A Vision of Poets

      "O Sacred Essence, lighting me this hour,

      How may I lightly stile thy great power?

Echo.Power.

      Power! but of whence? under the greenwood spraye?

      Or liv'st in Heaven? saye.

Echo.In Heavens aye.

      In Heavens aye! tell, may I it obtayne

      By alms, by fasting, prayer,—by paine?

Echo.By paine.

      Show me the paine, it shall be undergone:

      I to mine end will still go on.

Echo.Go on."

Britannia's Pastorals.

A poet could not sleep aright,

For his soul kept up too much light

Under his eyelids for the night:

And thus he rose disquieted,

With sweet rhymes ringing through his head,

And in the forest wandered;

Where, sloping up the darkest glades,

The moon had drawn long colonnades,

Upon whose floor the verdure fades

To a faint silver: pavement fair,

The antique Dryads scarce would dare

To footprint o'er, if such were there,

But rather sit by breathlessly,

With tears in their large eyes to see

The consecrated sight. But he—

The poet—who with spirit-kiss

Familiar, had long claimed for his

Whatever earthly beauty is,

Who also in his spirit bore

A Beauty passing the earth's store,

Walked calmly onward evermore.

His aimless thoughts in metre went,

Like a babe's hand, without intent,

Drawn down a seven-stringed instrument.

Nor jarred it with his mood when as,

With a faint stirring down the grass,

An apparition fair did pass.

He might have feared another time,

But all things fair and strange did chime

With his thoughts then—as rhyme to rhyme.

An angel had not startled him,

Dropping from Heaven's encyclic rim

To breathe from glory in the Dim—

Much less a lady, riding slow

Upon a palfrey white as snow,

And smooth as a snow-cloud could go.

Full upon his she turned her face,—

"What, ho, sir poet! dost thou pace

Our woods at night in ghostly chace

"Of some fair Dryad of old tales,

Who chaunts between the nightingales,

And over sleep by song prevails?"

She smiled; but he could see arise

Her soul from far adown her eyes,

Prepared as if for sacrifice.

She looked a queen who seemeth gay

From royal grace alone: "Now, nay,"

He answered,—" slumber passed away,

"Compelled by instincts in my head,

That I should see to-night instead

Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread."

She looked up quickly to the sky

And spake:—"The moon's regality

Will hear no praise! she is as I.

"She is in heaven, and I on earth;

This is my kingdom—I come forth

To crown all poets to their worth."

He brake in with a voice that mourned—

"To their worth, lady! They are scorned

By men they sing for, till inurned.

"To their worth! Beauty in the mind

Leaves the hearth cold; and love-refined

Ambitions make the world unkind.

"The boor who ploughs the daisy down,

The chief, whose mortgage of renown,

Fixed upon graves, has bought a crown—

"Both these are happier, more approved

Than poets!—Why should I be moved

In saying both are more beloved?"

"The south can judge not of the north;"

She resumed calmly—"I come forth

To crown all poets to their worth.

"Yea, sooth! and to anoint them all

With blessed oils, which surely shall

Smell sweeter as the ages fall."

"As sweet," the poet said, and rung

A low sad laugh, "as flowers do, sprung

Out of their graves when they die young!

"As sweet as window eglantine—

Some bough of which, as they decline,

The hired nurse plucketh at their sign!

"As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud,

Which the fair Roman maidens sewed

For English Keats, singing aloud."

The lady answered, "Yea, as sweet!

The things thou namest being complete

In fragrance, as I measure it.

"Since sweet the death-clothes and the knell

Of him who, having lived, dies well,—

And holy sweet the asphodel,

"Stirred softly by that foot of his,

When he treads brave on all that is,

Into the world of souls, from this!

"Since sweet the tears, dropped at the door

Of tearless Death,—and even before:

Sweet, consecrated evermore!

"What! dost thou judge it a strange thing,

That poets, crowned for conquering,

Should bear some dust from out the ring?

"Come on with me, come on with me;

And learn in coming! Let me free

Thy spirit into verity."

She ceased: her palfrey's paces sent

No separate noises as she went,—

'Twas a bee's hum—a little spent.

