EVA.

II.The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowingWaving thin locks from musing temples pale;Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going,And the light dance of leaves upon the gale,In that mysterious symbol-change of earthWhich looks like death, though but restoring birth.Seasons return; for him shall not returnDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn.Whatever garb the mighty mother wore,Nature to him was changeless evermore.—List, not a sigh!—though fall'n on evil days,With darkness compass'd round—those sightless eyesNeed not the sun; nightly he sees the rays,Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise.High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone,Death-like in calm as monumental stone,Lifting his looks into the farthest skies,He sate: And as when some tempestuous dayDies in the hush of the majestic eve,So on his brow—where grief has pass'd away,Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave.

II.

The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowingWaving thin locks from musing temples pale;Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going,And the light dance of leaves upon the gale,In that mysterious symbol-change of earthWhich looks like death, though but restoring birth.Seasons return; for him shall not returnDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn.Whatever garb the mighty mother wore,Nature to him was changeless evermore.—List, not a sigh!—though fall'n on evil days,With darkness compass'd round—those sightless eyesNeed not the sun; nightly he sees the rays,Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise.High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone,Death-like in calm as monumental stone,Lifting his looks into the farthest skies,He sate: And as when some tempestuous dayDies in the hush of the majestic eve,So on his brow—where grief has pass'd away,Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave.

III.And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,—drew nearA timorous trembling step;—from the far climeThe Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year,In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time,How had she pined to gaze upon that browLast seen in youth, when she was young:—And Now!And now! O words that make the sepulchreOf all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tearThan, when recalling what the Hours interOf hopes, of passions, of the things that madeOur hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss,We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade,Sighing "And now!"—Alas the nothingnessEven of love—had it no life but this!

III.

And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,—drew nearA timorous trembling step;—from the far climeThe Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year,In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time,How had she pined to gaze upon that browLast seen in youth, when she was young:—And Now!And now! O words that make the sepulchreOf all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tearThan, when recalling what the Hours interOf hopes, of passions, of the things that madeOur hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss,We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade,Sighing "And now!"—Alas the nothingnessEven of love—had it no life but this!

IV.Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept,Two young slight forms across the threshold creptAnd reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand,And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'dThe old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile.On either side the children took their stand,And all the three were silent for awhile:Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word,Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair;And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd,Rose,—lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air—Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird;Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd,And from the daylight pensive pass'd away.Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray,And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud.

IV.

Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept,Two young slight forms across the threshold creptAnd reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand,And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'dThe old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile.On either side the children took their stand,And all the three were silent for awhile:Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word,Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair;And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd,Rose,—lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air—Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird;Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd,And from the daylight pensive pass'd away.Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray,And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud.

V.Hark, from within, slow and sonorous stoleDeep organ-tones; with solemn pomp of soundMeet to bear up the disimprison'd soulFrom mortal homage in material piles,To blend with Angel Halleluiahs!—RoundThe charmèd place the notes melodious rollAs with a visible flood: adown the aislesOf Nature's first cathedrals (vistas dim,Through leafless woodlands), far and farther floatOn to the startled haunts of toiling men,The marching music-tides: the heavenly noteThrills through the reeking air of alleys grim;Awes wolf-eyed Guilt close skulking in its den;Lulls Childhood, wailing with white lips for bread,On the starved breast of nerveless Penury;Fever lies soothed upon its burning bed:Indignant Worth stills its world-weary sigh;The widow'd bride looks upward from the dead,And deems she hears his welcome to the sky.On, the grand music, more and more remote,Bore the grey blind man's soul, itself a hymn,Till lost in air amid the Seraphim.

Hark, from within, slow and sonorous stoleDeep organ-tones; with solemn pomp of soundMeet to bear up the disimprison'd soulFrom mortal homage in material piles,To blend with Angel Halleluiahs!—RoundThe charmèd place the notes melodious rollAs with a visible flood: adown the aislesOf Nature's first cathedrals (vistas dim,Through leafless woodlands), far and farther floatOn to the startled haunts of toiling men,The marching music-tides: the heavenly noteThrills through the reeking air of alleys grim;Awes wolf-eyed Guilt close skulking in its den;Lulls Childhood, wailing with white lips for bread,On the starved breast of nerveless Penury;Fever lies soothed upon its burning bed:Indignant Worth stills its world-weary sigh;The widow'd bride looks upward from the dead,And deems she hears his welcome to the sky.On, the grand music, more and more remote,Bore the grey blind man's soul, itself a hymn,Till lost in air amid the Seraphim.

