[Illustration]
(Old English Manner.)
Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot;Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O!The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetestlass;Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!"
"My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel;My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O!But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim;How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, withthee, O?"
"And must ye bide, yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love isstrong;And O! had I but served the time, that takes so long to flee, O!And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all inwhite,And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O."
O, I would tell you more, but I am tired;For I have longed, and I have had my will;I pleaded in my spirit, I desired:"Ah! let me only see him, and be stillAll my days after."Rock, and rock, and rock,Over the falling, rising watery world,Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main;The chirping land-birds follow flock on flockTo light on a warmer plain.White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled,Fall over in harmless play,As these do far away;Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea,All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee.
I am so tired,If I would comfort me, I know not how,For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired,And I have nothing left to long for now.
Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee,Often and often, while the light grew dim,And through the lilac branches I could see,Under a saffron sky, the purple rimO' the heaving moorland? Ay. And then would floatUp from behind as it were a golden boat,Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life,Love—such a slender moon, going up and up,Waxing so fast from night to night,And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright,Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup,And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.Most beautiful crescent moon,Ship of the sky!Across the unfurrowed reaches sailing high.Methought that it would come my way full soon,Laden with blessings that were all, all mine,—A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife,That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife.
All over! the celestial sign hath failed;The orange flower-bud shuts; the ship hath sailed,And sunk behind the long low-lying hills.The love that fed on daily kisses dieth;The love kept warm by nearness, liethWounded and wan;The love hope nourished bitter tears distils,And faints with naught to feed upon.Only there stirreth very deep belowThe hidden beating slow,And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breathOf the love that conquers death.
Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear,My ever, my only dear?Yes; and I saw thee start upon thy way,So sure that we should meetUpon our trysting-day.And even absence then to me was sweet,Because it brought me time to broodUpon thy dearness in the solitude.But ah! to stay, and stay,And let that moon of April wane itself away,And let the lovely MayMake ready all her buds for June;And let the glossy finch forego her tuneThat she brought with her in the spring,And never more, I think, to me can sing;And then to lead thee home another bride,In the sultry summer tide,And all forget me save for shame full sore,That made thee pray me, absent, "See my face no more."
O hard, most hard! But while my fretted heartShut out, shut down, and full of pain,Sobbed to itself apart,Ached to itself in vain,One came who loveth meAs I love thee….And let my God remember him for this,As I do hope He will forget thy kiss,Nor visit on thy stately headAught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have said….He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighedBecause he knew the sorrow,—whispering low,And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote:"The vessel lieth in the river reach,A mile above the beach,And she will sail at the turning o' the tide."He said, "I have a boat,And were it good to go,And unbeholden in the vessel's wakeLook on the man thou lovedst, and forgive,As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive.Come, then, with me."
O, how he sighed! The little stars did wink,And it was very dark. I gave my hand,—He led me out across the pasture land,And through the narrow croft,Down to the river's brink.When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing,The yellow flags that broidered thee would standUp to their chins in water, and full oftWE pulled them and the other shining flowers,That all are gone to-day:WE two, that had so many things to say,So many hopes to render clear:And they are all gone after thee, my dear,—Gone after those sweet hours,That tender light, that balmy rain;Gone "as a wind that passeth away,And cometh not again."
I only saw the stars,—I could not seeThe river,—and they seemed to lieAs far below as the other stars were high.I trembled like a thing about to die:It was so awful 'neath the majestyOf that great crystal height, that overhungThe blackness at our feet,Unseen to fleet and fleetThe flocking stars among,And only hear the dipping of the oar,And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore.
Less real it was than any dream.Ah me! to hear the bending willows shiver,As we shot quickly from the silent river,And felt the swaying and the flowThat bore us down the deeper, wider stream,Whereto its nameless waters go:O! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes,See that weird sight again;The lights from anchored vessels hung;The phantom moon, that sprungSuddenly up in dim and angry wise,From the rim o' the moaning main,And touched with elfin lightThe two long oars whereby we made our flight,Along the reaches of the night;Then furrowed up a lowering cloud,Went in, and left us darker than before,To feel our way as the midnight watches wore,And lie in HER lee, with mournful faces bowed,That should receive and bear with her awayThe brightest portion of my sunniest day,—The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore.
And I beheld thee: saw the lantern flashDown on thy face, when thou didst climb the side.And thou wert pale, pale as the patient brideThat followed; both a little sad,Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad,That once did bear thee on,That brow of thine had lost; the fervor rashOf unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone.O, what a little moment, what a crumbOf comfort for a heart to feed upon!And that was all its sum;A glimpse, and not a meeting,—A drawing near by night,To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting,And all between the flashing of a lightAnd its retreating.
Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings,The ship,—and weighed her anchor to depart,We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things;And there was silence in my heart,And silence in the upper and the nether deep.O sleep! O sleep!Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep,Now I have nothing left, thy healing handOver the lids that crave thy visits bland,Thou kind, thou comforting one:For I have seen his face, as I desired,And all my story is done.O, I am tired!
