SCENE XIII.

What are these thoughts?

CHARLES.

I walked with him upon a windy night;We saw the streaming moon flee through the sky,Pursued by all the dark and hungry clouds.He stopped and said: "Weariness feeds on all.God wearies, and so makes a universe,And gathers angels round him.—He is weak;I weary, and so wreak myself in verse,——Away with scrannel-pipes. Oh, for mad War!I'd give my next twelve years to head but onceTen thousand horse in a victorious charge.Give me some one to hate, and let me chaseHim through the zones, and finding him at last,Make his accursed eyes leap on his cheeks,And his face blacken, with one choking gripe."

EDWARD.

Savage enough, i' faith!

CHARLES.

He often said,His strivings after Poesy and FameWere vain as turning blind eyes on the sun.His Book came out; I told him that the worldHailed him a Poet. He said, with feeble smile,"I have arisen like a dawn—the world,Like the touched Memnon, murmurs—that is all."He said, as we were lying on the moss,(A forest sounding o'er us, like a seaAbove two mermen seated on the sands,)"Our human hearts are deeper than our souls,And Love than Knowledge is diviner food—Oh, Charles! if God will ever send to theeA heart that loves thee, reverence that heart.We think that Death is hard, when he can killAn infant smiling in his very face:Harder was I than Death.—In cup of sinI did dissolve thee, thou most precious pearl,Then drank thee up." We sat one eve,Gazing in silence on the falling sun:We saw him sink. Upon the silent world,Like a fine veil, came down the tender gloom;A dove came fluttering round the window, flewAway, and then came fluttering back. He said,"As that dove flutters round the casement, comesA pale shape round my soul; I've done it wrong,I never will be happy till I opeMy heart and take it in."—'Twas ever so;To some strange sorrow all his thoughts did tend,Like waves unto a shore. Dost know his grief?

EDWARD.

I dimly guess it; a rich cheek grew pale,A happy spirit singing on her wayGrew mute as winter. Walter, mad and blind,Threw off the world, God, unclasped loving arms,Rushed wild through Pleasure and through Devil-world,Till he fell down exhausted.—Do you knowIf he believes in God?

CHARLES.

He told me once,The saddest thing that can befall a soulIs when it loses faith in God and Woman;For he had lost them both. Lost I those gems—Though the world's throne stood empty in my path,I would go wandering back into my childhood,Searching for them with tears.

EDWARD.

Let him goAlone upon his waste and dreary road,He will return to the old faith he learnedBeside his mother's knee. That memoryThat haunts him, as the sweet and gracious moonHaunts the poor outcast Earth, will lead him backTo happiness and God.

CHARLES.

May it be so!

Afternoon.—WalterandVioletentering the garden from the house.

VIOLET.

This is the dwelling you have told me of,—Summer again hath dressed its bloomy walls,Its fragrant front is populous with bees;This is the garden—all is very like,And yet unlike the picture in my heart;I know not which is loveliest. I seeAfar the wandering beauty of the stream,And nearer I can trace it as it showsIts broad and gleaming back among the woods.Is that the wood you slept in?

WALTER.

That is it.And every nook and glade and tangled dell,From its wide circle to its leafy heart,Is as familiar to me as my soul.Memories dwell like doves among the trees,Like nymphs in glooms, like naïads in the wells;And some are sweet, and sadder some than death.[A pause.I could have sworn the world did sing in air,I was so happy once. The eagle drinksThe keen blue morning, and the morn was mine.I bathed in sunset, and to me the nightWas a perpetual wonder and an awe.Oft, as I lay on earth and gazed at her,The gliding moon with influence divineWould draw a most delicious tide of tearsAnd spill it o'er my eyes. Sadness was joyOf but another sort. My happinessWas flecked with vague and transitory griefs,As sweetly as the shining length of JuneWith evanescent eves; and through my soulAt intervals a regal pageant passed,As through the palpitating streets the corseOf a great chieftain, rolled in music rich,Moves slow towards its rest. In these young daysExistence was to me sufficient joy;At once a throne and kingdom, crown and lyre.Now it is but a strip of barren sand,On which with earnest heart I strive to rearA temple to the Gods. I will not sadden you.[They move on.This is the fountain: once it flashed and sang(Possessed of such exuberance of joy)To golden sunrise, the blue day, and whenThe night grew gradual o'er it, star by star,—Now it is mute as Memnon.