VI.Our life is as a circle, and our ageBack to our youth returns at last in dreams;The intermediate restless pilgrimageVexing the earth with toils, the air with schemes,Pays our hard tribute to the work-day world.That done, as some storm-shatter'd argosyPuts to the port from whence its sail unfurl'd,The soul regains the first familiar shore,And greets the quiet it disdain'd before.He who in youth from purple poetryFlush'd the grey clouds in this cold common sky,After his shadeless undelusive noonShall mark the roseate hues, which morning wore,Herald the eve, and gird his setting sun;And the last Hesperus shine on Helicon.O long (yet nobly, since for man) resign'dNature's most sovereign, care's most soothing boon;Again, again, with vervain fillets bindAnointed brows—O Mage supreme of song!Again before the enchanted crystal glassLet the celestial phantoms glide along—Thou, whose sweet tears yet hallow Lycidas;Thou, who the soul of Plato didst unsphere,By chaste Sabrina's beryl-paven cell!If now no more thou deign'st to charm the ear"With measures ravish'd from Apollo's shell,"Re-wake the harp which mournful willows hideLeft by the captives of Jerusalem;For thou hast thought of Sion, and besideThe streams of Babylon, hast wept—like them!

VI.

Our life is as a circle, and our ageBack to our youth returns at last in dreams;The intermediate restless pilgrimageVexing the earth with toils, the air with schemes,Pays our hard tribute to the work-day world.That done, as some storm-shatter'd argosyPuts to the port from whence its sail unfurl'd,The soul regains the first familiar shore,And greets the quiet it disdain'd before.He who in youth from purple poetryFlush'd the grey clouds in this cold common sky,After his shadeless undelusive noonShall mark the roseate hues, which morning wore,Herald the eve, and gird his setting sun;And the last Hesperus shine on Helicon.O long (yet nobly, since for man) resign'dNature's most sovereign, care's most soothing boon;Again, again, with vervain fillets bindAnointed brows—O Mage supreme of song!Again before the enchanted crystal glassLet the celestial phantoms glide along—Thou, whose sweet tears yet hallow Lycidas;Thou, who the soul of Plato didst unsphere,By chaste Sabrina's beryl-paven cell!If now no more thou deign'st to charm the ear"With measures ravish'd from Apollo's shell,"Re-wake the harp which mournful willows hideLeft by the captives of Jerusalem;For thou hast thought of Sion, and besideThe streams of Babylon, hast wept—like them!

VII.Aged, forsaken—to the crowd below(As to the Priest[F]who chronicled the time),"One Milton!—The blind Teacher"—be it so.Neglect and ruin make but more sublimeThe last lone column which survives the dearthOf a lost city,—when it lifts on high.Above the waste and solitude of earthIts front: and soars, the Neighbour of the Sky.To him a Voice floats down from every star;An Angel bends from every cloud that rolls;Life has no mystery from our sight more farThan the still joy in solemn Poet-souls.As some vast river, fresh'ning lands unknownWhere never yet a human footstep trod,Leave the grand Song to flow majestic onAnd hymn delight, from all its waves, to God.

VII.

Aged, forsaken—to the crowd below(As to the Priest[F]who chronicled the time),"One Milton!—The blind Teacher"—be it so.Neglect and ruin make but more sublimeThe last lone column which survives the dearthOf a lost city,—when it lifts on high.Above the waste and solitude of earthIts front: and soars, the Neighbour of the Sky.

To him a Voice floats down from every star;An Angel bends from every cloud that rolls;Life has no mystery from our sight more farThan the still joy in solemn Poet-souls.As some vast river, fresh'ning lands unknownWhere never yet a human footstep trod,Leave the grand Song to flow majestic onAnd hymn delight, from all its waves, to God.

VIII.A death-bell ceased;—beneath the vault were laidA great man's bones;—and when the rest were gone,Veil'd, and in sable widow-'d weeds array'd,An aged woman knelt upon the stone.Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweetWith the strange music of a foreign tongue:Thrice to that spot came feeble, feebler feet,Thrice on that stone were humble garlands hung.On the fourth day some formal hand in scornThe flowers that breathed of priestcraft cast away;But the poor stranger came not with the morn,And flowers forbidden deck'd no more the clay.A heart was broken!—and a spirit fled!Whither—let those who love and hope decide—But in the faith that Love rejoins the dead,The heart was broken ere the garland died.

