Thy hill leave not, O Spring,Nor longer leap down to the new-green'd Plain.Thy western cliff-caves keepO Wind, nor branch-borne Echo after thee complainWith grumbling wild and deep.Let Blossom clingSudden and frozen round the eyes of trees,Nor fall, nor fall.Be still each Wing,Hushed each call.So was it ordered, soHung all things silent, still;Only Time earless moved on, stepping slowUp the scarped hill,And even Time in a long twilight stayedAnd, for a whim, that whispered whim obeyed.There was no breath, no sigh,No wind lost in the skyRoamed the horizon round.The harsh dead leaf slept noiseless on the ground,By unseen mouse nor insect stirredNor beak of hungry bird.Then were voices heardMingling as though eachEarth and grass had individual speech.—Has evening fallen so soon,And yet no Moon?—No, but hark: so stillWas never the Spring's voice adown the hill!I do not feel her waters tapping uponThe culvert's under stone.—And if 'tis not yet night a thrush should sing.—Or if 'tis night the owl should his far echo bringNear, near.—And IShould know the hour by his long-shaking distant cry.—But how should echo be? The air is dead,No song, no wing,—No footfall overheadOf beast,—Or labourer passing, and no soundOf labourer's Good-night, good-night, good-night!—That we, here underground,Take to ourselves and breathe unheard Good-night!—O, it is lonely now with not one soundNeath that arched profound,—No throttled noteSweet over us to float,—No shadow treading lightOf man, beast, bird.—If, earth in dumb earth, lie we here unstirred,—Why, brother, it were death renewed againIf sun nor rain,—O death undying, if no dear human touch nor soundFall on us underground!
Thy hill leave not, O Spring,Nor longer leap down to the new-green'd Plain.Thy western cliff-caves keepO Wind, nor branch-borne Echo after thee complainWith grumbling wild and deep.Let Blossom clingSudden and frozen round the eyes of trees,Nor fall, nor fall.Be still each Wing,Hushed each call.
So was it ordered, soHung all things silent, still;Only Time earless moved on, stepping slowUp the scarped hill,And even Time in a long twilight stayedAnd, for a whim, that whispered whim obeyed.
There was no breath, no sigh,No wind lost in the skyRoamed the horizon round.The harsh dead leaf slept noiseless on the ground,By unseen mouse nor insect stirredNor beak of hungry bird.
Then were voices heardMingling as though eachEarth and grass had individual speech.—Has evening fallen so soon,And yet no Moon?—No, but hark: so stillWas never the Spring's voice adown the hill!I do not feel her waters tapping uponThe culvert's under stone.—And if 'tis not yet night a thrush should sing.—Or if 'tis night the owl should his far echo bringNear, near.—And IShould know the hour by his long-shaking distant cry.—But how should echo be? The air is dead,No song, no wing,—No footfall overheadOf beast,—Or labourer passing, and no soundOf labourer's Good-night, good-night, good-night!—That we, here underground,Take to ourselves and breathe unheard Good-night!—O, it is lonely now with not one soundNeath that arched profound,—No throttled noteSweet over us to float,—No shadow treading lightOf man, beast, bird.—If, earth in dumb earth, lie we here unstirred,—Why, brother, it were death renewed againIf sun nor rain,—O death undying, if no dear human touch nor soundFall on us underground!
Like the tide—knocking at the hollowed cliffAnd running into each green cave as ifIn the cave's night to keepEternal motion grave and deep;—That, even while each broken wave repeatsIts answered knocking and with bruised hand beatsAgain, again, again,Tossed between ecstasy and pain;Still in the folded hollow darkness swells,Sinks, swells, and every green-hung hollow fills,Till there's no room for soundSave that old anger rolled around;So into every hollow cliff of life,Into this heart's deep cave so loud with strife,In tunnels I knew not,In lightless labyrinths of thought,The unresting tide has run and the dark filled,Even the vibration of old strife is stilled;The wave returning bearsMuted those time-breathing airs.—How shall the million-footed tide still treadThese hollows and in each cold void cave spread?How shall Love here keepEternal motion grave and deep?
Like the tide—knocking at the hollowed cliffAnd running into each green cave as ifIn the cave's night to keepEternal motion grave and deep;—
That, even while each broken wave repeatsIts answered knocking and with bruised hand beatsAgain, again, again,Tossed between ecstasy and pain;
Still in the folded hollow darkness swells,Sinks, swells, and every green-hung hollow fills,Till there's no room for soundSave that old anger rolled around;
So into every hollow cliff of life,Into this heart's deep cave so loud with strife,In tunnels I knew not,In lightless labyrinths of thought,
The unresting tide has run and the dark filled,Even the vibration of old strife is stilled;The wave returning bearsMuted those time-breathing airs.
—How shall the million-footed tide still treadThese hollows and in each cold void cave spread?How shall Love here keepEternal motion grave and deep?
I will ask primrose and violet to spend for youTheir smell and hue,And the bold, trembling anemone awhile to spareHer flowers starry fair;Or the flushed wild apple and yet sweeter thornTheir sweetness to keepLonger than any fire-bosomed flower bornBetween midnight and midnight deep.And I will take celandine, nettle and parsley, whiteIn its own green light,Or milkwort and sorrel, thyme, harebell and meadowsweetLifting at your feet,And ivy blossom beloved of soft bees; I will takeThe loveliest—The seeding grasses that bend with the winds, and shakeThough the winds are at rest."For me?" you will ask. "Yes! surely they wave for youTheir smell and hue,And you away all that is rare were so much lessBy your missed happiness."Yet I know grass and weed, ivy and apple and thornTheir whole sweet would keepThough in Eden no human spirit on a shining mornHad awaked from sleep.
I will ask primrose and violet to spend for youTheir smell and hue,And the bold, trembling anemone awhile to spareHer flowers starry fair;Or the flushed wild apple and yet sweeter thornTheir sweetness to keepLonger than any fire-bosomed flower bornBetween midnight and midnight deep.
And I will take celandine, nettle and parsley, whiteIn its own green light,Or milkwort and sorrel, thyme, harebell and meadowsweetLifting at your feet,And ivy blossom beloved of soft bees; I will takeThe loveliest—The seeding grasses that bend with the winds, and shakeThough the winds are at rest.
"For me?" you will ask. "Yes! surely they wave for youTheir smell and hue,And you away all that is rare were so much lessBy your missed happiness."Yet I know grass and weed, ivy and apple and thornTheir whole sweet would keepThough in Eden no human spirit on a shining mornHad awaked from sleep.
In those old days you were called beautiful,But I have worn the beauty from your face;The flowerlike bloom has withered on your cheekWith the harsh years, and the fire in your eyesBurns darker now and deeper, feeding onBeauty and the remembrance of things gone.Even your voice is altered when you speak,Or is grown mute with old anxietyFor me.Even as a fire leaps into flame and burnsLeaping and laughing in its lovely flight,And then under the flame a glowing domeDeepens slowly into blood-like light:—So did you flame and in flame take delight,So are you hollow'd now with aching fire.But I still warm me and make there my home,Still beauty and youth burn there invisiblyFor me.Now my lips falling on your silver'd skull,My fingers in the valleys of your cheeks,Or my hands in your thin strong hands fast caught,Your body clutched to mine, mine bent to yours:Now love undying feeds on love beautiful,Now, now I am but thought kissing your thought ...—And can it be in your heart's music speaksA deeper rhythm hearing mine: can it beIndeed for me?
In those old days you were called beautiful,But I have worn the beauty from your face;The flowerlike bloom has withered on your cheekWith the harsh years, and the fire in your eyesBurns darker now and deeper, feeding onBeauty and the remembrance of things gone.Even your voice is altered when you speak,Or is grown mute with old anxietyFor me.
Even as a fire leaps into flame and burnsLeaping and laughing in its lovely flight,And then under the flame a glowing domeDeepens slowly into blood-like light:—So did you flame and in flame take delight,So are you hollow'd now with aching fire.But I still warm me and make there my home,Still beauty and youth burn there invisiblyFor me.
Now my lips falling on your silver'd skull,My fingers in the valleys of your cheeks,Or my hands in your thin strong hands fast caught,Your body clutched to mine, mine bent to yours:Now love undying feeds on love beautiful,Now, now I am but thought kissing your thought ...—And can it be in your heart's music speaksA deeper rhythm hearing mine: can it beIndeed for me?