VIOLET.

Sad again!Its brim is written over—o'er and o'er;'Tis mute; but have you made its marble lipsAs sweet as Music's?

WALTER.

Miserable words!The offspring of some most unhappy hours.To me this fountain's brim is sad as though'Twere splashed with my own blood.

VIOLET (reads).

"Nature cares notAlthough her loveliness should ne'er be seenBy human eyes, nor praised by human tongues.The cataract exults among the hills,And wears its crown of rainbows all alone.Libel the ocean on his tawny sands,Write verses in his praise,—the unmoved seaErases both alike. Alas for man!Unless his fellows can behold his deedsHe cares not to be great." 'Tis very true.The next is written in a languid hand:"Sin hath drunk up my pleasure, as eclipseDrinks up the sunlight. On my spirit liesA malison and ban. What though the SpringMakes all the hills and valleys laugh in green,—Is the sea healed, or is the plover's cryMerry upon the moor? I now am kinTo these, and winds, and ever-suffering things."Oh, I could blot these words out with my tears!

WALTER.

So could I when I wrote them.

VIOLET.

What is next?"A sin lies dead and dreadful in my soul,Why should I gaze upon it day by day?Oh, rather, since it cannot be destroyed,Let me as reverently cover itAs with a cloth we cover up the dead,And place it in some chamber of my soul,Where it may lie unseen as sound, yetfelt,—Making life hushed and awful."

WALTER.

No more. No more.Let God wash out this record with His rain!This is the summer-house.[They enter.It is as sweetAs if enamoured Summer did adornIt for his Love to dwell in. I love to sitAnd hear the pattering footsteps of the shower,As he runs over it, or watch at noonThe curious sunbeams peeping through the leaves.

VIOLET.

I've always pictured you in such a placeWriting your Book, and hurrying on, as ifYou had a long and wondrous tale to tell,And felt Death's cold hand closing round your heart.

WALTER.

Have you read my Book?

VIOLET.

I have.

WALTER.

It is enough.The Book was only written for two souls,And they are thine and mine.

VIOLET.

For many weeks,When I was dwelling by the moaning sea,Your name was blown to me on ev'ry wind,And I was glad; for by that sign I knewYou had fulfilled your heart, and hoped you wouldPut off the robes of sorrow, and put onThe singing crown of Fame. One dreary mornYour Book came to me, and I fondled it,As though it were a pigeon sent from theeWith love beneath its wing. I read and readUntil the sun lifted his cloudy lidsAnd shot wild light along the leaping deep,Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear,I laid it down in silence, and went forthBurdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went;And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom,I saw the pale and penitential moonRise from dark waves that plucked at her, and goSorrowful up the sky. Then gushed my tears—The tangled problem of my life was plain—I cried aloud, "Oh, would he come to me!I know he is unhappy; that he strivesAs fiercely as that blind and desperate sea,Clutching with all its waves—in vain, in vain.He never will be happy till he comes."As I went home the thought that you would comeFilled my lorn heart with gladness, as the moonFilled the great vacant night with moonlight, tillIts silver bliss ran o'er—so after prayerI slept in the lap of peace—next morn you came.

WALTER.

And then I found you beautiful and pale—Pale as that moonlight night! O Violet,I have been undeceived. In my hot youthI kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lipsAnd found them pale as Pain's,—and wept aloud.Never henceforward can I hope to drainThe rapture of a lifetime at a gulp.My happiness is not a troubled joy;'Tis deep, serene as death. The sweet contents,The happy thoughts from which I've been estranged,Again come round me, as the old known peersSurround and welcome a repentant spirit,Who by the steps of sorrow hath regainedHis throne and golden prime. The eve draws nigh!The prosperous sun is in the west, and seesFrom the pale east to where he sets in bliss,His long road glorious. Wilt thou sing, my love,And sadden me into a deeper joy?

Violetsings.

The wondrous ages pass like rushing waves,Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and FameHangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves.Religions change, and come and go like flame.Nothing remains but Love, the world's round massIt doth pervade, all forms of life it shares,The institutions that like moments passAre but the shapes the masking spirit wears.Love is a sanctifier; 'tis a moon,Turning each dusk to silver. A pure light,Redeemer of all errors——[Ceases, and bursts into tears.

