We sat beneath tall waving trees that flung Their heavy shadows o'er the dewy grass. Over the waters, breaking at our feet, Quivered the moon, and lighted solemnly
The scene before us. He with whom I talked Was in the noble vigor of his youth: Tall, much beyond the standard, and well knit,
With a dark, Norman face, from which the breeze Flung back his locks of ebon darkness which In rare luxuriance fell around his brow, That, in its massive beauty, brought me up
Pictures by ancient masters; or the sharp And perfect features carved by Grecian hands, In days when Gods, in forms worthy of Gods, Started from marble to bewitch the world —
A brow so beautiful was his, that one Might well conceive it always bound with dreams; His eyes were luminous and full of gleams, That made me think of waves wherein I've seen
The moon-hued lightning breaking in the dark With sudden flashes of phosphoric light: His cheeks were bronze, his firm lips scarlet-hued. The Roman's valor, the Assyrian's love
Of ease and pomp sat on his crimson lips, Uneasy rulers on the self-same throne, Spoiling the empire of the soul within: Such was his face.
His thoughts went forth like emperors, and all His words arrayed themselves around them like Imperial guards. Opinions which I had been taught to hold
As full of pith and gravity, he took As‘ twere,‘ twixt thumb and finger of his wit — Rubbed off their gloss, until they seemed to me, All, as he said, varnished hypocrisies.
Most wise for one so young! and strangely read In books of quaint philosophy — although His mind's strange alchemy could find some Rich thought hidden in the basest thing,
Which he transmuted into golden words, So that in hearing him I often thought Upon the story of that Saint whose mouth Was radiant with the angel's blessed touch,
Which gave him superhuman eloquence; And though he was thus gifted, yet — ah me! Still earnest with my theme, I bade him think Of Auerbach's cellar, and that wassail night
Whole centuries ago: and then in phrase, Better than that which cometh to me now I likened it — the necromancy which Drew richest vintage from the rugged boards —
Unto the spell wherewith he'd bound himself — The spell by which he drew from simplest things Conceptions beautiful, as Faust drew wine From the rude table; for this friend of mine
Was a true poet, though he seldom wrote: The wealth which might have royally endowed Some noble charity for coming time Was idly wasted — pearls dissolved in wine —
Still on my theme I hung and pointed out, Full eagerly, how Mephistopheles Ordered the gimlet wherewith it was drawn: But he who went his way that summer night,
Beneath the shadow of those stately trees Comes back to me — to earth — ah! nevermore. He fell obscurely in the common ranks — His keen sword rusted in its splendid sheath.
God pardon him his faults! for faults he had; But oh! so blent with goodness, that the while The lip of every theory of his Curved with a sneer, each action smiled
With Christian charity. Like Manfred he had summoned to his aid Forbidden ministers — but unlike his — Of the earth, earthy, which did slowly clutch
Upon his lofty faculties until They summoned him from the lone tow'r of thought And false philosophy wherein he dwelt. God pardon him! Amen.
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