MILTON.

"Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eve by haunted stream."—L'Allegro.

I. It was the Minstrel's merry month of June; Silent and sultry glow'd the breezeless noon; Along the flowers the bee went murmuring; Life in its myriad forms was on the wing; Play'd on the green leaves with the quiv'ring beam, Sang from the grove, and sparkled from the stream, When, where yon beech-tree veil'd the soft'ning ray, On violet-banks young Milton dreaming lay. For him the Earth below, the Heaven above, Doubled each charm in the clear glass of youth; And the vague spirit of unsettled love Roved through the visions that precede the truth, While Poesy's low voice so hymn'd through all That ev'n the very air was musical.

II. The sunbeam rested, where it pierced the boughs, On locks whose gold reflected back the gleaming; On Thought's fair temple in majestic brows On Love's bright portal—lips that smiled in dreaming. Dreams he of Nymph half hid in sparry cave? Or of his own Sabrina chastely "sitting Under the glassy cool translucent wave," The loose train of her amber tresses knitting? Or that far shadow, yet but faintly view'd, Where the Four Rivers take their parent springs, Which shall come forth from starry solitude, In the last days of angel-visitings, When, soaring upward from the nether storm, The Heaven of Heavens shall earthly guest receive, And in the long-lost Eden smile thy form, Fairer than all thy daughters, fairest Eve?

III. Has the dull Earth a being to compare With those that haunt that spirit-world—the brain? Can shapes material vie with forms of air, Nature with Phantasy?—O question vain! Lo, by the Dreamer, fresh from heavenly hands, Youth's dream-inspirer—Virgin Woman stands. She came, a stranger from the Southern skies, And careless o'er the cloister'd garden stray'd, Till, pausing, violets on the bank to cull, Over the Dreamer bent the Beautiful. Silent, with lifted hand and lips apart, Silent she stood, and gazed away her heart. Like purple Mænad fruits, when down the glade Shoots the warm sunbeam,—into darksome glow Light kiss'd the ringlets wreathing brows of snow; And softer than the rosy hues that flush Her native heaven, when Tuscan morns arise, The sweet cheek brighten'd with the sweeter blush, As virgin love from out delighted eyes Dawn'd as Aurora dawns.— Thus look'd the maid, And still the sleeper dream'd beneath the shade. Image of Soul and Love! So Psyche crept To the still chamber where her Eros slept; While the light gladden'd round his face serene,[A] As light doth ever,—when Love first is seen. Felt he the touch of her dark locks descending, Or with his breath her breathing fused and blending, That, like a bird we startle from the spray, Pass'd the light Sleep with sudden wings away? Sighing he woke, and waking he beheld; The sigh was silenced, as the look was spell'd; Look charming look, the love that ever lies In human hearts, like light'ning in the air, Flash'd in the moment from those meeting eyes, And open'd all the Heaven! O Youth, beware! For either, light should but forewarn the gaze; Woe follows love, as darkness doth the blaze!

IV. And their eyes met—one moment and no more; Moment in time that centred years in feeling. As when to Thetis, on her cavern'd shore, Knelt her young King,—he rose, and murmur'd, kneeling. Low though the murmur, it dissolved the charm Which had in silence chain'd the modest feet; And maiden shame and woman's swift alarm Crimson'd her cheek and in her pulses beat: She turn'd, and, as a spell that leaves the place It fill'd with phantom beauty cold and bare, She fled;—and over disenchanted space Rush'd back the common air!

V. Time waned—and thoughts intense, and grave and high, With sterner truths foreshadow'd Minstrel dreams; Yet never vanish'd from the Minstrel's eye That meteor blended with the morning beams. Time waned, and ripe became the long desire, Which, nursed in youth, with restless manhood grew A passion—to behold that heart of Earth, Yet trembling with the silver Mantuan lyre, To knightly arms by Tasso tuned anew:— So the fair Pilgrim left his father's hearth. Into his soul he drunk the lofty lore, Floating like air around the clime of song; Beheld the starry sage,[B] what time he bore For truth's dear glory the immortal wrong; Communed majestic with majestic minds; And all the glorious wanderer heard or saw Or felt or learn'd or dream'd, were as the winds That swell'd the sails of his triumphant soul; As then, ev'n then, with ardour yet in awe, It swept Time's ocean to its distant goal.

