the poet at the breakfast table-第31章

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to　him；　he　went　on　to　say；　to　be　interrupted　in　his　observations　by
clouds　covering　the　objects　he　was　examining　for　a　longer　or　shorter
time。　　In　these　idle　moments　he　had　put　down　many　thoughts；
unskilfully　he　feared；　but　just　as　they　came　into　his　mind。　　His
blank　verse　he　suspected　was　often　faulty。　　His　thoughts　he　knew　must
be　crude；　many　of　them。　　It　would　please　him　to　have　me　amuse　myself
by　putting　them　into　shape。　　He　was　kind　enough　to　say　that　I　was　an
artist　in　words；　but　he　held　himself　as　an　unskilled　apprentice。

I　confess　I　was　appalled　when　I　cast　my　eye　upon　the　title　of　the
manuscript；　〃Cirri　and　Nebulae。〃

Oh！　　oh！I　said；that　will　never　do。　　People　don't　know　what
Cirri　are；　at　least　not　one　out　of　fifty　readers。　　〃Wind…Clouds　and
Star…Drifts〃　will　do　better　than　that。

Anything　you　like；he　answered；what　difference　does　it　make　how
you　christen　a　foundling？　　These　are　not　my　legitimate　scientific
offspring；　and　you　may　consider　them　left　on　your　doorstep。

I　will　not　attempt　to　say　just　how　much　of　the　diction　of　these
lines　belongs　to　him；　and　how　much　to　me。　　He　said　he　would　never
claim　them；　after　I　read　them　to　him　in　my　version。　　I；　on　my　part；
do　not　wish　to　be　held　responsible　for　some　of　his　more　daring
thoughts；　if　I　should　see　fit　to　reproduce　them　hereafter。　　At　this
time　I　shall　give　only　the　first　part　of　the　series　of　poetical
outbreaks　for　which　the　young　devotee　of　science　must　claim　his　share
of　the　responsibility。　　I　may　put　some　more　passages　into　shape　by
and　by。


　　　　　WIND…CLOUDS　AND　STAR…DRIFTS。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　I

Another　clouded　night；　the　stars　are　hid；
The　orb　that　waits　my　search　is　hid　with　them。
Patience！　　Why　grudge　an　hour；　a　month；　a　year；
To　plant　my　ladder　and　to　gain　the　round
That　leads　my　footsteps　to　the　heaven　of　fame；
Where　waits　the　wreath　my　sleepless　midnights　won？
Not　the　stained　laurel　such　as　heroes　wear
That　withers　when　some　stronger　conqueror's　heel
Treads　down　their　shrivelling　trophies　in　the　dust；
But　the　fair　garland　whose　undying　green
Not　time　can　change；　nor　wrath　of　gods　or　men！

With　quickened　heart…beats　I　shall　hear　the　tongues
That　speak　my　praise；　but　better　far　the　sense
That　in　the　unshaped　ages；　buried　deep
In　the　dark　mines　of　unaccomplished　time
Yet　to　be　stamped　with　morning's　royal　die
And　coined　in　golden　days；in　those　dim　years
I　shall　be　reckoned　with　the　undying　dead；
My　name　emblazoned　on　the　fiery　arch；
Unfading　till　the　stars　themselves　shall　fade。
Then；　as　they　call　the　roll　of　shining　worlds；
Sages　of　race　unborn　in　accents　new
Shall　count　me　with　the　Olympian　ones　of　old；
Whose　glories　kindle　through　the　midnight　sky
Here　glows　the　God　of　Battles；　this　recalls
The　Lord　of　Ocean；　and　yon　far…off　sphere
The　Sire　of　Him　who　gave　his　ancient　name
To　the　dim　planet　with　the　wondrous　rings；
Here　flames　the　Queen　of　Beauty's　silver　lamp；
And　there　the　moon…girt　orb　of　mighty　Jove；
But　this；　unseen　through　all　earth's　aeons　past；
A　youth　who　watched　beneath　the　western　star
Sought　in　the　darkness；　found；　and　showed　to　men；
Linked　with　his　name　thenceforth　and　evermore！
So　shall　that　name　be　syllabled　anew
In　all　the　tongues　of　all　the　tribes　of　men：
I　that　have　been　through　immemorial　years
Dust　in　the　dust　of　my　forgotten　time
Shall　live　in　accents　shaped　of　blood…warm　breath；
Yea；　rise　in　mortal　semblance；　newly　born
In　shining　stone；　in　undecaying　bronze；
And　stand　on　high；　and　look　serenely　down
On　the　new　race　that　calls　the　earth　its　own。

