Volume 1 — § 2.

SOUL Of GERONTIUS. I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed. A strange refreshment: for I feel in me An inexpressive lightness, and a sense Of freedom, as I were at length myself, And ne'er had been before. How still it is! I hear no more the busy beat of time, No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse; Nor does one moment differ from the next. I had a dream; yes:—some one softly said "He's gone;" and then a sigh went round the room. And then I surely heard a priestly voice Cry "Subvenite;" and they knelt in prayer. {521} I seem to hear him still; but thin and low, And fainter and more faint the accents come, As at an ever-widening interval. Ah! whence is this? What is this severance? This silence pours a solitariness Into the very essence of my soul; And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet, Hath something too of sternness and of pain. For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring By a strange introversion, and perforce I now begin to feed upon myself, Because I have naught else to feed upon. Am I alive or dead? I am not dead, But in the body still; for I possess A sort of confidence, which clings to me, That each particular organ holds its place As heretofore, combining with the rest Into one symmetry, that wraps me round, And makes me man; and surely I could move, Did I but will it, every part of me. And yet I cannot to my sense bring home, By very trial, that I have the power. 'Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot, I cannot make my fingers or my lips By mutual pressure witness each to each, Nor by the eyelid's instantaneous stroke Assure myself I have a body still. Nor do I know my very attitude, Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel. So much I know, not knowing how I know, That the vast universe, where I have dwelt, Is quitting me, or I am quitting it. Or I or it is rushing on the wings Of light or lightning on an onward course, And we e'en now are million miles apart. Yet . … is this peremptory severance Wrought out in lengthy measurements of space, Which grow and multiply by speed and time? Or am I traversing infinity By endless subdivision, hurrying back From finite toward infinitesimal, Thus dying out of the expanded world? Another marvel; some one has me fast Within his ample palm; 'tis not a grasp Such as they use on earth, but all around Over the surface of my subtle being, As though I were a sphere, and capable To be accosted thus, a uniform And gentle pressure tells me I am not Self-moving, but borne forward on my way. And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth {522} I cannot of that music rightly say Whether I hear or touch or taste the tones. Oh what a heart-subduing melody! ANGEL. My work is done,' My task is o er, And so I come, Taking it home, For the crown is won. Alleluia, For evermore. My Father gave In charge to me This child of earth E'en from its birth, To serve and save, Alleluia, And saved is he. This child of clay To me was given, To rear and train By sorrow and pain In the narrow way, Alleluia, From earth to heaven. SOUL. It is a member of that family Of wondrous beings, who, ere the worlds were made, Millions of ages back, have stood around The throne of God:—he never has known sin; But through those cycles all but infinite, Has had a strong and pure celestial life, And bore to gaze on th' unveiled face of God, And drank from the eternal fount of truth, And served him with a keen ecstatic love. Hark! he begins again. ANGEL. Lord, how wonderful in depth and height, But most in man, how wonderful thou art! With what a love, what soft persuasive might, Victorious o'er the stubborn fleshly heart, Thy tale complete of saints thou dost provide, To fill the throne which angels lost through pride! {523} He lay a grovelling babe upon the ground, Polluted in the blood of his first sire, With his whole essence shattered and unsound, And, coiled around his heart, a demon dire, Which was not of his nature, but had skill To bind and form his opening mind to ill. Then was I sent from heaven to set right The balance in his soul of truth and sin, And I have waged a long relentless fight, Resolved that death-environed spirit to win, Which from its fallen state, when all was lost, Had been repurchased at so dread a cost. Oh what a shifting parti-colored scene Of hope and fear, of triumph and dismay, Of recklessness and penitence, has been The history of that dreary, lifelong fray! And oh the grace, to nerve him and to lead, How patient, prompt, and lavish at his need! O man, strange composite of heaven and earth! Majesty dwarfed to baseness! fragrant flower Running to poisonous seed! and seeming worth Cloaking corruption! weakness mastering power! Who never art so near to crime and shame, As when thou hast achieved some deed of name; How should ethereal natures comprehend A thing made up of spirit and of clay, Were we not tasked to nurse it and to tend, Linked one to one throughout its mortal day? More than the seraph in his height of place, The angel-guardian knows and loves the ransomed race. SOUL. Now know I surely that I am at length Out of the body: had I part with earth, I never could have drunk those accents in, And not have worshipped as a god the voice That was so musical; but now I am So whole of heart, so calm, so self-possessed, With such a full content, and with a sense So apprehensive and discriminant, As no temptation can intoxicate. Nor have I even terror at the thought That I am clasped by such a saintliness. ANGEL. All praise to him, at whose sublime decree The last are first, the first become the last; By whom the suppliant prisoner is set free, By whom proud first-borns from their thrones are cast; Who raises Mary to be queen of heaven, While Lucifer is left, condemned and unforgiven.