A Microcosm In Terza Rima.
Quiet I lay at last, and knew no moreWhether I breathed or not, so worn I layWith the death-struggle. What was yet beforeNeither I met, nor turned from it away;My only conscious being was the restOf pain gone dead—dead with the bygone day,And long I could have lingered all but blestIn that half-slumber. But there came a soundAs of a door that opened—in the westSomewhere I thought it. As the hare the hound,The noise did start my eyelids and they rose.I turned my eyes and looked. Then straight I foundIt was my chamber-door that did unclose,For a tall form up to my bedside drew.Grand was it, silent, its very walk repose;And when I saw the countenance, I knewThat I was lying in my chamber dead;For this my brother—brothers such are few—That now to greet me bowed his kingly head,Had, many years agone, like holy doveReturning, from his friends and kindred sped,And, leaving memories of mournful love,Passed vanishing behind the unseen veil;And though I loved him, all high words above.Not for his loss then did I weep or wail,Knowing that here we live but in a tent,And, seeking home, shall find it without fail.Feeble but eager, toward him my hands went—I too was dead, so might the dead embrace!Taking me by the shoulders down he bent,And lifted me. I was in sickly case,But, growing stronger, stood up on the floor,There turned, and once regarded my dead faceWith curious eyes: its brow contentment wore,But I had done with it, and turned away.I saw my brother by the open door,And followed him out into the night blue-gray.The houses stood up hard in limpid air,The moon hung in the heavens in half decay,And all the world to my bare feet lay bare.
Now I had suffered in my life, as theyMust suffer, and by slow years younger grow,From whom the false fool-self must drop away,Compact of greed and fear, which, gathered slow,Darkens the angel-self that, evermore,Where no vain phantom in or out shall go,Moveless beholds the Father—stands beforeThe throne of revelation, waiting there,With wings low-drooping on the sapphire-floor,Until it find the Father's ideal fair,And be itself at last: not one small thornShall needless any pilgrim's garments tear;And but to say I had suffered I would scornSave for the marvellous thing that next befell:Sudden I grew aware I was new-born;All pain had vanished in the absorbent swellOf some exalting peace that was my own;As the moon dwelt in heaven did calmness dwellAt home in me, essential. The earth's moanLay all behind. Had I then lost my partIn human griefs, dear part with them that groan?"'Tis weariness!" I said; but with a startThat set it trembling and yet brake it not,I found the peace was love. Oh, my rich heart!For, every time I spied a glimmering spotOf window pane, "There, in that silent room,"Thought I, "mayhap sleeps human heart whose lotIs therefore dear to mine!" I cared for whomI saw not, had not seen, and might not see!After the love crept prone its shadow-gloom,But instant a mightier love arose in me,As in an ocean a single wave will swell,And heaved the shadow to the centre: weHad called it prayer, before on sleep I fell.It sank, and left my sea in holy calm:I gave each man to God, and all was well.And in my heart stirred soft a sleeping psalm.
No gentlest murmur through the city crept;Not one lone word my brother to me had spoken;But when beyond the city-gate we steptI knew the hovering silence would be broken.A low night wind came whispering: through and throughIt did baptize me with the pledge and tokenOf that soft spirit-wind which blows and blewAnd fans the human world since evermore.The very grass, cool to my feet, I knewTo be love also, and with the love I boreTo hold far sympathy, silent and sweet,As having known the secret from of yoreIn the eternal heart where all things meet,Feelings and thinkings, and where still they are bred.Sudden he stood, and with arrested feetI also. Like a half-sunned orb, his headSlow turned the bright side: lo, the brother-smileThat ancient human glory on me shedClothéd in which Jesus came forth to wileUnto his bosom every labouring soul,And all dividing passions to beguileTo winsome death, and then on them to rollThe blessed stone of the holy sepulchre!"Thank God," he said, "thou also now art wholeAnd sound and well! For the keen pain, and stirUneasy, and sore grief that came to us all,In that we knew not how the wine and myrrhCould ever from the vinegar and gallBe parted, are deep sunk, yea drowned in God;And yet the past not folded in a pall,But breathed upon, like Aaron's withered rod,By a sweet light that brings the blossoms through,Showing in dreariest paths that men have trodAnother's foot-prints, spotted of crimson hue,Still on before wherever theirs did wend;Yea, through the desert leading, of thyme and rue,The desert souls in which young lions rendAnd roar—the passionate who, to be blest,Ravin as bears, and do not gain their end,Because that, save in God, there is no rest."
Something my brother said to me like this,But how unlike it also, think, I pray:His eyes were music, and his smile a kiss;Himself the word, his speech was but a rayIn the clear nimbus that with verityOf absolute utterance made a home-born dayOf truth about him, lamping solemnly;And when he paused, there came a swift repose,Too high, too still to be called ecstasy—A purple silence, lanced through in the closeBy such keen thought that, with a sudden smiling,It grew sheen silver, hearted with burning rose.He was a glory full of reconciling,Of faithfulness, of love with no self-stain,Of tenderness, and care, and brother-wilingBack to the bosom of a speechless gain.