I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and deep:I had known it was dark in my sleep,And I rose and looked out,And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick round aboutWith the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too farFor man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where remoteIn the sheen of their glory they float,Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to partake,And dazed in their wake,Drink day that is born of a star.I murmured, "Remoteness and greatness, how deep you are set,How afar in the rim of the whole;You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, O, nor yetOf our light-bearer,—drawing the marvellous moons as they roll,Of our regent, the sun."I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my soul,"How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations of God:These are greater than we, every one."And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, that cries,"O my hope! Is there any mistake?Did He speak? Did I hear? Did I listen aright, if He spake?Did I answer Him duly? For surely I now am awake,If never I woke until now."And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on my brow.As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as untrod,Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt;Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope round about,And vanish, and tell me not how.Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light,And feeding the lamps of the sky;Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy sight,I pray Thee, to-night.O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou Most High!For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but one);Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are undone,For this is a world where we die.
With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that yearned,(There fell a great calm while it spake,)I had heard it erewhile, but the noises of life are so loud,That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the crowd:To the simple it cometh,—the child, or asleep, or awake,And they know not from whence; of its nature the wise never learnedBy his wisdom; its secret the worker ne'er earnedBy his toil; and the rich among men never bought with his gold;Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled,Nor the jester put down with his jeers(For it moves where it will), nor its season the aged discernedBy thought, in the ripeness of years.
O elder than reason, and stronger than will!A voice, when the dark world is still:Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! and we,—We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us of Thee;For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and dread,And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that we shed;It is more than all meanings, and over all strife;On its tongue are the laws of our life,And it counts up the times of the dead.
I will fear you, O stars, never more.I have felt it! Go on, while the world is asleep,Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep.Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of yore!How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away lands:"The heavens are the work of Thy hands;They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure;Yea, they all shall wax old,—But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are made sure;They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure,—They shall pass like a tale that is told."
Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days?Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of men?(Hist! hist! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in His praise,His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first; it was thenThey lifted their eyes to His throne;"They shall call on Me, 'Thou art our Father, our God, Thou alone!'For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate ways;I have found them a Ransom Divine;I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of men;I swear by Myself, they are Mine."
The moon is bleached as white as wool,And just dropping under;Every star is gone but three,And they hang far asunder,—There's a sea-ghost all in gray,A tall shape of wonder!
I am not satisfied with sleep,—The night is not ended.But look how the sea-ghost comes,With wan skirts extended,Stealing up in this weird hour,When light and dark are blended.
A vessel! To the old pier endHer happy course she's keeping;I heard them name her yesterday:Some were pale with weeping;Some with their heart-hunger sighed,She's in,—and they are sleeping.
O! now with fancied greetings blest,They comfort their long aching:The sea of sleep hath borne to themWhat would not come with waking,And the dreams shall most be trueIn their blissful breaking.
The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes,—No blush of maid is sweeter;The red sun, half way out of bed,Shall be the first to greet her.None tell the news, yet sleepers wake,And rise, and run to meet her.
Their lost they have, they hold; from painA keener bliss they borrow.How natural is joy, my heart!How easy after sorrow!For once, the best is come that hopePromised them "to-morrow."
(Old English Manner.)
All the clouds about the sun lay up in golden creases,(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of day;)Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy fleeces,So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May.
Quoth the Sergeant, "Here I'll halt; here's wine of joy for drinking;To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play;All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking,And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May."
Quoth the Sergeant, "Work is work, but any ye might make me,If I worked for you, dear lass, I'd count my holiday.I'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take me,So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May."
"Medals count for worth," quoth she, "and scars are worn for honor;But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way."All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her.O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May.
Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster,Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay:"Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master;So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May.
"Lass, I love you! Love is strong, and some men's hearts are tender."Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught to say;Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render,Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May.
Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing mended;Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way:So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended.O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May.
[Illustration]
(Old Style.)
Methought the stars were blinking bright,And the old brig's sails unfurled;I said, "I will sail to my love this nightAt the other side of the world."I stepped aboard,—we sailed so fast,—The sun shot up from the bourne;But a dove that perched upon the mastDid mourn, and mourn, and mourn.O fair dove! O fond dove!And dove with the white breast,Let me alone, the dream is my own,And my heart is full of rest.
My true love fares on this great hill,Feeding his sheep for aye;I looked in his hut, but all was still,My love was gone away.I went to gaze in the forest creek,And the dove mourned on apace;No flame did flash, nor fair blue reekRose up to show me his place.O last love! O first love!My love with the true heart,To think I have come to this your home,And yet—we are apart!
My love! He stood at my right hand,His eyes were grave and sweet.Methought he said, "In this far land,O, is it thus we meet!Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;I have no place,—no part,—No dwelling more by sea or shore,But only in thy heart."O fair dove! O fond dove!Till night rose over the bourne,The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast,Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.