The wondrous ages pass like rushing waves,Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and FameHangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves.Religions change, and come and go like flame.

Nothing remains but Love, the world's round massIt doth pervade, all forms of life it shares,The institutions that like moments passAre but the shapes the masking spirit wears.

Love is a sanctifier; 'tis a moon,Turning each dusk to silver. A pure light,Redeemer of all errors——[Ceases, and bursts into tears.

WALTER.

What ails you, Violet?Has music stung you like a very snake?Why do you weep?

VIOLET.

Walter! dost thou believeLove will redeem all errors? Oh, my friend,This gospel saves you! doubt it, you are lost.Deep in the mists of sorrow long I lay,Hopeless and still, when suddenlythistruthLike a slant sunbeam quivered through the mist,And turned it into radiance. In the lightI wrote these words, while you were far awayFighting with shadows. Oh! Walter, in one boatWe floated o'er the smooth, moon-silvered sea;The sky was smiling with its orbs of bliss;And while we lived within each other's eyes,We struck and split, and all the world was lostIn one wild whirl of horror darkening down;At last I gained a deep and silent isle,Moaned on by a dim sea, and wandered round,Week after week, the happy-mournful shore,Wond'ring if you had 'scaped.

WALTER.

Thou noble soul,Teach me, for thou art nearer God than I!My life was a long dream; when I awoke,Duty stood like an angel in my path,And seemed so terrible, I could have turnedInto my yesterdays, and wandered backTo distant childhood, and gone out to GodBy the gate of birth, not death. Lift, lift me upBy thy sweet inspiration, as the tideLifts up a stranded boat upon the beach.I will go forth 'mong men, not mailed in scorn,But in the armour of a pure intent.Great duties are before me and great songs,And whether crowned or crownless, when I fallIt matters not, so that God's work is done.I've learned to prize the quiet lightning-deed,Not the applauding thunder at its heelsWhich men call Fame. Our night is past;We stand in precious sunrise, and beyondA long day stretches to the very end.Look out, my beautiful, upon the sky!Even puts on her jewels. Look! she sets,Venus upon her brow. I never gazeUpon the evening but a tide of awe,And love, and wonder, from the Infinite,Swells up within me, as the running brineFrom the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea,Grows in the creeks and channels of a streamUntil it threats its banks. It is not joy,'Tis sadness more divine.

VIOLET.

How quick they come,—World after world! See the great moon aboveYon undistinguishable clump of treesIs slowly from the darkness gathering light!You used to love the moon!

WALTER.

This mournful windHas surely been with Winter, 'tis so cold;The dews are falling, Violet! Your cloak—Draw it around you. Let the still night shine!A star's a cold thing to a human heart,And love is better than their radiance. Come!Let us go in together.

