'Close thy Byron; open thy Goethe.' —Carlyle
Some half-a-dozen years or so,
When life had yet no crown of iron,
I took my pilgrim staff to go
And worship at the shrine of Byron;
And there, before the mighty dead,
In hero-worship prostrate lying,
The thought first came into my head
To tell the world that I was dying.
And so, in verses neat and trim,
But with a rhythm most despairing,
I told to men and cherubim.
The sorrows of my own preparing.
I hinted how my life was gloom,
That all my hopes but came to leave me,
And wormy goals—I meant a tomb—
Could only from such ills relieve me.
I took farewell of all my friends,
In rhymes that ran to twenty verses;
My foes, to suit their evil ends,
I left them misanthropic curses.
Then ready to give life the slip
I stood; but ere my pulse grew fainter,
Sat with the sneer upon my lip
To some imaginary painter.
How long this might have posed my head
I know not, but I thought 'twas pretty,
Till 'Sartor' shook his head, and said,
'Go, shut thy Byron, and open Goethe.'
I ponder'd for a while on this,
Then, trusting to such sage adviser,
Took Goethe, read that 'Faust' of his—
And, himmel, am I any wiser?
I own my sneers have passed away—
I own I never write a stanza
Beginning with 'When I am clay,'
And all your pale extravaganza.
But in the place of this I see
A host of dim, chaotic fancies,
That in their reeling seem to be
For ever at Walpurgis dances.
What good can come if I am taught
This life is but a painted bubble;
That after threescore years 'tis caught,
And bursts—with nothing for your trouble?
My curse upon such books that set
This life in hues to make one falter!
And so I'll shift my worship yet,
And bow before a purer altar.