Daughters of Eve! your mother did not well:She laid the apple in your father's hand,And we have read, O wonder! what befell,—The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand:He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne,—With her could die, but could not live alone.
Daughters of Eve! he did not fall so low,Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell;For something better, than as gods to know,That husband in that home left off to dwell:For this, till love be reckoned less than lore,Shall man be first and best for evermore.
Daughters of Eve! it was for your dear sakeThe world's first hero died an uncrowned king;But God's great pity touched the grand mistake,And made his married love a sacred thing:For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true,Find the lost Eden in their love to you.
(A Humble Imitation.)
"And birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave."
It is the noon of night,And the world's Great LightGone out, she widow-like doth carry her:The moon hath veiled her face,Nor looks on that dread placeWhere He lieth dead in sealéd sepulchre;And heaven and hades, emptied, lendTheir flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end.
Tier above tier they rise,Their wings new line the skies,And shed out comforting light among the stars;But they of the other placeThe heavenly signs deface,The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars;Yet high they sit in thronéd state,—It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate.
And first and highest set,Where the black shades are met,The lord of night and hades leans him down;His gleaming eyeballs showMore awful than the glow,Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown;And at his feet, where lightnings play,The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day.
Lo! one, with eyes all wide,As she were sight denied,Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old;One, as distraught with woe,Letting the spindle go,Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold;And one right mournful hangs her head,Complaining, "Woe is me! I may not cut the thread.
"All men of every birth,Yea, great ones of the earth,Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down;But I am held of Thee,—Why dost Thou trouble me,To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown?Yet for all courtiers hast but tenLowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen.
"Olympian heights are bareOf whom men worshipped there,Immortal feet their snows may print no more;Their stately powers belowLie desolate, nor knowThis thirty years Thessalian grove or shore;But I am elder far than they;—Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away?
"Art thou come up for this,Dark regent, awful Dis?And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending?And stirred the dens beneath,To see us eat of death,With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending?Help! powers of ill, see not us die!"But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply.
Her sisters, fallen on sleep,Fade in the upper deep,And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance;Till her black veil she rends,And with her death-shriek bendsDownward the terrors of her countenance;Then, whelmed in night and no more seen,They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been.
And the winged armies twainTheir awful watch maintain;They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead.Behold, from antres wide,Green Atlas heave his side;His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed,The swathing coif his front that cools,And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools.
Then like a heap of snow,Lying where grasses grow,See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep,Mild mannered Athens, dightIn dewy marbles white,Among her goddesses and gods asleep;And swaying on a purple sea,The many moored galleys clustering at her quay.
Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade,Amid their camels laid,The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest;Like to those old-world folk,With whom two angels brokeThe bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest,When, listening as they prophesied,His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied.
Or from the Morians' landSee worshipped Nilus bland,Taking the silver road he gave the world,To wet his ancient shrineWith waters held divine,And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled,And list, ere darkness change to gray,Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day.
Moreover, Indian glades,Where kneel the sun-swart maids,On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw,And launch i' the sultry nightTheir burning cressets bright,Most like a fleet of stars that southing go,Till on her bosom prosperouslyShe floats them shining forth to sail the lulléd sea.
Nor bend they not their eyneWhere the watch-fires shine,By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem:They mark, in goodly wise,The city of David rise,The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem;And hear the 'scapéd Kedron fret,And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet.
But now the setting moonTo curtained lands must soon,In her obedient fashion, minister;She first, as loath to go,Lets her last silver flowUpon her Master's sealéd sepulchre;And trees that in the gardens spread,She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head,
Then 'neath the rim goes down;And night with darker frownSinks on the fateful garden watched long;When some despairing eyes,Far in the murky skies,The unwishéd waking by their gloom foretell;And blackness up the welkin swings,And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings.
Last, with amazéd cry,The hosts asunder fly,Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue;Whence straightway shooteth down,By the Great Father thrown,A mighty angel, strong and dread to view;And at his fall the rocks are rent,The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement;
The regions far and nearQuail with a pause of fear,More terrible than aught since time began;The winds, that dare not fleet,Drop at his awful feet,And in its bed wails the wide oceán;The flower of dawn forbears to blow,And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow.
At stand, by that dread place,He lifts his radiant face,And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear;Then, while the welkin quakes,The muttering thunder breaks,And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear,And all the daunted earth doth moan,He from the doors of death rolls back the sealéd stone.—
—In regal quiet deep,Lo, One new waked from sleep!Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door!Thy children shall not die,—Peace, peace, thy Lord is by!He liveth!—they shall live for evermore.Peace! lo, He lifts a priestly hand,And blesseth all the sons of men in every land.
Then, with great dread and wail,Fall down, like storms of hail,The legions of the lost in fearful wise;And they whose blissful racePeoples the better place,Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes,And through the waxing saffron brede,Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede.
So while the fields are dim,And the red sun his rimFirst heaves, in token of his reign benign,All stars the most admired,Into their blue retired,Lie hid,—the faded moon forgets to shine,—And, hurrying down the sphery way,Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day.