VI. It was the evening—and a group were strewn O'er such a spot as ye, I ween, might see, When basking in the summer's breathless noon, With upward face beneath the drowsy tree; While golden dreams the willing soul receives, And Elf-land glimmers through the checkering leaves. It was the evening—still it lay, and fair, Lapp'd in the quiet of the lulling air; Still, but how happy! like a living thing All love itself—all love around it seeing; And drinking from the earth, as from a spring, The hush'd delight and essence of its being. And round the spot (a wall of glossy shade) The interlaced and bowering trees reposed; And through the world of foliage had been made Green lanes and vistas, which at length were closed By fount, or fane, or statue white and hoar, Startling the heart with the fond dreams of yore. And near, half-glancing through its veil of leaves, An antique temple stood in marble grace; Where still, if fondly wise, the heart conceives Faith in the lingering Genius of the Place: Seen wandering yet perchance at earliest dawn Or greyest eve—with Nymph or bearded Faun. Dainty with mosses was the grass you press'd, Through which the harmless lizard glancing crept. And—wearied infants on Earth's gentle breast— In every nook the little field-flowers slept. But ever when the soft air draws its breath (Breeze is a word too rude), with half-heard sigh, From orange-shrubs and myrtles—wandereth The Grove's sweet Dryad borne in fragrance by. And aye athwart the alleys fitfully Glanced the fond moth enamour'd of the star; And aye, from out her watch-tower in the tree, The music which a falling leaf might mar, So faint—so faëry seem'd it—of the bird Transform'd at Daulis thrillingly was heard. And in the centre of that spot, which lay A ring embosom'd in the wood's embrace, A fountain, clear as ever glass'd the day, Breathed yet a fresher luxury round the place; But now it slept, as if its silver shower, And the wide reach of its aspiring sound, Were far too harsh for that transparent hour:— Yet—like a gnome that mourneth underground— You caught the murmur of the rill which gave The well's smooth calm the passion of its wave; Ev'n as man's heart that still, with secret sigh, Stirs through each thought that would reflect the sky.

VII. And, group'd around the fountain, forms were seen, Shaped as for courts in loving Chivalry, Such as Boccacio placed, 'mid alleys green, Listening to tales in careless Fiesolé! Dress'd as for nymphs, the classic banquet there Was spread on grassy turfs, with coolest fruit And drinks Falernian—while the mellow air Heaved to the light swell of the amorous lute; And by the music lovers grew more bold, And Beauty blush'd to secrets, murmuring told.

VIII. But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were none Who yielded not to him—that English guest. Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won, Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd; And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold, And manhood stately with a Dorian grace, He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of old The simple sons of thoughtful Hercules On Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece. Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazed On him—the radiant cynosure of all, While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed, What that bright heart was destined to befall! That worst of wars—the Battle of the Soil— Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side! The daily fever, and the midnight toil; The hope defeated, and the name belied; Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art, The watchful viper of the evil tongue;— The sting which pride defies, but not the heart— The noblest heart is aye the easiest wrung: The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life, Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth; The march—but not the action—of the strife Without;—and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth: The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night, Along those eyes which now in all survey A tribute and a rapture;—the despite Of Fortune wreak'd on his declining day; The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;— Oh! little dream'd they this!—nor less what light Should through those clouds—a new-born glory—start; And from the spot man's mystic Father trod, Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray, Cast its great shadow to the Throne of God!

IX. The festive rite was o'er—the group was gone, Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone— For round his eye, and in his heart, there lay The tender spells which cleave to solitude. Who, when some gay delight hath pass'd away, Feels not a charmèd musing in his mood, A poesy of thought, which yearns to pour Still worship to the Spirit of the Hour? Ah! they who bodied into deity The rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err. Sweet hours, ye have a life, and holily That life is worn! and when no rude sounds stir The quiet of our hearts—we inly hear The hymnlike music of your floating voices, Telling us mystic tidings of the sphere Where hand in hand your linkèd choir rejoices, And filling us with calm and solemn thought, Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught. With folded arms and upward brow, he leant Against the pillar of a sleeping tree; When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there went A murmur and a sigh along the air, And a light footstep, like a melody, Pass'd by the flowers. He turn'd;—What Nymph is there? What Hamadryad from the green recess Emerging into beauty like a star?— He gazed—sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose loveliness Had in his England's gardens first (and far From these delicious groves) upon him beam'd, And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