VIII.

A death-bell ceased;—beneath the vault were laidA great man's bones;—and when the rest were gone,Veil'd, and in sable widow-'d weeds array'd,An aged woman knelt upon the stone.Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweetWith the strange music of a foreign tongue:Thrice to that spot came feeble, feebler feet,Thrice on that stone were humble garlands hung.On the fourth day some formal hand in scornThe flowers that breathed of priestcraft cast away;But the poor stranger came not with the morn,And flowers forbidden deck'd no more the clay.A heart was broken!—and a spirit fled!Whither—let those who love and hope decide—But in the faith that Love rejoins the dead,The heart was broken ere the garland died.

FOOTNOTES[A]In the story of Cupid and Psyche, told in Apuleius, it is said that the lamp itself gladdened at the aspect of the god.—"Cujus aspectu lucernæ quoque lumenhilaratumincrebuit."[B]Galileo—according to the popular legend of Milton's visit to him.[C]Plato.[D]The foliage of the Corinthian capital is borrowed from the acanthus.[E]The Council of State ordered, January 1649-50, "That Mr. Milton do prepare something in answer to the book of Salmasius, and when he hath done itt, bring itt to the Council." He was present, says his biographer, at the discussion which led to the order, and though warned that the loss of sight would be the certain consequence of obeying it, did so.—He called to mind, to use his own image, the two destinies the oracle announced to Achilles:—"If he stay before Troy, he will return to his land no more, but have everlasting glory—if he withdraw, long will be his life and short his fame."[F]Burnett.

[A]In the story of Cupid and Psyche, told in Apuleius, it is said that the lamp itself gladdened at the aspect of the god.—"Cujus aspectu lucernæ quoque lumenhilaratumincrebuit."

[B]Galileo—according to the popular legend of Milton's visit to him.

[C]Plato.

[D]The foliage of the Corinthian capital is borrowed from the acanthus.

[E]The Council of State ordered, January 1649-50, "That Mr. Milton do prepare something in answer to the book of Salmasius, and when he hath done itt, bring itt to the Council." He was present, says his biographer, at the discussion which led to the order, and though warned that the loss of sight would be the certain consequence of obeying it, did so.—He called to mind, to use his own image, the two destinies the oracle announced to Achilles:—"If he stay before Troy, he will return to his land no more, but have everlasting glory—if he withdraw, long will be his life and short his fame."

[F]Burnett.

A cottage in a peaceful vale;A jasmine round the door;A hill to shelter from the gale;A silver brook before.Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow,In mornings soft with May;Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow,Reflecting heaven, away!A sweeter bloom to Eva's youthRejoicing Nature gave;And heaven was mirror'd in her truthMore clear than on the wave.Oft to that lone sequester'd placeMy boyish steps would roam,There was a look in Eva's faceThat seem'd a smile of home.And oft I paused to hear at noonA voice that sang for glee;Or mark the white neck glancing down,—The book upon the knee.—

Who stands between thee and the sun?—A cloud himself,—the Wandering One!A vacant wonder in the eyes,—The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll;—The light was in the laughing skies,And darkness in the Idiot's soul.He touch'd the book upon her knee—He look'd into her gentle face—"Thou dost not tremble, maid, to seePoor Arthur by thy dwelling-place.I know not why, but where I passThe aged turn away;And if my shadow vex the grass,The children cease from play.Myonly playmates are the wind,The blossom on the bough!"Why are thy looks so soft and kind?Thou dost not tremble—thou!"Though none were by, she trembled not—Too meek to wound, too good to fear him;And, as he linger'd on the spot,She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him.—