But look! the Saviour blest,Calm after solemn rest,Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs;The earliest smile of dayDoth on His vesture play,And light the majesty of His still brows;While angels hang with wings outspread,Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head.
Ay, I saw her, we have met,—Married eyes how sweet they be,—Are you happier, Margaret,Than you might have been with me?Silence! make no more ado!Did she think I should forget?Matters nothing, though I knew,Margaret, Margaret.
Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,Told a certain thing to mine;What they told me I put by,O, so careless of the sign.Such an easy thing to take,And I did not want it then;Fool! I wish my heart would break,Scorn is hard on hearts of men.
Scorn of self is bitter work,—Each of us has felt it now:Bluest skies she counted mirk,Self-betrayed of eyes and brow;As for me, I went my way,And a better man drew nigh,Fain to earn, with long essay,What the winner's hand threw by.
Matters not in deserts old,What was born, and waxed, and yearned,Year to year its meaning told,I am come,—its deeps are learned,—Come, but there is naught to say,—Married eyes with mine have met.Silence! O, I had my day,Margaret, Margaret.
"Old man, upon the green hillside,With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er,How long in silence wilt thou bideAt this low stone door?
"I stoop: within 'tis dark and still;But shadowy paths methinks there be,And lead they far into the hill?""Traveller, come and see."
"'Tis dark, 'tis cold, and hung with gloom;I care not now within to stay;For thee and me is scarcely room,I will hence away."
"Not so, not so, thou youthful guest,Thy foot shall issue forth no more:Behold the chamber of thy rest,And the closing door!"
"O, have I 'scaped the whistling ball,And striven on smoky fields of fight,And scaled the 'leaguered city's wallIn the dangerous night;
"And borne my life unharméd stillThrough foaming gulfs of yeasty spray,To yield it on a grassy hillAt the noon of day?"
"Peace! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep,Tillsome time, ONE my seal shall break,And deep shall answer unto deep,When He crieth, 'AWAKE!'"
(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.)
I opened the eyes of my soul.And behold,A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,—For she set her face upward,—aware how in scarlet and goldA long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air,Lay over with fold upon fold,With fold upon fold.
And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed,The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair;And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named,And that no foot hath trod,Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were,A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure,Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure,And look up to God.Then I said, "In rosy air,Cradled on thy reaches fair,While the blushing early rayWhitens into perfect day,River-lily, sweetest known,Art thou set for me alone?Nay, but I will bear thee far,Where yon clustering steeples are,And the bells ring out o'erhead,And the stated prayers are said;And the busy farmers pace,Trading in the market-place;And the country lasses sit,By their butter, praising it;And the latest news is told,While the fruit and cream are sold;And the friendly gossips greet,Up and down the sunny street.For," I said, "I have not met,White one, any folk as yetWho would send no blessing up,Looking on a face like thine;For thou art as Joseph's cup,And by thee might they divine.
"Nay! but thou a spirit art;Men shall take thee in the martFor the ghost of their best thought,Raised at noon, and near them brought;Or the prayer they made last night,Set before them all in white."
And I put out my rash hand,For I thought to draw to landThe white lily. Was it fitSuch a blossom should expand,Fair enough for a world's wonder,And no mortal gather it?No. I strove, and it went under,And I drew, but it went down;And the waterweeds' long tresses,And the overlapping cresses,Sullied its admired crown.Then along the river strand,Trailing, wrecked, it came to land,Of its beauty half despoiled,And its snowy pureness soiled:O! I took it in my hand,—You will never see it now,White and golden as it grew:No, I cannot show it you,Nor the cheerful town endowWith the freshness of its brow.
If a royal painter, greatWith the colors dedicateTo a dove's neck, a sea-bight,And the flickering over whiteMountain summits far away,—One content to give his mindTo the enrichment of mankind,And the laying up of lightIn men's houses,—on that day,Could have passed in kingly mood,Would he ever have enduedCanvas with the peerless thing,In the grace that it did bring,And the light that o'er it flowed,With the pureness that it showed,And the pureness that it meant?Could he skill to make it seenAs he saw? For this, I ween,He were likewise impotent.
I opened the doors of my heart.And behold,There was music within and a song,And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long.I opened the doors of my heart: and behold,There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes;Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled,That murmurs and floats,And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold,And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft,That maketh the listener full oftTo whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye,When I toil in the heat of the day,When I walk in the cold."
I opened the door of my heart. And behold,There was music within, and a song.But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong,Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned,I could hear it no more;For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore,And trees in the dark all aroundWere shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night!The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will;The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;—There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of lightRun up. There is thunder!" I said,"Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead,A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloudHails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed,And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud,And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage,The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash;And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash,And the story of life was all read,And the Giver had turned the last page.
"Now their bar the pent water-floods lash,And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age;And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill,And there heaveth at intervals wide,The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside,Until quiet drop down on the tide,And mad Echo had moaned herself still."