The undecaying yew has shed his flowersLong since in golden showers.The elm has robed her heightIn green, and hangs maternal o'er the brightStarred meadows, and her full-contented breastLifts and sinks to rest.Shades drowsing in the grassBeneath the hedge move but as the hours pass.Beech, oak and beam have all put beauty onIn the eye of the sun.Because the hawthorn's sweetAll the earth is sweet and the air, and the wind's feet.In the wood's green hollows the earth is sweet and wet,For scarce one shaft may getThe sudden green between:Only that warm sweet creeps between the green;Or in the clearing the bluebells lifting highMake another azure sky.All's leaf and flower exceptThe sluggish ash that all night long has slept,And all the morning of this lingering spring.Every tree else may sing,Every bough laugh and shake;But the ash like an old man does not wakeEven though draws near the season's poise and noonOf heavy-poppied swoon ...Still the ash is asleep,Or from his lower upraised palms now creepFirst green leaves, promising that even those gauntTossed boughs shall be the hauntOf Autumn starlings shrillMid his full-leaved high branches never still.If to any tree,'Tis to the ash that I might likened be—Masculine, unamenable, delaying,With palms uplifted prayingFor another life and SpringYet unforeshadowed; but content to swingStiff branches chill and bareIn this fine-quivering airThat others' love makes sweetness everywhere.
The undecaying yew has shed his flowersLong since in golden showers.The elm has robed her heightIn green, and hangs maternal o'er the brightStarred meadows, and her full-contented breastLifts and sinks to rest.Shades drowsing in the grassBeneath the hedge move but as the hours pass.Beech, oak and beam have all put beauty onIn the eye of the sun.Because the hawthorn's sweetAll the earth is sweet and the air, and the wind's feet.In the wood's green hollows the earth is sweet and wet,For scarce one shaft may getThe sudden green between:Only that warm sweet creeps between the green;Or in the clearing the bluebells lifting highMake another azure sky.
All's leaf and flower exceptThe sluggish ash that all night long has slept,And all the morning of this lingering spring.Every tree else may sing,Every bough laugh and shake;But the ash like an old man does not wakeEven though draws near the season's poise and noonOf heavy-poppied swoon ...Still the ash is asleep,Or from his lower upraised palms now creepFirst green leaves, promising that even those gauntTossed boughs shall be the hauntOf Autumn starlings shrillMid his full-leaved high branches never still.
If to any tree,'Tis to the ash that I might likened be—Masculine, unamenable, delaying,With palms uplifted prayingFor another life and SpringYet unforeshadowed; but content to swingStiff branches chill and bareIn this fine-quivering airThat others' love makes sweetness everywhere.
To make a fairer,A kinder, a more constant world than this;To make time longerAnd love a little stronger,To give to blossomsAnd trees and fruits more beauty than they bear,Adding to sweetnessThe aye-wanted completeness,To say to sorrow,"Ease now thy bosom of its snaky burden";(And sorrow brightened,No more stung and frightened),To cry to death,"Stay a little, O proud Shade, thy stony hand";(And death removingLeft us amazed loving);—For this and this,O inward Spirit, arm thyself with power;Be it thy dutyTo give a body to beauty.Thine to remakeThe world in thy hid likeness, and renewThe fading visionIn spite of time's derision.Be it thine, O spirit,The world of sense and thought to exalt with light;Purge away blindness,Terror and all unkindness.Shine, shineFrom within, on the confused grey world withoutThat, growing clearer,Grows spiritual and dearer.
To make a fairer,A kinder, a more constant world than this;To make time longerAnd love a little stronger,
To give to blossomsAnd trees and fruits more beauty than they bear,Adding to sweetnessThe aye-wanted completeness,
To say to sorrow,"Ease now thy bosom of its snaky burden";(And sorrow brightened,No more stung and frightened),
To cry to death,"Stay a little, O proud Shade, thy stony hand";(And death removingLeft us amazed loving);—
For this and this,O inward Spirit, arm thyself with power;Be it thy dutyTo give a body to beauty.
Thine to remakeThe world in thy hid likeness, and renewThe fading visionIn spite of time's derision.
Be it thine, O spirit,The world of sense and thought to exalt with light;Purge away blindness,Terror and all unkindness.
Shine, shineFrom within, on the confused grey world withoutThat, growing clearer,Grows spiritual and dearer.
Unconscious on thy lap I lay,A spiritual thing,Stirless until the yet unlooked-for dayOf human birthShould call me from thy starry twilight, Earth.And did thy bosom rock and clear voice sing?I know not—now no more a spiritual thing.Nor then thy breathed AdieuI rightly knew.—Until those human kind arms caughtAnd nursed my headUpon her breast who from the twilight broughtThis stranger me.Mother, it were yet happiness to beWithin your arms; but now that you are deadYour memory sleeps in mine; so mine is comforted,Though I breathed dear AdieuUnheard by you.And I have gathered to my breastWife, mistress, child,Affections insecure but tenderestOf all that clutchMan's heart with their "Too little!" and "Too much!"O, what anxieties, what passions wildBind and unbind me, what storms never to be stilledUntil Adieu, AdieuBreathe the night through.O, when all last farewells are saidTo these most dear;O, when within my purged heart peace is shed;When these old sweetHumanities move out on hushing feet,And all is hush; then in that silence clearWho is it comes again—near and near and near,Even while the sighed AdieuFades the hush through?O, is it on thy breast I fall,A spiritual thingOnce more, and hear with ear insensualThe voice of primal EarthBreathed gently as on Eden faint airs forth;And so contented to thy bosom cling,Though all those loves are gone nor faithful echoes ring,Nor fond Adieu, AdieuMy parted spirit pursue?—So hidden in green darkness deep,Feel when I wakeThe tides of night and day upon thee sweep,And know thy forehead bared before the East,And hear thy forests hushing in the WestAnd in thy bosom, Earth, the slow heart shake:But hear no more the infinite forest murmurs breakInto Adieu, Adieu,No more Adieu!
Unconscious on thy lap I lay,A spiritual thing,Stirless until the yet unlooked-for dayOf human birthShould call me from thy starry twilight, Earth.And did thy bosom rock and clear voice sing?I know not—now no more a spiritual thing.Nor then thy breathed AdieuI rightly knew.
—Until those human kind arms caughtAnd nursed my headUpon her breast who from the twilight broughtThis stranger me.Mother, it were yet happiness to beWithin your arms; but now that you are deadYour memory sleeps in mine; so mine is comforted,Though I breathed dear AdieuUnheard by you.
And I have gathered to my breastWife, mistress, child,Affections insecure but tenderestOf all that clutchMan's heart with their "Too little!" and "Too much!"O, what anxieties, what passions wildBind and unbind me, what storms never to be stilledUntil Adieu, AdieuBreathe the night through.
O, when all last farewells are saidTo these most dear;O, when within my purged heart peace is shed;When these old sweetHumanities move out on hushing feet,And all is hush; then in that silence clearWho is it comes again—near and near and near,Even while the sighed AdieuFades the hush through?
O, is it on thy breast I fall,A spiritual thingOnce more, and hear with ear insensualThe voice of primal EarthBreathed gently as on Eden faint airs forth;And so contented to thy bosom cling,Though all those loves are gone nor faithful echoes ring,Nor fond Adieu, AdieuMy parted spirit pursue?
—So hidden in green darkness deep,Feel when I wakeThe tides of night and day upon thee sweep,And know thy forehead bared before the East,And hear thy forests hushing in the WestAnd in thy bosom, Earth, the slow heart shake:But hear no more the infinite forest murmurs breakInto Adieu, Adieu,No more Adieu!