To-day a chief was buried—let him rest.His country's bards are up like larks, and fillWith singing the wide heavens of his fame.To-night I sit within my lonely room,The atmosphere is full of misty rain,Wretched the earth and heaven. YesterdayThe streets and squares were choked with yellow fogs,To-morrow we may all be drenched in sleet!Stretched like a homeless beggar on the ground,The city sleeps amid the misty rain.Though Rain hath pitched his tent above my head,'Tis but a speck upon the happy world.Since I've begun to trace these lines, SunriseHas struck a land and woke its bleating hills;Afar upon some black and silent moorThe crystal stars are shaking in the wind;An ocean gurgles, for the stooping moonHath kissed him into peace, and now she smoothsThe well-pleased monster with her silver hand.Come, naked, gleaming Spring! great crowds of larksFluttering above thy head, thy happy earsLoud with their ringing songs, Bright Saviour, come!And kill old Winter with thy glorious look,And turn his corse to flowers!I sit to-nightAs dreary as the pale, deserted East,That sees the Sun, the Sun that once was hers,Forgetful of her, flattering his new love,The happy-blushing West. In these long streetsOf traffic and of noise, the human heartsAre hard and loveless as a wreck-strewn coast.Eternity doth wear upon her faceThe veil of Time. They only see the veil,And thus they know not what they stand so near.Oh, rich in gold! Beggars in heart and soul!Poor as the empty void! Why, even I,Sitting in this bare chamber with my thoughts,Am richer than ye all, despite your bales,Your streets of warehouses, your mighty mills,Each booming like a world faint heard in space:Your ships; unwilling fires, that day and nightWrithe in your service seven years, then dieWithout one taste of peace. Do ye believeA simple primrose on a grassy bankForth-peeping to the sun, a wild bird's nest,The great orb dying in a ring of clouds,Like hoary Jacob 'mong his waiting sons;The rising moon, and the young stars of God,Are things to love? Withthesemy soul is brimmed;With a diviner and serener joyThen all thy heaven of money-bags can bringThy dry heart, Worldling!The terror-stricken rainFlings itself wildly on the window-panes,Imploring shelter from the chasing wind.Alas! to-night in this wide waste of streetsIt beats on human limbs as well as walls!God led Eve forth into the empty worldFrom Paradise. Could our great Mother comeAnd see her children now, what sight were worst;A worker woke by cruel Day, the whileA kind dream feeds with sweetest phantom-bread,Him, and his famished ones; or when the Wind,With shuddering fingers, draws the veil of smoke,And scares her with a battle's bleeding face?Most brilliant star upon the crest of TimeIs England. England! Oh, I know a taleOf those far summers when she lay in the sun,Listening to her own larks, with growing limbs,And mighty hands, which since have tamed the world,Dreaming about their tasks. This dreary nightI'll tell the story to my listening heart.I sang 't to thee, O unforgotten Friend!(Who dwellest now on breezy English downs,While I am drowning in the hateful smoke)Beside the river which I long have loved.O happy Days! O happy, happy Past!O Friend! I am a lone benighted ship;Before me hangs the vast untravelled gloom,Behind, a wake of splendour, fading fastInto the hungry gloom from whence it came.Two days the Lady gazed toward the west,The way that he had gone; and when the thirdFrom its high noon sloped to a rosy close,Upon the western margin of the isle,Feeding her petted swans by tossing breadAmong the clumps of water-lilies white,She stood. The fond Day pressed against her face;His am'rous, airy fingers, with her robeFluttered and played, and trembling, touched her throat,And toying with her ringlets, could have diedUpon her sweet lips and her happy cheeks!With a long rippling sigh she turned away,And wished the sun was underneath the hills.Anon she sang; and ignorant Solitude,Astonished at the marvel of her voice,Stood tranced and mute as savage at the doorOf rich cathedral when the organ rolls,And all the answering choirs awake at once.Then she sat down and thought upon her love;Fed on the various wonders of his faceTo make his absence rich. "'Tis but three daysSince he went from me in his light canoe,And all the world went with him, and to-nightHe will be back again. Oh, when he comes,And when my head is laid upon his breast,And in the pauses of the sweetest stormOf kisses that e'er beat upon a face,I'll tell him how I've pined, and sighed, and wept,And thought of those sweet days and nights that flewO'er us unheeded as a string of swans,That wavers down the sky toward the sea,—And he will chide me into blissful tears,Then kiss the tears away." Quick leapt she up,"He comes! he comes!" She laughed, and clapt her hands,A light canoe came dancing o'er the lake,And he within it gave a cry of joy.She sent an answer back that drew him on.The swans are scared,—the lilies rippled—nowHer happy face is hidden in his breast,And words are lost in joy. "My Bertha! letMe see myself again in those dear orbs.Have you been lonely, love?" She raised her head,"You surely will not leave me so again!I'll grow as pale 's the moon, and my praised cheeksWill be as wet as April's if you do."As when the moon hath sleeked the blissful sea,A light wind wrinkles it and passes off,So ran a transient trouble o'er his face."My Bertha! we must leave this isle to-night.Thy shining