Lo! or ever I was 'ware,In the silence of the air,Through my heart's wide-open door,Music floated forth once more,Floated to the world's dark rim,And looked over with a hymn;Then came home with flutings fine,And discoursed in tones divineOf a certain grief of mine;And went downward and went in,Glimpses of my soul to win,And discovered such a deepThat I could not choose but weep,For it lay, a land-locked sea,Fathomless and dim to me.
O, the song! it came and went,Went and came.I have not learnedHalf the lore whereto it yearned,Half the magic that it meant.Water booming in a cave;Or the swell of some long wave,Setting in from unrevealedCountries; or a foreign tongue,Sweetly talked and deftly sung,While the meaning is half sealed;May be like it. You have heardAlso;—can you find a wordFor the naming of such song?No; a name would do it wrong.You have heard it in the night,In the dropping rain's despite,In the midnight darkness deep,When the children were asleep,And the wife,—no, let that be;SHE asleep! She knows right wellWhat the song to you and me,While we breathe, can never tell;She hath heard its faultless flow,Where the roots of music grow.
While I listened, like young birds,Hints were fluttering; almost words,—Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;—Everything had changed its name.
Sorrow was a ship, I found,Wrecked with them that in her are,On an island richer farThan the port where they were bound.Fear was but the awful boomOf the old great bell of doom,Tolling, far from earthly air,For all worlds to go to prayer.Pain, that to us mortal clings,But the pushing of our wings,That we have no use for yet,And the uprooting of our feetFrom the soil where they are set,And the land we reckon sweet.Love in growth, the grand deceitWhereby men the perfect greet;Love in wane, the blessing sentTo be (howsoe'er it went)Never more with earth content.O, full sweet, and O, full high,Ran that music up the sky;But I cannot sing it you,More than I can make you view,With my paintings labial,Sitting up in awful row,White old men majestical,Mountains, in their gowns of snow,Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes,Looking over speckled skies,See them now. About their knees,Half in haze, there stands at easeA great army of green hills,Some bareheaded; and, behold,Small green mosses creep on some.Those be mighty forests old;And white avalanches comeThrough yon rents, where now distilsSheeny silver, pouring downTo a tune of old renown,Cutting narrow pathways throughGentian belts of airy blue,To a zone where starwort blows,And long reaches of the rose.
So, that haze all left behind,Down the chestnut forests wind,Past yon jagged spires, where yetFoot of man was never set;Past a castle yawning wide,With a great breach in its side,To a nest-like valley, where,Like a sparrow's egg in hue,Lie two lakes, and teach the trueColor of the sea-maid's hair.
What beside? The world beside!Drawing down and down, to greetCottage clusters at our feet,—Every scent of summer tide,—Flowery pastures all aglow(Men and women mowing goUp and down them); also softFloating of the film aloft,Fluttering of the leaves alow.Is this told? It is not told.Where's the danger? where's the coldSlippery danger up the steep?Where yon shadow fallen asleep?Chirping bird and tumbling spray,Light, work, laughter, scent of hay,Peace, and echo, where are they?
Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold;Memory must their grace enfoldSilently; and that high songOf the heart, it doth belongTo the hearers. Not a whit,Though a chief musician heard,Could he make a tune for it.
Though a bird of sweetest throat,And some lute full clear of note,Could have tried it,—O, the luteFor that wondrous song were mute,And the bird would do her part,Falter, fail, and break her heart,—Break her heart, and furl her wings,On those unexpressive strings.
(On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.)
O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her,For Gladys saw the island.It was thus:They gave a day for pleasure in the schoolWhere Gladys taught; and all the other girlsWere taken out, to picnic in a wood.But it was said, "We think it were not wellThat little Gladys should acquire a tasteFor pleasure, going about, and needless change.It would not suit her station: discontentMight come of it; and all her duties nowShe does so pleasantly, that we were bestTo keep her humble." So they said to her,"Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day.Look, you are free; you need not sit at work:No, you may take a long and pleasant walkOver the sea-cliff, or upon the beachAmong the visitors."Then Gladys blushedFor joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday,A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind!With that, the marshalled carriages drove off;And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy,Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach—The children with their wooden spades, the bandThat played for lovers, and the sunny stirOf cheerful life and leisure—to the rocks,For these she wanted most, and there was timeTo mark them; how like ruined organs proneThey lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes,And let the great white-crested reckless waveBeat out their booming melody.The seaWas filled with light; in clear blue caverns curledThe breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp,As playing at some rough and dangerous game,While all the nearer waves rushed in to help,And all the farther heaved their heads to peep,And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed,And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lostIn sunshine, that one dare not look at it;And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm;And yet how lucky are the shadows, too,That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange,That in remembrance though I lay them up,They are forever, when I come to them,Better than I had thought. O, something yetI had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At leastThis picture is imprinted; thus and thus,The sharpened serried jags run up, run out,Layer on layer.' And I look—up—up—High, higher up again, till far aloftThey cut into their ether,—brown, and clear,And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine,To keep,' retire; but shortly come again,And they confound me with a glorious change.The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them;They redden, and their edges drip with—what?I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain,For the next morning they stand up like ghostsIn a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mewsSit there, in long white files, and chatter on,Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood.
