Part 38 (1/2)
Can this be thou who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, And note each vengeance, and pa.s.s by Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance Cast backward one forbidden glance, And saw Francesca, with child's glee, Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee And with proud hands control its fiery prance?
With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow, And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now In some sea-lulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street, Secluded from the noise of feet By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Thy branch of palm from Holy Land;-- No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet.
Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesies the coming doom, The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the eclipse Notches the perfect disk with gloom; A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be, From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates, And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free.
Ah! he who follows fearlessly The beckonings of a poet-heart Shall wander, and without the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence' walls the bar Which with deaf sternness holds him far From home and friends, till death's release, And makes his only prayer for peace, Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war!
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.
Death never came so nigh to me before, Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused Of calm and peace and deep forgetfulness, Of folded hands, closed eye, and heart at rest, And slumber sound beneath a flowery turf, Of faults forgotten, and an inner place Kept sacred for us in the heart of friends; But these were idle fancies, satisfied With the mere husk of this great mystery, And dwelling in the outward shows of things.
Heaven is not mounted to on wings of dreams, Nor doth the unthankful happiness of youth Aim thitherward, but floats from bloom to bloom, With earth's warm patch of suns.h.i.+ne well content 'Tis sorrow builds the s.h.i.+ning ladder up, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer G.o.d The spirit climbs, and hath its eyes unsealed.
True is it that Death's face seems stern and cold, When he is sent to summon those we love, But all G.o.d's angels come to us disguised; Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, One after other lift their frowning masks, And we behold the seraph's face beneath, All radiant with the glory and the calm Of having looked upon the front of G.o.d.
With every anguish of our earthly part The spirit's sight grows clearer; this was meant When Jesus touched the blind man's lids with clay.
Life is the jailer, Death the angel sent To draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.
He flings not ope the ivory gate of Rest,-- Only the fallen spirit knocks at that,-- But to benigner regions beckons us, To destinies of more rewarded toil.
In the hushed chamber, sitting by the dead, It grates on us to hear the flood of life Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss.
The bee hums on; around the blossomed vine Whirs the light humming-bird; the cricket chirps; The locust's shrill alarum stings the ear; Hard by, the c.o.c.k shouts l.u.s.tily; from farm to farm, His cheery brothers, telling of the sun, Answer, till far away the joyance dies: We never knew before how G.o.d had filled The summer air with happy living sounds; All round us seems an overplus of life, And yet the one dear heart lies cold and still.
It is most strange, when the great miracle Hath for our sakes been done, when we have had Our inwardest experience of G.o.d, When with his presence still the room expands, And is awed after him, that naught is changed, That Nature's face looks unacknowledging, And the mad world still dances heedless on After its b.u.t.terflies, and gives no sign.
'Tis hard at first to see it all aright; In vain Faith blows her trump to summon back Her scattered troop; yet, through the clouded gla.s.s Of our own bitter tears, we learn to look Undazzled on the kindness of G.o.d's face; Earth is too dark, and Heaven alone s.h.i.+nes through.
It is no little thing, when a fresh soul And a fresh heart, with their unmeasured scope For good, not gravitating earthward yet, But circling in diviner periods, Are sent into the world,--no little thing, When this unbounded possibility Into the outer silence is withdrawn.
Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!
How changed, dear friend, are thy part and thy child's!
He bends above _thy_ cradle now, or holds His warning finger out to be thy guide; Thou art the nurseling now; he watches thee Slow learning, one by one, the secret things Which are to him used sights of every day; He smiles to see thy wondering glances con The gra.s.s and pebbles of the spirit world, To thee miraculous; and he will teach Thy knees their due observances of prayer.
Children are G.o.d's apostles, day by day Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and peace, Nor hath thy babe his mission left undone.
To me, at least, his going hence hath given Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, And opened a new fountain in my heart For thee, my friend, and all: and, O, if Death More near approaches meditates, and clasps Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand, G.o.d, strengthen thou my faith, that I may see That 'tis thine angel, who, with loving haste, Unto the service of the inner shrine Doth waken thy beloved with a kiss!
1844.
EURYDICE.
Heaven's cup held down to me I drain, The suns.h.i.+ne mounts and spurs my brain; Bathing in gra.s.s, with thirsty eye I suck the last drop of the sky; With each hot sense I draw to the lees The quickening out-door influences, And empty to each radiant comer A supernaculum of summer: Not, Bacchus, all thy grosser juice Could bring enchantment so profuse, Though for its press each grape-bunch had The white feet of an Oread.
Through our coa.r.s.e art gleam, now and then, The features of angelic men; 'Neath the lewd Satyr's veiling paint Glows forth the Sibyl, Muse, or Saint; The dauber's botch no more obscures The mighty Master's portraitures.
And who can say what luckier beam The hidden glory shall redeem, For what chance clod the soul may wait To stumble on its n.o.bler fate, Or why, to his unwarned abode, Still by surprises comes the G.o.d?