Chapter 4

I woke, with calmness cleansed and sanctified-- The peace that filled my heart of old, when I Woke in my mother's lap; for since I died The past lay bare, even to the dreaming shy That shadowed my yet gathering unborn brain. And, marvelling, on the floor I saw, close by My elbow-pillowed head, as if it had lain Beside me all the time I dreamless lay, A little pool of sunlight, which did stain The earthen brown with gold; marvelling, I say, Because, across the sea and through the wood, No sun had shone upon me all the way. I rose, and through a chink the glade I viewed, But all was dull as it had always been, And sunless every tree-top round it stood, With hardly light enough to show it green; Yet through the broken roof, serenely glad, By a rough hole entered that heavenly sheen. Then I remembered in old years I had Seen such a light--where, with dropt eyelids gloomed, Sitting on such a floor, dark women sad In a low barn-like house where lay entombed Their sires and children; only there the door Was open to the sun, which entering plumed With shadowy palms the stones that on the floor Stood up like lidless chests--again to find That the soul needs no brain, but keeps her store In hidden chambers of the eternal mind. Thence backward ran my roused Memory Down the ever-opening vista--back to blind Anticipations while my soul did lie Closed in my mother's; forward thence through bright Spring morns of childhood, gay with hopes that fly Bird-like across their doming blue and white, To passionate summer noons, to saddened eves Of autumn rain, so on to wintred night; Thence up once more to the dewy dawn that weaves Saffron and gold--weaves hope with still content, And wakes the worship that even wrong bereaves Of half its pain. And round her as she went Hovered a sense as of an odour dear Whose flower was far--as of a letter sent Not yet arrived--a footstep coming near, But, oh, how long delayed the lifting latch!-- As of a waiting sun, ready to peer Yet peering not--as of a breathless watch Over a sleeping beauty--babbling rime About her lips, but no winged word to catch! And here I lay, the child of changeful Time Shut in the weary, changeless Evermore, A dull, eternal, fadeless, fruitless clime! Was this the dungeon of my sinning sore-- A gentle hell of loneliness, foredoomed For such as I, whose love was yet the core Of all my being? The brown shadow gloomed Persistent, faded, warm. No ripple ran Across the air, no roaming insect boomed. "Alas," I cried, "I am no living man! Better were darkness and the leave to grope Than light that builds its own drear prison! Can This be the folding of the wings of Hope?"

XI.

That instant--through the branches overhead No sound of going went--a shadow fell Isled in the unrippled pool of sunlight fed From some far fountain hid in heavenly dell. I looked, and in the low roofs broken place A single snowdrop stood--a radiant bell Of silvery shine, softly subdued by grace Of delicate green that made the white appear Yet whiter. Blind it bowed its head a space, Half-timid--then, as in despite of fear, Unfolded its three rays. If it had swung Its pendent bell, and music golden clear-- Division just entrancing sounds among-- Had flickered down as tender as flakes of snow, It had not shed more influence as it rung Than from its look alone did rain and flow. I knew the flower; perceived its human ways; Dim saw the secret that had made it grow: My heart supplied the music's golden phrase. Light from the dark and snowdrops from the earth, Life's resurrection out of gross decays, The endless round of beauty's yearly birth, And nations' rise and fall--were in the flower, And read themselves in silence. Heavenly mirth Awoke in my sad heart. For one whole hour I praised the God of snowdrops. But at height The bliss gave way. Next, faith began to cower; And then the snowdrop vanished from my sight.

XII.

Last, I began in unbelief to say: "No angel this! a snowdrop--nothing more! A trifle which God's hands drew forth in play From the tangled pond of chaos, dank and frore, Threw on the bank, and left blindly to breed! A wilful fancy would have gathered store Of evanescence from the pretty weed, White, shapely--then divine! Conclusion lame O'erdriven into the shelter of a creed! Not out of God, but nothingness it came: Colourless, feeble, flying from life's heat, It has no honour, hardly shunning shame!" When, see, another shadow at my feet! Hopeless I lifted now my weary head: Why mock me with another heavenly cheat?-- A primrose fair, from its rough-blanketed bed Laughed, lo, my unbelief to heavenly scorn! A sun-child, just awake, no prayer yet said, Half rising from the couch where it was born, And smiling to the world! I breathed again; Out of the midnight once more dawned the morn, And fled the phantom Doubt with all his train.