I reached the cottage. I knew it from the cardHe had given me—the low door heavily barred,Steep roof, and two yews whispering on guard.Dusk thickened as I came, but I could smellFirst red wallflower and an early hyacinth bell,And see dim primroses. "O, I can tell,"I thought, "they love the flowers he loved." The rainShook from fruit bushes in new showers againAs I brushed past, and gemmed the window pane.Bare was the window yet, and the lamp bright.I saw them sitting there, streamed with the lightThat overflowed upon the enclosing night."Poor things, I wonder why they've lit up so,"A voice said, passing on the road below."Who are they?" asked another. "Don't you know?"Their voices crept away. I heard no moreAs I crossed the garden and knocked at the door.I waited, then knocked louder than before,And thrice, and still in vain. So on the grassI stepped, and tap-tapped on the rainy glass.Then did a girl without turning towards me passFrom the room. I heard the heavy barred door creak,And a voice entreating from the doorway speak,"Will you come this way?"—a voice childlike and quick.The way was dark. I followed her white frock,Past the now-chiming, sweet-tongued unseen clock,Into the room. One figure like a rockDraped in an unstarred night—his mother—bowedUnrising and unspeaking. His aunt stoodAnd took my hand, murmuring, "So good, so good!"Never such quiet people had I known.Voices they scarcely needed, they had grownTo talk less by the word than muted tone."We'll soon have tea," the girl said. "Please sit here."She pushed a heavy low deep-seated chairI knew at once was his; and I sat there.I could not look at them. It seemed I madeNoise in that quietness. I was afraidTo look or speak until the aunt's voice said,"You were his friend." And that "You were!" awokeMy sense, and nervousness found voice and spokeOf what he had been, until a bullet brokeA too-brief friendship. The rock-like mother keptNight still around her. The aunt silently wept,And the girl into the screen's low shadow stept."You were great friends," said with calm voice the mother.I answered, "Never friend had such another."Then the girl's lips, "Nor sister such a brother."Her words were like a sounding pebble castInto a hollow silence; but at lastShe moved and bending to my low chair passedSwift leaf-like fingers o'er my face and said,"You are not like him." And as she turned her headInto full light beneath the lamp's green shadeI saw the sunken spaces of her eyes.Then her face listening to my dumb surprise."Forgive," she said, "a blind girl's liberties.""You were his friend; I wanted so to seeThe friends my brother had. Now let's have tea."She poured, and passed a cup and cakes to me."These are my cakes," she smiled; and as I ateShe talked, and to the others cup and platePassed as they in their shadow and silence sat."Thanks, we are used to each other," she said when IRose in the awkwardness of seeing, shyOf helping and of watching helplessly.And from the manner of their hands 'twas clearThey too were blind; but I knew they could hearMy pitiful thoughts as I sat aching there.... I needs must talk, until the girl was goneA while out of the room. The lamp shone on,But the true light out of the room was gone."Rose loved him so!" her mother said, and sighed."He was our eyes, he was our joy and pride,And all that's left is but to say he died."She ceased as Rose returned. Then as beforeWe talked and paused until, "Tell me once more,What was it he said?" And I told her once more.She listened: in her face was pride and painAs in her mind's eye near he stood and plain....Then the thin leaves fell on my cheek againAnd on my hands. "He must have loved you well,"She whispered, as her hands from my hands fell.Silence flowed back with thoughts unspeakable.It was a painful thing to leave them thereWithin the useless light and stirless air."Let me show you the way. Mind, there's a stair"Here, then another stair ten paces on....Isn't there a moon? Good-bye."And she was gone.Full moon upon the drenched fruit garden shone.
I reached the cottage. I knew it from the cardHe had given me—the low door heavily barred,Steep roof, and two yews whispering on guard.
Dusk thickened as I came, but I could smellFirst red wallflower and an early hyacinth bell,And see dim primroses. "O, I can tell,"
I thought, "they love the flowers he loved." The rainShook from fruit bushes in new showers againAs I brushed past, and gemmed the window pane.
Bare was the window yet, and the lamp bright.I saw them sitting there, streamed with the lightThat overflowed upon the enclosing night.
"Poor things, I wonder why they've lit up so,"A voice said, passing on the road below."Who are they?" asked another. "Don't you know?"
Their voices crept away. I heard no moreAs I crossed the garden and knocked at the door.I waited, then knocked louder than before,
And thrice, and still in vain. So on the grassI stepped, and tap-tapped on the rainy glass.Then did a girl without turning towards me pass
From the room. I heard the heavy barred door creak,And a voice entreating from the doorway speak,"Will you come this way?"—a voice childlike and quick.
The way was dark. I followed her white frock,Past the now-chiming, sweet-tongued unseen clock,Into the room. One figure like a rock
Draped in an unstarred night—his mother—bowedUnrising and unspeaking. His aunt stoodAnd took my hand, murmuring, "So good, so good!"
Never such quiet people had I known.Voices they scarcely needed, they had grownTo talk less by the word than muted tone.
"We'll soon have tea," the girl said. "Please sit here."She pushed a heavy low deep-seated chairI knew at once was his; and I sat there.
I could not look at them. It seemed I madeNoise in that quietness. I was afraidTo look or speak until the aunt's voice said,
"You were his friend." And that "You were!" awokeMy sense, and nervousness found voice and spokeOf what he had been, until a bullet broke
A too-brief friendship. The rock-like mother keptNight still around her. The aunt silently wept,And the girl into the screen's low shadow stept.
"You were great friends," said with calm voice the mother.I answered, "Never friend had such another."Then the girl's lips, "Nor sister such a brother."
Her words were like a sounding pebble castInto a hollow silence; but at lastShe moved and bending to my low chair passed
Swift leaf-like fingers o'er my face and said,"You are not like him." And as she turned her headInto full light beneath the lamp's green shade
I saw the sunken spaces of her eyes.Then her face listening to my dumb surprise."Forgive," she said, "a blind girl's liberties."
"You were his friend; I wanted so to seeThe friends my brother had. Now let's have tea."She poured, and passed a cup and cakes to me.
"These are my cakes," she smiled; and as I ateShe talked, and to the others cup and platePassed as they in their shadow and silence sat.
"Thanks, we are used to each other," she said when IRose in the awkwardness of seeing, shyOf helping and of watching helplessly.
And from the manner of their hands 'twas clearThey too were blind; but I knew they could hearMy pitiful thoughts as I sat aching there.
... I needs must talk, until the girl was goneA while out of the room. The lamp shone on,But the true light out of the room was gone.
"Rose loved him so!" her mother said, and sighed."He was our eyes, he was our joy and pride,And all that's left is but to say he died."
She ceased as Rose returned. Then as beforeWe talked and paused until, "Tell me once more,What was it he said?" And I told her once more.
She listened: in her face was pride and painAs in her mind's eye near he stood and plain....Then the thin leaves fell on my cheek again
And on my hands. "He must have loved you well,"She whispered, as her hands from my hands fell.Silence flowed back with thoughts unspeakable.
It was a painful thing to leave them thereWithin the useless light and stirless air."Let me show you the way. Mind, there's a stair
"Here, then another stair ten paces on....Isn't there a moon? Good-bye."And she was gone.Full moon upon the drenched fruit garden shone.
They talked of old campaigns, nineteen-fourteenAnd Mons and watery Yser, nineteen-fifteenAnd Neuve Chapelle, 'sixteen, 'seventeen, 'eighteenAnd after. And they grumbled, leaving home,Then talked of nineteen-nineteen, nineteen-twentyAnd after.Their thoughts wandered, leaving homeAmong familiar places and known years;Anticipating in the river, of timeRocks, rapids, shallows, idle glazing poolsMirroring their dark dreams of heaven and earth.—And then they parted, one to Chatham, oneTo Africa, Constantinople one,One to Cologne; and all to an unknown year,Nineteen-nineteen perhaps, or another year.
They talked of old campaigns, nineteen-fourteenAnd Mons and watery Yser, nineteen-fifteenAnd Neuve Chapelle, 'sixteen, 'seventeen, 'eighteenAnd after. And they grumbled, leaving home,Then talked of nineteen-nineteen, nineteen-twentyAnd after.
Their thoughts wandered, leaving homeAmong familiar places and known years;Anticipating in the river, of timeRocks, rapids, shallows, idle glazing poolsMirroring their dark dreams of heaven and earth.—And then they parted, one to Chatham, oneTo Africa, Constantinople one,One to Cologne; and all to an unknown year,Nineteen-nineteen perhaps, or another year.