X. They met again and oft! what time the Star Of Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high; Love's earliest beacon, from our storms afar, Lit in the loneliest watch-tower of the sky, Perchance by souls that, ere this world was made, Were the first lovers the first stars survey'd. And Mystery o'er their twilight meeting threw The charm that nought like mystery doth bestow: Her name—her birth—her home he never knew; And she—his love was all she sought to know. And when in anxious or in tender mood He pray'd her to disclose at least her name, A look from her the unwelcome prayer subdued So sad the cloud that o'er her features came: Her lip grew blanch'd, as with an ominous fear, And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear. So worshipp'd he in silence and sweet wonder, Pleased to confide, contented not to know; And Hope, life's checkering moonlight, smiled asunder Doubts, which, like clouds, rise ever from below. And thus his love grew daily, and perchance Was all the stronger circled by romance. He found a name for her, if not her own, Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear— "Zoe"—name stolen from the tuneful Greek, It meaneth 'life,' when common lips do speak— And more on those that love;—sweet language known To lovers, sacred to themselves alone; Words, like Egyptian symbols, set apart For the mysterious Priesthood of the Heart. Creep slowly on, O charm'd reluctant Time— Rarely so hallow'd, Time, creep slowly on— Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme, Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone. Flowers bloom again—leaves glad once more the tree— Poor life, there comes no second Spring to thee!

"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores, Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram. Interea misero quæ jam mihi sola placebat Ablata est oculis non reditura meis."—Milt. Eleg. vii.

I. Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads, From the fine tissues of Philosophy?— Mounts to one goal, each guess that upward leads, Whether it soar in some impassion'd sigh Or some still thought; alike, it doth but tend To Light that draws it heavenward.—'Tis but one Great law that from the violet lifts the dew At dawn and twilight to the amorous sun, Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through, From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea. The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descend From some lost realm (sad aliens here to be), Dim broken memories of the state before Form what we call our 'reason';[C]—nothing taught But all remember'd;—gleams from elder lore, Pallid revivals of sublimer thought, Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd, Make all the light our sense receives below; Like the vague hues down-floating—disenthrall'd From their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow. Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask? How judge?—The instant that we leave the ground Of the hard Positive, who saith "I know?" Conjecture, fancy, faith—'tis these we task, When Reason passes but an inch the bound In which our senses draw the captive's breath. And never yet Philosopher severe Strove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death, But straight he enter'd on that atmosphere Poets illume:—Let Logic prove the Known; Truths that we know not, if we would explore, We must imagine! Link, then, evermore Together—each so desolate alone, O Poesy, O Knowledge!— Is not Love, Of all those memories which to parent skies Mount struggling back—(as to their source above, In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;) Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest? Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven; Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest; Love, and a world beyond the sense is given; Love, and how many a glorious sleeping power Wakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee; Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour, Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity! Lose what thou lovest, and the life of old Is from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd; Look beyond Death, and through thy tears behold There, where Love goes—thine ancient home reveal'd.

II. The lovers met in twilight and in stealth. Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale, That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles, And there collects and there conceals the wealth, Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale, Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth; And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells, On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth. All nature was a treasury which their hearts Rifled and coin'd in passion; the soft grass, The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell; The sighing leaves which, as the day departs, The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell; The stiller boughs blent in one emerald mass, Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along, Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song; All furnish'd them with images and words, And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer; Their love made life one melody, like birds, And circled earth with its own rosy air. What in that lovely climate doth the breast Interpret not into some sound of love? Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest, Like the god's smile, upon the pictured dream Limn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude, Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?— Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed? Nor know that presence by its light,—and deem The Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine, "Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?"

III. But all round them was life—the living scene, The real sky, and earth, and wave, and air: The turf on which Egeria's steps had been, The shade, stream, grotto, which had known her care. Still o'er them floated an inspiring breath— The fragrance and the melody of song— The legend—glory—verse—that vanquish'd death Still through the orange glades were borne along, And sunk into their souls to swell the hoard Of those rich thoughts the miser Passion stored!

