Consolation

Mist clogs the sunshine.

Smoky dwarf houses

Hem me round everywhere;

A vague dejection

Weighs down my soul.

Yet, while I languish,

Everywhere countless

Prospects unroll themselves,

And countless beings

Pass countless moods.

Far hence, in Asia,

On the smooth convent-roofs,

On the gilt terraces,

Of holy Lassa,

Bright shines the sun.

Grey time-worn marbles

Hold the pure Muses;

In their cool gallery,

By yellow Tiber,

They still look fair.

Strange unloved uproar

Shrills round their portal;

Yet not on Helicon

Kept they more cloudless

Their noble calm.

Through sun-proof alleys

In a lone, sand-hemm'd

City of Africa,

A blind, led beggar,

Age-bow'd, asks alms.

No bolder robber

Erst abode ambush'd

Deep in the sandy waste;

No clearer eyesight

Spied prey afar.

Saharan sand-winds

Sear'd his keen eyeballs;

Spent is the spoil he won.

For him the present

Holds only pain.

Two young, fair lovers,

Where the warm June-wind,

Fresh from the summer fields

Plays fondly round them,

Stand, tranced in joy.

With sweet, join'd voices,

And with eyes brimming:

"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,

Prolong the present!

Time, stand still here!"

The prompt stern Goddess

Shakes her head, frowning;

Time gives his hour-glass

Its due reversal;

Their hour is gone.

With weak indulgence

Did the just Goddess

Lengthen their happiness,

She lengthen'd also

Distress elsewhere.

The hour, whose happy

Unalloy'd moments

I would eternalise,

Ten thousand mourners

Well pleased see end.

The bleak, stern hour,

Whose severe moments

I would annihilate,

Is pass'd by others

In warmth, light, joy.

Time, so complain'd of,

Who to no one man

Shows partiality,

Brings round to all men

Some undimm'd hours.