Chapter 16

Lo! or ever I was 'ware, In the silence of the air, Through my heart's wide-open door, Music floated forth once more, Floated to the world's dark rim, And looked over with a hymn; Then came home with flutings fine, And discoursed in tones divine Of a certain grief of mine; And went downward and went in, Glimpses of my soul to win, And discovered such a deep That I could not choose but weep, For it lay, a land-locked sea, Fathomless and dim to me.

O, the song! it came and went, Went and came. I have not learned Half the lore whereto it yearned, Half the magic that it meant. Water booming in a cave; Or the swell of some long wave, Setting in from unrevealed Countries; or a foreign tongue, Sweetly talked and deftly sung, While the meaning is half sealed; May be like it. You have heard Also;--can you find a word For the naming of such song? No; a name would do it wrong. You have heard it in the night, In the dropping rain's despite, In the midnight darkness deep, When the children were asleep, And the wife,--no, let that be; SHE asleep! She knows right well What the song to you and me, While we breathe, can never tell; She hath heard its faultless flow, Where the roots of music grow.

While I listened, like young birds, Hints were fluttering; almost words,-- Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;-- Everything had changed its name.

Sorrow was a ship, I found, Wrecked with them that in her are, On an island richer far Than the port where they were bound. Fear was but the awful boom Of the old great bell of doom, Tolling, far from earthly air, For all worlds to go to prayer. Pain, that to us mortal clings, But the pushing of our wings, That we have no use for yet, And the uprooting of our feet From the soil where they are set, And the land we reckon sweet. Love in growth, the grand deceit Whereby men the perfect greet; Love in wane, the blessing sent To be (howsoe'er it went) Never more with earth content. O, full sweet, and O, full high, Ran that music up the sky; But I cannot sing it you, More than I can make you view, With my paintings labial, Sitting up in awful row, White old men majestical, Mountains, in their gowns of snow, Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, Looking over speckled skies, See them now. About their knees, Half in haze, there stands at ease A great army of green hills, Some bareheaded; and, behold, Small green mosses creep on some. Those be mighty forests old; And white avalanches come Through yon rents, where now distils Sheeny silver, pouring down To a tune of old renown, Cutting narrow pathways through Gentian belts of airy blue, To a zone where starwort blows, And long reaches of the rose.

So, that haze all left behind, Down the chestnut forests wind, Past yon jagged spires, where yet Foot of man was never set; Past a castle yawning wide, With a great breach in its side, To a nest-like valley, where, Like a sparrow's egg in hue, Lie two lakes, and teach the true Color of the sea-maid's hair.

What beside? The world beside! Drawing down and down, to greet Cottage clusters at our feet,-- Every scent of summer tide,-- Flowery pastures all aglow (Men and women mowing go Up and down them); also soft Floating of the film aloft, Fluttering of the leaves alow. Is this told? It is not told. Where's the danger? where's the cold Slippery danger up the steep? Where yon shadow fallen asleep? Chirping bird and tumbling spray, Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, Peace, and echo, where are they?

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; Memory must their grace enfold Silently; and that high song Of the heart, it doth belong To the hearers. Not a whit, Though a chief musician heard, Could he make a tune for it.

Though a bird of sweetest throat, And some lute full clear of note, Could have tried it,--O, the lute For that wondrous song were mute, And the bird would do her part, Falter, fail, and break her heart,-- Break her heart, and furl her wings, On those unexpressive strings.

GLADYS AND HER ISLAND.

(_On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament_.)

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL.