IV. But they required no fuel to the flame Which burn'd within them, all undyingly; No scene to steep their passion in romance, No spell from outward nature to enhance The nature at their bosoms: all the same Their love had been if cast upon a rock, And frown'd on from the Arctic's haggard sky. Nay, ev'n the vices and the cares, which move Like waves o'er that foul ocean of dull life, That rolls through cities in a sullen strife With heaven, had raged on them, nor in the shock Crumbled one atom from their base of love. And, like still waters, poesy lay deep Within the hush'd yet haunted soul of each; And the fair moon, and all the stars that steep Heaven's silence and its spirit in delight, Had with that tide a sympathy and speech! For them there was a glory in the night, A whisper in the forest, and the air; Love is the priest of Nature, and can teach A world of mystery to the few that share, With self-devoted faith, the wingèd Flamen's care.

V. In each lay poesy—for Woman's heart Nurses the stream, unsought, and oft unseen; And if it flow not through the tide of art, Nor woo the glittering daylight—you may ween It slumbers, but not ceases; and, if check'd The egress of rich words, it flows in thought, And in its silent mirror doth reflect Whate'er Affection to its banks has brought. This makes her love so glowing and so tender, Dyeing it in such deep and dreamlike hues; Earth—Heaven—creative Genius—all that render, In man, their wealth and homage to the muse; Do but, in her, enrich the heart, and throng To centre there what men disperse in song. O treasure! which awhile the world outweighs That blessèd human heart Youth calls its own! Measure the space some envied Cæsar sways With that which stretches from the heavenly throne Into the Infinite;—and then compare All after-conquests in the dim and dull Bounds of the Real, with the realms that were Youth's, when its reign was o'er the Beautiful! He who loves nobly and is nobly loved Is lord of the Ideal. Could it last! It doth—it doth! lasts mournful but unmoved, In the still Ghost-land that reflects the Past. Age will forget its wintry yesterday, But not one sunbeam that rejoiced its May; Showing, perchance, that all which we resume Of this hard life, beyond the Funeral River, Are the fair blossoms of the age of bloom; And hearts mourn most the things that live for ever.

VI. Twice glided through her course the wandering Queen Who rules the stars and deeps, since first they met. 'Tis eve once more, that earliest hour, serene With the last light, before the sun hath set; And Zoe waits her lover on the hill, Waits, looking forth afar:—The parting ray Of the reluctant Day-god linger'd still; Aslant it glinted through the pinewood boughs, Broadly to rest upon the ruins grey, That at her feet in desolate glory lay. Through chasm and chink, the myrtle's glossy green, Votive of old to Cytheræa's brows— Rose over wrecks, and smiled: And there, like Grief Close-neighbouring Love, the aloe forced between Myrtle with myrtle clasp'd—its barbèd leaf. Where Zoe stands, the Cæsar's Palace stood, And from that lofty terrace ye survey, Naked within their thunder-riven tomb, The bones of that dead Titaness call'd Rome. Beyond, the Tiber, through the Latian Plain With many a lesser sepulchre bestrew'd, Mourn'd songless onward to the Tyrrhene main; Around, in amphitheatre afar The hills lay basking in the purple sky; Till all grew grey, and Maro's shepherd-star Look'd through the silence with a loving eye. And soft from silver clouds stole forth the Moon, Hush'd as if still she watch'd Endymion. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

VII. They sate them on a fallen column, where The wild acanthus clomb the shatter'd stone, Mocking the sculptured mimicry—which there Was graven on the pillar'd pomp o'erthrown,[D] Flowerless, if green, the herbage type-like decks Art that will flower not over Glory's wrecks. "Ah, doth not Heaven seem near us when alone? How air and moonbeam interchange delight! How like the homeward bird my soul hath flown Unto its rest!—O glorious is the night, Glorious with stars, and starry thoughts, and Thee!" Her sweet voice paused; then from the swelling heart Sigh'd—"Joy to meet, but O despair to part!" "And wherefore part? Out of all time to me Thou cam'st emerging from the depth of dreams, As rose the Venus from her native sea; And at thy coming, Light with all his beams Illumed Creation's golden Jubilee. What, if my life be wrench'd from youth too soon To find in duty Manhood's troubled doom,— Lo, where yon star clings ever through the gloom Fast by the labouring melancholy moon, So shine, unsever'd from thy pilgrim's side, And gift his soul with an immortal bride." Trembling she heard—no answer but a sigh— Sighing, still trembled; tenderly he raised Her downcast cheek, and sought the wish'd-for eye. On the long lashes hung slow-gathering tears: And that subdued, despondent thought which wears Woe, as a Nun the fatal funeral veil, Silent and self-consuming—cast its gloom O'er the sad face yet sadder for its bloom. He gazed, and felt within him, as he gazed, His heart beneath the dire foreboding quail, Ev'n as the gifted melancholy seer Knows by his shudder when a grief is near. "Thou answerest not—yet my soul trusts in thee; Albeit—as if for child of earth too fair Thy love vouchsafed, thy life conceal'd from me, Nymph-like, thou comest out of starry air,— And I, content the Beautiful to see, Presumed till now no hardier human prayer. But now, the spell the hour appointed breaks, Now in these lips a power that thralls me speaks; I seek mine England, canst thou leave thy Rome? Start not—but let this hand still rest in thine; Canst thou not say 'thy home shall be my home,' Canst thou not say 'thy People shall be mine?'"

