SCENE XIII.

This is the dwelling you have told me of,— Summer again hath dressed its bloomy walls, Its fragrant front is populous with bees; This is the garden—all is very like, And yet unlike the picture in my heart; I know not which is loveliest. I see Afar the wandering beauty of the stream, And nearer I can trace it as it shows Its broad and gleaming back among the woods. Is that the wood you slept in?

That is it. And every nook and glade and tangled dell, From its wide circle to its leafy heart, Is as familiar to me as my soul. Memories dwell like doves among the trees, Like nymphs in glooms, like naïads in the wells; And some are sweet, and sadder some than death. [A pause. I could have sworn the world did sing in air, I was so happy once. The eagle drinks The keen blue morning, and the morn was mine. I bathed in sunset, and to me the night Was a perpetual wonder and an awe. Oft, as I lay on earth and gazed at her, The gliding moon with influence divine Would draw a most delicious tide of tears And spill it o'er my eyes. Sadness was joy Of but another sort. My happiness Was flecked with vague and transitory griefs, As sweetly as the shining length of June With evanescent eves; and through my soul At intervals a regal pageant passed, As through the palpitating streets the corse Of a great chieftain, rolled in music rich, Moves slow towards its rest. In these young days Existence was to me sufficient joy; At once a throne and kingdom, crown and lyre. Now it is but a strip of barren sand, On which with earnest heart I strive to rear A temple to the Gods. I will not sadden you. [They move on. This is the fountain: once it flashed and sang (Possessed of such exuberance of joy) To golden sunrise, the blue day, and when The night grew gradual o'er it, star by star,— Now it is mute as Memnon.

Sad again! Its brim is written over—o'er and o'er; 'Tis mute; but have you made its marble lips As sweet as Music's?

Miserable words! The offspring of some most unhappy hours. To me this fountain's brim is sad as though 'Twere splashed with my own blood.

"Nature cares not Although her loveliness should ne'er be seen By human eyes, nor praised by human tongues. The cataract exults among the hills, And wears its crown of rainbows all alone. Libel the ocean on his tawny sands, Write verses in his praise,—the unmoved sea Erases both alike. Alas for man! Unless his fellows can behold his deeds He cares not to be great." 'Tis very true. The next is written in a languid hand: "Sin hath drunk up my pleasure, as eclipse Drinks up the sunlight. On my spirit lies A malison and ban. What though the Spring Makes all the hills and valleys laugh in green,— Is the sea healed, or is the plover's cry Merry upon the moor? I now am kin To these, and winds, and ever-suffering things." Oh, I could blot these words out with my tears!

So could I when I wrote them.

What is next? "A sin lies dead and dreadful in my soul, Why should I gaze upon it day by day? Oh, rather, since it cannot be destroyed, Let me as reverently cover it As with a cloth we cover up the dead, And place it in some chamber of my soul, Where it may lie unseen as sound, yet felt,— Making life hushed and awful."

No more. No more. Let God wash out this record with His rain! This is the summer-house. [They enter. It is as sweet As if enamoured Summer did adorn It for his Love to dwell in. I love to sit And hear the pattering footsteps of the shower, As he runs over it, or watch at noon The curious sunbeams peeping through the leaves.

I've always pictured you in such a place Writing your Book, and hurrying on, as if You had a long and wondrous tale to tell, And felt Death's cold hand closing round your heart.

Have you read my Book?

I have.

It is enough. The Book was only written for two souls, And they are thine and mine.

