Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF, by ROBERT POLLOCK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: In humble dwelling born, retired, remote
Last Line: On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense.
Alternate Author Name(s): Pollok, Robert
Subject(s): Self


IN humble dwelling born, retired, remote;
In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he pass'd, a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock, or heard
The ploughman talking to his steers; his hopes,
His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling,
Among the dews and holy mountain airs;
And fancy colour'd them with every hue
Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams
Of childhood fled away, those rainbow dreams,
So innocent and fair, that wither'd age,
Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye,
And passing all between, look'd fondly back
To see them once again, ere he departed:
These fled away, and anxious thought, that wish'd
To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
Possess'd his soul, and held it still awhile.
He listen'd, and heard from far the voice of fame,
Heard and was charm'd; and deep and sudden vow
Of resolution made to be renown'd;
And deeper vow'd again to keep his vow.
His parents saw, his parents whom God made
Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope.
The ancient page he turn'd, read much, thought much,
And with old bards of honourable name
Measured his soul severely; and look'd up
To fame, ambitious of no second place.
Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair.
And out before him open'd many a path
Ascending, where the laurel highest waved
Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring;
But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized,
The harp he loved, loved better than his life,
The harp which utter'd deepest notes, and held
The ear of thought a captive to its song.
He search'd and meditated much, and whiles,
With rapturous hand, in secret touch'd the lyre,
Aiming at glorious strains; and search'd again
For theme deserving of immortal verse;
Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied;
Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still.
Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud,
Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud
Of ills we mention not: enough to say,
'Twas cold, and dead, impenetrable gloom.
He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes,
One after one, put out, as nearer still
It drew his soul; but fainted not at first,
Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man
Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst;
Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh
Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs,
The bitterest cup that time could measure out;
And, having done, look up, and ask for more.
He call'd philosophy, and with his heart
Reason'd. He call'd religion, too, but call'd
Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard.
Ashamed to be o'ermatch'd by earthly woes,
He sought, and sought with eye that dimm'd apace,
To find some avenue to light, some place
On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain.
Darker and darker still the darkness grew.
At length he sunk, and disappointment stood
His only comforter, and mournfully
Told all was past. His interest in life,
In being, ceased: and now he seem'd to feel,
And shudder'd as he felt, his powers of mind
Decaying in the spring-time of his day.
The vigorous, weak became; the clear, obscure;
Memory gave up her charge; Decision reel'd;
And from her flight, Fancy return'd, return'd
Because she found no nourishment abroad.
The blue heavens wither'd, and the moon, and sun,
And all the stars, and the green earth, and morn
And evening, wither'd; and the eyes, and smiles,
And faces of all men and women, wither'd,
Wither'd to him; and all the universe,
Like something which had been, appear'd, but now
Was dead and mouldering fast away. He tried
No more to hope, wish'd to forget his vow,
Wish'd to forget his harp; then ceased to wish
That was his last: enjoyment now was done.
He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear.
Of being sensible, and sensible
Of loss, he as some atom seem'd, which God
Had made superfluously, and needed not
To build creation with; but back again
To nothing threw, and left it in the void,
With everlasting sense that once it was.
Oh! who can tell what days, what nights he spent,
Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless wo!
And who can tell how many, glorious once,
To others and themselves of promise full,
Conducted to this pass of human thought,
This wilderness of intellectual death,
Wasted and pined, and vanish'd from the earth,
Leaving no vestige of memorial there!
It was not so with him. When thus he lay,
Forlorn of heart, wither'd and desolate,
As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds,
Selecting from its falling sisters, chase,
Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes,
And leave it there alone, to be forgotten
Eternally, God pass'd in mercy by --
His praise be ever new! -- and on him breathed,
And bade him live, and put into his hands
A holy harp, into his lips a song,
That roll'd its numbers down the tide of time:
Ambitious now, but little to be praised
Of men alone; ambitious most, to be
Approved of God, the Judge of all; and have
His name recorded in the book of life.
Such things were disappointment and remorse
And oft united both, as friends severe,
To teach men wisdom; but the fool, untaught,
Was foolish still. His ear he stopp'd, his eyes
He shut, and blindly, deafly obstinate,
Forced desperately his way from wo to wo.
One place, one only place, there was on earth,
Where no man e'er was fool, however mad.
"Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."
Ah! 'twas a truth most true; and sung in time,
And to the sons of men, by one well known
On earth for lofty verse and lofty sense.





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