"There is the boulder where we always turn.O! I have longed to pass it; now I will.What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring;'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears,Decorum, if you please: turn back at once.Gladys, we blame you most; you should have lookedBefore you.' Then they sigh,—how kind they are!—'What will become of you, if all your lifeYou look a long way off?—look anywhere,And everywhere, instead of at your feet,And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I knowIt is a pity," Gladys said; "but thenWe cannot all be wise: happy for me,That other people are.
"And yet I wish,—For sometimes very right and serious thoughtsCome to me,—I do wish that they would comeWhen they are wanted!—when I teach the sumsOn rainy days, and when the practisingI count to, and the din goes on and on,Still the same tune and still the same mistake,Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feelQuite old. I think that it will last, and say,'Now my reflections do me credit! nowI am a woman!' and I wish they knewHow serious all my duties look to me.And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies,Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds,Come over, and drink all its sparkles up.But does it last? Perhaps, that very day,The front door opens: out we walk in pairs;And I am so delighted with this world,That suddenly has grown, being new washed,To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world,And with a tender face shining through tears,Looks up into the sometime lowering sky,That has been angry, but is reconciled,And just forgiving her, that I,—that I,—O, I forget myself: what matters how!And then I hear (but always kindly said)Some words that pain me so,—but just, but true;'For if your place in this establishmentBe but subordinate, and if your birthBe lowly, it the more behooves,—well, well,No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes!I am always sorry THEN; but now,—O, now,Here is a bight more beautiful than all."
"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one?And did she want to be as wise as they,To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind?Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no,The night-time will not let her, all the starsSay nay to that,—the old sea laughs at her.Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skillTo shut herself within her own small cell,And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me!I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones,And, having built the windows up, to say,'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here;There never has been.'"
Strange! how very strange!A woman passing Gladys with a babe,To whom she spoke these words, and only lookedUpon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls,And never looked at Gladys, never once."A simple child," she added, and went by,"To want to change her greater for their less;But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she;We love her—don't we?—far too well for that."
Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise,"How could she be so near, and I not know?And have I spoken out my thought aloud?I must have done, forgetting. It is wellShe walks so fast, for I am hungry now,And here is water cantering down the cliff,And here a shell to catch it with, and hereThe round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit.Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rareTo be alone!" So Gladys sat her down,Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank,Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand,And thought the earth was happy, and she tooWas going round with it in happiness,That holiday. "What was it that she said?"Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind,The words that woman spoke. She does not know!'Her greater for their less,'—it makes me laugh,—But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be goodTo look and to admire, one should not wishTo steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on,Like feathers from another wing; beside,That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth,When all is said, would little suit with me,Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born,Though they be good and humble, one should mindHow they are reared, or some will go astrayAnd shame their mother. Cain and Abel bothWere only once removed from innocence.Why did I envy them? That was not good;Yet it began with my humility."
But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes,And right before her, on the horizon's edge,Behold, an island! First, she looked awayAlong the solid rocks and steadfast shore,For she was all amazed, believing not,And then she looked again, and there againBehold, an island! And the tide had turned,The milky sea had got a purple rim,And from the rim that mountain island rose,Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peakThe higher, and with fell and precipice,It ran down steeply to the water's brink;But all the southern line was long and soft,Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought,Covered with forest or with sward. But, look!The sun was on the island; and he showedOn either peak a dazzling cap of snow.Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed,Indeed it is an island: how is this,I never saw it till this fortunateRare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes,She thought that it began to fade; but notTo change as clouds do, only to withdrawAnd melt into its azure; and at last,Little by little, from her hungry heart,That longed to draw things marvellous to itself,And yearned towards the riches and the greatAbundance of the beauty God hath made,It passed away. Tears started in her eyes,And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone;The careless sea had quite forgotten it,And all was even as it had been before.
And Gladys wept, but there was luxuryIn her self-pity, while she softly sobbed,"O, what a little while! I am afraidI shall forget that purple mountain isle,The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks,The grace of her upheaval where she layWell up against the open. O, my heart,Now I remember how this holidayWill soon be done, and now my life goes onNot fed; and only in the noonday walkLet to look silently at what it wants,Without the power to wait or pause awhile,And understand and draw within itselfThe richness of the earth. A holiday!How few I have! I spend the silent timeAt work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home,And feel myself remote. They shine apart;They are great planets, I a little orb;My little orbit far within their ownTurns, and approaches not. But yet, the moreI am alone when those I teach return;For they, as planets of some other sun,Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ringOnce in a cycle. O, how poor I am!I have not got laid up in this blank heartAny indulgent kisses given meBecause I had been good, or yet more sweet,Because my childhood was itself a goodAttractive thing for kisses, tender praise,And comforting. An orphan-school at bestIs a cold mother in the winter time('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came),An unregarded mother in the spring.