Is　this　a　cloud；　that；　blown　athwart　my　soul；
Wears　a　false　seeming　of　the　pearly　stain
Where　worlds　beyond　the　world　their　mingling　rays
Blend　in　soft　white；a　cloud　that；　born　of　earth；
Would　cheat　the　soul　that　looks　for　light　from　heaven？
Must　every　coral…insect　leave　his　sign
On　each　poor　grain　he　lent　to　build　the　reef；
As　Babel's　builders　stamped　their　sunburnt　clay；
Or　deem　his　patient　service　all　in　vain？
What　if　another　sit　beneath　the　shade
Of　the　broad　elm　I　planted　by　the　way；
What　if　another　heed　the　beacon　light
I　set　upon　the　rock　that　wrecked　my　keel；
Have　I　not　done　my　task　and　served　my　kind？
Nay；　rather　act　thy　part；　unnamed；　unknown；
And　let　Fame　blow　her　trumpet　through　the　world
With　noisy　wind　to　swell　a　fool's　renown；
Joined　with　some　truth　be　stumbled　blindly　o'er；
Or　coupled　with　some　single　shining　deed
That　in　the　great　account　of　all　his　days
Will　stand　alone　upon　the　bankrupt　sheet
His　pitying　angel　shows　the　clerk　of　Heaven。
The　noblest　service　comes　from　nameless　hands；
And　the　best　servant　does　his　work　unseen。
Who　found　the　seeds　of　fire　and　made　them　shoot；
Fed　by　his　breath；　in　buds　and　flowers　of　flame？
Who　forged　in　roaring　flames　the　ponderous　stone；
And　shaped　the　moulded　metal　to　his　need？
Who　gave　the　dragging　car　its　rolling　wheel；
And　tamed　the　steed　that　whirls　its　circling　round？
All　these　have　left　their　work　and　not　their　names；
Why　should　I　murmur　at　a　fate　like　theirs？
This　is　the　heavenly　light；　the　pearly　stain
Was　but　a　wind…cloud　drifting　oer　the　stars！




VI

I　find　I　have　so　many　things　in　common　with　the　old　Master　of　Arts；
that　I　do　not　always　know　whether　a　thought　was　originally　his　or
mine。　　That　is　what　always　happens　where　two　persons　of　a　similar
cast　of　mind　talk　much　together。　　And　both　of　them　often　gain　by　the
interchange。　　Many　ideas　grow　better　when　transplanted　into　another
mind　than　in　the　one　where　they　sprang　up。　　That　which　was　a　weed　in
one　intelligence　becomes　a　flower　in　the　other。　　A　flower；　on　the
other　hand；　may　dwindle　down　to　a　mere　weed　by　the　same　change。
Healthy　growths　may　become　poisonous　by　falling　upon　the　wrong　mental
soil；　and　what　seemed　a　night…shade　in　one　mind　unfold　as　a　morning…
glory　in　the　other。

I　thank　God；the　Master　said；that　a　great　many　people　believe　a
great　deal　more　than　I　do。　　I　think；　when　it　comes　to　serious
matters；　I　like　those　who　believe　more　than　I　do　better　than　those
who　believe　less。

Why；said　I；you　have　got　hold　of　one　of　my　own　working　axioms。
I　should　like　to　hear　you　develop　it。

The　Member　of　the　Haouse　said　he　should　be　glad　to　listen　to　the
debate。　　The　gentleman　had　the　floor。　　The　Scarabee　rose　from　his
chair　and　departed；I　thought　his　joints　creaked　as　he　straightened
himself。

The　Young　Girl　made　a　slight　movement；　it　was　a　purely　accidental
coincidence；　no　doubt；　but　I　saw　That　Boy　put　his　hand　in　his　pocket
and　pull　out　his　popgun；　and　begin　loading　it。　　It　cannot　be　that　our
Scheherezade；　who　looks　so　quiet　and　proper　at　the　table；　can　make
use　of　That　Boy　and　his　catapult　to　control　the　course　of
conversation　and　change　it　to　suit　herself！　　She　certainly　looks
innocent　enough；　but　what　does　a　blush　prove；　and　what　does　its
absence　prove；　on　one　of　these　innocent　faces？　　There　is　nothing　in
all　this　world　that　can　lie　and　cheat　like　the　face　and　the　tongue　of
a　young　girl。　　Just　give　her　a　little　touch　of　hysteria；I　don't
mean　enough　of　it　to　make　her　friends　call　the　doctor　in；　but　a
slight　hint　of　it　in　the　nervous　system；and　〃Machiavel　the　waiting…
maid〃　might　take　lessons　of　her。　　But　I　cannot　think　our　Scheherezade
is　one　of　that　kind；　and　I　am　ashamed　of　myself　for　noting　such　a
trifling　coincidence　as　that　which　excited　my　suspicion。

I　say；the　Master　continued；that　I　had　rather　be　in　the　company
of　those　who　believe　more　than　I　do；　in　spiritual　matters　at　least；
than　of　those　who　doubt　what　I　accept　as　a　part　of　my　belief。

To　tell　the　truth；said　I；I　find　that　difficulty　sometimes　in
talking　with　you。　　You　have　not　quite　so　many　hesitations　as　I　have
in　following　out　your　logical　conclusions。　　I　suppose　you　would　bring
some　things　out　into　daylight　questioning　that　I　had　rather　leave　in
that　twilight　of　half…belief　peopled　with　shadowsif　they　are　only
shadowsmore　sacred　to　me　than　many　realities。

There　is　nothing　I　do　not　question；said　the　Master；I　not　only
begin　with　the　precept　of　Descartes；　but　I　hold　all　my　opinions
involving　any　chain　of　reasoning　always　open　to　revision。

I　confess　that　I　smiled　internally　to　hear　him　say　that。　　The　old
Master　thinks　he　is　open　to　conviction　on　al