I cannot tell how long we joyous talked,For from my sense old time had vanished quite,Space dim-remaining—for onward still we walked.No sun arose to blot the pale, still night—Still as the night of some great spongy stoneThat turns but once an age betwixt the lightAnd the huge shadow from its own bulk thrown,And long as that to me before whose faceVisions so many slid, and veils were blownAside from the vague vast of Isis' grace.Innumerous thoughts yet throng that infinite hour,And hopes which greater hopes unceasing chase,For I was all responsive to his power.I saw my friends weep, wept, and let them weep;I saw the growth of each grief-nurtured flower;I saw the gardener watching—in their sleepWiping their tears with the napkin he had laidWrapped by itself when he climbed Hades' steep;What wonder then I saw nor was dismayed!I saw the dull, degraded monsters nursedIn money-marshes, greedy men that preyedUpon the helpless, ground the feeblest worst;Yea all the human chaos, wild and waste,Where he who will not leave what God hath cursedNow fruitless wallows, now is stung and chasedBy visions lovely and by longings dire."But who believeth, he shall not make haste,Even passing through the water and the fire,Or sad with memories of a better lot!He, saved by hope, for all men will desire,Knowing that God into a mustard-jotMay shut an aeon; give a world that layWombed in its sun, a molten unorbed clot,One moment from the red rim to spin awayLibrating—ages to roll on weary wheelEre it turn homeward, almost spent its day!Who knows love all, time nothing, he shall feelNo anxious heart, shall lift no trembling hand;Tender as air, but clothed in triple steel,He for his kind, in every age and land,Hoping will live; and, to his labour bent,The Father's will shall, doing, understand."So spake my brother as we onward went:His words my heart received, as corn the lea,And answered with a harvest of content.We came at last upon a lonesome sea.
And onward still he went, I followingOut on the water. But the water, lo,Like a thin sheet of glass, lay vanishing!The starry host in glorious twofold showLooked up, looked down. The moment I saw this,A quivering fear thorough my heart did go:Unstayed I walked across a twin abyss,A hollow sphere of blue; nor floor was foundOf questing eye, only the foot met the kissOf the cool water lightly crisping roundThe edges of the footsteps! Terror frozeMy fallen eyelids. But again the soundOf my guide's voice on the still air arose:"Hast thou forgotten that we walk by faith?For keenest sight but multiplies the shows.Lift up thine eyelids; take a valiant breath;Terrified, dare the terror in God's name;Step wider; trust the invisible. Can DeathAvail no more to hearten up thy flame?"I trembled, but I opened wide mine eyes,And strode on the invisible sea. The sameHigh moment vanished all my cowardice,And God was with me. The well-pleased starsThrew quivering smiles across the gulfy skies,The white aurora flashed great scimitarsFrom north to zenith; and again my guideFull turned on me his face. No prison-barsLatticed across a soul I there descried,No weather-stains of grief; quiet age-longBrooded upon his forehead clear and wide;Yet from that face a pang shot, vivid and strong,Into my heart. For, though I saw him standClose to me in the void as one in a throng,Yet on the border of some nameless landHe stood afar; a still-eyed mysteryCaught him whole worlds away. Though in my handHis hand I held, and, gazing earnestly,Searched in his countenance, as in a mine,For jewels of contentment, satisfyMy heart I could not. Seeming to divineMy hidden trouble, gently he stooped and kissedMy forehead, and his arms did round me twine,And held me to his bosom. Still I missedThat ancient earthly nearness, when we sharedOne bed, like birds that of no morrow wist;Roamed our one father's farm; or, later, faredAlong the dusty highways of the old clime.Backward he drew, and, as if he had baredMy soul, stood reading there a little time,While in his eyes tears gathered slow, like dewThat dims the grass at evening or at prime,But makes the stars clear-goldener in the blue:And on his lips a faint ethereal smileHovered, as hangs the mist of its own hueTrembling about a purple flower, the whileEvening grows brown. "Brother! brother!" I cried;But straight outbursting tears my words beguile,And in my bosom all the utterance died.
A moment more he stood, then softly sighed."I know thy pain; but this sorrow is farBeyond my help," his voice at length repliedTo my beseeching tears. "Look at yon starUp from the low east half-way, all ablaze:Think'st thou, because no cloud between doth marThe liquid glory that from its visage rays,Thou therefore knowest that same world on high,Its people and its orders and its ways?""What meanest thou?" I said. "Thou know'st thatWould hold, not thy dear form, but the self-thee!Thou art not near me! For thyself I cry!""Not the less near that nearer I shall be.I have a world within thou dost not know—Would I could make thee know it! but all of meIs thine, though thou not yet canst enter soInto possession that betwixt us twainThe frolic homeliness of love should flowAs o'er the brim of childhood's cup again:Away the deeper childhood first must wipeThat clouded consciousness which was our pain.When in thy breast the godlike hath grown ripe,And thou, Christ's little one, art ten times moreA child than when we played with drum and pipeAbout our earthly father's happy door,Then—" He ceased not; his holy utterance stillFlowing went on, like spring from hidden storeOf wasteless waters; but I wept my fill,Nor heeded much the comfort of his speech.At length he said: "When first I clomb the hill—With earthly words I heavenly things would reach—Where dwelleth now the man we used to callFather, whose voice, oh memory dear! did teachUs in our beds, when straight, as once a stallBecame a temple, holy grew the room,Prone on the ground before him I did fall,So grand he towered above me like a doom;But now I look into the well-known faceFearless, yea, basking blessed in the bloomOf his eternal youthfulness and grace.""But something separates us," yet I cried;"Let light at least begin the dark to chase,The dark begin to waver and divide,And clear the path of vision. In the old time,When clouds one heart did from the other hide,A wind would blow between! If I would climb,This foot must rise ere that can go up higher:Some big A teach me of the eternal prime."He answered me: "Hearts that to love aspireMust learn its mighty harmony ere they canGive out one perfect note in its great quire;And thereto am I sent—oh, sent of oneWho makes the dumb for joy break out and sing:He opens every door 'twixt man and man;He to all inner chambers all will bring."