"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we wentTo gather cowslips. How we thought on itBeforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street,To that one tree, the only one we sawFrom April,—if the cowslips were in bloomSo early; or if not, from opening MayEven to September. Then there came the feastAt Epping. If it rained that day, it rainedFor a whole year to us; we could not thinkOf fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leavesFluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained.
"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seenThe gay gorse bushes in their flowering time;I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heardThe satisfying murmur of the main."
The woman! She came round the rock againWith her fair baby, and she sat her downBy Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grassTo grow by visitations of the dew?Who said in ancient time to the desert pool,'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitorsTo trouble thy still water?' Must we bideAt home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to usOn a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breatheWithout? O, we shall draw to us the airThat times and mystery feed on. This shall layUnchidden hands upon the heart o' the world,And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on,Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth,Delivering of a tune to make her youthMore beautiful than wheat when it is green.
"What else?—(O, none shall envy her!) The rainAnd the wild weather will be most her own,And talk with her o' nights; and if the windsHave seen aught wondrous, they will tell it herIn a mouthful of strange moans,—will bring from far,Her ears being keen, the lowing and the madMasterful tramping of the bison herds,Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes,In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creakOf ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cryOf the white bears, all in a dim blue worldMumbling their meals by twilight; or the rockAnd majesty of motion, when their headsPrimeval trees toss in a sunny storm,And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields.No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop,Thou tirèd skylark, and go up no more;You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees,Nor give out your good smell. She will not look;No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in,For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought,"A most strange woman, and she talks of me."With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said,"Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now,It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought,"The mother will not speak to me, perhapsThe daughter may," and asked her courteously,"What do the fairies smell of?" But the girlWith peevish pout replied, "You know, you know.""Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her,"Something like buttercups. But, mother, come,And whisper up a porpoise from the foam,Because I want to ride."
Full slowly, then,The mother rose, and ever kept her eyesUpon her little child. "You freakish maid,"Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one,You shall not scold nor make him take you far."
"I only want,—you know I only want,"The girl replied, "to go and play awhileUpon the sand by Lagos." Then she turnedAnd muttered low, "Mother, is this the girlWho saw the island?" But the mother frowned."When may she go to it?" the daughter asked.And Gladys, following them, gave all her mindTo hear the answer. "When she wills to go;For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat."Then Gladys turned to look, and even soIt was; a ferry boat, and far awayReared in the offing, lo, the purple peaksOf her loved island.
Then she raised her arms,And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare,The island! fair befall the island; letMe reach the island." And she sprang on board,And after her stepped in the freakish maidAnd the fair mother, brooding o'er her child;And this one took the helm, and that let goThe sail, and off they flew, and furrowed upA flaky hill before, and left behindA sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam;And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shotToward the island; then, when Gladys looked,Were leaving it to leeward. And the maidWhistled a wind to come and rock the craft,And would be leaning down her head to mewAt cat-fish, then lift out into her lapAnd dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed,She flung to their sleek mothers, till her ownRebuked her in good English, after cried,"Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff,"Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me.""For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear;Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fishWith the curly tail to ride on." So she did,And presently a dolphin bouncing up,She sprang upon his slippery back,—"Farewell,"She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm.
Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'wareIn the smooth weather that this woman talkedLike one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughtsWhich seemed to be like echoes of her own.She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going nowTo her own island. Gladys poor? Not she!Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white,Who said to me, 'The thing that might have beenIs called, and questioned why it hath not been;And can it give good reason, it is setBeside the actual, and reckoned inTo fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, soThe possible stands by us ever fresh,Fairer than aught which any life hath owned,And makes divine amends. Now this was setApart from kin, and not ordained a home;An equal;—and not suffered to fence inA little plot of earthly good, and say,'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part,O, yet to taste the whole,—to understandThe grandeur of the story, not to feelSatiate with good possessed, but evermoreA healthful hunger for the great idea,The beauty and the blessedness of life.
"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off,"We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn,And, O, the mountain with the purple peaksWas close at hand. It cast a shadow out,And they were in it: and she saw the snow,And under that the rocks, and under thatThe pines, and then the pasturage; and sawNumerous dips, and undulations rare,Running down seaward, all astir with litheLong canes, and lofty feathers; for the palmsAnd spice trees of the south, nay, every growth,Meets in that island.
So that woman ranThe boat ashore, and Gladys set her footThereon. Then all at once much laughter rose;Invisible folk set up exultant shouts,"It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ranAnd hid herself among the nearest treesAnd panted, shedding tears.