(11th November, 1918)
ITo Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, light-hidden,Shedding light in the darkness of the mindAs gold beams wake the air to birds a-wing;To Thee, if men were trees, would forests bowIn all our land, as under a new wind;To Thee, if trees were men, would forests singLifting autumnal crowns and bending low,Rising and falling again as inly chidden,Singing and hushing again as inly bidden.To Thee, Most Holy, men being men upraiseBright eyes and waving hands of unarticulating praise.IITo Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, who pourestThy darkness into each wild-heaving human forest,While some say, "'Tis so dark God cannot live,"And some, "It is so dark He never was,"And few, "I hear the forest branches giveAssurèd signs His wind-like footsteps pass;"To Thee, now that long darkness is enlightened,Lift men their hearts, shaking the death-chill dews.Even sad eyes with morning light are brightened,And in this spiritual Easter's lovely huesAre no more with death's arctic shadow frightened.IIIHere in this morning twilight gleaming pureMid the high forest boughs and making clearThe motion the night-wakeful brain had guessed;Here in this peace that wonders, Is it Peace?And sighs its satisfaction on the shivering air;Here, O Most Holy, here, O bright Obscure,Every deep root within the earth's quick breastKnows that the long night's ended and sore agitations cease,And every leaf of every human treeIn England's forest stirs and sings, Light Giver, now to Thee.IVI cannot syllable that unworded praise—An ashen sapling bending in Thy wind,Uplifting in Thy light new-budded leaves;Nor for myself nor any other raiseMy boughs in music, though the woodland heaves—O with what ease of pain at length resigned,What hope to the old inheritance restored!Thy praise it is that men at last are glad.Long unaccustomed brightness in their eyesNeeds must seem beautiful in thine, bright Lord,And to forget the part that sorrow hadIn every shadowed breast, where still it lies,Is there not praise in such forgetfulness?For to grieve less means not that love is less.V—Nor for myself nor any other. YetI cannot but remember all that passedSince justice shook these bosoms, and the fretOf indignation stirred them and they castForgot aside all lesser wrongs, and roseAgainst the spiritual evil of that threatThat made them of dishonour slaves or foes.And who may but with pride remember howNot by ten righteous justice might be saved,But by unsaintly millions moving allAs the tide moves when myriad tossed waves flowOne way, and on the crumbling bastions fall;Then sinking backwards unopposed and slowOver the ruined towers where those vain angers raved.VICreep tarnished gilded figures to their holesWho once walked like great men upon the earthFlickering their false shadows. Fear, like a hound,Hunts them, and there's a death in every sound;And had they souls sorrow would prick their soulsAt every heavy sigh the wind waved forth.... Into their holes they've crept, and they will die.Of them no more and never any more.Their leper-gilt is gone, and they will liePoisoning a little earth and nothing more.VII—That justice has been saved and wrong been slain,That the slow fever-darkness ends in day,Nor madness shakes the pillared world againWith the same blind proud fury; that in vainWhispers the Tempter now, "So pass awayStrength, honesty and hope, and nothing left but pain!"That the many-voiced confusion of the nightClears in the winging of a spirit brightWith new-recovered joy;—for this, O Light,Light Giver, Night Dispeller, praise should be.But praise is dumb from burning hearts to Thee.VIIIBut as a forest bending in the windMurmurs in all its boughs after the wind,Sounds uninterpreted and untaught airs;So now when Thy wind over England stirs,The proud and untranslating sounds of praiseMingle tumultuous over our human ways;And magnifying echoes of Thy windRouse in the profoundest forests of the mind.IXAnd in the secret thicket where Thy lightIs dimmed with starry shining of the night,Hearing these mingled airs from every woodThou'lt smile serenely down, murmuring, "'Tis good."While Angels in the thicket borders curledAmid the farthest gold beams of Thy hair,Seeing on one drooped beam this distant worldFloating illumined, cry, "Bright Lord, how fair!"
I
To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, light-hidden,Shedding light in the darkness of the mindAs gold beams wake the air to birds a-wing;To Thee, if men were trees, would forests bowIn all our land, as under a new wind;To Thee, if trees were men, would forests singLifting autumnal crowns and bending low,Rising and falling again as inly chidden,Singing and hushing again as inly bidden.To Thee, Most Holy, men being men upraiseBright eyes and waving hands of unarticulating praise.
II
To Thee, Most Holy, Most Obscure, who pourestThy darkness into each wild-heaving human forest,While some say, "'Tis so dark God cannot live,"And some, "It is so dark He never was,"And few, "I hear the forest branches giveAssurèd signs His wind-like footsteps pass;"To Thee, now that long darkness is enlightened,Lift men their hearts, shaking the death-chill dews.Even sad eyes with morning light are brightened,And in this spiritual Easter's lovely huesAre no more with death's arctic shadow frightened.
III
Here in this morning twilight gleaming pureMid the high forest boughs and making clearThe motion the night-wakeful brain had guessed;Here in this peace that wonders, Is it Peace?And sighs its satisfaction on the shivering air;Here, O Most Holy, here, O bright Obscure,Every deep root within the earth's quick breastKnows that the long night's ended and sore agitations cease,And every leaf of every human treeIn England's forest stirs and sings, Light Giver, now to Thee.
IV
I cannot syllable that unworded praise—An ashen sapling bending in Thy wind,Uplifting in Thy light new-budded leaves;Nor for myself nor any other raiseMy boughs in music, though the woodland heaves—O with what ease of pain at length resigned,What hope to the old inheritance restored!Thy praise it is that men at last are glad.Long unaccustomed brightness in their eyesNeeds must seem beautiful in thine, bright Lord,And to forget the part that sorrow hadIn every shadowed breast, where still it lies,Is there not praise in such forgetfulness?For to grieve less means not that love is less.
V
—Nor for myself nor any other. YetI cannot but remember all that passedSince justice shook these bosoms, and the fretOf indignation stirred them and they castForgot aside all lesser wrongs, and roseAgainst the spiritual evil of that threatThat made them of dishonour slaves or foes.And who may but with pride remember howNot by ten righteous justice might be saved,But by unsaintly millions moving allAs the tide moves when myriad tossed waves flowOne way, and on the crumbling bastions fall;Then sinking backwards unopposed and slowOver the ruined towers where those vain angers raved.
VI
Creep tarnished gilded figures to their holesWho once walked like great men upon the earthFlickering their false shadows. Fear, like a hound,Hunts them, and there's a death in every sound;And had they souls sorrow would prick their soulsAt every heavy sigh the wind waved forth.... Into their holes they've crept, and they will die.Of them no more and never any more.Their leper-gilt is gone, and they will liePoisoning a little earth and nothing more.
VII
—That justice has been saved and wrong been slain,That the slow fever-darkness ends in day,Nor madness shakes the pillared world againWith the same blind proud fury; that in vainWhispers the Tempter now, "So pass awayStrength, honesty and hope, and nothing left but pain!"That the many-voiced confusion of the nightClears in the winging of a spirit brightWith new-recovered joy;—for this, O Light,Light Giver, Night Dispeller, praise should be.But praise is dumb from burning hearts to Thee.
VIII
But as a forest bending in the windMurmurs in all its boughs after the wind,Sounds uninterpreted and untaught airs;So now when Thy wind over England stirs,The proud and untranslating sounds of praiseMingle tumultuous over our human ways;And magnifying echoes of Thy windRouse in the profoundest forests of the mind.
IX
And in the secret thicket where Thy lightIs dimmed with starry shining of the night,Hearing these mingled airs from every woodThou'lt smile serenely down, murmuring, "'Tis good."While Angels in the thicket borders curledAmid the farthest gold beams of Thy hair,Seeing on one drooped beam this distant worldFloating illumined, cry, "Bright Lord, how fair!"
