THERE was a land, where all men lived in dreams,
Where heaven was hid by vapours, grey or gold;
Yet real seemed their life, as our life seems,
And lovers wooed, and merchants bought and sold;
But e’en ‘mid feast, and song, and soft caress,
Each heart was sore with utter weariness.
And some were rich, some miserably poor,
And each for other felt a dull contempt;
And some were fools, of loftiest wisdom sure,
And some seemed wise, but no man knew he dreamt;
If any woke, men shrank with angry fear,
Or smiling said, “What doth this dreamer here?”
But at the last, one minstrel boy awoke,
And strove to rouse his fellows, but in vain;
Till, strong and flushed with hope, away he broke,
And left them revelling in mirthful pain:
His hands were trembling from a last embrace,
Yet somewhat sternly smiled the youthful face.
His golden singing-robes were cast aside,
The roses all were shed, that wreathed his brow;
No more ‘mid guilty dreams might he abide,
Who in his heart had sworn a solemn vow
To find the ancient innocent again
In some far land unknown of weary men.
No kindred nature deemed his purpose good;
The vision and the promise were his own:
High hills he climbed; through many a tangled wood
He cut his way, in darkness and alone,
Or built a trembling bridge where wild waves tossed,
Or in a fragile boat the surges crossed.
On sandy plains he saw fair miraged lakes,
And oft he hungered, and was oft athirst;
Through haunts of savage beasts and venomed snakes
He roamed, still bravest when the path was worst;
Toiling for heedless kinsfolk unforgot,
For those delirious hearts, that knew him not.
But when he next shall speak, they must awake;
Or if this last best triumph may not be,
Yet will he struggle, e’en for life’s dear sake–
What lustre blinds him? Has he strength to see
That primal Heaven on Earth, desired so long,
Won with no joy-burst, greeted with no song?
Oh, glorious recompense for vanished youth,
For love untasted, for the silenced lyre!
This is indeed that ancient land of truth,
Nobler than thought, more lovely than desire:
The snow-crowned heights are girt with blossoms sweet,
And grass lies cool beneath his fevered feet.
But is there respite here for soul and flesh?
Are yonder glades but homes of idle calm?
This is no dreamland–here the wind blows fresh,
Lulling the sense with no voluptuous balm;
Full life inspires the pilgrim’s heart and eyes
From yon bright waves, yon high unclouded skies.
Shall he not twine fresh garlands for his head,
And seek new singing-robes of quaint device?
Here roses blush, more delicately red
Than e’er he dreamed the flowers of Paradise,
And in this lovely land is plenteous store
Of gems and gold, more rich than once he wore.
Ah no! Exulting ‘neath yon radiant sky
For youth’s forgotten songs he oft may yearn;
But the unflinching hand, the wakeful eye,
Still tireless to their lonely task shall turn:
Ere his limbs fail, ere his strong heart be dumb,
Let him make plain the path, that all may come.
(Constance Naden)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Life Poems, Mind Poems, Faces Poems, Youth Poems, Heaven Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Dreams Poems, Flowers Poems, Hope Poems, Thought & Thinking PoemsBased on Keywords: unforgot, venomed, revelling, miserably, untasted, unflinching, kinsfolk, snow-crowned, miraged