"He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend
And thro' thick veils to apprehend
A labour working to an end.
"The end and the beginning vex
His reason: many things perplex,
With motions, checks, and counterchecks.
"He knows a baseness in his blood
At such strange war with something good,
He may not do the thing he would.
"Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn,
Vast images in glimmering dawn,
Half shown, are broken and withdrawn.
"Ah! sure within him and without,
Could his dark wisdom find it out,
There must be answer to his doubt.
"But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain.
"The doubt would rest, I dare not solve.
In the same circle we revolve.
Assurance only breeds resolve.”
As when a billow, blown against,
Falls back, the voice with which I fenced
A little ceased, but recommenced.
"Where wert thou when thy father play'd
In his free field, and pastime made,
A merry boy in sun and shade?
"A merry boy they called him then.
He sat upon the knees of men
In days that never come again.
"Before the little ducts began
To feed thy bones with lime, and ran
Their course, till thou wert also man:
"Who took a wife, who rear'd his race,
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face,
Whose troubles number with his days:
"A life of nothings, nothing-worth,
From that first nothing ere his birth
To that last nothing under earth!"
"These words," I said, "are like the rest, No certain clearness, but at best
A vague suspicion of the breast:
"But if I grant, thou might'st defend The thesis which thy words intend— That to begin implies to end;
"Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould?
"I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain.
"It may be that no life is found,
Which only to one engine bound
Falls off, but cycles always round.
"As old mythologies relate,
Some draught of Lethe might await
The slipping thro' from state to state.
"As here we find in trances, men
Forget the dream that happens then,
Until they fall in trance again.
"So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much,
For those two likes might meet and touch.
"But, if I lapsed from nobler place,
Some legend of a fallen race
Alone might hint of my disgrace;
"Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night. "Or if thro' lower lives I cameTho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame
"I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not.
"And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
"Much more, if first I floated free,
As naked essence, must I be
Incompetent of memory:
"For memory dealing but with time,
And he with matter, could she climb
Beyond her own material prime?
"Moreover, something is or seems,
That touches me with mystic gleams,
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams-
"Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.”
"I talk," said he,
Suffice it thee
"But thou," said I, “hast miss'd thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark.
"Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new?
"Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly long'd for death.
"Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,
Oh life, not death, for which we pant;
More life, and fuller, that I want."
I ceased, and sat as one forlorn.
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn,
Behold, it is the Sabbath morn."
And I arose, and I released
The casement, and the light increased
With freshness in the dawning east.
Like soften'd airs that blowing steal,
When meres begin to uncongeal,
The sweet church bells began to peal.
On to God's house the people prest:
Passing the place where each must rest,
Each enter'd like a welcome guest.
One walk'd between his wife and child,
With measur'd footfall firm and mild,
And now and then he gravely smiled.
The prudent partner of his blood
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good,
Wearing the rose of womanhood.
And in their double love secure,
The little maiden walk'd demure,
Pacing with downward eyelids pure.
These three made unity so sweet,
My frozen heart began to beat,
Remembering its ancient heat.
I blest them, and they wander'd on:
I spoke, but answer came there none :
The dull and bitter voice was gone.
A second voice was at mine ear,
A little whisper silver-clear,
A murmur, "Be of better cheer."
As from some blissful neighbourhood
A notice faintly understood,
"I see the end, and know the good."
A little hint to solace woe,
A hint, a whisper breathing low,
"I may not speak of what I know."
Like an Æolian harp that wakes
No certain air, but overtakes
Far thought with music that it makes:
Such seem'd the whisper at my side:
"What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied:
So heavenly-toned, that in that hour
From out my sullen heart a power
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower,
To feel, altho' no tongue can prove,
That every cloud, that spreads above
And veileth love, itself is love.
And forth into the fields I went,
And Nature's living motion lent
The pulse of hope to discontent.
I wonder'd at the bounteous hours,
The slow result of winter showers:
You scarce could see the grass for flowers
I wonder'd, while I paced along:
The woods were fill'd so full with song,
There seem'd no room for sense of wrong.
So variously seem'd all things wrought,
I marvell'd how the mind was brought
To anchor by one gloomy thought;
And wherefore rather I made choice
To commune with that barren voice,
Than him that said, "Rejoice! rejoice!"
O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has past away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.
As by the lattice you reclined,
I went thro' many wayward moods
To see you dreaming-and, behind,
A summer crisp with shining woods.
And I too dream'd, until at last
Across my fancy, brooding warm,
The reflex of a legend past,
And loosely settled into form.
And would you have the thought I had,
And see the vision that I saw,
Then take the broidery-frame, and add
A crimson to the quaint Macaw,
And I will tell it. Turn your face,
Nor look with that too-earnest eye-
The rhymes are dazzled from their place,
And order'd words asunder fly.
THE SLEEPING PALACE
THE varying year with blade and sheaf
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;
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