VIII. Wildly she falter'd, starting from his breast, "What dost thou ask—must it all end in this! Art thou not happy, Ingrate? Rest, O, rest, England has toil—Italia happiness!" And as she spoke—a loftier light than pride Flash'd from his eye, and thus the man replied,— "Hear and approve me—In my father's land Age-long have men, as Heathens, bow'd the knee To the dire Statue with the sceptred hand, Which Force enthrones for Thought's idolatry. But now I hear the signal-sound afar, Like the first clarion waking sleep to war, When slumbering armies gird a doomèd town. Dread with the whirlwind, glorious with the light, Strong with the thunderbolt, comes rushing down Truth:—Let the mountains reel beneath her might! Vigour and health her angry wings dispense, And speed the storm, to clear the pestilence. For this, at morn, when through the gladd'ning air Larks rise to heaven—arose my freeman's prayer. For this, has Night in solemn prophet-dreams Limn'd Time's great morrow—now its day-star gleams! Yea, ere I loved thee, ere a sigh had ask'd Ev'n if the love of woman were for me, A Shape of queenlier grief than ever task'd The votive hearts of antique Chivalry, Born to command the sword, inspire the song, Unveil'd her beauty, and reveal'd her wrong. The Cause she pleads for with the world began; The realm torn from her is the Soul of Man— And her great name despoil'd is—Liberty! And now she calls me with imperial voice Homeward o'er land and ocean to her cause; Sworn to her service at mine own free choice, Shall I be recreant when the sword she draws?"

IX. She look'd upon that brow so fair and high, Too bright for sorrow as too bold for fear; She look'd upon the depth of that large eye Whence (ev'n when lost to daylight) starry clear Shone earth's sublimest soul;—then tremblingly On his young arm her gentle hand she laid, And in the simple movement more was said Of the weak woman's heart, than ever yet Of that sweet mystery man's rude speech hath told. The touch rebuked him as he thrill'd to it; Back to their deep the stormier passions roll'd, And left his brow (as when the heaven above Smiles through departing cloud) serene with love. "Come then—companion in this path sublime; Link life with life, and strengthen soul with soul; If vain the hope that lights the onward time; If back to darkness fade the phantom goal; If Dreams, that now seem prophet-visions, be Dreams, and no more—still let me cling to thee! Still, seeing thee, have faith in human worth, And feel the Beautiful yet lives for earth! Come, though from marble domes and myrtle bowers, Come, though to lowly roofs and northern skies; In its own fancies Love has regal towers, And orient sunbeams in belovèd eyes. Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall, Thou at thy woman-choice shalt ne'er repine; Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall, This man's true breast shall ward the bolt from thine. Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathes Soul into night,—so be thy love to me! Look, where around the bird the ilex wreathes Still, sheltering boughs,—so be my love to thee! O dweller in my heart, the music thine! And the deep shelter—wilt thou scorn it? mine!" He ceased, and drew her closer to his breast; Soft from the ilex sang the nightingale: Thy heart, O woman, in its happy rest Hush'd a diviner tale! And o'er her bent her lover; and the gold Of his rich locks with her dark tresses blended; And still, and calm, and tenderly, the lone And mellowing night upon their forms descended; And thus, amid the ghostly walls of old, Seen through that silvery, moonlit, lucent air, They seem'd not wholly of an earth-born mould, But suited to the memories breathing there— Two Genii of the mix'd and tender race, Their charmèd homes in lonely coverts singling, Last of their order, doom'd to haunt the place, And bear sweet being interfused and mingling, Draw through their life the same delicious breath, And fade together into air in death. Oh! what then burn'd within her, as her fond And pure lips yearn'd to breathe the enduring vow? All was forgot, save him before her now— A blank, a non-existence, lay beyond— All was forgot—all feeling, thought, but this— For ever parted, or for ever his! The voice just stirs her lip—what sound is there? The cleft stone sighing to the curious air? The night-bird rustling, or the fragment's fall, Soft amid weeds, from Cæsar's ruin'd wall? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * From his embrace abrupt the maiden sprang With low wild cry despairing:—In the shade Of that dark tree where still the night-bird sang, Stood a stern image statue-like, and made A shadow in the shadow;—locks of snow Crown'd, with the awe of age, the solemn brow; Lofty its look with passionless command, As some old chief's of grand inhuman Rome: Calm from its stillness moved the beckoning hand, And low from rigid lips it murmur'd "Come!"— * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up, and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend."—MILTON'S Sonnet to Cyriack Skinner.

