_Were I A Skilful Painter._

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear, And who would blame me then?-- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should I paint for thee?-- A tiny spring-bud peeping out From a withered wintry tree; The warm blue sky of summer O'er jagged ice and snow, And water hurrying gladsome out From a cavern down below;

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where a lonely ship to windward beats For life and liberty; A watery sun-ray gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud And falling on some grassy flower The rain had earthward bowed;

Morn peeping o'er a mountain, In ambush for the dark, And a traveller in the vale below Rejoicing like a lark; A taper nearly vanished Amid the dawning gray, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

I am no skilful painter; Let who will blame me then That I would teach thee hope and fear With my plain-talking pen!-- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

FAR AND NEAR. [The fact which suggested this poem is related by Clarke in his Travels.]

I.

Blue sky above, blue sea below, Far off, the old Nile's mouth, 'Twas a blue world, wherein did blow A soft wind from the south.

In great and solemn heaves the mass Of pulsing ocean beat, Unwrinkled as the sea of glass Beneath the holy feet.

With forward leaning of desire The ship sped calmly on, A pilgrim strong that would not tire Or hasten to be gone.

II.

List!--on the wave!--what can they be, Those sounds that hither glide? No lovers whisper tremulously Under the ship's round side!

No sail across the dark blue sphere Holds white obedient way; No far-fled, sharp-winged boat is near, No following fish at play!

'Tis not the rippling of the wave, Nor sighing of the cords; No winds or waters ever gave A murmur so like words;

Nor wings of birds that northward strain, Nor talk of hidden crew: The traveller questioned, but in vain-- He found no answer true.

III.

A hundred level miles away, On Egypt's troubled shore, Two nations fought, that sunny day, With bellowing cannons' roar.

The fluttering whisper, low and near, Was that far battle's blare; A lipping, rippling motion here, The blasting thunder there.

IV.

Can this dull sighing in my breast So faint and undefined, Be the worn edge of far unrest Borne on the spirit's wind?

The uproar of high battle fought Betwixt the bond and free, The thunderous roll of armed thought Dwarfed to an ache in me?