face is blanked! We will returnEre thrice the day, like a great bird of lightFlees 'cross the dark, and hides it with his wings.""Ah, wherefore?" "Listen, I will tell you why."I stood afar upon the grassy hills,I saw the country with its golden slopes,And woods, and streams, run down to meet the sea.I saw the basking ocean skinned with light.I saw the surf upon the distant sandsSilent and white as snow. Above my headA lark was singing, 'neath a sunny cloud,Around the playing winds. As I went downThere seemed a special wonder on the shore,Low murmuring crowds around a temple stood:There was a wildered music on the air,Which came and went, yet ever nearer grew,When, lo! a train came upward from the seaWith snowy garments, and with reverend steps,Full in their front a silver cross they bore,And this sweet hymn they strewed along the winds.'Blest be this sunny morning, sweet and fair!Blest be the people of this pleasant land!Ye unseen larks that sing a mile in air,Ye waving forests, waving green and grand,Ye waves, that dance upon the flashing strand,Ye children golden-haired! we bring, we bringA gospel hallowing.'Then one stood forth and spoke against the gods;He called them 'cruel gods,' and then he said,'We have a Father, One who dwells serene,'Bove thunder and the stars, Whose eye is mild,And ever open as the summer sky;Who cares for everything on earth alike,Who hears the plovers crying in the wind,The happy linnets singing in the broom,Whose smile is sunshine.' When the old man ceased,Forth from the murmuring crowd there stepped a youth,As bright-haired as a star, and cried aloud,'Friends! I've grown up among the wilds, and foundEach outward form is but a window whenceTerror or Beauty looks. Beauty I've seenIn the sweet eyes of flowers, along the streams,And in the cold and crystal wells that sleepFar in the murmur of the summer woods;Terror in fire and thunder, in the wornAnd haggard faces of the winter clouds,In shuddering winds, and oft on moonless nightsI've heard it in the white and wailing fringeThat runs along the coast from end to end.The mountains brooded on some wondrous thoughtWhich they would ne'er reveal. I seemed to standOutside of all things; my desire to knowGrew wild and eager as a starving wolf.To gain the secret of the awful world,I knelt before the gods, and then held upMy heart to them in the pure arms of prayer—They gave no answer, or had none to give.Friends! I will test these sour and sullen gods:If they are weak, 'tis well, we then may listUnto the strangers; but if my affrontDraw angry fire, I shall be slain by gods,And Death may have no secrets. A spear! a steed!'A steed was brought by trembling hands, he sprangAnd dashed towards the temple with a cry.A shudder ran through all the pallid crowds.I saw him enter, and my sight grew dim,And on a long-suspended breath I stood,Till one might count a hundred beats of heart:Then he rode slowly forth, and, wondrous strange!Although an awful gleam lay on his face,His charger's limbs were drenched with terror-sweat.Amid the anxious silence loud he cried,'Gods, marvellously meek! Why, any childMay pluck them by the beard, spit in their face,Or smite them on the mouth; they can do nought,But sit like poor old foolish men, and moan.I flung my spear.'—Here, as a singing rillIs in the mighty noise of ocean drowned,His voice was swallowed in the shout that rose,And touched the heavens, ran along the hills,Thence came on after silence, strange and dim.A voice rose 'mong the strangers like a lark,And warbled out its joy, then died away.And the old man that spoke before went on,And, oh! the gentle music of his voiceStirred through my heart-strings like a wind through reeds.He said, 'It was God's hand that shaped the worldAnd laid it in the sunbeams:' and that 'God,With His great presence fills the universe.That, could we dwell like night among the stars,Or plunge with whales in the unsounded sea,He still would be around us with His care.'And also, 'That, as flowers come back in Spring,We would live after Death.' I heard no more.I thought of thee in this delightful isle,Pure as a prayer, and wished that I had wingsTo tell you swiftly, that the death we fearedWas but a grey eve 'tween two shining days,That we would love for ever! Then I thoughtOur home might be in that transparent starWhich we have often watched from off this verge,Stand in the dying sunset, large and clear—The humming world awoke me from my dream.I saw the old gods tumbled on the grassLike uncouth stones, they threw the temple wide,And Summer, with her bright and happy face,Looked in upon its gloom, and pensive grew.The while among the tumult of the crowds,Divinest hymns the white-robed strangers sang.I wearied for thee, Bertha! and I came.Wilt go and hear these strangers?" She turned on himA look of love—a look that richly crownedA moment heavenly rich, and murmured "Yes."He kissed her proudly, while a giddy tear,Wild with its happiness, ran down her cheekAnd perished in the dew. They took their seats,And as the paddles struck, grey-pinioned TimeFlew through the gates of sunset into Night,And held through stars to gain the coasts of Morn.'Tis done! The phantoms of my soul have fledInto the night, and I am left aloneWith that sweet sadness which doth ever dwellOn the brink of tears; I stare i' th' crumbling fireWhich from my brooding eye takes strangest shapes.The Past is with me, and I scarcely hearOutside the weeping of the homeless rain.