I. Years have flown by;—and Strife hath raged and ceased; Still on the ear the halted thunder rings; And still in halls, where purple tyrants feast, Glares the red warning to inebriate kings. Midnight is past: the lamp with steadfast light A silent cell, a mighty toil illumes; And hot and lurid on the student's sight Flares the still ray which, like himself, consumes Its life in gilding darkness. Damp and chill Gather the dews on aching temples wan, Wrung from the frame which fails the unconquer'd will In the fierce struggle between soul and man.

II. Alas! no more to golden palaces, To starlit founts and dryad-haunted trees, The SWEET DELUSION wafts the dreamy soul; But with slow step and steadfast eyes that strain Dazzled and scathed, towards the far-flaming goal He braved the storm, and labour'd up the plain O doubtful labour, but O glorious pain! On the doom'd sight the gradual darkness steals Bates he a jot of heart and hope?—he feels But in his loss a world's eternal gain.[E] Blame we or laud the Cause, all human life Is grander by one grand self-sacrifice; While earth disputes if righteous be the strife, The martyr soars beyond it to the skies. Yes, though when Freedom had her temple won She rear'd a scaffold to obscure a shrine; And, by the human sacrifice of one, Sullied the million,—who could then define The subtle tints where good and evil blend?— There comes no rainbow when the floods descend! Who, just escaped the chain and prison-bar, Halts on the bridge to guess where glides the stream; Who plays the casuist 'mid the roar of war; Or in the arena builds the Academe? Whate'er their errors, lightly those condemn Who, had they felt not, fought not, glow'd and err'd, Had left us what their fathers left to them— Either the thraldom of the passive herd Stall'd for the shambles at the master's word, Or the dread overleap of walls that close, And spears that bristle:—And the last they chose. Calm from the hills their children gaze to-day, And breathe the airs to which they forced the way.

III. And thou, of whom I sing—what should we all, Whate'er our state-creed, venerate in thee? Purpose heroic; and majestical Disdain of self;—the soul in which we see Conviction, welding, from the furnace-zeal, Duty, the iron mainspring of the mind; Ardour, if fierce, yet fired for England's weal; And man's strong heart-throb beating for mankind. These move our homage, doubtful though we be If ev'n thy pen acquits the headman's steel, When thy page cites the crownless Dead—and pleads Defence for nations in a judgeless cause: Judgeless, for time shall ne'er decide what deeds Damn or absolve the hosts whom Freedom leads O'er the pale border-land of dying laws Into the vague world of Necessity.

IV. He lifts his look where on the lattice bar, Through clouds fast gathering, shines a single star; Large on the haze of his receding sight It spreads, and spreads, and floods all space with light; Nature's last glorious mournful smile on him Ev'n while on earth so near the Seraphim. Now from the blaze he veils with tremulous hand The scorching eyes:—and now the starlight fades: Midnight and cloud resettle on the Land, And o'er her champion's vision rush the shades. What rests to both?—the inner light that glows Out from the gloom that Fate on each bestows; There is no PRESENT to a hope sublime; Man has eternity, and Nations time!

"Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me."—Paradise Lost, Book III.

"Though fall'n on evil days, In darkness, and with danger compass'd round, And solitude; yet not alone, while thou Visit'st my slumbers nightly, or when morn Purples the east."—Paradise Lost, Book VII.