"O Maiden!"—thus the sire begun—"O Maiden, do not scorn my prayer:I have a hapless idiot son,To all my wealth the only heir;And day by day, in shine or rain,He wanders forth, to gaze againUpon those eyes, whose looks of kindnessStill haunt him in his world of blindness;A sunless world!—all arts to yieldLight to the mind from childhood seal'dHave been explored in vain.Few are his joys on earth;—above,For every ill a cure is given—God grant me life to cheer with loveThe wanderer's guileless path to Heaven."He paused—his heart was full—"And now,What brings the suppliant father here?Yes, few the joys that life bestowsOn him whose life is but repose—One night, from year to year;—Yet not so dark, O maid, if thouCouldst let his shadow catch thy light,Couldst to his lip that smile allowWhich comes but at thy sight;Couldst—(for the smile is still so rare,And oh, so innocent the joy!)His presence, though it pain thee, bear,Nor fear the harmless idiot boy!"Then Eva's father, from her browParted the golden locks, descendingTo veil the sweet face, downwards bending:—And, pointing to the swimming eyes,The dew-drops glist'ning on the cheek,"Mourner!"the happierfather cries,"These tears her answer speak!"Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow,In mornings soft with May;Oh, silver-clear the waves that flowIn summer skies away;—But sweeter looks of kindness seemO'er human trouble bow'd,And gentle hearts reflect the beamLess truly than the cloud.

Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow,In mornings soft with May;Oh, silver-clear the waves that flowIn summer skies away;—But sweeter looks of kindness seemO'er human trouble bow'd,And gentle hearts reflect the beamLess truly than the cloud.

Of wonders on the land and deepsShe spoke, and glories in the sky—The Eternal life the Father keeps,For those who learn from Him to die.So simply did the maiden speak—So simply and so earnestly,You saw the light begin to break,And Soul the Heaven to see;You saw how slowly, day by day,The darksome waters caught the rayConfused and broken—come and gone—The beams as yet uncertain are,But still the billows murmur on,And struggle for the star.

There came to Eva's maiden homeA Stranger from a sunnier clime;The lore that Hellas taught to Rome,The wealth that Wisdom works from Time,Which ever, in its ebb and flow,Heaves to the seeker on the shoreThe waifs of glorious wrecks below,The argosies of yore;—Each gem that in that dark profoundThe Past,—the Student's soul can find;Shone from his thought, and sparkled roundThe Enchanted Palace of the Mind.In man's best years, his form was fair,Broad brow with hyacinth locks of hair;A port, though stately, not severe;An eye that could the heart control;A voice whose music to the ear,Became a memory to the soul.It seem'd as Nature's hand had doneHer most to mould her kingly son;But oft beneath the sunlit NileThe grim destroyer waits its prey,And dark, below that fatal smile,The lurking demon lay.How trustful in the leafy June,She roved with him the lonely vale;How trustful by the tender moon,She blushed to hear a tenderer tale.O happy Earth! the dawn revives,Day after day, each drooping flower—Time to the heartonceonly givesThe joyous Morning Hour."To him—oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth,For whom the world's false bloom is o'er?My heart shall haven in thy truth,And tempt the faithless wave no more.In my far land, a sun more brightSheds rose-hues o'er a tideless sea;But cold the wave, and dull the light,Without the sunshine found in thee.Say, wilt thou come, the Stranger's bride,To that bright land and tideless sea?There is no sun but by thy side—My life's whole sunshine smiles in thee!"Her hand lay trembling on his arm,Averted glow'd the happy face;A softer hue, a mightier charm,Grew mellowing o'er the hour—the place;Along the breathing woodlands movedAPRESENCEdream-like and divine—How sweet to love and be beloved,To lean upon a heart that's thine!Silence was o'er the earth and sky—By silence Love is answer'd best—Heranswer was the downcast eye,The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast.What rustles through the moonlit brake?What sudden spectre meets their gaze?What face, the hues of life forsake,Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays?You might have heard his heart that beat,So heaving rose its heavy swell—No more the Idiot—at her feet,The Dark One, roused to reason, fell.Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought,The lightning broke upon the blind—The jealous love the cure had wrought,The Heart in waking woke the Mind.

How trustful in the leafy June,She roved with him the lonely vale;How trustful by the tender moon,She blushed to hear a tenderer tale.O happy Earth! the dawn revives,Day after day, each drooping flower—Time to the heartonceonly givesThe joyous Morning Hour."To him—oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth,For whom the world's false bloom is o'er?My heart shall haven in thy truth,And tempt the faithless wave no more.In my far land, a sun more brightSheds rose-hues o'er a tideless sea;But cold the wave, and dull the light,Without the sunshine found in thee.Say, wilt thou come, the Stranger's bride,To that bright land and tideless sea?There is no sun but by thy side—My life's whole sunshine smiles in thee!"