It was enough; Hope waked from dreary swound,And Hope had ever been enough for me,To kennel driving grim Tomorrow's hound;From chains of school and mode she set me free,And urged my life to living.—On we wentAcross the stars that underlay the sea,And came to a blown shore of sand and bent.Beyond the sand a marshy moor we crossedSilent—I, for I pondered what he meant,And he, that sacred speech might not be lost—And came at length upon an evil place:Trees lay about like a half-buried host,Each in its desolate pool; some fearful raceOf creatures was not far, for howls and criesAnd gurgling hisses rose. With even paceWalking, "Fear not," he said, "for this way liesOur journey." On we went; and soon the groundSlow from the waste began a gentle rise;And tender grass in patches, then all round,Came clouding up, with its fresh homely tingeOf softest green cold-flushing every mound;At length, of lowly shrubs a scattered fringe;And last, a gloomy forest, almost blind,For on its roof no sun-ray did impinge,So that its very leaves did share the mindOf a brown shadowless day. Not, all the year,Once part its branches to let through a wind,But all day long the unmoving trees appearTo ponder on the past, as men may doThat for the future wait without a fear,And in the past the coming present view.
I know not if for days many or fewPathless we thrid the wood; for never sun,Its sylvan-traceried windows peeping through,Mottled with brighter green the mosses dun,Or meted with moving shadows Time the shade.No life was there—not even a spider spun.At length we came into a sky-roofed glade,An open level, in a circle shutBy solemn trees that stood aside and madeLarge room and lonely for a little hutBy grassy sweeps wide-margined from the wood.'Twas built of saplings old, that had been cutWhen those great trees no larger by them stood;Thick with an ancient moss, it seemed to have grownThus from the old brown earth, a covert rude,Half-house, half-grave; half-lifted up, half-prone.To its low door my brother led me. "ThereIs thy first school," he said; "there be thou shownThy pictured alphabet. Wake a mind of prayer,And praying enter." "But wilt thou not come,Brother?" I said. "No," said he. And I, "WhereThen shall I find thee? Thou wilt not leave me dumb,And a whole world of thoughts unuttered?"With half-sad smile and dewy eyes, and someConflicting motions of his kingly head,He pointed to the open-standing door.I entered: inward, lo, my shadow led!I turned: his countenance shone like lightning hoar!Then slow he turned from me, and parted slow,Like one unwilling, whom I should see no more;With voice nor hand said,Farewell, I must go!But drew the clinging door hard to the post.No dry leaves rustled 'neath his going; noFootfalls came back from the departing ghost.He was no more. I laid me down and wept;I dared not follow him, restrained the mostBy fear I should not see him if I leaptOut after him with cries of pleading love.Close to the wall, in hopeless loss, I crept;There cool sleep came, God's shadow, from above.
I woke, with calmness cleansed and sanctified—The peace that filled my heart of old, when IWoke in my mother's lap; for since I diedThe past lay bare, even to the dreaming shyThat shadowed my yet gathering unborn brain.And, marvelling, on the floor I saw, close byMy elbow-pillowed head, as if it had lainBeside me all the time I dreamless lay,A little pool of sunlight, which did stainThe earthen brown with gold; marvelling, I say,Because, across the sea and through the wood,No sun had shone upon me all the way.I rose, and through a chink the glade I viewed,But all was dull as it had always been,And sunless every tree-top round it stood,With hardly light enough to show it green;Yet through the broken roof, serenely glad,By a rough hole entered that heavenly sheen.Then I remembered in old years I hadSeen such a light—where, with dropt eyelids gloomed,Sitting on such a floor, dark women sadIn a low barn-like house where lay entombedTheir sires and children; only there the doorWas open to the sun, which entering plumedWith shadowy palms the stones that on the floorStood up like lidless chests—again to findThat the soul needs no brain, but keeps her storeIn hidden chambers of the eternal mind.Thence backward ran my roused MemoryDown the ever-opening vista—back to blindAnticipations while my soul did lieClosed in my mother's; forward thence through brightSpring morns of childhood, gay with hopes that flyBird-like across their doming blue and white,To passionate summer noons, to saddened evesOf autumn rain, so on to wintred night;Thence up once more to the dewy dawn that weavesSaffron and gold—weaves hope with still content,And wakes the worship that even wrong bereavesOf half its pain. And round her as she wentHovered a sense as of an odour dearWhose flower was far—as of a letter sentNot yet arrived—a footstep coming near,But, oh, how long delayed the lifting latch!—As of a waiting sun, ready to peerYet peering not—as of a breathless watchOver a sleeping beauty—babbling rimeAbout her lips, but no winged word to catch!And here I lay, the child of changeful TimeShut in the weary, changeless Evermore,A dull, eternal, fadeless, fruitless clime!Was this the dungeon of my sinning sore—A gentle hell of loneliness, foredoomedFor such as I, whose love was yet the coreOf all my being? The brown shadow gloomedPersistent, faded, warm. No ripple ranAcross the air, no roaming insect boomed."Alas," I cried, "I am no living man!Better were darkness and the leave to gropeThan light that builds its own drear prison! CanThis be the folding of the wings of Hope?"