And while the poet seemed to tread

Along the drowsy noise so made,

The forest heaved up overhead

Its billowy foliage through the air,

And the calm stars did, far and fair,

O'er-swim the masses everywhere:

Save where the overtopping pines

Did bar their tremulous light with lines

All fixed and black. Now the moon shines

A broader glory! You may see

The trees grow rarer presently,—

The air blows up more fresh and free:

Until they come from dark to light,

And from the forest to the sight

Of the large Heaven-heart, bare with night,—

A fiery throb in every star

With burning arteries that are

The conduits of God's life afar,—

A wild brown moorland underneath,

Low glimmering here and thither, with

White pools in breaks, as blank as death.

Beside the first pool, near the wood,

A dead tree in set horror stood,

Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood;

Since thunder stricken, years ago,

Fixed in the spectral strain and throe

Wherewith it struggled from the blow:

A monumental tree... alone,

That will not bend, if tempest-blown,

But break off sudden like a stone,—

Its lifeless shadow lies oblique

Upon the pool,—where, javelin-like,

The star-rays quiver while they strike.

"Drink," said the lady, very still—

"Be holy and cold." He did her will,

And drank the starry water chill.

The next pool they came near unto,

Was bare of trees: there, only grew

Straight flags and lilies fair to view,

Which sullen on the water sate,

And leant their faces on the flat,

As weary of the starlight-state.

"Drink," said the lady, grave and slow,

"World's use behoveth thee to know."

He drank the bitter wave below.

The third pool, girt with thorny bushes,

And flaunting weeds, and reeds and rushes

That winds sang through in mournful gushes,

Was whitely smeared in many a round

By a slow slime: the starlight swound

Over the ghastly light it found.

"Drink," said the lady, sad and slow—

"World's love behoveth thee to know."

He looked to her, commanding so.

Her brow was troubled, but her eye

Struck clear to his soul. For all reply

He drank the water suddenly,—

Then, with a deathly sickness, passed

Beside the fourth pool and the last,

Where weights of shadow were down-cast

From yew and cypress, and from trails

Of hemlock clasping the trunk-scales,

And flung across the intervals

From yew to yew. Who dareth stoop

Where those moist branches overdroop,

Into his heart the chill strikes up:

He hears a silent, gliding coil—

The snakes breathe hard against the soil—

His foot slips in their slimy oil:

And toads seem crawling on his hand,

And clinging bats, but dimly scanned,

Eight in his face their wings expand.

A paleness took the poet's cheek:

"Must I drink here?" he questioned meek

The lady's will, with utterance weak.

"Ay, ay," she said, "it so must be"—

(And this time she spake cheerfully)

"Behoves thee know world's cruelty."

He bowed his forehead till his mouth

Curved in the wave, and drank unloth,

As if from rivers of the south.

His lip sobbed through the water rank,

His heart paused in him while he drank,

His brain beat heart-like—rose and sank,—

And he swooned backward to a dream,

Wherein he lay 'twixt gloom and gleam,

With Death and Life at each extreme.

And spiritual thunders, born of soul

Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole,

And o'er him roll and counter-roll,

Crushing their echoes reboant

With their own wheels. Did Heaven so grant

His spirit a sign of covenant?

At last came silence. A slow kiss

Did crown his forehead after this:

His eyelids flew back for the bliss.

The lady stood beside his head,

Smiling a thought, with hair dispread!

The moonshine seemed dishevelled

In her sleek tresses manifold;

Like Danae's in the rain of old,

That dripped with melancholy gold!

But she was holy, pale, and high—

As one who saw an ecstasy

Beyond a foretold agony.

"Rise up!" said she, with voice where song

Eddied through speech—"rise up! be strong;

And learn how right avengeth wrong."

The poet rose up on his feet:

He stood before an altar set

For sacrament, with vessels meet,

And mystic altar-lights which shine

As if their flames were crystalline

Carved flames that would not shrink or pine.

The altar filled the central place

Of a great church, and toward its face

Long aisles did shoot and interlace.

And from it a continuous mist

Of incense (round the edges kissed

By a pure light of amethyst)

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly,

Cloud within cloud, right silverly,

Cloud above cloud, victoriously,

Broke full against the arched roof,

And, thence refracting, eddied off,

And floated through the marble woof

Of many a fine-wrought architrave,—

Then, poising the white masses brave,

Swept solemnly down aisle and nave.