For many weeks, When I was dwelling by the moaning sea, Your name was blown to me on ev'ry wind, And I was glad; for by that sign I knew You had fulfilled your heart, and hoped you would Put off the robes of sorrow, and put on The singing crown of Fame. One dreary morn Your Book came to me, and I fondled it, As though it were a pigeon sent from thee With love beneath its wing. I read and read Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids And shot wild light along the leaping deep, Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear, I laid it down in silence, and went forth Burdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went; And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom, I saw the pale and penitential moon Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go Sorrowful up the sky. Then gushed my tears— The tangled problem of my life was plain— I cried aloud, "Oh, would he come to me! I know he is unhappy; that he strives As fiercely as that blind and desperate sea, Clutching with all its waves—in vain, in vain. He never will be happy till he comes." As I went home the thought that you would come Filled my lorn heart with gladness, as the moon Filled the great vacant night with moonlight, till Its silver bliss ran o'er—so after prayer I slept in the lap of peace—next morn you came.

And then I found you beautiful and pale— Pale as that moonlight night! O Violet, I have been undeceived. In my hot youth I kissed the painted bloom off Pleasure's lips And found them pale as Pain's,—and wept aloud. Never henceforward can I hope to drain The rapture of a lifetime at a gulp. My happiness is not a troubled joy; 'Tis deep, serene as death. The sweet contents, The happy thoughts from which I've been estranged, Again come round me, as the old known peers Surround and welcome a repentant spirit, Who by the steps of sorrow hath regained His throne and golden prime. The eve draws nigh! The prosperous sun is in the west, and sees From the pale east to where he sets in bliss, His long road glorious. Wilt thou sing, my love, And sadden me into a deeper joy?

The wondrous ages pass like rushing waves, Each crowned with its own foam. Bards die, and Fame Hangs like a pallid meteor o'er their graves. Religions change, and come and go like flame. Nothing remains but Love, the world's round mass It doth pervade, all forms of life it shares, The institutions that like moments pass Are but the shapes the masking spirit wears. Love is a sanctifier; 'tis a moon, Turning each dusk to silver. A pure light, Redeemer of all errors—— [Ceases, and bursts into tears.

What ails you, Violet? Has music stung you like a very snake? Why do you weep?

Walter! dost thou believe Love will redeem all errors? Oh, my friend, This gospel saves you! doubt it, you are lost. Deep in the mists of sorrow long I lay, Hopeless and still, when suddenly this truth Like a slant sunbeam quivered through the mist, And turned it into radiance. In the light I wrote these words, while you were far away Fighting with shadows. Oh! Walter, in one boat We floated o'er the smooth, moon-silvered sea; The sky was smiling with its orbs of bliss; And while we lived within each other's eyes, We struck and split, and all the world was lost In one wild whirl of horror darkening down; At last I gained a deep and silent isle, Moaned on by a dim sea, and wandered round, Week after week, the happy-mournful shore, Wond'ring if you had 'scaped.

Thou noble soul, Teach me, for thou art nearer God than I! My life was a long dream; when I awoke, Duty stood like an angel in my path, And seemed so terrible, I could have turned Into my yesterdays, and wandered back To distant childhood, and gone out to God By the gate of birth, not death. Lift, lift me up By thy sweet inspiration, as the tide Lifts up a stranded boat upon the beach. I will go forth 'mong men, not mailed in scorn, But in the armour of a pure intent. Great duties are before me and great songs, And whether crowned or crownless, when I fall It matters not, so that God's work is done. I've learned to prize the quiet lightning-deed, Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call Fame. Our night is past; We stand in precious sunrise, and beyond A long day stretches to the very end. Look out, my beautiful, upon the sky! Even puts on her jewels. Look! she sets, Venus upon her brow. I never gaze Upon the evening but a tide of awe, And love, and wonder, from the Infinite, Swells up within me, as the running brine From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea, Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream Until it threats its banks. It is not joy, 'Tis sadness more divine.

How quick they come,— World after world! See the great moon above Yon undistinguishable clump of trees Is slowly from the darkness gathering light! You used to love the moon!

This mournful wind Has surely been with Winter, 'tis so cold; The dews are falling, Violet! Your cloak— Draw it around you. Let the still night shine! A star's a cold thing to a human heart, And love is better than their radiance. Come! Let us go in together.