That instant—through the branches overheadNo sound of going went—a shadow fellIsled in the unrippled pool of sunlight fedFrom some far fountain hid in heavenly dell.I looked, and in the low roofs broken placeA single snowdrop stood—a radiant bellOf silvery shine, softly subdued by graceOf delicate green that made the white appearYet whiter. Blind it bowed its head a space,Half-timid—then, as in despite of fear,Unfolded its three rays. If it had swungIts pendent bell, and music golden clear—Division just entrancing sounds among—Had flickered down as tender as flakes of snow,It had not shed more influence as it rungThan from its look alone did rain and flow.I knew the flower; perceived its human ways;Dim saw the secret that had made it grow:My heart supplied the music's golden phrase.Light from the dark and snowdrops from the earth,Life's resurrection out of gross decays,The endless round of beauty's yearly birth,And nations' rise and fall—were in the flower,And read themselves in silence. Heavenly mirthAwoke in my sad heart. For one whole hourI praised the God of snowdrops. But at heightThe bliss gave way. Next, faith began to cower;And then the snowdrop vanished from my sight.
Last, I began in unbelief to say:"No angel this! a snowdrop—nothing more!A trifle which God's hands drew forth in playFrom the tangled pond of chaos, dank and frore,Threw on the bank, and left blindly to breed!A wilful fancy would have gathered storeOf evanescence from the pretty weed,White, shapely—then divine! Conclusion lameO'erdriven into the shelter of a creed!Not out of God, but nothingness it came:Colourless, feeble, flying from life's heat,It has no honour, hardly shunning shame!"When, see, another shadow at my feet!Hopeless I lifted now my weary head:Why mock me with another heavenly cheat?—A primrose fair, from its rough-blanketed bedLaughed, lo, my unbelief to heavenly scorn!A sun-child, just awake, no prayer yet said,Half rising from the couch where it was born,And smiling to the world! I breathed again;Out of the midnight once more dawned the morn,And fled the phantom Doubt with all his train.
I was a child once more, nor pondered life,Thought not of what or how much. All my soulWith sudden births of lovely things grew rife.In peeps a daisy: on the instant rollRich lawny fields, with red tips crowding the green,Across the hollows, over ridge and knoll,To where the rosy sun goes down serene.From out of heaven in looks a pimpernel:I walk in morning scents of thyme and bean;Dewdrops on every stalk and bud and bellFlash, like a jewel-orchard, many roods;Glow ruby suns, which emerald suns would quell;Topaz saint-glories, sapphire beatitudesBlaze in the slanting sunshine all around;Above, the high-priest-lark, o'er fields and woods—Rich-hearted with his five eggs on the ground—The sacrifice bore through the veil of light,Odour and colour offering up in sound.—Filled heart-full thus with forms of lowly mightAnd shapeful silences of lovely lore,I sat a child, happy with only sight,And for a time I needed nothing more.
Supine to the revelation I did lie,Passive as prophet to his dreaming deep,Or harp Aeolian to the breathing sky,And blest as any child whom twilight sleepHolds half, and half lets go. But the new dayOf higher need up-dawned with sudden leap:"Ah, flowers," I said, "ye are divinely gay,But your fair music is too far and fine!Ye are full cups, yet reach not to allayThe drought of those for human love who pineAs the hart for water-brooks!" At once a faceWas looking in my face; its eyes through mineWere feeding me with tenderness and grace,And by their love I knew my mother's eyes.Gazing in them, there grew in me apaceA longing grief, and love did swell and riseTill weeping I brake out and did bemoanMy blameful share in bygone tears and cries:"O mother, wilt thou plead for me?" I groan;"I say not, plead with Christ, but plead with thoseWho, gathered now in peace about his throne,Were near me when my heart was full of throes,And longings vain alter a flying bliss,Which oft the fountain by the threshold froze:They must forgive me, mother! Tell them this:No more shall swell the love-dividing sigh;Down at their feet I lay my selfishness."The face grew passionate at this my cry;The gathering tears up to its eyebrims rose;It grew a trembling mist, that did not flyBut slow dissolved. I wept as one of thoseWho wake outside the garden of their dream,And, lo, the droop-winged hours laborious closeIts opal gates with stone and stake and beam.
But glory went that glory more might come.Behold a countless multitude—no less!A host of faces, me besieging, dumbIn the lone castle of my mournfulness!Had then my mother given the word I sent,Gathering my dear ones from the shining press?And had these others their love-aidance lentFor full assurance of the pardon prayed?Would they concentre love, with sweet intent,On my self-love, to blast the evil shade?Ah, perfect vision! pledge of endless hope!Oh army of the holy spirit, arrayedIn comfort's panoply! For words I grope—For clouds to catch your radiant dawn, my own,And tell your coming! From the highest copeOf blue, down to my roof-breach came a coneOf faces and their eyes on love's will borne,Bright heads down-bending like the forward blown,Heavy with ripeness, golden ears of corn,By gentle wind on crowded harvest-field,All gazing toward my prison-hut forlornAs if with power of eyes they would have healedMy troubled heart, making it like their ownIn which the bitter fountain had been sealed,And the life-giving water flowed alone!
With what I thus beheld, glorified then,"God, let me love my fill and pass!" I sighed,And dead, for love had almost died again."O fathers, brothers, I am yours!" I cried;"O mothers, sisters. I am nothing nowSave as I am yours, and in you sanctified!O men, O women, of the peaceful brow,And infinite abysses in the eyesWhence God's ineffable gazes on me, howCare ye for me, impassioned and unwise?Oh ever draw my heart out after you!Ever, O grandeur, thus before me riseAnd I need nothing, not even for love will sue!I am no more, and love is all in all!Henceforth there is, there can be nothing new—All things are always new!" Then, like the fallOf a steep avalanche, my joy fell steep:Up in my spirit rose as it were the callOf an old sorrow from an ancient deep;For, with my eyes fixed on the eyes of himWhom I had loved before I learned to creep—God's vicar in his twilight nursery dimTo gather us to the higher father's knee—I saw a something fill their azure rimThat caught him worlds and years away from me;And like a javelin once more through me passedThe pang that pierced me walking on the sea:"O saints," I cried, "must loss be still the last?"