Her hand lay trembling on his arm,Averted glow'd the happy face;A softer hue, a mightier charm,Grew mellowing o'er the hour—the place;Along the breathing woodlands movedAPRESENCEdream-like and divine—How sweet to love and be beloved,To lean upon a heart that's thine!Silence was o'er the earth and sky—By silence Love is answer'd best—Heranswer was the downcast eye,The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast.What rustles through the moonlit brake?What sudden spectre meets their gaze?What face, the hues of life forsake,Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays?You might have heard his heart that beat,So heaving rose its heavy swell—No more the Idiot—at her feet,The Dark One, roused to reason, fell.Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought,The lightning broke upon the blind—The jealous love the cure had wrought,The Heart in waking woke the Mind.

To and fro the bells are swinging,Cheerily, clearly, to and fro;Gaily go the young girls, bringingFlowers the fairest June may know.Maiden, flowers that bloom'd and perish'dStrew'd thy path the bridal day;May the Hope thy soul has cherish'd,Bloom when these are pass'd away!The Father's parting prayer is said,The daughter's parting kiss is given;The tears a happy bride may shed,Like dews ascend to heaven;And leave the earth from which they rise,But balmier airs, and rosier dyes.

The Father's parting prayer is said,The daughter's parting kiss is given;The tears a happy bride may shed,Like dews ascend to heaven;And leave the earth from which they rise,But balmier airs, and rosier dyes.

Years fly; beneath the yew-tree shadeThy father's holy dust is laid;The brook glides on, the jasmine blows;But where art thou, the wandering wife,And what the bliss, and what the woes,Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life?For whether life may laugh or weep,Death the true waking—life the sleep.None know! afar, unheard, unseen—The present heeds not what has been;This herded world together press'd,Can miss no straggler from the rest—Not so! Nay, alloneheart may find,Where Memory lives, a saint enshrined—Some altar-hearth, in which our shadeThe Household-god of Thought is made,And each slight relic hoarded yetWith faith more solemn than regret.Who tenants thy forsaken cot—Who tends thy childhood's favourite flowers—Who wakes, from every haunted spot,The Ghosts of buried Hours?'Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrowFrom thee the Vision and the Sorrow—To whom the Reason's golden ray,In storms that rent the heart was given;The peal that burst the clouds awayLeft clear the face of heaven!And wealth was his, and gentle birth,A form in fair proportions cast;But lonely still he walk'd the earth—The Hermit of the Past.It was not love—that dream was o'er!No stormy grief, no wild emotion;For oft, what once was love of yore,The memory soothes into devotion!He bought the cot:—The garden flowers—The haunts his Eva's steps had trod,Books—thought—beguiled the lonely hours,That flow'd in peaceful waves to God.

She sits, a Statue of Despair,In that far land, by that bright sea;She sits, a Statue of Despair,Whose smile an Angel seem'd to be—An angel that could never die,Its home the heaven of that blue eye!The smile is gone for ever there—She sits, the Statue of Despair!She knows it all—the hideous tale—The wrong, the perjury, and the shame;—Before the bride had left her vale,Another bore the nuptial name;Another lives to claim the handWhose clasp, in thrilling, had defiled:Another lives, O God, to brandThe Bastard's curse upon her child!Another!—through all space she sawThe face that mock'd th' unwedded mother's!In every voice she heard the Law,That cried, "Thou hast usurp'd another's!"And who the horror first had told?—Fromhisfalse lips in scorn it came—"Thy charms grow dim, my love grows cold;My sails are spread—Farewell."Rigid in voiceless marble there—Come, sculptor, come—behold Despair!The infant woke from feverish rest—Its smiles she sees, its voice she hears—The marble melted from the breast,And all the Mother gush'd in tears.

The infant woke from feverish rest—Its smiles she sees, its voice she hears—The marble melted from the breast,And all the Mother gush'd in tears.

To and fro the bells are swinging,Heavily heaving to and fro;Sadly go the mourners, bringingDust to join the dust below.Through the church-aisle, lighted dim,Chanted knells the ghostly hymn,Dies iræ, dies illa,Solvet sæclum in favillâ!Mother! flowers that bloom'd and perish'd,Strew'd thy path the bridal day;Now the bud thy grief has cherish'd,With the rest has pass'd away!Leaf that fadeth—bud that bloometh,Mingled there, must wait the dayWhen the seed the grave entombethBursts to glory from the clay.Dies iræ, dies illa,Solvet sæclum in favillâ!Happy are the old that die,With the sins of life repented;Happier he whose parting sighBreaks a heart, from sin prevented!Let the earth thine infant coverFrom the cares the living know;Happier than the guilty lover—Memory is at rest below!Memory, like a fiend, shall follow,Night and day, the steps of Crime;Hark! the church-bell, dull and hollow,Shakes another sand from time!Through the church-aisle, lighted dim,Chanted knells the ghostly hymn;Hear it, False One, where thou fliest,Shriek to hear it when thou diest—Dies iræ, dies illa,Solvet sæclum in favillâ!