O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, For Gladys saw the island. It was thus: They gave a day for pleasure in the school Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. But it was said, "We think it were not well That little Gladys should acquire a taste For pleasure, going about, and needless change. It would not suit her station: discontent Might come of it; and all her duties now She does so pleasantly, that we were best To keep her humble." So they said to her, "Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: No, you may take a long and pleasant walk Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach Among the visitors." Then Gladys blushed For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach-- The children with their wooden spades, the band That played for lovers, and the sunny stir Of cheerful life and leisure--to the rocks, For these she wanted most, and there was time To mark them; how like ruined organs prone They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, And let the great white-crested reckless wave Beat out their booming melody. The sea Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, As playing at some rough and dangerous game, While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, That in remembrance though I lay them up, They are forever, when I come to them, Better than I had thought. O, something yet I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, Layer on layer.' And I look--up--up-- High, higher up again, till far aloft They cut into their ether,--brown, and clear, And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, And they confound me with a glorious change. The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; They redden, and their edges drip with--what? I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, For the next morning they stand up like ghosts In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood.

"There is the boulder where we always turn. O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; 'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked Before you.' Then they sigh,--how kind they are!-- 'What will become of you, if all your life You look a long way off?--look anywhere, And everywhere, instead of at your feet, And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then We cannot all be wise: happy for me, That other people are.

"And yet I wish,-- For sometimes very right and serious thoughts Come to me,--I do wish that they would come When they are wanted!--when I teach the sums On rainy days, and when the practising I count to, and the din goes on and on, Still the same tune and still the same mistake, Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 'Now my reflections do me credit! now I am a woman!' and I wish they knew How serious all my duties look to me. And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; And I am so delighted with this world, That suddenly has grown, being new washed, To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, And with a tender face shining through tears, Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, That has been angry, but is reconciled, And just forgiving her, that I,--that I,-- O, I forget myself: what matters how! And then I hear (but always kindly said) Some words that pain me so,--but just, but true; 'For if your place in this establishment Be but subordinate, and if your birth Be lowly, it the more behooves,--well, well, No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! I am always sorry THEN; but now,--O, now, Here is a bight more beautiful than all."

"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? And did she want to be as wise as they, To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, The night-time will not let her, all the stars Say nay to that,--the old sea laughs at her. Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill To shut herself within her own small cell, And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, And, having built the windows up, to say, 'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; There never has been.'"

Strange! how very strange! A woman passing Gladys with a babe, To whom she spoke these words, and only looked Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, And never looked at Gladys, never once. "A simple child," she added, and went by, "To want to change her greater for their less; But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; We love her--don't we?--far too well for that."

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, "How could she be so near, and I not know? And have I spoken out my thought aloud? I must have done, forgetting. It is well She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, And here is water cantering down the cliff, And here a shell to catch it with, and here The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, And thought the earth was happy, and she too Was going round with it in happiness, That holiday. "What was it that she said?" Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, The words that woman spoke. She does not know! 'Her greater for their less,'--it makes me laugh,-- But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good To look and to admire, one should not wish To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, Like feathers from another wing; beside, That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, When all is said, would little suit with me, Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, Though they be good and humble, one should mind How they are reared, or some will go astray And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both Were only once removed from innocence. Why did I envy them? That was not good; Yet it began with my humility."

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, And right before her, on the horizon's edge, Behold, an island! First, she looked away Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, For she was all amazed, believing not, And then she looked again, and there again Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, The milky sea had got a purple rim, And from the rim that mountain island rose, Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak The higher, and with fell and precipice, It ran down steeply to the water's brink; But all the southern line was long and soft, Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! The sun was on the island; and he showed On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, Indeed it is an island: how is this, I never saw it till this fortunate Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, She thought that it began to fade; but not To change as clouds do, only to withdraw And melt into its azure; and at last, Little by little, from her hungry heart, That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, And yearned towards the riches and the great Abundance of the beauty God hath made, It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; The careless sea had quite forgotten it, And all was even as it had been before.