And now in dark, and now in light,

The countless columns, glimmering white,

Seemed leading out to Infinite.

Plunged half-way up the shaft they showed,

In the pale shifting incense-cloud

Which flowed them by, and overflowed,

Till mist and marble seemed to blend,

And the whole temple, at the end,

With its own incense to distend;

The arches, like a giant's bow,

To bend and slacken,—and below,

The niched saints to come and go.

Alone, amid the shifting scene,

That central altar stood serene

In its clear stedfast taper-sheen.

Then first, the poet was aware

Of a chief angel standing there

Before that altar, in the glare.

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw

That they saw God—his lips and jaw,

Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's Law

They could enunciate, and refrain

From vibratory after-pain;

And his brow's height was sovereign—

On the vast background of his wings

Arose his image! and he flings,

From each plumed arc, pale glitterings

And fiery flakes (as beateth more

Or less, the angel-heart!) before,

And round him, upon roof and floor,

Edging with fire the shifting fumes:

While at his side, 'twixt lights and glooms,

The phantasm of an organ booms.

Extending from which instrument

And angel, right and left-way bent,

The poet's sight grew sentient

Of a strange company around

And toward the altar,—pale and crowned,

With sovran eyes of depth profound.

Deathful their faces were; and yet

The power of life was in them set—

Never forgot, nor to forget.

Sublime significance of mouth,

Dilated nostril full of youth,

And forehead royal with the truth.

These faces were not multiplied

Beyond your count, but side by side

Did front the altar, glorified;

Still as a vision, yet exprest

Full as an action—look and geste

Of buried saint, in risen rest!

The poet knew them. Faint and dim

His spirit seemed to sink in him,

Then, like a dolphin, change and swim

The current—These were poets true

"Who died for Beauty, as martyrs do

For Truth—the ends being scarcely two.

God's prophets of the Beautiful

These poets were—of iron rule,

The rugged cilix, serge of wool.

Here, Homer, with the broad suspense

Of thunderous brows, and lips intense

Of garrulous god-innocence.

There, Shakspeare! on whose forehead climb

The crowns o' the world! Oh, eyes sublime—

With tears and laughters for all time!

Here, Æschylus,—the women swooned

To see so awful when he frowned

As the gods did,—he standeth crowned.

Euripides, with close and mild

Scholastic lips,—that could be wild,

And laugh or sob out like a child

Right in the classes. Sophocles,

With that king's look which down the trees,

Followed the dark effigies

Of the lost Theban! Hesiod old,

Who, somewhat blind, and deaf, and cold,

Cared most for gods and bulls! and bold

Electric Pindar, quick as fear,

With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear,

Slant startled eyes that seem to hear

The chariot rounding the last goal,

To hurtle past it in his soul!

And Sappho crowned with aureole

Of ebon curls on calmed brows—

O poet-woman! none forgoes

The leap, attaining the repose!

Theocritus, with glittering locks,

Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks

He watched the visionary flocks!

And Aristophanes; who took

The world with mirth, and laughter-struck

The hollow caves of Thought and woke

The infinite echoes hid in each.

And Virgil! shade of Mantuan beech

Did help the shade of bay to reach

And knit around his forehead high!—

For his gods wore less majesty

Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly.

Lucretius—nobler than his mood!

Who dropped his plummet down the broad

Deep universe, and said "No God,"

Finding no bottom! he denied

Divinely the divine, and died

Chief poet on the Tiber-side,

By grace of God! his face is stern,

As one compelled, in spite of scorn,

To teach a truth he could not learn.

And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed!

Once counted greater than the rest,

When mountain-winds blew out his vest.

And Spenser drooped his dreaming head

(With languid sleep-smile you had said

From his own verse engendered)

On Ariosto's, till they ran

Their locks in one!—The Italian

Shot nimbler heat of bolder man

From his fine lids. And Dante stern

And sweet, whose spirit was an urn

For wine and milk poured out in turn.

Hard-souled Alfieri; and fancy-willed

Boiardo,—who with laughters filled

The pauses of the jostled shield.