XIII.

I was a child once more, nor pondered life, Thought not of what or how much. All my soul With sudden births of lovely things grew rife. In peeps a daisy: on the instant roll Rich lawny fields, with red tips crowding the green, Across the hollows, over ridge and knoll, To where the rosy sun goes down serene. From out of heaven in looks a pimpernel: I walk in morning scents of thyme and bean; Dewdrops on every stalk and bud and bell Flash, like a jewel-orchard, many roods; Glow ruby suns, which emerald suns would quell; Topaz saint-glories, sapphire beatitudes Blaze in the slanting sunshine all around; Above, the high-priest-lark, o'er fields and woods-- Rich-hearted with his five eggs on the ground-- The sacrifice bore through the veil of light, Odour and colour offering up in sound.-- Filled heart-full thus with forms of lowly might And shapeful silences of lovely lore, I sat a child, happy with only sight, And for a time I needed nothing more.

XIV.

Supine to the revelation I did lie, Passive as prophet to his dreaming deep, Or harp Aeolian to the breathing sky, And blest as any child whom twilight sleep Holds half, and half lets go. But the new day Of higher need up-dawned with sudden leap: "Ah, flowers," I said, "ye are divinely gay, But your fair music is too far and fine! Ye are full cups, yet reach not to allay The drought of those for human love who pine As the hart for water-brooks!" At once a face Was looking in my face; its eyes through mine Were feeding me with tenderness and grace, And by their love I knew my mother's eyes. Gazing in them, there grew in me apace A longing grief, and love did swell and rise Till weeping I brake out and did bemoan My blameful share in bygone tears and cries: "O mother, wilt thou plead for me?" I groan; "I say not, plead with Christ, but plead with those Who, gathered now in peace about his throne, Were near me when my heart was full of throes, And longings vain alter a flying bliss, Which oft the fountain by the threshold froze: They must forgive me, mother! Tell them this: No more shall swell the love-dividing sigh; Down at their feet I lay my selfishness." The face grew passionate at this my cry; The gathering tears up to its eyebrims rose; It grew a trembling mist, that did not fly But slow dissolved. I wept as one of those Who wake outside the garden of their dream, And, lo, the droop-winged hours laborious close Its opal gates with stone and stake and beam.

XV.

But glory went that glory more might come. Behold a countless multitude--no less! A host of faces, me besieging, dumb In the lone castle of my mournfulness! Had then my mother given the word I sent, Gathering my dear ones from the shining press? And had these others their love-aidance lent For full assurance of the pardon prayed? Would they concentre love, with sweet intent, On my self-love, to blast the evil shade? Ah, perfect vision! pledge of endless hope! Oh army of the holy spirit, arrayed In comfort's panoply! For words I grope-- For clouds to catch your radiant dawn, my own, And tell your coming! From the highest cope Of blue, down to my roof-breach came a cone Of faces and their eyes on love's will borne, Bright heads down-bending like the forward blown, Heavy with ripeness, golden ears of corn, By gentle wind on crowded harvest-field, All gazing toward my prison-hut forlorn As if with power of eyes they would have healed My troubled heart, making it like their own In which the bitter fountain had been sealed, And the life-giving water flowed alone!

XVI.