When I said this, the cloud of witnessesTurned their heads sideways, and the cloud grew dimI saw their faces half, but now their blissGleamed low, like the old moon in the new moon's rim.Then as I gazed, a better kind of lightOn every outline 'gan to glimmer and swim,Faint as the young moon threadlike on the night,Just born of sunbeams trembling on her edge:'Twas a great cluster of profiles in sharp white.Had some far dawn begun to drive a wedgeInto the night, and cleave the clinging dark?I saw no moon or star, token or pledgeOf light, save that manifold silvery mark,The shining title of each spirit-book.Whence came that light? Sudden, as if a sparkOf vital touch had found some hidden nookWhere germs of potent harmonies lay prest,And their outbursting life old Aether shook,Rose, as in prayer to lingering promised guest,From that great cone of faces such a song,Instinct with hope's harmonical unrest,That with sore weeping, and the cry "How long?"I bore my part because I could not sing.And as they sang, the light more clear and strongBordered their faces, till the glory-stingI could almost no more encounter and bear;Light from their eyes, like water from a spring,Flowed; on their foreheads reigned their flashing hair;I saw the light from eyes I could not see."He comes! he comes!" they sang, "comes to our prayer!""Oh my poor heart, if only it wereHe!"I cried. Thereat the faces moved! those eyesWere turning on me! In rushed ecstasy,And woke me to the light of lower skies.
"What matter," said I, "whether clank of chainOr over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!"Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain.Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less,Sleep's ashes from my eyelids I did brush.The room was veiled, that morning should not pressUpon the slumber which had stayed the rushOf ebbing life; I looked into the gloom:Upon her brow the dawn's first grayest flush,And on her cheek pale hope's reviving bloom,Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone,She who had lifted me from many a tomb!One then was left me of Love's radiant cone!Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan,Was shining yet—a dawn upon it thrownFrom the far coming of the Son of Man!
In every forehead now I see a skyCatching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breezeAbout me blow the news the Lord is nigh.Long is the night, dark are the polar seas,Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill.Round Spring's own steps the oozy waters freezeBut hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still,But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start:Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fillWhen but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.
Lord, I have spoken a poor parable,In which I would have said thy name aloneIs the one secret lying in Truth's well,Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,Thy face the heart of every flower on earth,Its vision the one hope; for every moanThy love the cure! O sharer of the birthOf little children seated on thy knee!O human God! I laugh with sacred mirthTo think how all the laden shall go free;For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruthOne morn the eyes that shone in GalileeWill dawn upon them, full of grace and truth,And thy own love—the vivifying coreOf every love in heart of age or youth,Of every hope that sank 'neath burden sore!
A Part Of The Story Omitted In The Old Romances.
How sir Galahad despaired of finding the Grail.
Through the wood the sunny dayGlimmered sweetly glad;Through the wood his weary wayRode sir Galahad.
All about stood open porch,Long-drawn cloister dim;'Twas a wavering wandering churchEvery side of him.
On through columns arching high,Foliage-vaulted, heRode in thirst that made him sigh,Longing miserably.
Came the moon, and through the treesGlimmered faintly sad;Withered, worn, and ill at easeDown lay Galahad;
Closed his eyes and took no heedWhat might come or pass;Heard his hunger-busy steedCropping dewy grass.
Cool and juicy was the blade,Good to him as wine:For his labour he was paid,Galahad must pine!
Late had he at Arthur's board,Arthur strong and wise,Pledged the cup with friendly lord,Looked in ladies' eyes;
Now, alas! he wandered wide,Resting never more,Over lake and mountain-side,Over sea and shore!
Swift in vision rose and fledAll he might have had;Weary tossed his restless head,And his heart grew sad.
With the lowliest in the landHe a maiden fairMight have led with virgin handFrom the altar-stair:
Youth away with strength would glide,Age bring frost and woe;Through the world so dreary wideMateless he must go!
Lost was life and all its good,Gone without avail!All his labour never wouldFind the Holy Grail!
How sir Galahad found and lost the Grail.
Galahad was in the night,And the wood was drear;But to men in darksome plightRadiant things appear:
Wings he heard not floating by,Heard no heavenly hail;But he started with a cry,For he saw the Grail.
Hid from bright beholding sun,Hid from moonlight wan,Lo, from age-long darkness won,It was seen of man!
Three feet off, on cushioned moss,As if cast away,Homely wood with carven cross,Rough and rude it lay!
To his knees the knight rose up,Loosed his gauntlet-band;Fearing, daring, toward the cupWent his naked hand;
When, as if it fled from harm,Sank the holy thing,And his eager following armPlunged into a spring.
Oh the thirst, the water sweet!Down he lay and quaffed,Quaffed and rose up on his feet,Rose and gayly laughed;
Fell upon his knees to thank,Loved and lauded there;Stretched him on the mossy bank,Fell asleep in prayer;
Dreamed, and dreaming murmured lowAve, pater, creed;When the fir-tops gan to glowWaked and called his steed;
Bitted him and drew his girth,Watered from his helm:Happier knight or better worthWas not in the realm!
Belted on him then his sword,Braced his slackened mail;Doubting said: "I dreamed the LordOffered me the Grail."
How sir Galahad gave up the Quest for the Grail.
Ere the sun had cast his lightOn the water's face,Firm in saddle rode the knightFrom the holy place,
Merry songs began to sing,Let his matins bide;Rode a good hour pondering,And was turned aside,
Saying, "I will henceforth thenYield this hopeless quest;Tis a dream of holy menThis ideal Best!"