And Berni, with a hand stretched out

To sleek that storm! And not without

The wreath he died in, and the doubt

He died by, Tasso! bard and lover,

Whose visions were too thin to cover

The face of a false woman over.

And soft Racine,—and grave Corneille—

The orator of rhymes, whose wail

Scarce shook his purple! And Petrarch pale,

Who from his brainlit heart hath thrown

A thousand thoughts beneath the sun,

Each perfumed with the name of One.

And Camoens, with that look he had,

Compelling India's Genius sad

From the wave through the Lusiad,

With murmurs of a purple ocean

Indrawn in vibrative emotion

Along the verse! And while devotion

In his wild eyes fantastic shone

Between the bright curls blown upon

By airs celestial,—Calderon!

And bold De Vega,—who breathed quick

Song after song, till death's old trick

Put pause to life and rhetorick.

And Goethe—with that reaching eye

His soul reached out from, far and high,

And fell from inner entity.

And Schiller, with heroic front

Worthy of Plutarch's kiss upon't,—

Too large for wreath of modern wont.

And Chaucer, with his infantine

Familiar clasp of things divine—

That mark upon his lip is wine.

Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim!

The shapes of suns and stars did swim

Like clouds from them, and granted him

God for sole vision! Cowley, there,

Whose active fancy debonaire

Drew straws like amber—foul to fair.

Drayton and Browne,—with smiles they drew

From outward Nature, to renew

From their own inward nature true.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben—

Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows, when

The world was worthy of such men.

And Burns, with pungent passionings

Set in his eyes. Deep lyric springs

Are of the fire-mount's issuings.

And Shelley, in his white ideal,

All statue-blind; and Keats the real

Adonis, with the hymeneal

Fresh vernal buds half sunk between

His youthful curls, kissed straight and sheen

In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen.

And poor, proud Byron,—sad as grave

And salt as life! forlornly brave,

And quivering with the dart he drave.

And visionary Coleridge, who

Did sweep his thoughts as angels do

Their wings, with cadence up the Blue.

These poets faced (and other more)

The lighted altar booming o'er

The clouds of incense dim and hoar:

And all their faces, in the lull

Of natural things, looked wonderful

With life and death and deathless rule!

All, still as stone, and yet intense;

As if by spirit's vehemence

That stone were carved, and not by sense.

All still and calm as statue stone!

The life lay coiled unforegone

Up in the awful eyes alone,

And flung its length out through the air

Into whatever eyes should dare

To front them—Awful shapes and fair!

But where the heart of each should beat,

There seemed a wound instead of it,

From whence the blood dropped to their feet,

Drop after drop—dropped heavily,

As century follows century

Into the deep eternity.

Then said the lady—and her word

Came distant,—as wide waves were stirred

Between her and the ear that heard;—

"World's use is cold—world's love is vain,—

World's cruelty is bitter bane;

But pain is not the fruit of pain.

"Hearken, O poet, whom I led

From the dark wood! Dismissing dread,

Now hear this angel in my stead.

"His organ's pedals strike along

These poets' hearts, which metal-strong,

They gave him without count of wrong,—

"From which foundation he can guide

Up to God's feet, from these who died,

An anthem fully glorified!

"Whereat God's blessing... Ibarak (יברך)

Breathes back this music—folds it hack

About the earth in vapoury rack:

"And men walk in it, crying 'Lo!

The world is wider, and we know

The very heavens look brighter so!

"'The stars walk statelier round the edge

O' the silver spheres, and give in pledge

Their light for nobler privilege.

"'No little flower hut joys or grieves—

Full life is rustling in the sheaves;

Full spirit sweeps the forest-leaves!'

"So works this music on the earth!

God so admits it, sends it forth,

To add another worth to worth—

"A new creation-bloom that rounds

The old creation, and expounds

His Beautiful in tuneful sounds.

"Now hearken!" Then the Poet gazed

Upon the angel glorious-faced,

Whose hand, majestically raised,

Floated across the organ-keys,

Like a pale moon o'er murmuring seas,

With no touch hut with influences.

Then rose and fell (with swell and swound

Of shapeless noises wandering round

A concord which at last they found)

Those mystic keys—the tones were mixed,

Dim, faint; and thrilled and throbbed betwixt

The incomplete and the unfixed:

And therein mighty minds were heard

In mighty musings, inly stirred,

And struggling outward for a word.

