains.

And soon the longest life is o'er,
We pass away and are no more.

Oh, who Thine anger can express,
Thine ire is as Thine awfulness.

Lord, teach us so our days to count,
That as we mark their small amount,
Our hearts we may the more apply
To learn Thy wisdom ere we die.

Return, Oh God. How long wilt Thou
Thy grace withhold? Oh, even now,
In mercy hear Thy servant's voice,
That all our days we may rejoice.

According as the days have been
Wherein we have but sorrow seen,
According to our years of ill
Do Thou our lives with gladness fill.

Give Thou to us Thy works to know;
Thy glory to our children show,
And on Thy servants let there rest
The beauty of the Holiest.

To all the work we do on earth
Give Thou, O Lord, enduring worth;
Yea, that our handwork may endure,
Do Thou, Eternal, make it sure.

poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Hymn XXVI: I Thirst, Thou Wounded Lamb of God

I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God,
To wash me in thy cleansing blood,
To dwell within thy wounds; then pain
Is sweet, and life or death is gain.

Take my poor heart, and let it be
For ever closed to all but thee!
Seal thou my breast, and let me we;
That pledge of love for ever there!

How blest are they who still abide
Close sheltered in thy bleeding side,
Who life and strength from thence derive,
And by thee move, and in thee live.

What are our works but sin and death,
Till thou thy quickening Spirit breathe!
Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move;
O wondrous grace! O boundless love!

How can it be, thou heavenly King,
That thou shouldst us to glory bring?
Make slaves the partners of thy throne,
Decked with a never-fading crown?

Hence our hearts melt, our eyes o'erflow,
Our words are lost; nor will we know,
Nor will we think of aught beside,
'My Lord, my Love is crucified.'

Ah, Lord! enlarge our scanty thought,
To know the wonders thou hast wrought;
Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell
Thy love immense, unsearchable.

First-born of many brethren thou!
To thee, lo! all our souls we bow:
To thee our hearts and hands we give:
Thine may we die, thine may we live!

poem by Charles Wesley
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On An Old Sepuchral Bas-Relief

WHERE IS SEEN A YOUNG MAIDEN, DEAD, IN THE ACT OF DEPARTING,
TAKING LEAVE OF HER FAMILY.

Where goest thou? Who calls
Thee from my dear ones far away?
Most lovely maiden, say!
Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave
Thy father's roof so soon?
Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return?
Wilt thou make glad one day,
Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?

Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act;
And yet thou, too, art sad.
If pleasant or unpleasant be the road,
If gay or gloomy be the new abode,
To which thou journeyest, indeed,
In that grave face, how difficult to read!
Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed;
Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood,
If thou beloved, or hated by the gods,
If happy, or unhappy shouldst be deemed.

Death calls thee; in thy morn of life,
Its latest breath. Unto the nest
Thou leavest, thou wilt ne'er return; wilt ne'er
The faces of thy kindred more behold;
And under ground,
The place to which thou goest will be found;
And for all time will be thy sojourn there.
Happy, perhaps, thou art: but he must sigh
Who, thoughtful, contemplates thy destiny.

Ne'er to have seen the light, e'en at the time,
I think; but, born, e'en at the time,
When regal beauty all her charms displays,
Alike in form and face,
And at her feet the admiring world
Its distant homage pays;
When every hope is in its flower,
Long, long ere dreary winter flash
His baleful gleams against the joyous brow;
Like vapor gathered in the summer cloud,
That melting in the evening sky is seen
To disappear, as if one ne'er had been;
And to exchange the brilliant days to come,
For the dark silence of the tomb;
The intellect, indeed,
May call this, happiness; but still
It may the stoutest breasts with pity fill.

Thou mother, dreaded and deplored
From birth, by all the world that lives,
Nature, ungracious miracle,
That bringest forth and nourishest, to kill,
If death untimely be an evil thing,
Why on these innocent heads
Wilt thou that evil bring?
If good, why, why,
Beyond all other misery,
To him who goes, to him who must remain,
Hast thou such parting crowned with hopeless pain?

Wretched, where'er we look,
Whichever way we turn,
Thy suffering children are!
Thee it hath pleased, that youthful hope
Should ever be by life beguiled;
The current of our years with woes be filled,
And death against all ills the only shield:
And this inevitable seal,
And this immutable decree,
Hast thou assigned to human destiny,
Why, after such a painful race,
Should not the goal, at least,
Present to us a cheerful face?
Why that, which we in constant view,
Must, while we live, forever bear,
Sole comfort in our hour of need,
Thus dress in weeds of woe,
And gird with shadows so,
And make the friendly port to us appear
More frightful than the tempest drear?

If death, indeed, be a calamity,
Which thou intendest for us all,
Whom thou, against our knowledge and our will,
Hast forced to draw this mortal breath,
Then, surely, he who dies,
A lot more enviable hath
Then he who feels his loved one's death.
But, if the truth it be,
As I most firmly think,
That life is the calamity,
And death the boon, alas! who ever _could_,
What yet he _should_,
Desire the dying day of those so dear,
That he may linger here,
Of his best self deprived,
May see across his threshold borne,
The form beloved of her,
With whom so many years he lived,
And say to her farewell,
Without the hope of meeting here again;
And then alone on earth to dwell,
And, looking round, the hours and places all,
Of lost companionship recall?

Ah, Nature! how, how _couldst_ thou have the heart,
From the friend's arms the friend to tear,
The brother from the brother part,
The father from the child,
The lover from his love,
And, killing one, the other keep alive?
What dire necessity
Compels such misery
That lover should the loved one e'er survive?
But Nature in her cruel dealings still,
Pays little heed unto our good or ill.

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Hymn XXVI: I Thirst, Thou Wounded Lamb of God

I thirst, thou wounded Lamb of God,
To wash me in thy cleansing blood,
To dwell within thy wounds; then pain
Is sweet, and life or death is gain.

Take my poor heart, and let it be
For ever closed to all but thee!
Seal thou my breast, and let me we;
That pledge of love for ever there!

How blest are they who still abide
Close sheltered in thy bleeding side,
Who life and strength from thence derive,
And by thee move, and in thee live.

What are our works but sin and death,
Till thou thy quickening Spirit breathe!
Thou giv'st the power thy grace to move;
O wondrous grace! O boundless love!

How can it be, thou heavenly King,
That thou shouldst us to glory bring?
Make slaves the partners of thy throne,
Decked with a never-fading crown?

Hence our hearts melt, our eyes o'erflow,
Our words are lost; nor will we know,
Nor will we think of aught beside,
"My Lord, my Love is crucified."

Ah, Lord! enlarge our scanty thought,
To know the wonders thou hast wrought;
Unloose our stammering tongues, to tell
Thy love immense, unsearchable.

First-born of many brethren thou!
To thee, lo! all our souls we bow:
To thee our hearts and hands we give:
Thine may we die, thine may we live!

poem by John Wesley
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On The Edge Of The Wilderness

Puellae.

Whence comest thou, and whither goest thou?
Abide! abide! longer the shadows grow;
What hopest thou the dark to thee will show?