Who ever such adventure yet, Or a like delight has known, To that which Count Arnaldo met On the morning of St. John?
He had gone forth beside the sea, With his falcon on his hand, And saw a pinnace fast and free, That was making to the land.
And he that by the rudder stood As he went was singing still, “My galley, oh my galley good, Heaven protect thee from all ill;
“From all the dangers and the woe That on ocean’s waters wait, Almeria’s reefs and shallows low, And Gibraltar’s stormy strait.
“From Venice and its shallow way, From the shoals of Flanders’ coast, And from the gulf of broad Biscay, Where the dangers are the most.”
Then Count Arnaldo spoke aloud, You might hear his accents well-- “Those words, thou mariner, I would Unto me that thou wouldst tell.”
To him that mariner replied In a courteous tone, but free-- “I never sing that song,” he cried, “Save to one who sails with me.”
Not thou from us, O Lord, but we Withdraw ourselves from thee.
When we are dark and dead, And Thou art covered with a cloud, Hanging before Thee, like a shroud, So that our prayer can find no way, Oh! teach us that we do not say, “Where is _thy_ brightness fled?”
But that we search and try What in ourselves has wrought this blame; For thou remainest still the same; But earth’s own vapours earth may fill With darkness and thick clouds, while still The sun is in the sky.
High thoughts at first, and visions high Are ours of easy victory; The word we bear seems so divine, So framed for Adam’s guilty line, That none, unto ourselves we say, Of all his sinning suffering race, Will hear that word, so full of grace, And coldly turn away.
But soon a sadder mood comes round-- High hopes have fallen to the ground, And the ambassadors of peace Go weeping, that men will not cease To strive with heaven--they weep and mourn, That suffering men will not be blest, That weary men refuse to rest, And wanderers to return.
Well is it, if has not ensued Another and a worser mood, When all unfaithful thoughts have way, When we hang down our hands, and say, Alas! it is a weary pain, To seek with toil and fruitless strife To chafe the numbed limbs into life, That will not live again.
Then if Spring odours on the wind Float by, they bring into our mind That it were wiser done, to give Our hearts to Nature, and to live For her--or in the student’s bower To search into her hidden things, And seek in books the wondrous springs Of knowledge and of power.