I sit to-nightAs dreary as the pale, deserted East,That sees the Sun, the Sun that once was hers,Forgetful of her, flattering his new love,The happy-blushing West. In these long streetsOf traffic and of noise, the human heartsAre hard and loveless as a wreck-strewn coast.Eternity doth wear upon her faceThe veil of Time. They only see the veil,And thus they know not what they stand so near.Oh, rich in gold! Beggars in heart and soul!Poor as the empty void! Why, even I,Sitting in this bare chamber with my thoughts,Am richer than ye all, despite your bales,Your streets of warehouses, your mighty mills,Each booming like a world faint heard in space:Your ships; unwilling fires, that day and nightWrithe in your service seven years, then dieWithout one taste of peace. Do ye believeA simple primrose on a grassy bankForth-peeping to the sun, a wild bird's nest,The great orb dying in a ring of clouds,Like hoary Jacob 'mong his waiting sons;The rising moon, and the young stars of God,Are things to love? Withthesemy soul is brimmed;With a diviner and serener joyThen all thy heaven of money-bags can bringThy dry heart, Worldling!

The terror-stricken rainFlings itself wildly on the window-panes,Imploring shelter from the chasing wind.Alas! to-night in this wide waste of streetsIt beats on human limbs as well as walls!God led Eve forth into the empty worldFrom Paradise. Could our great Mother comeAnd see her children now, what sight were worst;A worker woke by cruel Day, the whileA kind dream feeds with sweetest phantom-bread,Him, and his famished ones; or when the Wind,With shuddering fingers, draws the veil of smoke,And scares her with a battle's bleeding face?

Most brilliant star upon the crest of TimeIs England. England! Oh, I know a taleOf those far summers when she lay in the sun,Listening to her own larks, with growing limbs,And mighty hands, which since have tamed the world,Dreaming about their tasks. This dreary nightI'll tell the story to my listening heart.I sang 't to thee, O unforgotten Friend!(Who dwellest now on breezy English downs,While I am drowning in the hateful smoke)Beside the river which I long have loved.O happy Days! O happy, happy Past!O Friend! I am a lone benighted ship;Before me hangs the vast untravelled gloom,Behind, a wake of splendour, fading fastInto the hungry gloom from whence it came.

Two days the Lady gazed toward the west,The way that he had gone; and when the thirdFrom its high noon sloped to a rosy close,Upon the western margin of the isle,Feeding her petted swans by tossing breadAmong the clumps of water-lilies white,She stood. The fond Day pressed against her face;His am'rous, airy fingers, with her robeFluttered and played, and trembling, touched her throat,And toying with her ringlets, could have diedUpon her sweet lips and her happy cheeks!With a long rippling sigh she turned away,And wished the sun was underneath the hills.Anon she sang; and ignorant Solitude,Astonished at the marvel of her voice,Stood tranced and mute as savage at the doorOf rich cathedral when the organ rolls,And all the answering choirs awake at once.Then she sat down and thought upon her love;Fed on the various wonders of his faceTo make his absence rich. "'Tis but three daysSince he went from me in his light canoe,And all the world went with him, and to-nightHe will be back again. Oh, when he comes,And when my head is laid upon his breast,And in the pauses of the sweetest stormOf kisses that e'er beat upon a face,I'll tell him how I've pined, and sighed, and wept,And thought of those sweet days and nights that flewO'er us unheeded as a string of swans,That wavers down the sky toward the sea,—And he will chide me into blissful tears,Then kiss the tears away." Quick leapt she up,"He comes! he comes!" She laughed, and clapt her hands,A light canoe came dancing o'er the lake,And he within it gave a cry of joy.She sent an answer back that drew him on.The swans are scared,—the lilies rippled—nowHer happy face is hidden in his breast,And words are lost in joy. "My Bertha! letMe see myself again in those dear orbs.Have you been lonely, love?" She raised her head,"You surely will not leave me so again!I'll grow as pale 's the moon, and my praised cheeksWill be as wet as April's if you do."As when the moon hath sleeked the blissful sea,A light wind wrinkles it and passes off,So ran a transient trouble o'er his face."My Bertha! we must leave this isle to-night.Thy shining face is blanked! We will returnEre thrice the day, like a great bird of lightFlees 'cross the dark, and hides it with his wings.""Ah, wherefore?" "Listen, I will tell you why.

