Chapter 17

And she wandered on, Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, And all the earth was sandy where she walked,-- Sandy and dry,--strewed with papyrus leaves, Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,-- Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. She was above her ankles in the sand, When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on To a great cliff, that either was a cliff Or some dread shrine in ruins,--partly reared In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps Of sand and stones on either side there lay; And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, Dog-headed, and behind them winged things Like angels; and this carven multitude Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road.

At last, the cliff,--and in the cliff a door Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat Of some stupendous giant, and beheld No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. So she did enter; also she went down Till it was dark, and yet again went down, Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, It seemed no larger, in its height remote, Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, She doubted of the end, yet farther down A slender ray of lamplight fell away Along the stair, as from a door ajar: To this again she felt her way, and stepped Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,-- A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid Against the door, and pushed it; but the light Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within-- Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,-- Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, Breathing and languid through prolonged repose.

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed.

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,-- The whiteness,--and asleep again! but now It was a woman, robed, and with a face Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid To breathe among these intermittent lives, That fluctuate in mystic solitude, And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? A baby god with finger on his lips, Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, He will not tell."

The woman coming down! "Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; "What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" (_Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,-- pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed._) The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,-- Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, And all the gear they took to bed with them! Horrible! Let us hence.

And Gladys said, "O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; "The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, And on the lintel there were writ these words: "Ho, every one that cometh, I divide What hath been from what might be, and the line Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, Or else forbear the hill."

The maiden said, "So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed Among some oak-trees on the farther side, And waded through the bracken round their bolls, Until she saw the open, and drew on Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. Here she put up a creature, that ran on Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, With other talk enough to make one fear To walk in lonely places. After passed A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie."

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, And got away, towards a grassy down, Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. I feed my flock among the myrtles; all My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, From the other side the river, where their harps Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold Thy mouth,--that even in slumber talks of peace,-- Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance."

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, For it was afternoon, and she was fain To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, That leads one to the water?" But he said, "Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, The path that leads one to the golden gate Across the river." So she wandered on; And presently her feet grew cool, the grass Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. The air was full of voices, and the scent Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, And reared in such a sort that it looked down Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, And richest plains o' the island. It was set Midway between the snows majestical And a wide level, such as men would choose For growing wheat; and some one said to her, "It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear The calling of an unseen multitude To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; And others said, "We are tired of this old world: Make it look new again." Then there were some Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak From that high mountain, as the living do); But others sang desponding, "We have kept The vision for a chosen few: we love Fit audience better than a rough huzza From the unreasoning crowd."

Then words came up: "There was a time, you poets, was a time When all the poetry was ours, and made By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: Our heroes die and drop away from us; Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, That many of us think scorn of honest trade, And take no pride in our own shops; who care Only to quit a calling, will not make The calling what it might be; who despise Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work Dull, and degrade them."

Then did Gladys smile: "Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks I see him burnishing of golden gear, Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 'London is thirsty'--(then he weighs a chain): ''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give The worth of this, and many such as this, To bring it water.'

"Ay, and after him There came up Guy of London, lettered son O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd Cheerily working; where the river marge Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,-- 'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,-- I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' Well, we have heard the rest.

"Ah, next I think Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, (The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 'I sit a captive from the ship detained; This heathenry doth let thee visit her. Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail To ransom thy poor father, they are free As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate This my command, to leave me, and set sail. As for thyself--' 'Good father,' saith the son; 'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate We two shall meet again.' And so they did. The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,-- The son returned to share his father's cell.

"O, there are many such. Would I had wit Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, "I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, A piteous sight--an old, blind, graybeard king Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known To say, that if the best of gold and gear Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, They would have gladly paid it from their store Many times over. What is done is done, No help. The ruined majesty passed on. And look you! one who met her as she walked Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, "O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, No, nor be comforted.

And after this, Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, Because she guessed the end.

With that it drew To evening; and as Gladys wandered on In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, And she ran down to set her feet again On the sea margin, which was covered thick With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red As wine. The water played among bare ribs Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto To ask her way, and one so innocent Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, And love just born.

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, All blushing. She told Gladys many things That are not in the story,--things, in sooth, That Prospero her father knew. But now 'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: "Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, For I am your liege lady." Then she sang The sweetest songs she knew all the way home.

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; While in the sunset glory died away The peaks of that blest island.

"Fare you well. My country, my own kingdom," then she said, "Till I go visit you again, farewell."

She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,-- The carriages were coming. Hastening up, She was in time to meet them at the door, And lead the sleepy little ones within; And some were cross and shivered, and her dames Were weary and right hard to please; but she Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. "For, come what will," she said, "I had _to-day_. There is an island."

_The Moral._

What is the moral? Let us think awhile, Taking the editorial WE to help, It sounds respectable.

The moral; yes. We always read, when any fable ends, "Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. What do you think of this? "Hence we may learn That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, And Admiralty maps should now be drawn By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, And they can spy out islands." Will that do? No, that is far too plain,--too evident.