When man first walked upright and soberlyReflecting as he paced to and fro,And no more swinging from wide tree to tree,Or sheltered by vast boles from sheltered foe,Or crouched within some deep cave by the seaStared at the noisy waste of water's woeWhere the earth ended, and far lightning diedSplintered upon the rigid tideless tide;When man above Time's cloud lifted his headAnd speech knew, and the company of speech,And from his alien presence wild beasts fledAnd birds flew wary from his arrow's reach,And cattle trampling the long meadow weedDid sentry in the wind's path set; when eachHorn, hoof, claw, sting and sinew against manWas turned, and the old enmity began;When, following, beneath the hand of kingsMoved men their parting ways, and some passed onTo forest refuge, some by dark-browed springs,And some to high remoter pastures won,And some o'er yellow deserts spread their wings,Thinning with time and thirst and so were goneForgotten; when between each wandered hostThe seldom travellers faltered and were lost;—In those old days, upon the soft dew'd swardThat held its green between the thicket's cloud,Walked two men musing ere the wide moon pouredHer full-girthed weightless flood. And one was bowedWith years past knowledge, and his face was scoredWhere light or deep had every long year ploughed—Pain, labour, present peril, distant dreadScored in his brow and bending his shagged head.Palsy his frame shook as a harsh wind shakesComplaining reeds fringing a frozen river;His eye the aspect had of frozen lakesWhereunder the foiled waters swirl and quiver;His voice the deep note that the north wind takesDrawn through bare beechwoods where forlorn birds shiver—Deep and unfaltering. A younger manListened, while warmer currents in him ran."Was not my son even as myself to me,As you to him showed his own life again?Now he is dead, and all I looked to seeIn him removes to you—less near and plain,Confused with other blood; and what will beI groping cannot tell, and grope in vain.For men have turned to other ways than mine:Yourself are less fulfilment than a sign,"Sign of a changing world. And change I fear.I have seen old and young like brief gnats die,And have faced death by plague and flood and spear:I have seen mine own familiar people lieIn generations reaped; and near and nearAge leads on Death—I hear his husky sigh.Yet Death I fear not, but these clouds of changeSweeping the old firm world with new and strange."Son of my son, to whom the world shines new,You are strange to me for whom the world is old.Your thoughts are not my thoughts, and unto youThe past, sole warmth for me, is void and cold.Another passion pours your spirit through,Another faith has leapt upon the foldAnd wrestles with the ancient faith. 'And lo!'Lightly men say, 'Even the gods come and go!'"He paused awhile in pacing and hung still,Amid the thickening shades a darker shade.Down the steep valley from the barren hillA herd of deer with antlered leader madeBrief apparition. Mist brimmed up untilOnly the great round heights yet solid stayed—Then they too changed to spectral, and uponThe changing mist wavered, and were gone...."Standing to-day your father's grave beside,I knew my heart with his was covered there;O, more than flesh did in the cold earth hide—My past, his promise. There was none to careSave for the body of a prince that diedAs princes die; there was none whispered, 'WhereMoves now among us his unburied part?What breast beats with the pulses of his heart?'"—Vain thoughts are these that but a dying manSearches among the dark caves of his mind!But as I stood, the very wind that ranBetween the files breathed more than common wind,As though the gods of men when Time began,Fathers of fathers of old humankind,Startled, heard now the changeful future knock;And their lament it was from rock to rock"Tossed with the wind's long echo ... O, speak not,Nor tell me with my loss I am so dazed,That my tongue speaks unfaithfully my thought;That you, you too, within his shadow raised,Stand bare now, wanting all you held or thought,By aimless love or prisoned grief amazed.Tell me not: let me out of silence speak,Or let me still my thoughts in silence break."And so both stood, and not a word to say,By silence overborne, until at lastThe young man breathed, "Look how the end of dayFalls heavily, as though the earth were castInto a shapeless soundless pit, where rayOf heavenly light never the verge has past.Yet will the late moon's light anon shine here,And then gray light, and then the sun's light clear."Sire, 'twas my father died, and like night's pitSoundless and shapeless yawn my orphaned years.And yet I know morn comes and brings with itOld tasks again, and new joys, hopes and fears.Or sword or plough these fingers will find fit,And morrows end with other cries and tears,With women's arms and children's voices andThe sacred gods blessing the new-sown land."But look, upon your beard the dew is bright,Chill is the winter fall: let us go in."Then moved they slowly downward till a lightShining the door-post and thonged door betweenShowed the square Prince's House. Out of the nightThey passed the sudden rubied warmth within.Curled shadowy by the wall a servant slept:A sleepy hound from the same corner crept.Soon were they couched. The young man fell asleep;While the old Prince drowsing uneasily,Tossing on the crest of agitations deep,Dreamed waking, waking dreamed. Then memoryThe unseen hound, did from her corner creepInto his bosom and stirred him with her sighSoundless. And he arose and answering pressedHer beloved head yet closer to his breast....Happy those years returned when first he strodeBeside his father's knees, or climbed and feltThe warm strength of those arms, or singing rodeHigh on his shoulders; or in winter peltOf dread beasts wrapt, set as his father showedSnares in the frosty grass, and at dawn kneltBeside the snares, and shouting homeward tore,Winged with such pride as seldom manhood wore.—How many, many, many years ago!There was no older man now walked the earth.Had all those years sunk to a bitter glow,Like the fire lingering yet upon the hearth?Ah, he might warm his hands there still, and soMust warm his heart now in this wintry dearth,Till the reluming sunken fire should giveWarmth to his ageing wits and bid him live.Even this house! It was his father toldHow in the days half lost in icy timeMen first forsook their wormy caves and coldTo build where the wind-footed cattle climb;And noise of labour broke the silence oldBy such unbroken since the sparkling primeOf the world's spring. And so the house arose,A builded cave, perpetual as the snowsOn the remotest summits of the rangeHemming the north. Then house by house appeared'Neath valley-eaves, and change following on changeUnnoted tamed earth's shaggy front. Men heardStrange voices syllabling with accents strange,By travellers breathed who, startled, paused and fearedSeeing the smoke of habitations curledAbove this hollow of an unrumoured world.Startled, they paused and spoke by doubtful sign,Answered by hesitating sign, untilMoved one with aspect fearless and benign,And met one fearless, while all else hung still.And then was welcome, rest, and meat and wineAnd intercourse of uncouth word, as shrillVoice with deep voice was mingled. So they stayedAnd to astonished eyes strange arts betrayed.By them the oarage of the wind was taught,And how the quick tail steered the cockled boat.They netted fruitful streams, and smiling broughtTheir breaking wickers home, too full to float.And opening the earth's rich womb they wroughtArms from the sullied ore; and labouring smoteThe mountain's bosom, till a path was seenStony amid the flushed snow and flushed green.Then first upon earth's wave the silver shareFloated, by the teamed oxen drawn; then firstWere seed-time rites, and harvest rites when bareThe cropped fields lay, and gathered tumult—nurstLong in the breasts of men that laboured there—Now in the broad ease of fulfilment burst;And when the winter tasks failed in days chill,Weaving of bright-hued yarn, and chattering shrill;And the loved tones of music sounded sweetUnwonted, when the new-stopped pipe was heardRising and falling, and the falling feetOf sudden dancers. And old men were stirredWith old men's memories of ancient heatWhen youth sang in their bosoms like a bird....Sweet that divine musician, Memory,Fingering her many-reeded melody.Then as he stared into the wasting glowAnd watched the fire faint in the whitening wood,Came starker shadows moving vast and slow,And echoes of wild strife and smell of blood,Twitching of slain men, cries of parting woe,Bruised bodies ghastly in the mountain flood;Burials and burnings, triumph with terrors blent,And widowed languors and night-long lament.Like seeds long buried, these dead memoriesUpthrust in their new green and spread to flower:An eager child against his father's kneesLeaning, he had listened many an evening hour.Now these remote reworded historiesEntangled with his own renewed their power,Breathing an antique virtue through his mind,As through dense yew boughs breathes the undying wind.Sighing, he rose up softly. On the wallA dark shape shambled aimless to and fro;Head bent, eyes inward-seeing, rugged, tall,Himself a shadow moved with musings slowAmid his cumbered past, and heard sweet callOf mother voice, and mother folk, and flowOf gentle and proud speech and tender laughter,Story and song, fault and forgiveness after;And a voice graver, gentler than a manMight hear from any but a woman beloved,Stilling and awakening the blood that ranLike ocean tide, as neared she or removed ...Faded that music. Then a voice beganPaining within his heart, yet unreproved;For dear the anguish is that steals uponA father's spirit lamenting his lost son.