With what I thus beheld, glorified then, "God, let me love my fill and pass!" I sighed, And dead, for love had almost died again. "O fathers, brothers, I am yours!" I cried; "O mothers, sisters. I am nothing now Save as I am yours, and in you sanctified! O men, O women, of the peaceful brow, And infinite abysses in the eyes Whence God's ineffable gazes on me, how Care ye for me, impassioned and unwise? Oh ever draw my heart out after you! Ever, O grandeur, thus before me rise And I need nothing, not even for love will sue! I am no more, and love is all in all! Henceforth there is, there can be nothing new-- All things are always new!" Then, like the fall Of a steep avalanche, my joy fell steep: Up in my spirit rose as it were the call Of an old sorrow from an ancient deep; For, with my eyes fixed on the eyes of him Whom I had loved before I learned to creep-- God's vicar in his twilight nursery dim To gather us to the higher father's knee-- I saw a something fill their azure rim That caught him worlds and years away from me; And like a javelin once more through me passed The pang that pierced me walking on the sea: "O saints," I cried, "must loss be still the last?"

XVII.

When I said this, the cloud of witnesses Turned their heads sideways, and the cloud grew dim I saw their faces half, but now their bliss Gleamed low, like the old moon in the new moon's rim. Then as I gazed, a better kind of light On every outline 'gan to glimmer and swim, Faint as the young moon threadlike on the night, Just born of sunbeams trembling on her edge: 'Twas a great cluster of profiles in sharp white. Had some far dawn begun to drive a wedge Into the night, and cleave the clinging dark? I saw no moon or star, token or pledge Of light, save that manifold silvery mark, The shining title of each spirit-book. Whence came that light? Sudden, as if a spark Of vital touch had found some hidden nook Where germs of potent harmonies lay prest, And their outbursting life old Aether shook, Rose, as in prayer to lingering promised guest, From that great cone of faces such a song, Instinct with hope's harmonical unrest, That with sore weeping, and the cry "How long?" I bore my part because I could not sing. And as they sang, the light more clear and strong Bordered their faces, till the glory-sting I could almost no more encounter and bear; Light from their eyes, like water from a spring, Flowed; on their foreheads reigned their flashing hair; I saw the light from eyes I could not see. "He comes! he comes!" they sang, "comes to our prayer!" "Oh my poor heart, if only it were _He!_" I cried. Thereat the faces moved! those eyes Were turning on me! In rushed ecstasy, And woke me to the light of lower skies.

XVIII.

"What matter," said I, "whether clank of chain Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!" Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain. Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less, Sleep's ashes from my eyelids I did brush. The room was veiled, that morning should not press Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom: Upon her brow the dawn's first grayest flush, And on her cheek pale hope's reviving bloom, Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone, She who had lifted me from many a tomb! One then was left me of Love's radiant cone! Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan, Was shining yet--a dawn upon it thrown From the far coming of the Son of Man!

XIX.

In every forehead now I see a sky Catching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breeze About me blow the news the Lord is nigh. Long is the night, dark are the polar seas, Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill. Round Spring's own steps the oozy waters freeze But hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still, But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start: Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fill When but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.

XX.

Lord, I have spoken a poor parable, In which I would have said thy name alone Is the one secret lying in Truth's well, Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone, Thy face the heart of every flower on earth, Its vision the one hope; for every moan Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth Of little children seated on thy knee! O human God! I laugh with sacred mirth To think how all the laden shall go free; For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruth One morn the eyes that shone in Galilee Will dawn upon them, full of grace and truth, And thy own love--the vivifying core Of every love in heart of age or youth, Of every hope that sank 'neath burden sore!

_THE SANGREAL_:

A Part Of The Story Omitted In The Old Romances.

I.

_How sir Galahad despaired of finding the Grail._

Through the wood the sunny day Glimmered sweetly glad; Through the wood his weary way Rode sir Galahad.

All about stood open porch, Long-drawn cloister dim; 'Twas a wavering wandering church Every side of him.

On through columns arching high, Foliage-vaulted, he Rode in thirst that made him sigh, Longing miserably.

Came the moon, and through the trees Glimmered faintly sad; Withered, worn, and ill at ease Down lay Galahad;

Closed his eyes and took no heed What might come or pass; Heard his hunger-busy steed Cropping dewy grass.

Cool and juicy was the blade, Good to him as wine: For his labour he was paid, Galahad must pine!

