LXX. What heard I then ?-a ringing shriek of pain, -I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain Man's voice was there-a clarion voice to cheer In the mid-battle-ay, to turn the flyingWoman's-that might have sung of Heaven beside the dying! LXXI. It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing, To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe! On the hot air and lurid skies increased Faint grew the sounds-more faint-I listen'd-they had ceased! LXXII. And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend! I might form other ties-but thou alone Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown! Others might aid me onward :-Thou and I Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, Once flowering-never more!-And thou wert gone! Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me? LXXIII. And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave! I would have set, against all earth's decree, LXXIV. There are swift hours in life-strong, rushing hours, They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ;They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight, They touch with fire thought's graven page, the roll Stamp'd with past years-and lo! it shrivels as a scroll! LXXV. And this was of such hours !-the sudden flow Of my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glare Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. LXXVI. I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud; To the most ancient heavens I would have said -"Speak to me! show me truth!"—through night aloud I would have cried to him, the newly dead, "Come back! and show me truth!"-My spirit seem'd Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'd With such pent storms of thought!-again I fledI fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely fane. LXXVII. A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! A memory of the sainted steps that wore Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem'd to brood A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men, And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine glen. LXXVIII. More hush'd, far more!-for there the wind sweeps by, Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play! Of incense.-I stood still-as before God and death! LXXIX. 9 For thick ye girt me round, ye long-departed! It seem'd as if your ashes would have started, To make your proud tombs ring :-no, no! I could not there! |