The cottage in the peaceful vale,The jasmine round the door,The hill still shelters from the gale,The brook still glides before.Without the porch, one summer noon,The Hermit-dweller see!In musing silence bending down,The book upon his knee.Who stands between thee and the sun?—A cloud herself,—the Wand'ring One!—A vacant sadness in the eyes,The mind a razed, defeatured scroll;The light is in the laughing skies,And darkness, Eva, in thy soul!The beacon shaken in the storm,Had struggled still to gleam aboveThe last sad wreck of human love,Upon the dying child to shedOne ray—extinguish'd with the dead:O'er earth and heaven then rush'd the night!A wandering dream, a mindless form—A Star hurl'd headlong from its height,Guideless its course, and quench'd its light.Yet still the native instinct stirr'dThe darkness of the breast—She flies, as flies the wounded birdUnto the distant nest.O'er hill and waste, from land to land,Her heart the faithful instinct bore;And there, behold the Wanderer standBeside her Childhood's Home once more!

The cottage in the peaceful vale,The jasmine round the door,The hill still shelters from the gale,The brook still glides before.

Without the porch, one summer noon,The Hermit-dweller see!In musing silence bending down,The book upon his knee.

Who stands between thee and the sun?—A cloud herself,—the Wand'ring One!—A vacant sadness in the eyes,The mind a razed, defeatured scroll;The light is in the laughing skies,And darkness, Eva, in thy soul!The beacon shaken in the storm,Had struggled still to gleam aboveThe last sad wreck of human love,Upon the dying child to shedOne ray—extinguish'd with the dead:O'er earth and heaven then rush'd the night!A wandering dream, a mindless form—A Star hurl'd headlong from its height,Guideless its course, and quench'd its light.Yet still the native instinct stirr'dThe darkness of the breast—She flies, as flies the wounded birdUnto the distant nest.O'er hill and waste, from land to land,Her heart the faithful instinct bore;And there, behold the Wanderer standBeside her Childhood's Home once more!

When earth is fair, and winds are still,When sunset gilds the western hill,Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet,Or by the brook, with noiseless feet,Two silent forms are seen;So silent they—the place so lone—They seem like souls when life is gone,That haunt where life has been:And his to watch, as in the pastHer soul had watch'd his soul.Alas!herdarkness waits the last,The grave the only goal!It is not what the leech can cure—An erring chord, a jarring madness:A calm so deep, it must endure—So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness;A summer night, whose shadow fallsOn silent hearths in ruin'd halls.Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to feelHis presence like a happier air,Close by his side she loved to steal,As if no ill could harm her there!And when her looks his own would seek,Some memory seem'd to wake the sigh,Strive for kind words she could not speak,And bless him in the tearful eye.O sweet the jasmine's buds of snow,In mornings soft with May,And silver-clear the waves that flowTo shoreless deeps away;But heavenward from the faithful heartA sweeter incense stole;—The onward waves their source desert,But Soul returns to Soul!

