Prometheus Bound (Browning, 1833)/To the Memory of Sir Uvedale Price, Bart.
TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR UVEDALE PRICE, BART.
Farewell!—a word that human lips bestow
On all that human hearts delight to know:
On summer skies, and scenes that change as fast;
On ocean calms, and faith as fit to last;
On Life, from Love's own arms, that breaks away;
On hopes that blind, and glories that decay!
And ever thus, 'farewell, farewell,' is said,
As round the hills of lengthening time, we tread;
As at each step, the winding ways unfold
Some untried prospect which obscures the old;—
Perhaps a prospect brightly color'd o'er,
Yet not with brightness that we loved before;
And dull and dark the brightest hue appears
To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.
Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past,
And yon supernal summit gain'd at last;
Where all that gradual change removed, is found
At once, for ever, as you look around;
Where every scene by tender eyes survey'd,
And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spread—
No tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall,
But Heaven's own sunshine lighting, charming all.
Farewell!—a common word—and yet how drear
And strange it soundeth as I write it here!
How strange that thou a place of death shouldst fill
Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill!
And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw,
Incited Nature brake her tyrant's law!
And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,
Mæonian music tuned her harp anew!
And mute the lips where Plato's bee hath roved;
And motionless the hand that genius moved!—
Ah friend! thou speakest not!—but still to me
Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee!—
Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,
And waving wood, recall some word of thine;
Some word, some look, whose living light is o'er—
And Memory sees what Hope can see no more.
Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came,
To us, a change, a joy—to thee, a fame!
Thou spakest once;[1] a and every pleasant sight,
Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,
Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes
Of shade and sunshine gleam'd before our eyes.
Thou spakest twice;[2] and every pleasant sound
Its ancient silken harmony unwound,
From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay
Enclasp'd in hands whose cunning is decay.
And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met
And won thee to him! Oh remember'd yet!
We cannot see, and hearken, and forget!
My thoughts are far. I think upon the time,
When Foxley's purple hills and woods sublime
Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw
Thy burning spirit on the vale below,
To bathe its sense in beauty. Lovely ground!
There, never more shall step of thine resound!
There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,
And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot;
Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,
And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.
For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise
A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise,
Upon thy grave, my tuneless harp I lay,
Nor try to sing what only tears can say.
So warm and fast the ready waters swell—
So weak the faltering voice thou knewest well!
Thy words of kindness calm'd that voice before;
Now, thoughts of them but make it tremble more;
And leave its theme to others, and depart
To dwell within the silence where thou art.