Perhaps a general moralizing vein-- (We know we have a happy knack that way. We have observed, moreover, that young men Are fond of good advice, and so are girls; Especially of that meandering kind, Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all They ought to be and do and think and wear, As one may say, from creeds to comforters. Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein; That is the thing; but how to manage it? "_Hence we may learn_," if we be so inclined, That life goes best with those who take it best; That wit can spin from work a golden robe To queen it in; that who can paint at will A private picture gallery, should not cry For shillings that will let him in to look At some by others painted. Furthermore, Hence we may learn, you poets,--(_and we count For poets all who ever felt that such They were, and all who secretly have known That such they could be; ay, moreover, all Who wind the robes of ideality About the bareness of their lives, and hang Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world_),-- Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all We should be most content. The earth is given To us: we reign by virtue of a sense Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. Humanity is given to us: we reign By virtue of a sense, which lets us in To know its troubles ere they have been told, And take them home and lull them into rest With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,-- Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside Have seen it well, have walked this empty world When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns?

Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, And peered between the linen curtains, blue, Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, And, frighted, have not dared to look again? But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought, A chest that might have held the manna pot And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet Of Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards, We saw fair Venice looking at herself In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth In all his bravery to the wedding.

This, However, counts for nothing to the grace We wot of in time future:--therefore add, And afterwards have done: "_Hence we may learn_," That though it be a grand and comely thing To be unhappy,--(and we think it is, Because so many grand and clever folk Have found out reasons for unhappiness, And talked about uncomfortable things,-- Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, The hollowness o' the world, till we at last Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, Being so hollow, it should break some day, And let us in),--yet, since we are not grand, O, not at all, and as for cleverness, That may be or may not be,--it is well For us to be as happy as we can!

Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex, As thus: we pray you carry not your guns On the full-cock; we pray you set your pride In its proper place, and never be ashamed Of any honest calling,--let us add, And end; for all the rest, hold up your heads And mind your English.

Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND."

The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth.

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History.

The girl is Fancy.

SONGS WITH PRELUDES.

SONGS WITH PRELUDES.

WEDLOCK.

The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said, "Where is my wife,--that has been made my wife Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped, The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves And blossom, under heavens of happy blue.

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down Into the orchard. All the air was calm; Audible humming filled it. At the roots Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills Were tossing down their silver messengers, And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, Gave them good answer; all things else were mute; An idle world lay listening to their talk, They had it to themselves. What ails my wife? I know not if aught ails her; though her step Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends One thick with bloom to look on it. "O love! A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, At unaware to think thy thoughts alone: How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,-- Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. No; all is right. But who can give, or bless, Or take a blessing, but there comes withal Some pain?" She walks beside the lily bed, And holds apart her gown; she would not hurt The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,-- Fairest of colors!--and a darker brown The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. A bloom as of blush roses covers her Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her, And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul! To think that thou art mine! My wife came in, And moved into the chamber. As for me, I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, And feigned to be asleep.

I.

The racing river leaped, and sang Full blithely in the perfect weather, All round the mountain echoes rang, For blue and green were glad together.

II.

This rained out light from every part, And that with songs of joy was thrilling; But, in the hollow of my heart, There ached a place that wanted filling.

III.

Before the road and river meet, And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, I heard a sound of laughter sweet, And paused to like it, and to listen.

IV.

I heard the chanting waters flow, The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,-- Then turned the hedge, and did not know,-- How could I?--that my time was coming.

V.

A girl upon the nighest stone, Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, So far the shallow flood had flown Beyond the 'customed leap of landing.

VI.

She knew not any need of me, Yet me she waited all unweeting; We thought not I had crossed the sea, And half the sphere to give her meeting.

VII.

I waded out, her eyes I met, I wished the moment had been hours; I took her in my arms, and set Her dainty feet among the flowers.

VIII.

Her fellow maids in copse and lane, Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling; The wind's soft whisper in the plain, The cushat's coo, the water's falling.

IX.

But now it is a year ago, But now possession crowns endeavor; I took her in my heart, to grow And fill the hollow place forever.

REGRET.

O that word REGRET! There have been nights and morns when we have sighed, "Let us alone, Regret! We are content To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes; It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, But plaineth on the bed that it is hard.

We did amiss when we did wish it gone And over: sorrows humanize our race; Tears are the showers that fertilize this world; And memory of things precious keepeth warm The heart that once did hold them. They are poor That have lost nothing; they are poorer far Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor Of all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget.

For life is one, and in its warp and woof There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet Where there are sombre colors. It is true That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold, We would not have it tarnish; let us turn Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, And when it shineth sometimes we shall know That memory is possession.

I.

When I remember something which I had, But which is gone, and I must do without, I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout; It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet My days will not be better days, should I forget.

II.

When I remember something promised me, But which I never had, nor can have now, Because the promiser we no more see In countries that accord with mortal vow; When I remember this, I mourn,--but yet My happier days are not the days when I forget.

LAMENTATION.

I read upon that book, Which down the golden gulf doth let us look On the sweet days of pastoral majesty; I read upon that book How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee (Red Esau's twin), he desolate took The stone for a pillow: then he fell on sleep. And lo! there was a ladder. Lo! there hung A ladder from the star-place, and it clung To the earth: it tied her so to heaven; and O! There fluttered wings; Then were ascending and descending things That stepped to him where he lay low; Then up the ladder would a-drifting go (This feathered brood of heaven), and show Small as white flakes in winter that are blown Together, underneath the great white throne.