—The latest born and latest lost of thoseOf his strong and her gentle being born.By earthquake, pestilence, by human foesLong were they dead; and yet not all forlornHe grieved, for at his side the youngest roseBright as a willow gilded by dewy morn....Felled now the tree, silent that music, stillThe motion that did all the vale-air fill.Once more they bore the body from the huntWhere he alone had died. Once more he heardThe wail and sigh, and saw once more their frontOf drooping grief; once more the wailing stirredOld hounds to baying wilder than was wont;Fell once more like slow, sullen rain each wordReluctant, telling to his senses strayed,How while the gods drowsed and men hung afraid.Slain was the Prince unwary by the pawOf a springing beast that died in giving death.Again the featureless torn face he saw,The ribboned bosom emptied of warm breath;Again the circle sudden hush'd with awe,And smothered moaning heard the hush beneath.Again, again, and every night again,Vision renewed and voice recalled in vain.Again those dear and lamentable ritesWithin the winter stems of forest shade,The pile, the smokeless flame, the thousand lights,The one light that in all the thousand played;Deep burthened voices while, around the heightsLifting, young trebles their wild echo made;Then the returning torches at the pyreLit, when the eye glowed faint within the fire.Even as a man that by slow steps may climbAn unknown mountain path with tired treadBy ice-fringed brook and close herb white with rime,Sees sudden far below a strange land spreadImmense; so from his lonely crag of TimeThe Prince, his eye bewildered and adread,Gazed at the vast, with mist and storm confused,Cloud-racked, and changing even while he mused.Ending were the old wise and stable ways.Adventurers into distant lands had fared,From distant lands adventurers with gazeProud and unenvying on his kingdom stared,And sojourning had shaken quiet daysWith restless knowledge, and strange worship rearedOf foreign altars, idols, prayers and songsAnd sacrifice as to such gods belongs.And all unsatisfied his people grownWould move from this rejected mountain rangeBy yearlong valley journeys slowly down,Sun-following, till surfeited with change,Mid idle pastures pitched or fabled town,Subdued to climes and kings and customs strange,At length their very name should die awayAnd all their remnant be a vague "Men say.""Men say!" he sighed, and from that lofty vergeOf inward seeing drooped his doubtful sight.Sweet was it from such reverie to emergeAnd breathe once more the thoughtless air of night,And watch the fire-slave through fresh billets urgeThe sleeping flame, until the vivid lightAnd toothed shadows wearied.... And then creptThe hounds a little nearer, and all slept.But the young man still lay in quiet sleep,Or half-sleep, and a dream-born cloud enwreathedWith memories, hopes and longings hidden deepIn his flown mind. Another air he breathed,Saw from an unsubstantial mountain sweepIn purest light, soon in low shadow sheathed,Semblance of faint-known faces, or belovedDaily-acquainted still, or long removed.Even as sacred fire in fennel stalksThrough windy ways is borne and densest night,Till where the outpost shivering sentry walksBeating the minutes into hours, the lightTouches the guarded pile and, flaring, balksBeasts padding near and each unvisioned spriteBy old dread apprehended; and new gladnessShakes in the village prone in winter sadness:—So through the young man's dream the kingly flameIn his own breast was undiminished borne.And other peoples catching from his fameA noble heat, in neighbouring lands forlorn,Would glow with new power and the ancient nameBless, that had brightened through their narrow morn.And purer yet and steadier would pass onThe sacred flame to son and son and son.Or with contracting mind he saw the hostOf mountain warriors banded, moving downUntrodden ways, as on young buds a frostFalls, and the spring lies stiff. The air was sownWith strife, the fields with blood, the night with ghostWandering by ghost, and wounded men were strownSurprised, unweaponed; and chill air congealedEach hurt, and with the blood their breath was sealed.And the loved tones of music sounded fierceWhen the returning files with aspect proudApproached, and brandished their rich trophied spears.Sweet the pipes' spearlike music, sweet and loud,And music of smitten arms was sweet to tears;Sweet the dance unto smiling gods new vowed,Sweet the recounting song and choral cries,And age's quaverings and girls' envious sighs.—So of himself, a father-king, he dreamed,Holding an equal nation in his eye.O with what golden points the future gleamed!Rustled the years like laden mule-trains by,Each with its burthen of old time redeemed....Splendour on splendour poured, and so would lieUnnoted and unmeasured:—metals, herds,Distant-sought wonders, strange growths, beasts and birds.Within the summer of that splendid shadeMight men live happy and nought left to fear,Or if an antique restless spirit playedFretful within their bones, and change drew nearDrumming wild airs, and another music made,A father-king, speaking assured and clear,Bidding them follow he would lead them forthThrough the yet undiscovered frowning north.And the last fire on the warm stones would burn,And the smoke linger on the mountain skies.And seeing, they would muse yet of returnAnd then forget their sadness in the criesConfused of the great caravan; and so turnTowards the next sun-setting and the next sunriseMany and many a day and wind and windThrough foreign earth, as a dream through the mind.Flowing on with the changes of its thought.And doubtful kings entreating them to stayWould sleep the easier when they lingered not;And sullen tribes menacing would make way,And broad slow rivers in their tide be caught,And the long caravan o'er the ford all dayAnd all day and all day pass; while the tide sleptIn sluggish shallows, or through marsh-reeds crept.So would they on and on, with death and birthFor wayfellows and nightly stars for guide,While seasons bloomed and faded on the earth,And jealous gods their wandering gods would chide.Until, weary of endless going forthDark-locust-like, the old fret would subside,And young men with aged men and women cry,"In this full-rivered pasture let us lie!"Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest!"Midmost a cedar grove high sacrificeNeeds then be made, that gods be manifest;And while the smoke spread in long twilit skies,"Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest,"Would old men breathe repeated between sighs."In this green world and cool," would mothers say,"Rest we, nor with thin babes yet longer stray."—So stealing from the mind of the old KingExhausted, into the sleeping young man's brainCrept the same dream and lifted on new wingAnd took from his swift passions a new stain,Sanguine and azure, and first flutteringRose then on easy vans that bore againThe sleeper past his common thought's confine:—So borne, so soaring, in that air divine,He saw his people stayed, their journeys ended....There should they, no more fretful, dwell for everIn the full-nourished pasture where untendedHerds multiplied, and famine threatened never,And where high border-hills glittered with splendidSparse-covered veins washed by the hill-born river.So stead by stead arose, and men there movedSatisfied, and no more vain longings roved.Again the silver plough gleamed in the sod,And seed from old fields slept in furrows new.Then when Spring's rain and sun together trodAnd interweaved swift steps the meadow through,Old rites revived; they bore the shapen godWith green stalks and first-budded boughs, and drewTogether youth and age. And sowers leaptHigh o'er the seed in earth's cold bosom wrapt:—So in the golden-hued and burning hoursOf harvest, leapt on high the full-eared corn.Friendly to pious hands those imaged PowersOf rain and sun. And when the grain was borneBy oxen trailing tangled straws and flowers,With leaves and dying blossoms on each horn,Friendly the gods commingling in the shadesOf moon and torch and smoke-delaying glades.Fell slowly sunset; the starred evening coolDrooped round as mid his people the king rode,Blessing and blessed, and in the faithful poolOf their old loves his clear reflection glowedLike summer's golden moon:—in wise and fool,Noble and mean, accustomed reverence showedClear-shining; so he reached the unbarred hallWhere lamps, lords, servitors flashed festival,Remembering old journeys and their end.Bright-throned he sat there, with those lords aroundSnow-polled, co-eval, as with friends their friendFeasting. Arose at length the awaited soundOf bardic chanting, bidding their thoughts descendInto the chamber where the Past lay bound,Wanting but music's finger; so upspringing,The Past stormed all their minds in that loud singing.And strangers, furred and tawny, seated there,Far travellers from the sunrise, looking onThe feasting and the splendour, and with earUncertain listening to the solemn toneOf most dear Memory, envied all and swareA sudden fealty. But the bard sang onWhile silver beakers brimmed untouched; and darkenedThe proud remembering eyes of men that hearkened.Then came once more those strangers leading longMigration of their subject folk. They stayedAnd medley'd and were mingled, and their throngMelted in his like snows, and so were madeOne with them, and forgot their useless tongue,Nor now their ancient bloody worship paidTo painted gods:—name, language, story diedWhen their last faithless exile parting sighed.So year on year, century on centuryIn his imagination of delightFollowed, in a new world all innocencyAnd simpleness, and made for beings bright,Where man to man was friend, unfearful, free,And natural griefs alone darkened their night,And natural joys as the wide air were common,And kindness was the bond of all kin human.—When the loved reeds of music sounded clearFrom birds' breasts quivering in tall woodland treesThat rustled leafless in the winter air,And with morn's new voice shrilled the western breeze:Folding her wings the dream crept from his earTo hang where bats drowse until daylight dies.Then he from sleep's dear vanity awakingWatched a sole sunbeam the roof-shadows raking.
When man first walked upright and soberlyReflecting as he paced to and fro,And no more swinging from wide tree to tree,Or sheltered by vast boles from sheltered foe,Or crouched within some deep cave by the seaStared at the noisy waste of water's woeWhere the earth ended, and far lightning diedSplintered upon the rigid tideless tide;
When man above Time's cloud lifted his headAnd speech knew, and the company of speech,And from his alien presence wild beasts fledAnd birds flew wary from his arrow's reach,And cattle trampling the long meadow weedDid sentry in the wind's path set; when eachHorn, hoof, claw, sting and sinew against manWas turned, and the old enmity began;
When, following, beneath the hand of kingsMoved men their parting ways, and some passed onTo forest refuge, some by dark-browed springs,And some to high remoter pastures won,And some o'er yellow deserts spread their wings,Thinning with time and thirst and so were goneForgotten; when between each wandered hostThe seldom travellers faltered and were lost;—
In those old days, upon the soft dew'd swardThat held its green between the thicket's cloud,Walked two men musing ere the wide moon pouredHer full-girthed weightless flood. And one was bowedWith years past knowledge, and his face was scoredWhere light or deep had every long year ploughed—Pain, labour, present peril, distant dreadScored in his brow and bending his shagged head.