Late had he at Arthur's board, Arthur strong and wise, Pledged the cup with friendly lord, Looked in ladies' eyes;

Now, alas! he wandered wide, Resting never more, Over lake and mountain-side, Over sea and shore!

Swift in vision rose and fled All he might have had; Weary tossed his restless head, And his heart grew sad.

With the lowliest in the land He a maiden fair Might have led with virgin hand From the altar-stair:

Youth away with strength would glide, Age bring frost and woe; Through the world so dreary wide Mateless he must go!

Lost was life and all its good, Gone without avail! All his labour never would Find the Holy Grail!

II.

_How sir Galahad found and lost the Grail._

Galahad was in the night, And the wood was drear; But to men in darksome plight Radiant things appear:

Wings he heard not floating by, Heard no heavenly hail; But he started with a cry, For he saw the Grail.

Hid from bright beholding sun, Hid from moonlight wan, Lo, from age-long darkness won, It was seen of man!

Three feet off, on cushioned moss, As if cast away, Homely wood with carven cross, Rough and rude it lay!

To his knees the knight rose up, Loosed his gauntlet-band; Fearing, daring, toward the cup Went his naked hand;

When, as if it fled from harm, Sank the holy thing, And his eager following arm Plunged into a spring.

Oh the thirst, the water sweet! Down he lay and quaffed, Quaffed and rose up on his feet, Rose and gayly laughed;

Fell upon his knees to thank, Loved and lauded there; Stretched him on the mossy bank, Fell asleep in prayer;

Dreamed, and dreaming murmured low Ave, pater, creed; When the fir-tops gan to glow Waked and called his steed;

Bitted him and drew his girth, Watered from his helm: Happier knight or better worth Was not in the realm!

Belted on him then his sword, Braced his slackened mail; Doubting said: "I dreamed the Lord Offered me the Grail."

III.

_How sir Galahad gave up the Quest for the Grail._

Ere the sun had cast his light On the water's face, Firm in saddle rode the knight From the holy place,

Merry songs began to sing, Let his matins bide; Rode a good hour pondering, And was turned aside,

Saying, "I will henceforth then Yield this hopeless quest; Tis a dream of holy men This ideal Best!"

"Every good for miracle Heart devout may hold; Grail indeed was that fair well Full of water cold!

"Not my thirst alone it stilled But my soul it stayed; And my heart, with gladness filled, Wept and laughed and prayed!

"Spectral church with cryptic niche I will seek no more; That the holiest Grail is, which Helps the need most sore!"

And he spake with speech more true Than his thought indeed, For not yet the good knight knew His own sorest need.

IV.

_How sir Galahad sought yet again for the Grail._

On he rode, to succour bound, But his faith grew dim; Wells for thirst he many found, Water none for him.

Never more from drinking deep Rose he up and laughed; Never more did prayerful sleep Follow on the draught.

Good the water which they bore, Plenteously it flowed, Quenched his thirst, but, ah, no more Eased his bosom's load!

For the _Best_ no more he sighed; Rode as in a trance; Life grew poor, undignified, And he spake of chance.

Then he dreamed through Jesus' hand That he drove a nail-- Woke and cried, "Through every land, Lord, I seek thy Grail!"

V.

_That sir Galahad found the Grail._

Up the quest again he took, Rode through wood and wave; Sought in many a mossy nook, Many a hermit-cave;

Sought until the evening red Sunk in shadow deep; Sought until the moonlight fled; Slept, and sought in sleep.

Where he wandered, seeking, sad, Story doth not say, But at length sir Galahad Found it on a day;

Took the Grail with holy hand, Had the cup of joy; Carried it about the land, Gleesome as a boy;

Laid his sword where he had found Boot for every bale, Stuck his spear into the ground, Kept alone the Grail.

VI.

_How sir Galahad carried about the Grail._

Horse and crested helmet gone, Greaves and shield and mail, Caroling loud the knight walked on, For he had the Grail;

Caroling loud walked south and north, East and west, for years; Where he went, the smiles came forth, Where he left, the tears.