Until these surges, having run

This way and that, gave out as one

An Aphrodite of sweet tune,

A Harmony that finding vent,

Upward in grand ascension went,

Winged to a heavenly argument—

Up, upward! like a saint who strips

The shroud back from his eyes and lips,

And rises in apocalypse!

A Harmony sublime and plain

Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain,—

Throwing the drops off with a strain

Of her white wing) those undertones

Of perplext chords, and soared at once,

And struck out from the starry thrones

Their several silver octaves, as

It passed to God! The music was

Of divine stature—strong to pass!

And those who heard it, understood

Something of life in spirit and blood—

Something of nature's fair and good.

And while it sounded, those great souls'

Did thrill as racers at the goals,

And burn in all their aureoles.

But she, the lady, as vapour-bound,

Stood calmly in the joy of sound,—

Like Nature with the showers around.

And when it ceased, the blood which fell,

Again, alone grew audible,

Tolling the silence as a bell.

The sovran angel lifted high

His hand, and spake out sovranly—

"Tried poets, hearken and reply!

"Give me true answers. If we grant

That not to suffer, is to want

The conscience of the Jubilant,—

"If ignorance of anguish is

But ignorance; and mortals miss

Far prospects, by a level bliss,—

"If as two colours must be viewed

In a seen image, mortals should

Need good and evil, to see good,—

"If to speak nobly, comprehends

To feel profoundly—if the ends

Of power and suffering, Nature blends,—

"If poets on the tripod must

Writhe like the Pythian, to make just

Their oracles, and merit trust,—

"If every vatic word that sweeps

To change the world, must pale their lips,

And leave their own souls in eclipse—

"If to search deep the universe

Must pierce the searcher with the curse,—

Because that bolt (in man's reverse),

"Was shot to the heart o' the wood, and lies

Wedged deepest in the best!—if eyes

That look for visions and surprise

"From marshalled, angels, must shut down

Their lids, first, upon sun and moon,

The head asleep upon a stone,—

"If One who did redeem you hack,

By His own lack, from final lack,

Did consecrate by touch and track

"Those temporal sorrows, till the taste

Of brackish waters of the waste

Is salt with tears He dropt too fast,—

"If all the crowns of earth must wound

With prickings of the thorns He found,—

If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound,—

"What say ye unto this?—refuse

This baptism in salt water?—choose

Calm breasts, mute lips, and labour loose?

"Or, oh ye gifted givers! ye

Who give your liberal hearts to me,

To make the world this harmony,—

"Are ye resigned that they he spent

To such world's help? "—The Spirits bent

Their awful brows and said—"Content!"

Content! it sounded like Amen,

Said by a choir of mourning men—

An affirmation full of pain

And patience!—ay, of glorying,

And adoration,—as a king

Might seal an oath for governing.

Then said the angel—and his face

Lightened abroad until the place

Grew larger for a moment's space—

The long aisles flashing out in light,

And nave and transept, columns white,

And arches crossed, being clear to sight,

As if the roof were off, and all

Stood in the noon-sun,—"Lo! I call

To other hearts as liberal.

"This pedal strikes out in the air!

My instrument hath room to bear

Still fuller strains and perfecter.

"Herein is room, and shall be room

While Time lasts, for new hearts to come

Consummating while they consume.

"What living man will bring a gift

Of his own heart, and help to lift

The tune?—The race is to the swift!"

So asked the angel. Straight the while,

A company came up the aisle

With measured step and sorted smile;

Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise,

With winking unaccustomed eyes,

And love-locks smelling sweet of spice.

One bore his head above the rest,

As if the world were dispossessed—

And one did pillow chin on breast,

Right languid—an as he should faint!

One shook his curls across his paint,

And moralised on worldly taint.

One, slanting up his face, did wink

The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink,

To think—O gods! or—not to think!

Some trod out stealthily and slow,

As if the sun would fall in snow,

If they walked to, instead of fro.

And some with conscious ambling free,

Did shake their bells right daintily

On hand and foot, for harmony.

And some composing sudden sighs,

In attitudes of point-device,

Rehearsed impromptu agonies.

And when this company drew near

The spirits crowned, it might appear

Submitted to a ghastly fear.