Palsy his frame shook as a harsh wind shakesComplaining reeds fringing a frozen river;His eye the aspect had of frozen lakesWhereunder the foiled waters swirl and quiver;His voice the deep note that the north wind takesDrawn through bare beechwoods where forlorn birds shiver—Deep and unfaltering. A younger manListened, while warmer currents in him ran.
"Was not my son even as myself to me,As you to him showed his own life again?Now he is dead, and all I looked to seeIn him removes to you—less near and plain,Confused with other blood; and what will beI groping cannot tell, and grope in vain.For men have turned to other ways than mine:Yourself are less fulfilment than a sign,
"Sign of a changing world. And change I fear.I have seen old and young like brief gnats die,And have faced death by plague and flood and spear:I have seen mine own familiar people lieIn generations reaped; and near and nearAge leads on Death—I hear his husky sigh.Yet Death I fear not, but these clouds of changeSweeping the old firm world with new and strange.
"Son of my son, to whom the world shines new,You are strange to me for whom the world is old.Your thoughts are not my thoughts, and unto youThe past, sole warmth for me, is void and cold.Another passion pours your spirit through,Another faith has leapt upon the foldAnd wrestles with the ancient faith. 'And lo!'Lightly men say, 'Even the gods come and go!'"
He paused awhile in pacing and hung still,Amid the thickening shades a darker shade.Down the steep valley from the barren hillA herd of deer with antlered leader madeBrief apparition. Mist brimmed up untilOnly the great round heights yet solid stayed—Then they too changed to spectral, and uponThe changing mist wavered, and were gone....
"Standing to-day your father's grave beside,I knew my heart with his was covered there;O, more than flesh did in the cold earth hide—My past, his promise. There was none to careSave for the body of a prince that diedAs princes die; there was none whispered, 'WhereMoves now among us his unburied part?What breast beats with the pulses of his heart?'
"—Vain thoughts are these that but a dying manSearches among the dark caves of his mind!But as I stood, the very wind that ranBetween the files breathed more than common wind,As though the gods of men when Time began,Fathers of fathers of old humankind,Startled, heard now the changeful future knock;And their lament it was from rock to rock
"Tossed with the wind's long echo ... O, speak not,Nor tell me with my loss I am so dazed,That my tongue speaks unfaithfully my thought;That you, you too, within his shadow raised,Stand bare now, wanting all you held or thought,By aimless love or prisoned grief amazed.Tell me not: let me out of silence speak,Or let me still my thoughts in silence break."
And so both stood, and not a word to say,By silence overborne, until at lastThe young man breathed, "Look how the end of dayFalls heavily, as though the earth were castInto a shapeless soundless pit, where rayOf heavenly light never the verge has past.Yet will the late moon's light anon shine here,And then gray light, and then the sun's light clear.
"Sire, 'twas my father died, and like night's pitSoundless and shapeless yawn my orphaned years.And yet I know morn comes and brings with itOld tasks again, and new joys, hopes and fears.Or sword or plough these fingers will find fit,And morrows end with other cries and tears,With women's arms and children's voices andThe sacred gods blessing the new-sown land.
"But look, upon your beard the dew is bright,Chill is the winter fall: let us go in."Then moved they slowly downward till a lightShining the door-post and thonged door betweenShowed the square Prince's House. Out of the nightThey passed the sudden rubied warmth within.Curled shadowy by the wall a servant slept:A sleepy hound from the same corner crept.
Soon were they couched. The young man fell asleep;While the old Prince drowsing uneasily,Tossing on the crest of agitations deep,Dreamed waking, waking dreamed. Then memoryThe unseen hound, did from her corner creepInto his bosom and stirred him with her sighSoundless. And he arose and answering pressedHer beloved head yet closer to his breast....
Happy those years returned when first he strodeBeside his father's knees, or climbed and feltThe warm strength of those arms, or singing rodeHigh on his shoulders; or in winter peltOf dread beasts wrapt, set as his father showedSnares in the frosty grass, and at dawn kneltBeside the snares, and shouting homeward tore,Winged with such pride as seldom manhood wore.
—How many, many, many years ago!There was no older man now walked the earth.Had all those years sunk to a bitter glow,Like the fire lingering yet upon the hearth?Ah, he might warm his hands there still, and soMust warm his heart now in this wintry dearth,Till the reluming sunken fire should giveWarmth to his ageing wits and bid him live.
Even this house! It was his father toldHow in the days half lost in icy timeMen first forsook their wormy caves and coldTo build where the wind-footed cattle climb;And noise of labour broke the silence oldBy such unbroken since the sparkling primeOf the world's spring. And so the house arose,A builded cave, perpetual as the snows
On the remotest summits of the rangeHemming the north. Then house by house appeared'Neath valley-eaves, and change following on changeUnnoted tamed earth's shaggy front. Men heardStrange voices syllabling with accents strange,By travellers breathed who, startled, paused and fearedSeeing the smoke of habitations curledAbove this hollow of an unrumoured world.
Startled, they paused and spoke by doubtful sign,Answered by hesitating sign, untilMoved one with aspect fearless and benign,And met one fearless, while all else hung still.And then was welcome, rest, and meat and wineAnd intercourse of uncouth word, as shrillVoice with deep voice was mingled. So they stayedAnd to astonished eyes strange arts betrayed.
By them the oarage of the wind was taught,And how the quick tail steered the cockled boat.They netted fruitful streams, and smiling broughtTheir breaking wickers home, too full to float.And opening the earth's rich womb they wroughtArms from the sullied ore; and labouring smoteThe mountain's bosom, till a path was seenStony amid the flushed snow and flushed green.
Then first upon earth's wave the silver shareFloated, by the teamed oxen drawn; then firstWere seed-time rites, and harvest rites when bareThe cropped fields lay, and gathered tumult—nurstLong in the breasts of men that laboured there—Now in the broad ease of fulfilment burst;And when the winter tasks failed in days chill,Weaving of bright-hued yarn, and chattering shrill;
And the loved tones of music sounded sweetUnwonted, when the new-stopped pipe was heardRising and falling, and the falling feetOf sudden dancers. And old men were stirredWith old men's memories of ancient heatWhen youth sang in their bosoms like a bird....Sweet that divine musician, Memory,Fingering her many-reeded melody.
Then as he stared into the wasting glowAnd watched the fire faint in the whitening wood,Came starker shadows moving vast and slow,And echoes of wild strife and smell of blood,Twitching of slain men, cries of parting woe,Bruised bodies ghastly in the mountain flood;Burials and burnings, triumph with terrors blent,And widowed languors and night-long lament.
Like seeds long buried, these dead memoriesUpthrust in their new green and spread to flower:An eager child against his father's kneesLeaning, he had listened many an evening hour.Now these remote reworded historiesEntangled with his own renewed their power,Breathing an antique virtue through his mind,As through dense yew boughs breathes the undying wind.
Sighing, he rose up softly. On the wallA dark shape shambled aimless to and fro;Head bent, eyes inward-seeing, rugged, tall,Himself a shadow moved with musings slowAmid his cumbered past, and heard sweet callOf mother voice, and mother folk, and flowOf gentle and proud speech and tender laughter,Story and song, fault and forgiveness after;
And a voice graver, gentler than a manMight hear from any but a woman beloved,Stilling and awakening the blood that ranLike ocean tide, as neared she or removed ...Faded that music. Then a voice beganPaining within his heart, yet unreproved;For dear the anguish is that steals uponA father's spirit lamenting his lost son.
—The latest born and latest lost of thoseOf his strong and her gentle being born.By earthquake, pestilence, by human foesLong were they dead; and yet not all forlornHe grieved, for at his side the youngest roseBright as a willow gilded by dewy morn....Felled now the tree, silent that music, stillThe motion that did all the vale-air fill.
Once more they bore the body from the huntWhere he alone had died. Once more he heardThe wail and sigh, and saw once more their frontOf drooping grief; once more the wailing stirredOld hounds to baying wilder than was wont;Fell once more like slow, sullen rain each wordReluctant, telling to his senses strayed,How while the gods drowsed and men hung afraid.