"Every good for miracleHeart devout may hold;Grail indeed was that fair wellFull of water cold!
"Not my thirst alone it stilledBut my soul it stayed;And my heart, with gladness filled,Wept and laughed and prayed!
"Spectral church with cryptic nicheI will seek no more;That the holiest Grail is, whichHelps the need most sore!"
And he spake with speech more trueThan his thought indeed,For not yet the good knight knewHis own sorest need.
How sir Galahad sought yet again for the Grail.
On he rode, to succour bound,But his faith grew dim;Wells for thirst he many found,Water none for him.
Never more from drinking deepRose he up and laughed;Never more did prayerful sleepFollow on the draught.
Good the water which they bore,Plenteously it flowed,Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no moreEased his bosom's load!
For theBestno more he sighed;Rode as in a trance;Life grew poor, undignified,And he spake of chance.
Then he dreamed through Jesus' handThat he drove a nail—Woke and cried, "Through every land,Lord, I seek thy Grail!"
That sir Galahad found the Grail.
Up the quest again he took,Rode through wood and wave;Sought in many a mossy nook,Many a hermit-cave;
Sought until the evening redSunk in shadow deep;Sought until the moonlight fled;Slept, and sought in sleep.
Where he wandered, seeking, sad,Story doth not say,But at length sir GalahadFound it on a day;
Took the Grail with holy hand,Had the cup of joy;Carried it about the land,Gleesome as a boy;
Laid his sword where he had foundBoot for every bale,Stuck his spear into the ground,Kept alone the Grail.
How sir Galahad carried about the Grail.
Horse and crested helmet gone,Greaves and shield and mail,Caroling loud the knight walked on,For he had the Grail;
Caroling loud walked south and north,East and west, for years;Where he went, the smiles came forth,Where he left, the tears.
Glave nor dagger mourned he,Axe nor iron flail:Evil might not brook to seeOnce the Holy Grail.
Wilds he wandered with his staff,Woods no longer sad;Earth and sky and sea did laughRound sir Galahad.
Bitter mere nor trodden poolDid in service fail,Water all grew sweet and coolIn the Holy Grail.
Without where to lay his head,Chanting loud he went;Found each cave a palace-bed,Every rock a tent.
Age that had begun to quailIn the gathering gloom,Counselled he to seek the GrailAnd forget the tomb.
Youth with hope or passion pale,Youth with eager eyes,Taught he that the Holy GrailWas the only prize.
Maiden worn with hidden ail,Restless and unsure,Taught he that the Holy GrailWas the only cure.
Children rosy in the sunRan to hear his taleHow twelve little ones had wonEach of them the Grail.
How sir Galahad hid the Grail.
Very still was earth and skyWhen he passing lay;Oft he said he should not die,Would but go away.
When he passed, they reverent sought,Where his hand lay prest,For the cup he bare, they thought,Hidden in his breast.
Hope and haste and eager thrillTurned to sorrowing wail:Hid he held it deeper still,Took with him the Grail.
Where went the feet that hitherto have come?Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.
Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;The mighty-throated when he mounts the skyOver some lowly landmark sings and floats.
Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;There all the ships tear each its track of gray;Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:In each a magic finger points the way.
No finger finely touched, no eye of larkHast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale!
The backward way one hour is plain to thee,Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind!Back to confession at thy mother's knee,Back to the question and the childlike mind!
Then start afresh, but toward unending end,The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night;So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend,Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.
"Traveller, what lies over the hill?Traveller, tell to me:Tip-toe-high on the window-sillOver I cannot see."
"My child, a valley green lies there,Lovely with trees, and shy;And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,Or I'll drown you by and by!'"
"And what comes next?"—"A little town,And a towering hill again;More hills and valleys up and down,And a river now and then."
"And what comes next?"—"A lonely moorWithout one beaten way,And slow clouds drifting dull beforeA wind that will not stay."
"And then?"—"Dark rocks and yellow sand,Blue sea and a moaning tide.""And then?"—"More sea, and then more land,With rivers deep and wide."
"And then?"—"Oh, rock and mountain and vale,Ocean and shores and men,Over and over, a weary tale,And round to your home again!"
"And is that all? From day to day,Like one with a long chain bound,Should I walk and walk and not get away,But go always round and round?"
"No, no; I have not told you the best,I have not told you the end:If you want to escape, away in the westYou will see a stair ascend,
"Built of all colours of lovely stones,A stair up into the skyWhere no one is weary, and no one moans,Or wishes to be laid by."
"Is it far away?"—"I do not know:You must fix your eyes thereon,And travel, travel through thunder and snow,Till the weary way is gone.
"All day, though you never see it shine,You must travel nor turn aside,All night you must keep as straight a lineThrough moonbeams or darkness wide."
"When I am older!"—"Nay, not so!""I have hardly opened my eyes!""He who to the old sunset would go,Starts best with the young sunrise."
"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?""Too steep for you to climb;You must lie at the foot of the glorious heapAnd patient wait your time."
"How long?"—"Nay, that I cannot tell.""In wind, and rain, and frost?""It may be so; and it is wellThat you should count the cost.
"Pilgrims from near and from distant landsWill step on you lying there;But a wayfaring man with wounded handsWill carry you up the stair."
Brother artist, help me; come!Artists are a maimed band:I have words but not a hand;Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.
Had I thine, when words did fail—Vassal-words their hasting chief,On the white awaiting leafShapes of power should tell the tale.
Had I hers of music-might,I would shake the air with stormTill the red clouds trailed enormBoreal dances through the night.
Had I his whose foresight rarePiles the stones with lordliest art,From the quarry of my heartLove should climb a heavenly stair!
