Go on, thou troubled Memory, wander on!181Dull, o'er the bounds of the departing trance,Droops the lithe wing the airier life hath known;Yet on the confines of the dream, the glanceSees—where before he stood—the Enchanter stand,Bend the vast brow and stretch the shadowy hand.And, human sense reviving, on the ear182Fall words ambiguous, now with happy hoursAnd plighted love,—and now with threats austereOf demon dangers—of malignant PowersWhose force might yet the counter charm unbind,If loosed the silence to her lips enjoin'd.Then, as that Image faded from the verge183Of life's renew'd horizon—came the day;Yet, ere the last gleams of the vision mergeInto earth's common light, their parting rayOn Arthur's brow the faithful memories leave,And the Dove's heart still beats in Genevieve!Still she the presence feels,—resumes the guide,184Till slowly, slowly waned the prescient powerThat gave the guardian to the pilgrim's side;—And only rested, with her human dowerOf gifts sublime to soothe, but weak to save,And blind to warn,—the Daughter of the Grave.Yet the lost dream bequeathed for evermore185Thoughts that did, like a second nature, makeLife to that life the Dove had hover'd o'erCling as an instinct,—and, for that dear sake,Danger and Death had found the woman's loveIn realms as near the Angels as the Dove.And now and now is she herself the one186To launch the bolt on that beloved life?Shuddering she starts, again she hears the nunDenounce the curse that arms the awful strife;Again her lips the wild cry stifle,—"SeeCrida's lost child, thy country's curse, in me!"Or—if along the world of that despair187Fleet other spectres—from the ruin'd steepPoints the dread arm, and hisses through the airThe avenger's sentence on the father's sleep!The dead seem rising from the yawning floor,And the shrine steams as with a shamble's gore.Sudden she springs, and, from her veiling hands,188Lifts the pale courage of her calmèd brow;With upward eyes, and murmuring lips, she stands,Raising to heaven the new-born hope:—and nowGlides from the cell along the galleried caves,Mute as a moonbeam flitting over waves.Now gain'd the central grot; now won the stair;189The lamp she bore gleam'd on the door of stone;Why halt? what hand detains?—she turn'd, and there,On the nun's serge and brow rebuking, shoneThe tremulous light; then fear her lips unchain'dFrom that stern silence by the Dream ordain'd,And at those holy feet the Saxon fell190Sobbing, "Oh, stay me not! Oh, rather freeThese steps that fly to savehisCarduel!Throne, altars, life—his life! In me, in me,To these strange shrines, thy saints in mercy bringCrida's lost Child!—Way, way to save thy king!"The sister listen'd; gladness, awe, amaze,191Fused in that lambent atmosphere of soul,Faithin the wise All-Good!—so melt the raysOf varying Iris in the lucid wholeOf light;—"Thy people still to Thee are dear,O Lord," she murmur'd, "and Thy hand is here!""Yes," cried the suppliant, "if my loss deplored,192My fate unguess'd—misled and arm'd my sire;When to his heart his child shall be restored,Sure, war itself will in the cause expire!Ruth come with joy,—and in that happy hourHate drop the steel, and Love alone have power?"Then the nun took the Saxon to her breast,193Round the bow'd neck she hung her sainted cross,And said, "Go forth—O beautiful and blest!And if my king rebuke me for thy loss,Be my reply the gain that loss bestow'd,—Hearths for his people, altars for his God!"She ceased;—on secret valves revolv'd the door;194On the calm hill-top breath'd the dawning air;One moment paused the steps of Hope, and o'erThe war's vast slumber look'd the Soul of Prayer.So halts the bird that from the cage hath flown;—A light bough rustled, and the Dove was gone.
Go on, thou troubled Memory, wander on!181Dull, o'er the bounds of the departing trance,Droops the lithe wing the airier life hath known;Yet on the confines of the dream, the glanceSees—where before he stood—the Enchanter stand,Bend the vast brow and stretch the shadowy hand.
And, human sense reviving, on the ear182Fall words ambiguous, now with happy hoursAnd plighted love,—and now with threats austereOf demon dangers—of malignant PowersWhose force might yet the counter charm unbind,If loosed the silence to her lips enjoin'd.
Then, as that Image faded from the verge183Of life's renew'd horizon—came the day;Yet, ere the last gleams of the vision mergeInto earth's common light, their parting rayOn Arthur's brow the faithful memories leave,And the Dove's heart still beats in Genevieve!
Still she the presence feels,—resumes the guide,184Till slowly, slowly waned the prescient powerThat gave the guardian to the pilgrim's side;—And only rested, with her human dowerOf gifts sublime to soothe, but weak to save,And blind to warn,—the Daughter of the Grave.
Yet the lost dream bequeathed for evermore185Thoughts that did, like a second nature, makeLife to that life the Dove had hover'd o'erCling as an instinct,—and, for that dear sake,Danger and Death had found the woman's loveIn realms as near the Angels as the Dove.
And now and now is she herself the one186To launch the bolt on that beloved life?Shuddering she starts, again she hears the nunDenounce the curse that arms the awful strife;Again her lips the wild cry stifle,—"SeeCrida's lost child, thy country's curse, in me!"
Or—if along the world of that despair187Fleet other spectres—from the ruin'd steepPoints the dread arm, and hisses through the airThe avenger's sentence on the father's sleep!The dead seem rising from the yawning floor,And the shrine steams as with a shamble's gore.
Sudden she springs, and, from her veiling hands,188Lifts the pale courage of her calmèd brow;With upward eyes, and murmuring lips, she stands,Raising to heaven the new-born hope:—and nowGlides from the cell along the galleried caves,Mute as a moonbeam flitting over waves.
Now gain'd the central grot; now won the stair;189The lamp she bore gleam'd on the door of stone;Why halt? what hand detains?—she turn'd, and there,On the nun's serge and brow rebuking, shoneThe tremulous light; then fear her lips unchain'dFrom that stern silence by the Dream ordain'd,
And at those holy feet the Saxon fell190Sobbing, "Oh, stay me not! Oh, rather freeThese steps that fly to savehisCarduel!Throne, altars, life—his life! In me, in me,To these strange shrines, thy saints in mercy bringCrida's lost Child!—Way, way to save thy king!"
The sister listen'd; gladness, awe, amaze,191Fused in that lambent atmosphere of soul,Faithin the wise All-Good!—so melt the raysOf varying Iris in the lucid wholeOf light;—"Thy people still to Thee are dear,O Lord," she murmur'd, "and Thy hand is here!"
"Yes," cried the suppliant, "if my loss deplored,192My fate unguess'd—misled and arm'd my sire;When to his heart his child shall be restored,Sure, war itself will in the cause expire!Ruth come with joy,—and in that happy hourHate drop the steel, and Love alone have power?"
Then the nun took the Saxon to her breast,193Round the bow'd neck she hung her sainted cross,And said, "Go forth—O beautiful and blest!And if my king rebuke me for thy loss,Be my reply the gain that loss bestow'd,—Hearths for his people, altars for his God!"
She ceased;—on secret valves revolv'd the door;194On the calm hill-top breath'd the dawning air;One moment paused the steps of Hope, and o'erThe war's vast slumber look'd the Soul of Prayer.So halts the bird that from the cage hath flown;—A light bough rustled, and the Dove was gone.