As a sane eye in master-passion

Constrains a maniac to the fashion

Of hideous maniac imitation

In the least geste—the dropping low

O' the lid—the wrinkling of the brow,—

Exaggerate with mock and mow,—

So, mastered was that company

By the crowned vision utterly,

Swayed to a maniac mockery.

One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached

With Homer's forehead—though he lacked

An inch of any! And one racked

His lower lip with restless tooth,—

As Pindar's rushing words forsooth

Were pent behind it. One, his smooth

Pink cheeks, did rumple passionate,

Like Æschylus—and tried to prate

On trolling tongue, of fate and fate!

One set her eyes like Sappho's—or

Any light woman's! one forbore

Like Dante, or any man as poor

In mirth, to let a smile undo

His hard shut lips. And one, that drew

Sour humours from his mother, blew

His sunken cheeks out to the size

Of most unnatural jollities,

Because Anacreon looked jest-wise.

So with the rest.—It was a sight

For great world-laughter, as it might

For great world-wrath, with equal right!

Out came a speaker from that crowd,

To speak for all—in sleek and proud

Exordial periods, while he bowed

His knee before the angel.—"Thus,

O angel, who hast called for us,

We bring thee service emulous,—

"Fit service from sufficient soul—

Hand-service, to receive world's dole—

Lip-service, in world's ear to roll

"Adjusted concords—soft enow

To hear the wine cups passing, through,

And not too grave to spoil the show.

"Thou, certes, when thou askest more,

O sapient angel, leanest o'er

The window-sill of metaphor.

"To give our hearts up! fie!—That rage

Barbaric, antedates the age!

It is not done on any stage.

"Because your scald or gleeman went

With seven or nine-stringed instrument

Upon his back—must ours be bent?

"We are not pilgrims, by your leave,

No, nor yet martyrs! if we grieve,

It is to rhyme to... summer eve.

"And if we labour, it shall be

As suiteth best with our degree,

In after-dinner reverie."

More yet that speaker would have said,—

Poising between his smiles fair-fed,

Each separate phrase till finished;

But all the foreheads of those born

And dead true poets flashed with scorn

Betwixt the bay leaves round them worn—

Ay, jetted such brave fire, that they,

The new-come, shrank and paled away,

Like leaden ashes when the day

Strikes on the hearth! A spirit-blast,

A presence known by power, at last

Took them up mutely—they had passed!

And he, our pilgrim-poet, saw

Only their places, in deep awe,—

What time the angel's smile did draw

His gazing upward. Smiling on,

The angel in the angel shone,

Revealing glory in benison.

Till, ripened in the light which shut

The poet in, his spirit mute

Dropped sudden, as a perfect fruit.

He fell before the angel's feet,

Saying—"If what is true is sweet,

In something I may compass it.

"For, where my worthiness is poor,

My will stands richly at the door,

To pay short comings evermore.

"Accept me therefore—Not for price,

And not for pride, my sacrifice

Is tendered! for my soul is nice,

"And will beat down those dusty seeds

Of bearded corn, if she succeeds

In soaring while the covey feeds.

"I soar—I am drawn up like the lark

To its white cloud! So high my mark,

Albeit my wing is small and dark!

"I ask no wages—seek no fame!

Sew me, for shroud round face and name,

God's banner of the oriflamme.

"I only would have leave to loose

(In tears and blood, if so He choose,

Mine inward music out to use.

"I only would he spent—in pain

And loss, perchance—hut not in vain,

Upon the sweetness of that strain,—

"Only project, beyond the hound

Of mine own life, so lost and found,

My voice, and live on in its sound,—

"Only embrace and he embraced

By fiery ends,—whereby to waste,

And light God's future with my past!"

The angel's smile grew more divine—

The mortal speaking—ay, its shine

Swelled fuller, like a choir-note fine,

Till the broad gloriole, round his brow,

Did vibrate with the light below;

But what he said I do not know.

Nor know I if the man who prayed,

Rose up accepted, unforbade,

From the church-floor where he was laid,—

Nor if a listening life did run

Through the king-poets, glossing down

Their eyes capacious of renown.

My soul, which saw these things, was blind

By what it looked on! I can find

No certain count of things behind.