"I stood afar upon the grassy hills,I saw the country with its golden slopes,And woods, and streams, run down to meet the sea.I saw the basking ocean skinned with light.I saw the surf upon the distant sandsSilent and white as snow. Above my headA lark was singing, 'neath a sunny cloud,Around the playing winds. As I went downThere seemed a special wonder on the shore,Low murmuring crowds around a temple stood:There was a wildered music on the air,Which came and went, yet ever nearer grew,When, lo! a train came upward from the seaWith snowy garments, and with reverend steps,Full in their front a silver cross they bore,And this sweet hymn they strewed along the winds.

'Blest be this sunny morning, sweet and fair!Blest be the people of this pleasant land!Ye unseen larks that sing a mile in air,Ye waving forests, waving green and grand,Ye waves, that dance upon the flashing strand,Ye children golden-haired! we bring, we bringA gospel hallowing.'Then one stood forth and spoke against the gods;He called them 'cruel gods,' and then he said,'We have a Father, One who dwells serene,'Bove thunder and the stars, Whose eye is mild,And ever open as the summer sky;Who cares for everything on earth alike,Who hears the plovers crying in the wind,The happy linnets singing in the broom,Whose smile is sunshine.' When the old man ceased,Forth from the murmuring crowd there stepped a youth,As bright-haired as a star, and cried aloud,'Friends! I've grown up among the wilds, and foundEach outward form is but a window whenceTerror or Beauty looks. Beauty I've seenIn the sweet eyes of flowers, along the streams,And in the cold and crystal wells that sleepFar in the murmur of the summer woods;Terror in fire and thunder, in the wornAnd haggard faces of the winter clouds,In shuddering winds, and oft on moonless nightsI've heard it in the white and wailing fringeThat runs along the coast from end to end.The mountains brooded on some wondrous thoughtWhich they would ne'er reveal. I seemed to standOutside of all things; my desire to knowGrew wild and eager as a starving wolf.To gain the secret of the awful world,I knelt before the gods, and then held upMy heart to them in the pure arms of prayer—They gave no answer, or had none to give.Friends! I will test these sour and sullen gods:If they are weak, 'tis well, we then may listUnto the strangers; but if my affrontDraw angry fire, I shall be slain by gods,And Death may have no secrets. A spear! a steed!'A steed was brought by trembling hands, he sprangAnd dashed towards the temple with a cry.A shudder ran through all the pallid crowds.I saw him enter, and my sight grew dim,And on a long-suspended breath I stood,Till one might count a hundred beats of heart:Then he rode slowly forth, and, wondrous strange!Although an awful gleam lay on his face,His charger's limbs were drenched with terror-sweat.Amid the anxious silence loud he cried,'Gods, marvellously meek! Why, any childMay pluck them by the beard, spit in their face,Or smite them on the mouth; they can do nought,But sit like poor old foolish men, and moan.I flung my spear.'—Here, as a singing rillIs in the mighty noise of ocean drowned,His voice was swallowed in the shout that rose,And touched the heavens, ran along the hills,Thence came on after silence, strange and dim.

A voice rose 'mong the strangers like a lark,And warbled out its joy, then died away.And the old man that spoke before went on,And, oh! the gentle music of his voiceStirred through my heart-strings like a wind through reeds.He said, 'It was God's hand that shaped the worldAnd laid it in the sunbeams:' and that 'God,With His great presence fills the universe.That, could we dwell like night among the stars,Or plunge with whales in the unsounded sea,He still would be around us with His care.'And also, 'That, as flowers come back in Spring,We would live after Death.' I heard no more.I thought of thee in this delightful isle,Pure as a prayer, and wished that I had wingsTo tell you swiftly, that the death we fearedWas but a grey eve 'tween two shining days,That we would love for ever! Then I thoughtOur home might be in that transparent starWhich we have often watched from off this verge,Stand in the dying sunset, large and clear—The humming world awoke me from my dream.I saw the old gods tumbled on the grassLike uncouth stones, they threw the temple wide,And Summer, with her bright and happy face,Looked in upon its gloom, and pensive grew.The while among the tumult of the crowds,Divinest hymns the white-robed strangers sang.I wearied for thee, Bertha! and I came.Wilt go and hear these strangers?" She turned on himA look of love—a look that richly crownedA moment heavenly rich, and murmured "Yes."He kissed her proudly, while a giddy tear,Wild with its happiness, ran down her cheekAnd perished in the dew. They took their seats,And as the paddles struck, grey-pinioned TimeFlew through the gates of sunset into Night,And held through stars to gain the coasts of Morn.