"And how canst thou in tourneys shine,Or tread the glittering festal floor?On chains of gold and cloth of pile,The looks of high-born Beauty smile;Nor peerless deeds, nor stainless line,Can lift to fame the Poor!"His Mother spoke; and Elvar sigh'd—The sigh alone confess'd the truth;He curb'd the thoughts that gall'd the breast—High thoughts ill suit the russet vest;Yet Arthur's Court, in all its pride,Ne'er saw so fair a youth.Far, to the forest's stillest shade,Sir Elvar took his lonely way;Beneath an oak, whose gentle frownDimm'd noon's bright eyes, he laid him downAnd watch'd a Fount that through the glade,Sang, sparkling up to day."As sunlight to the forest tree"—'Twas thus his murmur'd musings ran—"And as amidst the sunlight's glow,The freshness of the fountain's flow—So—(ah, they never mine may be!)—Are Gold and Love to Man."And while he spoke, a gentle airSeem'd stirring through the crystal tides;A gleam, at first both dim and bright,Trembled to shape, in limbs of light,Gilded to sunbeams by the hairThat glances where IT glides;[B]Till, clear and clearer, upward borne,The Fairy of the Fountain rose:The halo quivering round her, grewMore steadfast as the shape shone through—O sure, a second, softer MornThe Elder Daylight knows!Born from the blue of those deep eyes,Such love its happy self betray'dAs only haunts that tender race,With flower or fount, their dwelling-place—The darling of the earth and skiesShe rose—that Fairy Maid!"Listen!" she said, and wave and landSigh'd back her murmur, murmurously—"A love more true than minstrel sings,A wealth that mocks the pomp of kings,To him who wins the Fairy's handA Fairy's dower shall be."But not to those can we belongWhose sense the charms of earth allure?If human love hath yet been thine,Farewell,—our laws forbid thee mine.The Children of the Star and Song,We may but bless the Pure!""Dream—lovelier far than e'er, I ween,Entranced the glorious Merlin's eyes—Through childhood, to this happiest hour,All free from human Beauty's power,My heart unresting still hath beenA prophet in its sighs."Though never living shape hath broughtSweet love, that second life, to me,Yet over earth, and through the heaven,The thoughts that pined for love were driven:—I see thee—and I feel I soughtThrough Earth and Heaven for thee!"

His Mother spoke; and Elvar sigh'd—The sigh alone confess'd the truth;He curb'd the thoughts that gall'd the breast—High thoughts ill suit the russet vest;Yet Arthur's Court, in all its pride,Ne'er saw so fair a youth.

Far, to the forest's stillest shade,Sir Elvar took his lonely way;Beneath an oak, whose gentle frownDimm'd noon's bright eyes, he laid him downAnd watch'd a Fount that through the glade,Sang, sparkling up to day.

"As sunlight to the forest tree"—'Twas thus his murmur'd musings ran—"And as amidst the sunlight's glow,The freshness of the fountain's flow—So—(ah, they never mine may be!)—Are Gold and Love to Man."

And while he spoke, a gentle airSeem'd stirring through the crystal tides;A gleam, at first both dim and bright,Trembled to shape, in limbs of light,Gilded to sunbeams by the hairThat glances where IT glides;[B]

Till, clear and clearer, upward borne,The Fairy of the Fountain rose:The halo quivering round her, grewMore steadfast as the shape shone through—O sure, a second, softer MornThe Elder Daylight knows!

Born from the blue of those deep eyes,Such love its happy self betray'dAs only haunts that tender race,With flower or fount, their dwelling-place—The darling of the earth and skiesShe rose—that Fairy Maid!

"Listen!" she said, and wave and landSigh'd back her murmur, murmurously—"A love more true than minstrel sings,A wealth that mocks the pomp of kings,To him who wins the Fairy's handA Fairy's dower shall be.

"But not to those can we belongWhose sense the charms of earth allure?If human love hath yet been thine,Farewell,—our laws forbid thee mine.The Children of the Star and Song,We may but bless the Pure!"

"Dream—lovelier far than e'er, I ween,Entranced the glorious Merlin's eyes—Through childhood, to this happiest hour,All free from human Beauty's power,My heart unresting still hath beenA prophet in its sighs.

"Though never living shape hath broughtSweet love, that second life, to me,Yet over earth, and through the heaven,The thoughts that pined for love were driven:—I see thee—and I feel I soughtThrough Earth and Heaven for thee!"

Ask not the Bard to lift the veilThat hides the Fairy's bridal bower;If thou art young, go seek the glade,And win thyself some fairy maid;And rosy lips shall tell the taleIn some enchanted hour."Farewell!" as by the greenwood tree,The Fairy clasp'd the Mortal's hand—"Our laws forbid thee to delay—Not ours the life of every day!—And Man, alas! may rarely beThe Guest of Fairy-land."Back to thy Prince's halls depart,The stateliest of his stately train:Henceforth thy wish shall be thy mine—Each toy that gold can purchase, thine—A fairy's coffers are the heartA mortal cannot drain.""Talk not of wealth—that dream is o'er!—These sunny looks be all my gold!""Nay! if in courts thy thoughts can strayAlong the fairy-forest way,Wish but to see thy bride once more—Thy bride thou shalt behold."Yet hear the law on which must restThy union with thine elfin bride;If ever by a word—a tone—Thou mak'st our tender secret known,The spell will vanish from thy breast—The Fairy from thy side."If thou but boast to mortal earThe meanest charm thou find'st in me,If"—here his lips the sweet lips seal,Low-murmuring, "Love can ne'er reveal—It cannot breathe to mortal earThe charms it finds in thee!"