I saw alone, dim white and grand

As in a dream, the angel's hand

Stretched forth in gesture of command,

Straight through the haze—And so, as erst,

A strain, more noble than the first,

Mused in the organ, and outburst.

With giant march from floor to roof,

Rose the full notes; now parted off

In pauses massively aloof,

Like measured thunders; now rejoined

In concords of mysterious kind,

Which won together sense and mind!

Now flashing sharp on sharp along,

Exultant, in a mounting throng,—

Now dying off into a song

Fed upon minors,—starry sounds

Moved on free-paced, in silver rounds,

Enlarging liberty with bounds.

And every rhythm that seemed to close,

Survived in confluent underflows,

Symphonious with the next that rose:

Thus the whole strain being multiplied

And greatened,—with its glorified

Wings shot abroad from side to side,—

Waved backwards (as a wind might wave

A Brocken mist, and with as brave

Wild roaring) arch and architrave,

Aisle, transept, column, marble wall,—

Then swelling outward, prodigal

Of aspiration beyond thrall,

Soared,—and drew up with it the whole

Of this said vision—as a soul

Is raised by a thought! and as a roll

Of bright devices is unrolled

Still upward, with a gradual gold,—

So rose the vision manifold,

Angel and organ, and the round

Of spirits, solemnised and crowned,—

While the freed clouds of incense wound

Ascending, following in their track,

And glimmering faintly, like the rack

O' the moon, in her own light cast hack.

And as that solemn Dream withdrew,

The lady's kiss did fall anew

Cold on the poet's brow as dew.

And that same kiss which bound him first

Beyond the senses, now reversed

Its own law, and most subtly pierced

His spirit with the sense of things

Sensual and present. Vanishings

Of glory, with Æolian wings

Struck him and passed: the lady's face

Did melt back in the chrysopras

Of the orient morning sky that was

Yet clear of lark,—and there and so

She melted as a star might do,

Still smiling as she melted—slow!

Smiling so slow, he seemed to see

Her smile the last thing, gloriously,

Beyond her—far as memory!

Then he looked round! he was alone—

He lay before the breaking sun,

As Jacob at the Bethel stone.

And thought's entangled skein being wound,

He knew the moorland of his swound,

And the pale pools that seared the ground,—

The far wood-pines, like offing ships—

The fourth pool's yew anear him drips—

World's cruelty attaints his lips;

And still he tastes it—bitter still—

Through all that glorious possible

He had the sight of present ill!

Yet rising calmly up and slowly,

With such a cheer as scorneth folly,

And mild delightsome melancholy,

He journeyed homeward through the wood,

And prayed along the solitude,

Betwixt the pines,—"O God, my God!"

The golden morning's open flowings

Did sway the trees to murmurous bowings,—

In metric chant of blessed poems.

And passing homeward through the wood,

He prayed along the solitude,—

"Thou, Poet-God, art great and good!

"And though we must have, and have had

Bight reason to be earthly sad,—

Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad."

————

CONCLUSION.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart—

We press too close in church and mart,

To keep a dream or grave apart.

And I was 'ware of walking down

That same green forest where had gone

The poet-pilgrim. One by one

I traced his footsteps! From the east

A reel and tender radiance pressed

Through the near trees, until I guessed

The sun behind shone full and round;

While up the leafiness profound

A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when

I turned that way; and now and then

The birds sang and brake off again

To shake their pretty feathers dry

Of dew which slideth droppingly

From the leaf-edges, and apply

Back to their song. 'Twixt dew and bird

So sweet a silence ministered,

God seemed to use it for a word.

Yet morning souls did leap and run

In all things, as the least had won

A joyous insight of the sun.

And no one looking round the wood

Could help confessing, as he stood,

This Poet-God is glad and good!

But hark! a distant sound that grows!

A heaving, sinking of the boughs—

A rustling murmur, not of those!

A breezy noise, which is not breeze!

And white-clad children by degrees

Steal out in troops among the trees;

Fair little children, morning-bright,

With faces grave, yet soft to sight,—

Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach,

And others leapt up high to catch

The upper boughs, and shake from each

A rain of dew, till, wetted so,

The child who held the branch let go,

And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew

The children laughed—but the laugh flew

From its own chirrup, as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child

Who seemed the chief, said very mild,

"Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres;

His soul upon his brow appears

In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said,

"What are your palms for?"—"To be spread,"

He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month; and now

The world, which had been somewhat slow

In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms—They must be strown

On his new marble very soon,

In a procession of the town."