So she looked round,And saw that she was in a banyan grove,Full of wild peacocks,—pecking on the grass,A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold,Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where highThey sat in rows along the boughs. No treeCumbered with creepers let the sunshine through,But it was caught in scarlet cups, and pouredFrom these on amber tufts of bloom, and droppedLower on azure stars. The air was still,As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep,And Gladys was the only thing that moved,Excepting,—no, they were not birds,—what then?Glorified rainbows with a living soul?While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen,Not otherwhere, but they were present yetIn shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruitThat lay about removing,—purple grapes,That clustered in the path, clearing aside.Through a small spot of light would pass and go,The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyesOf somewhat that made rustlings where it went;But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down,Behold them! they had wings, and they would passOne after other with the sheeny fans,Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen,Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows,Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashedWith purple glooms. And they had feet, but theseDid barely touch the ground. And they took heedNot to disturb the waiting quietness;Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams;Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laidAcross her little drowsy cubs; nor swans,That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool;Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds,With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know,Was Eden. She was passing through the treesThat made a ring about it, and she caughtA glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seenWas nothing to them; but words are not madeTo tell that tale. No wind was let to blow,And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace.Why? One was working in a valley near,And none might look that way. It was understoodThat He had nearly ended that His work;For two shapes met, and one to other spake,Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?"Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay."And all at once a little trembling stirWas felt in the earth, and every creature woke,And laid its head down, listening. It was knownThen that the work was done; the new-made kingHad risen, and set his feet upon his realm,And it acknowledged him.
But in her pathCame some one that withstood her, and he said,"What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee,Among those colored spirits, through the grove,Trembling for haste; it was not well with herTill she came forth of those thick banyan-trees,And set her feet upon the common grass,And felt the common wind.
Yet once beyond,She could not choose but cast a backward glance.The lovely matted growth stood like a wall,And means of entering were not evident,—The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy:She said, "Remoteness and a multitudeOf years are counted nothing here. Behold,To-day I have been in Eden. O, it bloomsIn my own island."
And she wandered on,Thinking, until she reached a place of palms,And all the earth was sandy where she walked,—Sandy and dry,—strewed with papyrus leaves,Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lidsOf mummies (for perhaps it was the wayThat leads to dead old Egypt), and withalExcellent sunshine cut out sharp and clearThe hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,—Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand,And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who satAnd smiled upon the ruin. O how still!Hot, blank, illuminated with the clearStare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leavesOf palm-trees never rustled, and the soulOf that dead ancientry was itself dead.She was above her ankles in the sand,When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo!It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels,Which erst had carried to their pagan prayersThe brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led onTo a great cliff, that either was a cliffOr some dread shrine in ruins,—partly rearedIn front of that same cliff, and partly hewnOr excavate within its heart. Great heapsOf sand and stones on either side there lay;And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each,As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest,Dog-headed, and behind them winged thingsLike angels; and this carven multitudeHedged in, to right and left, the rocky road.
At last, the cliff,—and in the cliff a doorYawning: and she looked in, as down the throatOf some stupendous giant, and beheldNo floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that ledInto a dimness. When the eyes could bearThat change to gloom, she saw flight after flight,Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down,Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone.So she did enter; also she went downTill it was dark, and yet again went down,Till, gazing upward at that yawning door,It seemed no larger, in its height remote,Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute,She doubted of the end, yet farther downA slender ray of lamplight fell awayAlong the stair, as from a door ajar:To this again she felt her way, and steppedAdown the hollow stair, and reached the light;But fear fell on her, fear; and she forboreEntrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,—A sigh; the breathing as of one who sleptAnd was disturbed. So she drew back awhile,And trembled; then her doubting hand she laidAgainst the door, and pushed it; but the lightWaned, faded, sank; and as she came within—Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep?A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hungA cresset from the roof, and thence appearedA flickering speck of light, and disappeared;Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes,That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,—Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shapeThat loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white,Breathing and languid through prolonged repose.
Was it a heifer? all the marble floorWas milk-white also, and the cresset paled,And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed.
But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,—The whiteness,—and asleep again! but nowIt was a woman, robed, and with a faceLovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazedMurmured, "O terrible! I am afraidTo breathe among these intermittent lives,That fluctuate in mystic solitude,And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sitsDreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moonShe wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frownIs mournful, and her slumber is not sweet.What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast?A baby god with finger on his lips,Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway?Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the loreAnd sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouthHe shuts; the secret shall be lost with him,He will not tell."
The woman coming down!"Child, what art doing here?" the woman said;"What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?"(Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,—pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed.)The air is dim with dust of spiced bones.I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tierOf painted coffers fills it. What if we,Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,—Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie,Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings,And all the gear they took to bed with them!Horrible! Let us hence.
And Gladys said,"O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but sheTook her and laughed, and up the mighty flightShot like a meteor with her. "There," said she;"The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves,Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell."She pointed to a gateway, strong and high,Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate,There was a glittering cobweb drawn across,And on the lintel there were writ these words:"Ho, every one that cometh, I divideWhat hath been from what might be, and the lineHangeth before thee as a spider's web;Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line,Or else forbear the hill."