Had I his whose wooing slowWins the marble's hidden child,Out in passion undefiledStood my Psyche, white as snow!
Maimed, a little help I pray;Words suffice not for my end;Let thy hand obey thy friend,Say for me what I would say.
Draw me, on an arid plainWith hoar-headed mountains nigh,Under a clear morning skyTelling of a night of rain,
Huge and half-shaped, like a blockChosen for sarcophagusBy a Pharaoh glorious,One rude solitary rock.
Cleave it down along the ridgeWith a fissure yawning deepTo the heart of the hard heap,Like the rent of riving wedge.
Through the cleft let hands appear,Upward pointed with pressed palmsAs if raised in silent psalmsFor salvation come anear.
Turn thee now—'tis almost done!—To the near horizon's verge:Make the smallest arc emergeOf the forehead of the sun.
One thing more—I ask too much!—From a brow which hope makes braveSweep the shadow of the graveWith a single golden touch.
Thanks, dear painter; that is all.If thy picture one day shouldNeed some words to make it good,I am ready to thy call.
The monk was praying in his cell,With bowed head praying sore;He had been praying on his kneesFor two long hours and more.
As of themselves, all suddenly,His eyelids opened wide;Before him on the ground he sawA man's feet close beside;
And almost to the feet came downA garment wove throughout;Such garment he had never seenIn countries round about!
His eyes he lifted tremblinglyUntil a hand they spied:A chisel-scar on it he saw,And a deep, torn scar beside.
His eyes they leaped up to the face,His heart gave one wild bound,Then stood as if its work were done—The Master he had found!
With sudden clang the convent bellTold him the poor did waitHis hand to give the daily breadDoled at the convent-gate.
Then Love rose in him passionate,And with Duty wrestled strong;And the bell kept calling all the timeWith merciless iron tongue.
The Master stood and looked at himHe rose up with a sigh:"He will be gone when I come backI go to him by and by!"
He chid his heart, he fed the poorAll at the convent-gate;Then with slow-dragging feet went backTo his cell so desolate:
His heart bereaved by duty done,He had sore need of prayer!Oh, sad he lifted the latch!—and, lo,The Master standing there!
He said, "My poor had not to standWearily at thy gate:For him who feeds the shepherd's sheepThe shepherd will stand and wait."
_Yet, Lord—for thou would'st have us judge,And I will humbly dare—If he had staid, I do not thinkThou wouldst have left him there.
Thy voice in far-off time I hear,With sweet defending, say:"The poor ye always have with you,Me ye have not alway!"
Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor,The deed thou shalt not rue;Wherever ye do my father's willI always am with you."_
_Queen Mary one day Jesus sentTo fetch some water, legends tell;The little boy, obedient,Drew a full pitcher from the well;
But as he raised it to his head,The water lipping with the rim,The handle broke, and all was shedUpon the stones about the brim.
His cloak upon the ground he laidAnd in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.]Obedient there the water staid,And home he bore it plentiful._
Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill:The hands that all the world control,Had here been room for miracle,Had made his mother's pitcher whole!
"Still, some few drops for thirsty needA poor invention even, when toldIn love of thee the Truth indeed,Like broken pitcher yet may hold:
"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:I thought to bear the pitcher high;Upon the shining stones of guiltI slipped, and there the potsherds lie!
"Master,I cried, _no man will drink,No human thirst will e'er be stilledThrough me, who sit upon the brink,My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!
"What will they do I waiting left?They looked to me to bring thy law!The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_
"But as I sat in evil plight,With dry parched heart and sickened brain,Uprose in me the water bright,Thou gavest me thyself again!"
A little bird sat on the edge of her nest;Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops;Day-long she had worked almost without rest,And had filled every one of their gibbous crops;Her own she had filled just over-full,And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.
"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her headSunk in her chest, and no neck at all,Looking like an apple on a feather-bedPoked and rounded and fluffed to a ball,"What's to be done if things don't reform?I cannot tell where there is one more worm!
"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each,Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders:Who will dare say I don't do as I preach?I set an example to all providers!But what's the use? We want a storm:I don't know where there's a single worm!"
"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee birdWho woke at the voice of his mother's pain;"I know where there's five!" And with the wordHe tucked in his head and went off again."The folly of childhood," sighed his mother,"Has always been my especial bother!"
Careless the yellow-beaks slept on,They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow;The mother sat outside making her moan—"I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow!I have always to say, the night before,Where shall I find one red worm more!"
Her case was this, she had gobbled too many,And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight:A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any!Could she but get of the great worm-store sight!The eastern sky was growing redEre she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.
Just then, the fellow who knew of five,Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks,Woke, and stirred, and felt alive:"To-day," he said, "I am up to six!But my mother feels in her lot the crook—What if I tried my own little hook!"
When his mother awoke, she winked her eyesAs if she had dreamed that she was a mole:Could she believe them? "What a huge prizeThat child is dragging out of its hole!"The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third!And here is a fable to catch the bird!
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky aloneSang the lark as the sun ascended his throne."Shine on me, my lord: I only am come,Of all your servants, to welcome you home!I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear,To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."
"Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark,For flying so high and hating the dark?You ask a full cup for half a thirst:Half was love of me, half love to be first.Some of my subjects serve better my taste:Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."
King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud;Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;But higher he flew, for he thought, "AnonThe wrath of the king will be over and gone;And, scattering his head-gear manifold,He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"
He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew,But as he rose the cloud rose too;And not one gleam of the flashing hairBrought signal of favour across the air;And his wings felt withered and worn and old,For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.
Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore,The strong sun-seeker could do no more;He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stoneBeside his nest, where, patient, alone,Sat his little wife on her little eggs,Keeping them warm with wings and legs.
Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king!"Welcome, sir Lark!—You look tired!" said he;"Upis not always the best way to me:While you have been racing my turban gray,I have been shining where you would not stay!"
He had set a coronet round the nest;Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast;And so glorious was she in russet goldThat sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold;He popped his head under her wing, and layAs still as a stone till king Sun went away.
Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home,High in the church-tower, lone and unseen,In a twilight of ivy, cool and green;With hisBing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome!Singing bass to himself in his house at home.
Said the Owl, on a shadowy ledge below,Like a glimmering ball of forgotten snow,"Pest on that fellow sitting up there,Always calling the people to prayer!He shatters my nerves with hisBing, Bang, Bome!—-Far too big in his house at home!
"I think I will move.—But it suits me well,And one may get used to it, who can tell!"So he slept again with all his might,Then woke and snooved out in the hush of nightWhen the Bell was asleep in his house at home,Dreaming over hisBing, Bang, Bome!
For the Owl was born so poor and genteelWhat could he do but pick and steal?He scorned to work for honest bread—"Better have never been hatched!" he said.So his day was the night, for he dared not roamTill sleep had silenced theBing, Bang, Bome!
When five greedy Owlets chipped the eggHe wanted two beaks and another leg,And they ate the more that they did not sleep well:"It's their gizzards," said Owless; said Owl, "It's that Bell!"For they quivered like leaves of a wind-blown tomeWhen the Bell bellowed out hisBing, Bang, Bome!
But the Bell began to throb with the fearOf bringing his house about his one ear;And his people came round it, quite a throng,To buttress the walls and make them strong:A full month he sat, and felt like a momeNot daring to shout hisBing, Bang, Bome!
Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said,"I trust in my heart the old fool is dead!No more will he scare church-mice with his bounce,And make them so thin they're scarce worth a pounce!Once I will see him ere he's laid in the loam,And shout in his earBing, Bim, Bang, Bome!"
"Hoo! hoo!" he cried, as he entered the steeple,"They've hanged him at last, the righteous people!His swollen tongue lolls out of his head!Hoo! hoo! at last the old brute is dead!There let him hang, the shapeless gnome,Choked with a throatful ofBing, Bang, Bome!"
He fluttered about him, singingToo-whoo!He flapped the poor Bell, and said, "Is that you?You that never would matters mince,Banging poor owls and making them wince?A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome!Too-whitis better thanBing, Bang, Bome!"
Still braver he grew, the downy, the dapper;He flew in and perched on the knob of the clapper,And shoutedToo-whoo!An echo awokeLike a far-off ghostlyBing-Bangstroke:"Just so!" he cried; "I am quite at home!I will take his place with myBing, Bang, Bome!"
He hissed with the scorn of his grand self-wonder,And thought the Bell's tremble his own great thunder:He sat the Jove of creation's fowl.—Bang!went the Bell—through the rope-hole the owl,A fluffy avalanche, light as foam,Loosed by the boom of theBing, Bang, Bome!
He sat where he fell, as if he had meant it,Ready for any remark anent it.Said the eldest Owlet, "Pa, you were wrong;He's at it again with his vulgar song!""Child," said the Owl, "of the mark you are wide:I brought him to life by perching inside."
"Why did you, my dear?" said his startled wife;"He has always been the plague of your life!""I have given him a lesson of good for evil:Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil!"The Owl sat righteous, he raised his comb.The Bell bawled on,Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!
The croak of a raven hoar!A dog's howl, kennel-tied!Loud shuts the carriage-door:The two are away on their ghastly rideTo Death's salt shore!
Where are the love and the grace?The bridegroom is thirsty and cold!The bride's skull sharpens her face!But the coachman is driving, jubilant, bold,The devil's pace.
The horses shivered and shookWaiting gaunt and haggardWith sorry and evil look;But swift as a drunken wind they staggered'Longst Lethe brook.
Long since, they ran no more;Heavily pulling they diedOn the sand of the hopeless shoreWhere never swelled or sank a tide,And the salt burns sore.
Flat their skeletons lie,White shadows on shining sand;The crusted reins go highTo the crumbling coachman's bony handOn his knees awry.
Side by side, jarring no more,Day and night side by side,Each by a doorless door,Motionless sit the bridegroom and brideOn the Dead-Sea-shore.
A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree,Sang in the moonshine, merrily,Three little songs, one, two, and three,A song for his wife, for himself, and me.
He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high,Filling the moonlight that filled the sky;"Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive!Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!"
He sang to himself, "What shall I doWith this life that thrills me through and through!Glad is so glad that it turns to ache!Out with it, song, or my heart will break!"
He sang to me, "Man, do not fearThough the moon goes down and the dark is near;Listen my song and rest thine eyes;Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!"
I folded me up in the heart of his tune,And fell asleep with the sinking moon;I woke with the day's first golden gleam,And, lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!
Love, the baby,Crept abroad to pluck a flower:One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;One said, Wait the hour.
Love, the boy,Joined the youngsters at their play:But they gave him little joy,And he went away.
Love, the youth,Roamed the country, quiver-laden;From him fled away in soothMany a man and maiden!
Love, the man,Sought a service all about;But they called him feeble, oneThey could do without.
Love, the aged,Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,Read a volume many-paged,Full of tears and smiles.
Love, the weary,Tottered down the shelving road:At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,Meeting him from God!
"Love, the holy,"Sang a music in her dome,Sang it softly, sang it slowly,"Love is coming home!"