BYRON.
Joaquin Miller
- In men whom men condemn as ill
- I find so much of goodness still,
- In men whom men pronounce divine
- I find so much of sin and blot,
- I do not dare to draw a line
- Between the two, where God has not.
cold and cruel Nottingham! - In disappointment and in tears,
- Sad, lost, and lonely, here I am
- To question, "Is this Nottingham,
- Of which I dream'd for years and years?"
- I seek in vain for name or sign
- Of him who made this mold a shrine,
- A Mecca to the fair and fond
- Beyond the seas, and still beyond.
- Where white clouds crush their drooping wings
- Against my snow-crown'd battlements,
- And peaks that flash like silver tents;
- Where Sacramento's fountain springs,
- And proud Columbia frets his shore
- Of somber, boundless wood and wold,
- And lifts his yellow sands of gold
- In plaintive murmurs evermore;
- Where snowy dimpled Tahoe smiles,
- And where white breakers from the sea,
- In solid phalanx knee to knee,
- Surround the calm Pacific Isles,
- Then run and reach unto the land
- And spread their thin palms on the sand,
- Is he supreme there understood:
- The free can understand the free;
- The brave and good the brave and good.
- Yea, he did sin; who hath reveal'd
- That he was more than man, or less?
- Yet sinn'd no more; but less conceal'd
- Than they who cloak'd their follies o'er,
- And then cast stones in his distress—
- He scorn'd to make the good seem more,
- Or make the bitter sin seem less.
- And so his very manliness
- The seeds of persecution bore.
- When all his songs and fervid love
- Brought back no olive branch or dove,
- Or love or trust from any one,
- Proud, all unpitied and alone
- He lived to make himself unknown,
- Disdaining love and yielding none.
- Like some high-lifted sea-girt stone
- That could not stoop, but all the days,
- With proud brow fronted to the breeze,
- Felt seas blown from the south, and seas
- Blown from the north, and many ways,
- He stood a solitary light
- In stormy seas and settled night—
- Then fell, but stirr'd the seas as far
- As winds and waves and waters are.
- The meek-eyed stars are cold and white
- And steady, fix'd for all the years;
- The comet burns the wings of night,
- And dazzles elements and spheres,
- Then dies in beauty and a blaze
- Of light, blown far through other days.
- The poet's passion, sense of pride,
- His boundless love, the wooing throng
- Of sweet temptations that betide
- The warm and wayward child of song,
- The world knows not: I lift a hand
- To ye who know, who understand.
- * * * * * *
- The ancient Abbey's breast is broad,
- And stout her massive walls of stone;
- But let him lie, repose alone
- Ungather'd with the great of God,
- In dust, by his fierce fellow man.
- Some one, some day, loud voiced will speak
- And say the broad breast was not broad,
- The walls of stone were all too weak
- To hold the proud dust, in their plan;
- The hollow of God's great right hand
- Receives it; let it rest with God.
- In sad but beautiful decay
- Gray Hucknall kneels into the dust,
- And, cherishing her sacred trust,
- Does blend her clay with lordly clay.
- No sign or cryptic stone or cross
- Unto the passing world has said,
- "He died, and we deplore his loss."
- No sound of sandall'd pilgrims tread
- Disturbs the pilgrim's peaceful rest,
- Or frets the proud, impatient breast.
- The bat flits through the broken pane,
- The black swift swallow gathers moss,
- And builds in peace above his head,
- Then goes, then comes, and builds again.
- And it is well; not otherwise
- Would he, the grand sad singer, will.
- The serene peace of paradise
- He sought—'tis—his the storm is still.
- Secure in his eternal fame,
- And blended pity and respect,
- He does not feel the cold neglect,
- And England does not fear the shame.