Till day be blotted into night; and shake The fevered clouds, as if a thousand storms Throbbed into life! Vain hope-vain strength-vain flight! God's arm shall meet God's foe, and hurl him back! A VISION OF LIFE AND DEATH MINE ears were deaf to melody, My lips were dumb to sound: 'I wandered by the stream of time, And how did sound the waves, my soul? 'Gainst ruined thrones and graves.' And what sight on the shore, my soul? And what sight on the shore? 'Twain beings sate there silently, And sit there evermore.' Now tell me fast and true, my soul; A thousand colours dyed her garb ; 'In part her hair was gaily wreathed, To say 'twas pale or red. 'And when she looked on earth, I thought 'She held a mirror, there to gaze : 'A harper's harp did lie by her, 'A warrior's sword did lie by her, Ah me!-where was its light?' 'I asked her of her tears, and eke 'She said, she built a prince's throne: 'She said, she formed a godlike tongue, Which lofty thoughts unsheathed; Which rolled its thunder round, and purged The air the nations breathed. 'She said, that tongue, all eloquent, 'She said, she warmed a student's heart, 'She said, she lighted happy hearths, Which rang when love was not. 'She said, her name was Life; and then Yea! lifted she the veiling shroud, 'Yea! lifted she her calm, calm brow, Her clear cold smile on me : Whereat within my deepness, leaped Mine immortality. 'She told me, it did move her smile, To witness how I sighed, 'As if that kings could grasp the earth, As if that suns could shine at night, 'She told me, she had freed his soul, Who ay did freedom love; Who now recked not, were worms below, 'She said, the student's heart had beat And poured truth's light on him. 'She said, that they who left the hearth, She said, the funeral tolling brought Hush! Meseemeth through the leafy trees toring With running up the hills, and shakes his hair From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad With keeping blythe Dan Phoebus company; And throws him on the grass, though half afraid; First glancing round, lest tempests should be nigh; And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips, And shapes their beauty into sound, and On all the petalled flowers, that sit beneath Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him. 'And as she spake, she spake less loud; They straightway hear his voice The stream resounded more: Anon I nothing heard but waves That wailed along the shore.' And what didst thou say, O my soul, EARTH How beautiful is earth! my starry thoughts Look down on it from their unearthly sphere, And sing symphonious-Beautiful is earth! The lights and shadows of her myriad hills; The branching greenness of her myriad woods; Her sky-affecting rocks; her zoning sea; Her rushing, gleaming cataracts; her streams That race below, the wingèd clouds on high; Her pleasantness of vale and meadow!— A thought did come, And press from out my soul the heathen dream. Mine eyes were purgèd. Straightway did I bind Round me the garment of my strength, and heard Nature's death-shrieking—the hereafter cry, When he o' the lion voice, the rainbowcrowned, Shall stand upon the mountains and the sea, And swear by earth, by Heaven's throne, and Him Who sitteth on the throne, there shall No more, no more! Then, veiled Eternity ance Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place Of seasons, years, and ages. Ay and ay Shall be the time of day. The wrinkled heaven Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white With an exterminating light: the wind, Unchained from the poles, nor having charge Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death. Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by From out her ancient place, and leavea void. Yet haply by that void the saints redeemed May sometimes stray; when memory of sin Ghost-like shall rise upon their holy souls; And on their lips shall lie the name of earth In paleness and in silentness; until Each looking on his brother, face to face, And bursting into sudden happy tears (The only tears undried) shall murmur— 'Christ!' THE PICTURE GALLERY AT 'PENSHURST THEY spoke unto me from the silent ground, They looked unto me from the pictured wall: The echo of my footstep was a sound Like to the echo of their own footfall, What time their living feet were in the hall. I breathed where they had breathed— and where they brought Their souls to moralize on glory's pall, I walked with silence in a cloud of thought: There, I beheld the Sidneys :—he, who bled Freely for freedom's sake, bore gallantly His soul upon his brow ;-he, whose lute said Sweet music to the land, meseemed to be Dreaming, with that pale face, of love and Arcadie. Mine heart had shrinèd these. And therefore past Were these, and such as these, in mine heart's pride, Which deemed death glory's other name. At last I stayed my pilgrim feet, and paused beside A picture1, which the shadows half did hide. The form was a fair woman's form; the brow Brightly between the clustering curls espied : The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go. And rested there the lips, so warm and loving, That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess : Only they had been much too bright, if moving, To stay by their own will, all motionless. One outstretched hand its marble seal 'gan press On roses which looked fading; while the eyes, Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness, Seemed busy with their flow'ry destinies, So, what they erst had learned, I mine Drawing, for ladye's heart, some moral own spirit taught. Aye! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold The likeness of their flesh! They, the great dead, Stood still upon the canvas, while I told The glorious memories to their ashes wed. quaint and wise. She perished like her roses. I did look On her, as she did look on them-to sigh! Alas, alas! that the fair-written book Of her sweet face should be in death laid by, ' Vandyke's portrait of Waller's Sacharissa. TO A POET'S CHILD A FAR harp swept the sea above; And as I heard the melodie, I thought there was one only place, Where thou couldst lift thine orphaned face: A little home for prayer and woe ;- As palm-trees, on their South Sea bed, Child of the Dead! my dream of thee Child of the Dead! I meet thee here! And is thy step so fast and light? The minstrel's harp is on his bier; 'Tis well! I would not doom thy years As if their sun were on thy fate. Amid the rocks and shadows sleep. Feel not too warmly: lest thou be Touch not the harp to win the wreath: And, as a flame springs clear and bright, Forget! for, so, 'twill move thee not, So, when grief plays her natural part, So, when thy beauty senseless lies, MINSTRELSY One asked her once the resun why ROBERT DE Brunne. FOR ever, since my childish looks So long, the sweetness of their singing I know that much whereof I sing I know that summer's flower and leaf A few there are whose smile and praise The sweetest song that minstrels sing A thousand voices will not cheer Years pass-my life with them shall pass: |