Ask not the Bard to lift the veilThat hides the Fairy's bridal bower;If thou art young, go seek the glade,And win thyself some fairy maid;And rosy lips shall tell the taleIn some enchanted hour.

"Farewell!" as by the greenwood tree,The Fairy clasp'd the Mortal's hand—"Our laws forbid thee to delay—Not ours the life of every day!—And Man, alas! may rarely beThe Guest of Fairy-land.

"Back to thy Prince's halls depart,The stateliest of his stately train:Henceforth thy wish shall be thy mine—Each toy that gold can purchase, thine—A fairy's coffers are the heartA mortal cannot drain."

"Talk not of wealth—that dream is o'er!—These sunny looks be all my gold!""Nay! if in courts thy thoughts can strayAlong the fairy-forest way,Wish but to see thy bride once more—Thy bride thou shalt behold.

"Yet hear the law on which must restThy union with thine elfin bride;If ever by a word—a tone—Thou mak'st our tender secret known,The spell will vanish from thy breast—The Fairy from thy side.

"If thou but boast to mortal earThe meanest charm thou find'st in me,If"—here his lips the sweet lips seal,Low-murmuring, "Love can ne'er reveal—It cannot breathe to mortal earThe charms it finds in thee!"

High joust, by Carduel's ancient town,The Kingly Arthur holds to-day;Around their Queen; in glittering row,The Starry Hosts of Beauty glow.Smile down, ye stars, on his renownWho bears the wreath away!O chiefs who gird the Table Round—O war-gems of that wondrous ring!—Where lives the man to match the mightThat lifts to song your meanest knight,Who sees, preside on Glory's ground,His Lady and his King?What prince as from some throne afar,Shines onward—shining up the throng?Broider'd with pearls, his mantle's foldFlows o'er the mail emboss'd with gold;As rides, from cloud to cloud, a star,The Bright One rode along!Twice fifty stalwart Squires, in airThe stranger's knightly pennon bore;Twice fifty Pages, pacing slow,Scatter his largess as they go;Calm through the crowd he pass'd, and, there,Rein'd in the Lists before.Light question in those elder daysThe heralds made of birth and name.Enough to wear the spurs of gold,To share the pastime of the bold."Forwards!" their wands the Heralds raise,And in the Lists he came.Now rouse thee, rouse thee, bold Gawaine!Think of thy Lady's eyes above;Now rouse thee for thy Queen's sweet sake,Thou peerless Lancelot of the Lake!Vain Gawaine's might, and Lancelot's vain!—Theyknow no Fairy's love.Before him swells the joyous tromp,He comes—the victor's wreath is won!Low to his Queen Sir Elvar kneels,The helm no more his face conceals;And one pale form amidst the pomp,Sobs forth—"My gallant son!"

O chiefs who gird the Table Round—O war-gems of that wondrous ring!—Where lives the man to match the mightThat lifts to song your meanest knight,Who sees, preside on Glory's ground,His Lady and his King?

What prince as from some throne afar,Shines onward—shining up the throng?Broider'd with pearls, his mantle's foldFlows o'er the mail emboss'd with gold;As rides, from cloud to cloud, a star,The Bright One rode along!

Twice fifty stalwart Squires, in airThe stranger's knightly pennon bore;Twice fifty Pages, pacing slow,Scatter his largess as they go;Calm through the crowd he pass'd, and, there,Rein'd in the Lists before.

Light question in those elder daysThe heralds made of birth and name.Enough to wear the spurs of gold,To share the pastime of the bold."Forwards!" their wands the Heralds raise,And in the Lists he came.

Now rouse thee, rouse thee, bold Gawaine!Think of thy Lady's eyes above;Now rouse thee for thy Queen's sweet sake,Thou peerless Lancelot of the Lake!Vain Gawaine's might, and Lancelot's vain!—Theyknow no Fairy's love.

Before him swells the joyous tromp,He comes—the victor's wreath is won!Low to his Queen Sir Elvar kneels,The helm no more his face conceals;And one pale form amidst the pomp,Sobs forth—"My gallant son!"

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