'Tis done! The phantoms of my soul have fledInto the night, and I am left aloneWith that sweet sadness which doth ever dwellOn the brink of tears; I stare i' th' crumbling fireWhich from my brooding eye takes strangest shapes.The Past is with me, and I scarcely hearOutside the weeping of the homeless rain.

Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara,—High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold!'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw,In soft green light his passion he has told.When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold,The Earl to take her fair reluctant earFramed passion-trembled ditties manifold;Silent she sat his am'rous breath to hear,With calm and steady eyes, her heart was otherwhere.He sighed for her through all the summer weeks;Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughsBore glorious apples with smooth-shining cheeks,Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, rouse!Thou art no vestal held in holy vows;Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath."Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows—He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath,Came charging like a star across the lists of death,Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke:And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee:Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look,For in a morning cold as miseryShe saw a lone ship sailing on the sea;Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud,High on the poop a man sat mournfully:The wind was whistling thorough mast and shroud.And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud:—"Didst look last night upon my native vales,Thou Sun! that from the drenching sea hast clomb?Ye demon winds! that glut my gaping sails,Upon the salt sea must I ever roam,Wander for ever on the barren foam?O happy are ye, resting mariners.O Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home!A hand unseen this vessel onward steers,And onward I must float through slow moon-measured years."Ye winds! when like a curse ye drove us on,Frothing the waters, and along our way,Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone,One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray,One howled, 'Upon the Deep we are astray.'On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight:In one short hour my hair was stricken grey,For all the crew sank ghastly in my sightAs we went driving on through the cold starry night."Madness fell on me in my loneliness,The sea foamed curses, and the reeling skyBecame a dreadful face which did oppressMe with the weight of its unwinking eye.It fled, when I burst forth into a cry—A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep;I hid, but in all corners they did pry,And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap;They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep."Strange constellations burned above my head,Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew,Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled,As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through,Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue."The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea,My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you!The wind blows shrill between my love and me."Fond heart! the space between was but the apple-tree.There was a cry of joy, with seeking handsShe fled to him, like worn bird to her nest;Like washing water on the figured sands,His being came and went in sweet unrest,As from the mighty shelter of his breastThe Lady Barbara her head uprearsWith a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest:Now when I've found thee, after weary years,I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears."

He sighed for her through all the summer weeks;Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughsBore glorious apples with smooth-shining cheeks,Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, rouse!Thou art no vestal held in holy vows;Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath."Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows—He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath,Came charging like a star across the lists of death,

Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke:And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee:Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look,For in a morning cold as miseryShe saw a lone ship sailing on the sea;Before the north 'twas driven like a cloud,High on the poop a man sat mournfully:The wind was whistling thorough mast and shroud.And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud:—

"Didst look last night upon my native vales,Thou Sun! that from the drenching sea hast clomb?Ye demon winds! that glut my gaping sails,Upon the salt sea must I ever roam,Wander for ever on the barren foam?O happy are ye, resting mariners.O Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home!A hand unseen this vessel onward steers,And onward I must float through slow moon-measured years.

"Ye winds! when like a curse ye drove us on,Frothing the waters, and along our way,Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone,One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray,One howled, 'Upon the Deep we are astray.'On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight:In one short hour my hair was stricken grey,For all the crew sank ghastly in my sightAs we went driving on through the cold starry night.

"Madness fell on me in my loneliness,The sea foamed curses, and the reeling skyBecame a dreadful face which did oppressMe with the weight of its unwinking eye.It fled, when I burst forth into a cry—A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep;I hid, but in all corners they did pry,And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap;They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep.

"Strange constellations burned above my head,Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew,Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled,As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through,Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue."The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea,My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you!The wind blows shrill between my love and me."Fond heart! the space between was but the apple-tree.

There was a cry of joy, with seeking handsShe fled to him, like worn bird to her nest;Like washing water on the figured sands,His being came and went in sweet unrest,As from the mighty shelter of his breastThe Lady Barbara her head uprearsWith a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest:Now when I've found thee, after weary years,I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears."

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