Slain was the Prince unwary by the pawOf a springing beast that died in giving death.Again the featureless torn face he saw,The ribboned bosom emptied of warm breath;Again the circle sudden hush'd with awe,And smothered moaning heard the hush beneath.Again, again, and every night again,Vision renewed and voice recalled in vain.
Again those dear and lamentable ritesWithin the winter stems of forest shade,The pile, the smokeless flame, the thousand lights,The one light that in all the thousand played;Deep burthened voices while, around the heightsLifting, young trebles their wild echo made;Then the returning torches at the pyreLit, when the eye glowed faint within the fire.
Even as a man that by slow steps may climbAn unknown mountain path with tired treadBy ice-fringed brook and close herb white with rime,Sees sudden far below a strange land spreadImmense; so from his lonely crag of TimeThe Prince, his eye bewildered and adread,Gazed at the vast, with mist and storm confused,Cloud-racked, and changing even while he mused.
Ending were the old wise and stable ways.Adventurers into distant lands had fared,From distant lands adventurers with gazeProud and unenvying on his kingdom stared,And sojourning had shaken quiet daysWith restless knowledge, and strange worship rearedOf foreign altars, idols, prayers and songsAnd sacrifice as to such gods belongs.
And all unsatisfied his people grownWould move from this rejected mountain rangeBy yearlong valley journeys slowly down,Sun-following, till surfeited with change,Mid idle pastures pitched or fabled town,Subdued to climes and kings and customs strange,At length their very name should die awayAnd all their remnant be a vague "Men say."
"Men say!" he sighed, and from that lofty vergeOf inward seeing drooped his doubtful sight.Sweet was it from such reverie to emergeAnd breathe once more the thoughtless air of night,And watch the fire-slave through fresh billets urgeThe sleeping flame, until the vivid lightAnd toothed shadows wearied.... And then creptThe hounds a little nearer, and all slept.
But the young man still lay in quiet sleep,Or half-sleep, and a dream-born cloud enwreathedWith memories, hopes and longings hidden deepIn his flown mind. Another air he breathed,Saw from an unsubstantial mountain sweepIn purest light, soon in low shadow sheathed,Semblance of faint-known faces, or belovedDaily-acquainted still, or long removed.
Even as sacred fire in fennel stalksThrough windy ways is borne and densest night,Till where the outpost shivering sentry walksBeating the minutes into hours, the lightTouches the guarded pile and, flaring, balksBeasts padding near and each unvisioned spriteBy old dread apprehended; and new gladnessShakes in the village prone in winter sadness:—
So through the young man's dream the kingly flameIn his own breast was undiminished borne.And other peoples catching from his fameA noble heat, in neighbouring lands forlorn,Would glow with new power and the ancient nameBless, that had brightened through their narrow morn.And purer yet and steadier would pass onThe sacred flame to son and son and son.
Or with contracting mind he saw the hostOf mountain warriors banded, moving downUntrodden ways, as on young buds a frostFalls, and the spring lies stiff. The air was sownWith strife, the fields with blood, the night with ghostWandering by ghost, and wounded men were strownSurprised, unweaponed; and chill air congealedEach hurt, and with the blood their breath was sealed.
And the loved tones of music sounded fierceWhen the returning files with aspect proudApproached, and brandished their rich trophied spears.Sweet the pipes' spearlike music, sweet and loud,And music of smitten arms was sweet to tears;Sweet the dance unto smiling gods new vowed,Sweet the recounting song and choral cries,And age's quaverings and girls' envious sighs.
—So of himself, a father-king, he dreamed,Holding an equal nation in his eye.O with what golden points the future gleamed!Rustled the years like laden mule-trains by,Each with its burthen of old time redeemed....Splendour on splendour poured, and so would lieUnnoted and unmeasured:—metals, herds,Distant-sought wonders, strange growths, beasts and birds.
Within the summer of that splendid shadeMight men live happy and nought left to fear,Or if an antique restless spirit playedFretful within their bones, and change drew nearDrumming wild airs, and another music made,A father-king, speaking assured and clear,Bidding them follow he would lead them forthThrough the yet undiscovered frowning north.
And the last fire on the warm stones would burn,And the smoke linger on the mountain skies.And seeing, they would muse yet of returnAnd then forget their sadness in the criesConfused of the great caravan; and so turnTowards the next sun-setting and the next sunriseMany and many a day and wind and windThrough foreign earth, as a dream through the mind.
Flowing on with the changes of its thought.And doubtful kings entreating them to stayWould sleep the easier when they lingered not;And sullen tribes menacing would make way,And broad slow rivers in their tide be caught,And the long caravan o'er the ford all dayAnd all day and all day pass; while the tide sleptIn sluggish shallows, or through marsh-reeds crept.
So would they on and on, with death and birthFor wayfellows and nightly stars for guide,While seasons bloomed and faded on the earth,And jealous gods their wandering gods would chide.Until, weary of endless going forthDark-locust-like, the old fret would subside,And young men with aged men and women cry,"In this full-rivered pasture let us lie!
"Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest!"Midmost a cedar grove high sacrificeNeeds then be made, that gods be manifest;And while the smoke spread in long twilit skies,"Here let us lie, and wanderings be at rest,"Would old men breathe repeated between sighs."In this green world and cool," would mothers say,"Rest we, nor with thin babes yet longer stray."
—So stealing from the mind of the old KingExhausted, into the sleeping young man's brainCrept the same dream and lifted on new wingAnd took from his swift passions a new stain,Sanguine and azure, and first flutteringRose then on easy vans that bore againThe sleeper past his common thought's confine:—So borne, so soaring, in that air divine,
He saw his people stayed, their journeys ended....There should they, no more fretful, dwell for everIn the full-nourished pasture where untendedHerds multiplied, and famine threatened never,And where high border-hills glittered with splendidSparse-covered veins washed by the hill-born river.So stead by stead arose, and men there movedSatisfied, and no more vain longings roved.
Again the silver plough gleamed in the sod,And seed from old fields slept in furrows new.Then when Spring's rain and sun together trodAnd interweaved swift steps the meadow through,Old rites revived; they bore the shapen godWith green stalks and first-budded boughs, and drewTogether youth and age. And sowers leaptHigh o'er the seed in earth's cold bosom wrapt:—
So in the golden-hued and burning hoursOf harvest, leapt on high the full-eared corn.Friendly to pious hands those imaged PowersOf rain and sun. And when the grain was borneBy oxen trailing tangled straws and flowers,With leaves and dying blossoms on each horn,Friendly the gods commingling in the shadesOf moon and torch and smoke-delaying glades.
Fell slowly sunset; the starred evening coolDrooped round as mid his people the king rode,Blessing and blessed, and in the faithful poolOf their old loves his clear reflection glowedLike summer's golden moon:—in wise and fool,Noble and mean, accustomed reverence showedClear-shining; so he reached the unbarred hallWhere lamps, lords, servitors flashed festival,
Remembering old journeys and their end.Bright-throned he sat there, with those lords aroundSnow-polled, co-eval, as with friends their friendFeasting. Arose at length the awaited soundOf bardic chanting, bidding their thoughts descendInto the chamber where the Past lay bound,Wanting but music's finger; so upspringing,The Past stormed all their minds in that loud singing.
And strangers, furred and tawny, seated there,Far travellers from the sunrise, looking onThe feasting and the splendour, and with earUncertain listening to the solemn toneOf most dear Memory, envied all and swareA sudden fealty. But the bard sang onWhile silver beakers brimmed untouched; and darkenedThe proud remembering eyes of men that hearkened.
Then came once more those strangers leading longMigration of their subject folk. They stayedAnd medley'd and were mingled, and their throngMelted in his like snows, and so were madeOne with them, and forgot their useless tongue,Nor now their ancient bloody worship paidTo painted gods:—name, language, story diedWhen their last faithless exile parting sighed.
So year on year, century on centuryIn his imagination of delightFollowed, in a new world all innocencyAnd simpleness, and made for beings bright,Where man to man was friend, unfearful, free,And natural griefs alone darkened their night,And natural joys as the wide air were common,And kindness was the bond of all kin human.
—When the loved reeds of music sounded clearFrom birds' breasts quivering in tall woodland treesThat rustled leafless in the winter air,And with morn's new voice shrilled the western breeze:Folding her wings the dream crept from his earTo hang where bats drowse until daylight dies.Then he from sleep's dear vanity awakingWatched a sole sunbeam the roof-shadows raking.