Boots it, the veil to lift, and give
To sight the frowning fates beneath?
For error is the life we live,
And, oh, our knowledge is but death!
Take back the clear and awful mirror,
Shut from mine eyes the blood-red glare;
Thy truth is but a gift of terror,
When mortal lips declare.
My blindness give to me once more,
The gay, dim senses that rejoice;
The past's delighted songs are o'er
For lips that speak a prophet's voice.
To me _the future_ thou has granted;
I miss the moment from the chain--
The happy present hour enchanted!
Take back thy gift again!"* [Bulwer's translation.]
These lines express more than the trite observation, that a knowledge
of futurity would prove a torment to the possessor. Beneath that
obvious is couched the deeper moral, which expresses the sufferings of
the philosophic prophet--of the man who, too much for his own quiet,
anticipates reasonings, conclusions, sentiments, forms of social life
yet to prevail--the man to whom not coming events, but coming ideas,
cast their shadows before. If we could suppose one at the time of the
crusades, educated to associate and sympathize with the choice spirits
of the age, yet anticipating the sense of their age, in making the
comparative estimate of chivalrous adventure, and successful
cultivation of the arts of peace and industry; he must have felt
somewhat like Cassandra among the less gifted.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49