Addressed On Leaving Rome To A Friend Residing In That City.

ADDRESSED ON LEAVING ROME TO A FRIEND RESIDING IN THAT CITY.

O lately written in the roll of friends,

O written late, not last, three pleasant months

Under the shadow of the Capitol,

A pleasant time, made pleasanter by thee,

It has been mine to pass—three months of spring,

Which pleasant in themselves and for thy sake,

Had yet this higher, that they stirred in the heart

The motions of continual thankfulness

To me, considering by what gracious paths

I had been guided, by what paths of love,

Since I was last a dweller in these gates.

That meditation could not prove to me

But as a spring that ever bubbles up,

Sparkling in the face of heaven, when every day

Reminded me how little gladness then

I gathered from these things, but now how much.

For tho’ not then indifferent to me

Nature or art, yea rather tho’ from these

I drew whatever lightened for a while

The burden of our life and weary load;

Yet seldom could I summon heart enough,

With all their marvels round me, to go forth

In quest of any. But some lonely spot,

Some ridge of ruin fringed with cypresses,

Such as have everywhere loved well to make

Their chosen home above all other trees,

’Mid the fal’n palaces of ancient Rome,

Me did such haunt please better, or I loved,

With others whom the like disquietude,

At the like crisis of their lives, now kept

Restless, with them to question to and fro

And to debate the evil of the world,

As tho’ we bore no portion of that ill,

As tho’ with subtle phrases we could spin

A woof to screen us from its undelight:

Such talk sometimes prolonging into night,

As being loth to separate, and find

Each in his solitude how vain are words,

When that they have opposed to them is more.

I would not live that time again for much,

Full as it was of long and weary days,

Full of rebellious askings, for what end,

And by what power, without our own consent,

We were placed here, to suffer and to sin,

To be in misery and know not why.

But so it was with me, a sojourner,

Five years ago, beneath these mouldering walls

As I am now: and, trusted friend, to thee

I have not doubted to reveal my soul,

For thou hast known, if I may read aright

The pages of thy past existence, thou

Hast known the dreary sickness of the soul,

That falls upon us in our lonely youth,

The fear of all bright visions leaving us,

The sense of emptiness, without the sense

Of an abiding fulness anywhere,

When all the generations of mankind,

With all their purposes, their hopes and fears,

Seem nothing truer than those wandering shapes

Cast by a trick of light upon a wall,

And nothing different from these, except

In their capacity for suffering;

What time we have the sense of sin, and none

Of expiation. Our own life seemed then

But as an arrow flying in the dark

Without an aim, a most unwelcome gift,

Which we might not put by. But now, what God

Intended as a blessing and a boon

We have received as such, and we can say

A solemn yet a joyful thing is life,

Which, being full of duties, is for this

Of gladness full, and full of lofty hopes.

And He has taught us what reply to make,

Or secretly in spirit, or in words,

If there be need, when sorrowing men complain

The fair illusions of their youth depart,

All things are going from them, and to-day

Is emptier of delights than yesterday,

Even as to-morrow will be barer yet;

We have been taught to feel this need not be,

This is not life’s inevitable law,—

But that the gladness we are called to know,

Is an increasing gladness, that the soil

Of the human heart, tilled rightly, will become

Richer and deeper, fitter to bear fruit

Of an immortal growth, from day to day,

Fruit of love life and indeficient joy.

Oh! not for baneful self-complacency,

Not for the setting up our present selves

To triumph o’er our past (worst pride of all),

May we compare this present with that past;

But to provoke renewed acknowledgments,

But to incite unto an earnest hope

For all our brethren. And how should I fear

To own to thee that this is in my heart—

This longing, that it leads me home to-day,

Glad even while I turn my back on Rome,

Yet half unseen—its arts, its memories,

Its glorious fellowship of living men;

Glad in the hope to tread the soil again

Of England, where our place of duty lies:

Not as altho’ we thought we could do much,

Or claimed large sphere of action for ourselves;

Not in this thought—since rather be it ours,

Both thine and mine, to cultivate that frame

Of spirit, when we know and deeply feel

How little we can do, and yet do that.

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