Of Rest. From Proverbial Philosophy
By Martin Farquhar Tupper
In the silent watches of the night, calm night that breedeth thoughts.
When the task-weary mind disporteth in the careless play-hours of sleep,
I dreamed; and behold, a valley, green and sunny and well watered.
And thousands moving across it, thousands and tens of thousands:
And though many seemed faint and toil worn, and stumbled often, and fell,
Yet moved they on unresting, as the ever-flowing cataract.
Then I noted adders in the grass, and pitfalls under the flowers,
And chasms yawned among the hills, and the ground was cracked and slippery:
But Hope and her brother Fear suffered not a foot to linger;
Bright phantoms of false joys beckoned alluringly forward.
While yelling grisly shapes of dread came hunting on behind:
And ceaselessly, like Lapland swarms, that miserable crowd sped along
To the mist-involved banks of a dark and sullen river.
There saw I, midway in the water, standing a giant fisher.
And he held many lines in his hand, and they called him Iron Destiny.
So I tracked those subtle chains, and each held one among the multitude:
Then I understood what hindered, that they rested not in their path:
For the fisher had sport in his fishing, and drew in his lines continually.
And the new-born babe, and the aged man, were dragged into that dark river:
And he pulled all those myriads along, and none might rest by the way.
Till many, for sheer weariness, were eager to plunge into the drownuig stream.
So I knew that valley was Life, and it sloped to the waters of Death.
But far on the thither side spread out a calm and silent shore,
Where all was tranquil as a sleep, and the crowded strand was quiet:
And I saw there many I had known, but their eyes glared chillingly upon me,
As set in deepest slumber; and they pressed their fingers to their lips.
Then I knew that shore was the dwelling of Rest, where spirits held their Sabbath,
And it seemed they would have told me much, but they might not break that silence;
For the law of their being was mystery: they glided on, hushing as they went.
Yet. further, under the sun, at the roots of purple mountains,
I noted a blaze of glory, as the night-fires on northern skies;
And I heard the hum of joy, as it were a sea of melody;
And far as the eye could reach, were millions of happy creatures
Basking in the golden light; and I knew that land was Heaven.
Then the hill whereon I stood split asunder, and a crater yawned at my feet.
Black and deep and dreadful, fenced round with ragged rocks;
Dimly was the darkness lit up by spires of distant flame:
And I saw below a moving mass of life, like reptiles bred in corruption,
Where all was terrible unrest, shrieks and groans and thunder.
So I woke, and I thought upon my dream; for it seemed of wisdom's ministration.
What man is he that findeth rest, though he hunt for it year after year?
As a child he had not yet been wearied, and cared not then to court it;
As a youth he loved not to be quiet, for excitement spurred him into strife;
As a man he tracketh rest in vain, toiling painfully to catch it,
But still is he pulled from the pursuit, by the strong compulsion of his fate:
So he hopeth to have peace in old age, as he cannot rest in manhood,
But troubles thicken with his years, till Death hath dodged him to the grave.
There remaineth a rest for the spirit on the shadowy side of life;
But unto this world's pilgrim no rest for the sole of his foot.
Ever, from stage to stage, he travelleth wearily forward,
And though he pluck flowers by the way, he may not sleep among the flowers.
Mind is the perpetual motion; for it is a running stream
From an unfathomable source, the depth of the divine Intelligence:
And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current within,
The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention.
Seekest thou rest, mortal? seek it no more on earth.
For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life;
Seekest thou rest, O immortal? hope not to find it in Heaven,
For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action.
Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of existence.
Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired wings,
Until, after short sufficieut slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy,
And speedeth in eagle flight to the Sun of unapproachable perfection.
Transcribed from Proverbial Philosophy by Mick Puttock, August 2011 (Spelling, punctuation and grammer left mostly unchanged from the 25th edition)