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, "O, what a little while! I am afraid I shall forget that purple mountain isle, The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, The grace of her upheaval where she lay Well up against the open. O, my heart, Now I remember how this holiday Will soon be done, and now my life goes on Not fed; and only in the noonday walk Let to look silently at what it wants, Without the power to wait or pause awhile, And understand and draw within itself The richness of the earth. A holiday! How few I have! I spend the silent time At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, And feel myself remote. They shine apart; They are great planets, I a little orb; My little orbit far within their own Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more I am alone when those I teach return; For they, as planets of some other sun, Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! I have not got laid up in this blank heart Any indulgent kisses given me Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, Because my childhood was itself a good Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, And comforting. An orphan-school at best Is a cold mother in the winter time ('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), An unregarded mother in the spring.

"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went To gather cowslips. How we thought on it Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, To that one tree, the only one we saw From April,--if the cowslips were in bloom So early; or if not, from opening May Even to September. Then there came the feast At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained For a whole year to us; we could not think Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained.

"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard The satisfying murmur of the main."

The woman! She came round the rock again With her fair baby, and she sat her down By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass To grow by visitations of the dew? Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe Without? O, we shall draw to us the air That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, Delivering of a tune to make her youth More beautiful than wheat when it is green.

"What else?--(O, none shall envy her!) The rain And the wild weather will be most her own, And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her In a mouthful of strange moans,--will bring from far, Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad Masterful tramping of the bison herds, Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock And majesty of motion, when their heads Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, Thou tirèd skylark, and go up no more; You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, "A most strange woman, and she talks of me." With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, "Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, "The mother will not speak to me, perhaps The daughter may," and asked her courteously, "What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." "Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, "Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, Because I want to ride."

Full slowly, then, The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, You shall not scold nor make him take you far."

"I only want,--you know I only want," The girl replied, "to go and play awhile Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. "When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." Then Gladys turned to look, and even so It was; a ferry boat, and far away Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks Of her loved island.

Then she raised her arms, And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, The island! fair befall the island; let Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, And after her stepped in the freakish maid And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; And this one took the helm, and that let go The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up A flaky hill before, and left behind A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, And would be leaning down her head to mew At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own Rebuked her in good English, after cried, "Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." "For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, And presently a dolphin bouncing up, She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm.

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware In the smooth weather that this woman talked Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; And can it give good reason, it is set Beside the actual, and reckoned in To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so The possible stands by us ever fresh, Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, And makes divine amends. Now this was set Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; An equal;--and not suffered to fence in A little plot of earthly good, and say, 'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand The grandeur of the story, not to feel Satiate with good possessed, but evermore A healthful hunger for the great idea, The beauty and the blessedness of life.

"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, "We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, And they were in it: and she saw the snow, And under that the rocks, and under that The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw Numerous dips, and undulations rare, Running down seaward, all astir with lithe Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, Meets in that island.

So that woman ran The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, "It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran And hid herself among the nearest trees And panted, shedding tears.

So she looked round, And saw that she was in a banyan grove, Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped Lower on azure stars. The air was still, As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, And Gladys was the only thing that moved, Excepting,--no, they were not birds,--what then? Glorified rainbows with a living soul? While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, Not otherwhere, but they were present yet In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit That lay about removing,--purple grapes, That clustered in the path, clearing aside. Through a small spot of light would pass and go, The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass One after other with the sheeny fans, Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed Not to disturb the waiting quietness; Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, Was Eden. She was passing through the trees That made a ring about it, and she caught A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen Was nothing to them; but words are not made To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. Why? One was working in a valley near, And none might look that way. It was understood That He had nearly ended that His work; For two shapes met, and one to other spake, Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." And all at once a little trembling stir Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, And laid its head down, listening. It was known Then that the work was done; the new-made king Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, And it acknowledged him.

But in her path Came some one that withstood her, and he said, "What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, Among those colored spirits, through the grove, Trembling for haste; it was not well with her Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, And set her feet upon the common grass, And felt the common wind.

Yet once beyond, She could not choose but cast a backward glance. The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, And means of entering were not evident,-- The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: She said, "Remoteness and a multitude Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms In my own island."