I sighed and said, "Did he foresee

Any such honour?" "Verily

I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know,—I fain would lay

Mine own head down, another day,

As he did,—with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked,

Lay by his death-bed, which he looked

As deep down as a bee had sucked;

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed

O'er hill and river, and upraised.

His eyes illumined and amazed

"With the world's beauty, up to God,

Re-offering on his iris broad,

The images of things bestowed

"By the chief Poet,—'God!' he cried,__

'Be praised for anguish, which has tried;

For beauty, which has satisfied:—

"'For this world's presence, half within

And half without me—sound and scene—

This sense of Being and Having been.

"'I thank Thee that my soul hath room

For Thy grand world! Both guests may come—

Beauty, to soul—Body, to tomb!

"'I am content to be so weak,—

Put strength into the words I speak,

And I am strong in what I seek.

"'I am content to be so bare

Before the archers! everywhere

My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

"'I laid my soul before Thy feet,

That Images of fair and sweet

Should walk to other men on it.

"'I am content to feel the step

Of each pure image!—let those keep

To mandragore, who care to sleep.

"'I am content to touch the brink

Of the other goblet, and I think

My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

"'Because my portion was assigned

Wholesome and bitter—Thou art kind,

And I am blessed to my mind.

"'Gifted for giving, I receive

The maythorn, and its scent outgive!

I grieve not that I once did grieve.

"'In my large joy of sight and touch

Beyond what others count for such,

I am content to suffer much.

"'I know—is all the mourner saith,—

Knowledge by suffering entereth;

And Life is perfected by Death!'"

The child spake nobly. Strange to hear,

His infantine soft accents clear,

Charged with high meanings, did appear,—

And fair to see, his form and face,—

Winged out with whiteness and pure grace

From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew:

An orient beam, which pierced it through,

Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown,

Traced on its brightness, up and down

In fine fair lines,—a shadow-crown.

Guido might paint his angels so—

A little angel, taught to go,

With holy words to saints below.

Such innocence of action yet

Significance of object met

In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

And all the children, the whole band,

Did round in rosy reverence stand,

Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

"And so he died," I whispered;—"Nay,

Not so," the childish voice did say—

"That poet turned him, first, to pray

"In silence; and God heard the rest,

Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west.

Then he called one who loved him best,

"Yea, he called softly through the room

(His voice was weak yet tender)—'Come,'

He said, 'come nearer! Let the bloom

"'Of life grow over, undenied,

This bridge of Death, which is not wide—

I shall be soon at the other side.

"'Come, kiss me!' So the one in truth

Who loved him best—in love, not ruth,

Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth.

"And, in that kiss of Love, was won

Life's manumission! All was done—

The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone?

"But in the former, confluent kiss,

The same was sealed, I think, by His,

To words of truth and uprightness."

The child's voice trembled—his lips shook,

Like a rose leaning o'er a brook,

Which vibrates, though it is not struck.

"And who," I asked, a little moved,

Yet curious-eyed, "was this that loved

And kissed him last, as it behoved?"

"I," softly said the child; and then,

"I," said he louder, once again.

"His son,—my rank is among men.

"And now that men exalt his name,

I come to gather palms with them,

That holy Love may hallow Fame.

"He did not die alone; nor should

His memory live so, 'mid these rude

World-praisers—a worse solitude.

"Me, a voice calleth to that tomb

Where these are strewing branch and bloom,

Saying, come nearer!—and I come.

"Glory to God!" resumed he,—

And his eyes smiled for victory

O'er their own tears, which I could see

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin—

"That poet now hath entered in

The place of rest which is not sin.

"And while he rests, his songs, in troops,

Walk up and down our earthly slopes,

Companioned by diviner Hopes."

"But thou," I murmured,—to engage

The child's speech farther—"hast an age

Too tender for this orphanage."

"Glory to God—to God! " he saith—

"Knowledge by suffering entereth;

And Life is perfected by Death!"