Glave nor dagger mourned he, Axe nor iron flail: Evil might not brook to see Once the Holy Grail.

Wilds he wandered with his staff, Woods no longer sad; Earth and sky and sea did laugh Round sir Galahad.

Bitter mere nor trodden pool Did in service fail, Water all grew sweet and cool In the Holy Grail.

Without where to lay his head, Chanting loud he went; Found each cave a palace-bed, Every rock a tent.

Age that had begun to quail In the gathering gloom, Counselled he to seek the Grail And forget the tomb.

Youth with hope or passion pale, Youth with eager eyes, Taught he that the Holy Grail Was the only prize.

Maiden worn with hidden ail, Restless and unsure, Taught he that the Holy Grail Was the only cure.

Children rosy in the sun Ran to hear his tale How twelve little ones had won Each of them the Grail.

VII.

_How sir Galahad hid the Grail._

Very still was earth and sky When he passing lay; Oft he said he should not die, Would but go away.

When he passed, they reverent sought, Where his hand lay prest, For the cup he bare, they thought, Hidden in his breast.

Hope and haste and eager thrill Turned to sorrowing wail: Hid he held it deeper still, Took with him the Grail.

_THE FAILING TRACK_.

Where went the feet that hitherto have come? Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past! With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb; The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die; By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes; The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave; There all the ships tear each its track of gray; Undaunted they the wandering desert brave: In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail? Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark, Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale!

The backward way one hour is plain to thee, Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind! Back to confession at thy mother's knee, Back to the question and the childlike mind!

Then start afresh, but toward unending end, The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night; So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend, Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.

_TELL ME._

"Traveller, what lies over the hill? Traveller, tell to me: Tip-toe-high on the window-sill Over I cannot see."

"My child, a valley green lies there, Lovely with trees, and shy; And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care, Or I'll drown you by and by!'"

"And what comes next?"--"A little town, And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys up and down, And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?"--"A lonely moor Without one beaten way, And slow clouds drifting dull before A wind that will not stay."

"And then?"--"Dark rocks and yellow sand, Blue sea and a moaning tide." "And then?"--"More sea, and then more land, With rivers deep and wide."

"And then?"--"Oh, rock and mountain and vale, Ocean and shores and men, Over and over, a weary tale, And round to your home again!"

"And is that all? From day to day, Like one with a long chain bound, Should I walk and walk and not get away, But go always round and round?"

"No, no; I have not told you the best, I have not told you the end: If you want to escape, away in the west You will see a stair ascend,

"Built of all colours of lovely stones, A stair up into the sky Where no one is weary, and no one moans, Or wishes to be laid by."

"Is it far away?"--"I do not know: You must fix your eyes thereon, And travel, travel through thunder and snow, Till the weary way is gone.

"All day, though you never see it shine, You must travel nor turn aside, All night you must keep as straight a line Through moonbeams or darkness wide."

"When I am older!"--"Nay, not so!" "I have hardly opened my eyes!" "He who to the old sunset would go, Starts best with the young sunrise."

"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?" "Too steep for you to climb; You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap And patient wait your time."

"How long?"--"Nay, that I cannot tell." "In wind, and rain, and frost?" "It may be so; and it is well That you should count the cost.

"Pilgrims from near and from distant lands Will step on you lying there; But a wayfaring man with wounded hands Will carry you up the stair."

_BROTHER ARTIST!_

Brother artist, help me; come! Artists are a maimed band: I have words but not a hand; Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail-- Vassal-words their hasting chief, On the white awaiting leaf Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might, I would shake the air with storm Till the red clouds trailed enorm Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare Piles the stones with lordliest art, From the quarry of my heart Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow Wins the marble's hidden child, Out in passion undefiled Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray; Words suffice not for my end; Let thy hand obey thy friend, Say for me what I would say.

Draw me, on an arid plain With hoar-headed mountains nigh, Under a clear morning sky Telling of a night of rain,