I. Its gay farewell to hospitable eaves The swallow twitter'd in the autumn heaven; Dumb on the crisp earth fell the yellowing leaves, Or, in small eddies, fitfully were driven Down the bleak waste of the remorseless air. Out, from the widening gaps in dreary boughs, Alone the laurel smiled,—as freshly fair As its own chaplet on immortal brows, When Fame, indifferent to the changeful sun, Sees waning races wither, and lives on.— An old man sate before that deathless tree Which bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside; The last pale rose which lured the lingering bee To the low porch it scantly blossom'd o'er, Nipp'd by the frost-air had that morning died. The clock faint-heard beyond the gaping door, Low as a death-watch, click'd the moments' knell; And through the narrow opening you might see Uncertain foot-prints on the sanded floor (Uncertain foot-prints which of blindness tell); The rude oak board, the morn's untasted fare; The scatter'd volumes and the pillow'd chair, In which, worn out with toil and travel past, Life, the poor wanderer, finds repose at last.

II. The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing Waving thin locks from musing temples pale; Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going, And the light dance of leaves upon the gale, In that mysterious symbol-change of earth Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. Seasons return; for him shall not return Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. Whatever garb the mighty mother wore, Nature to him was changeless evermore.— List, not a sigh!—though fall'n on evil days, With darkness compass'd round—those sightless eyes Need not the sun; nightly he sees the rays, Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise. High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone, Death-like in calm as monumental stone, Lifting his looks into the farthest skies, He sate: And as when some tempestuous day Dies in the hush of the majestic eve, So on his brow—where grief has pass'd away, Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave.

III. And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,—drew near A timorous trembling step;—from the far clime The Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year, In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time, How had she pined to gaze upon that brow Last seen in youth, when she was young:—And Now! And now! O words that make the sepulchre Of all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tear Than, when recalling what the Hours inter Of hopes, of passions, of the things that made Our hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss, We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade, Sighing "And now!"—Alas the nothingness Even of love—had it no life but this!

IV. Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept, Two young slight forms across the threshold crept And reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand, And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'd The old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile. On either side the children took their stand, And all the three were silent for awhile: Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word, Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair; And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd, Rose,—lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air— Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird; Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd, And from the daylight pensive pass'd away. Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray, And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud.

V. Hark, from within, slow and sonorous stole Deep organ-tones; with solemn pomp of sound Meet to bear up the disimprison'd soul From mortal homage in material piles, To blend with Angel Halleluiahs!—Round The charmèd place the notes melodious roll As with a visible flood: adown the aisles Of Nature's first cathedrals (vistas dim, Through leafless woodlands), far and farther float On to the startled haunts of toiling men, The marching music-tides: the heavenly note Thrills through the reeking air of alleys grim; Awes wolf-eyed Guilt close skulking in its den; Lulls Childhood, wailing with white lips for bread, On the starved breast of nerveless Penury; Fever lies soothed upon its burning bed: Indignant Worth stills its world-weary sigh; The widow'd bride looks upward from the dead, And deems she hears his welcome to the sky. On, the grand music, more and more remote, Bore the grey blind man's soul, itself a hymn, Till lost in air amid the Seraphim.

VI. Our life is as a circle, and our age Back to our youth returns at last in dreams; The intermediate restless pilgrimage Vexing the earth with toils, the air with schemes, Pays our hard tribute to the work-day world. That done, as some storm-shatter'd argosy Puts to the port from whence its sail unfurl'd, The soul regains the first familiar shore, And greets the quiet it disdain'd before. He who in youth from purple poetry Flush'd the grey clouds in this cold common sky, After his shadeless undelusive noon Shall mark the roseate hues, which morning wore, Herald the eve, and gird his setting sun; And the last Hesperus shine on Helicon. O long (yet nobly, since for man) resign'd Nature's most sovereign, care's most soothing boon; Again, again, with vervain fillets bind Anointed brows—O Mage supreme of song! Again before the enchanted crystal glass Let the celestial phantoms glide along— Thou, whose sweet tears yet hallow Lycidas; Thou, who the soul of Plato didst unsphere, By chaste Sabrina's beryl-paven cell! If now no more thou deign'st to charm the ear "With measures ravish'd from Apollo's shell," Re-wake the harp which mournful willows hide Left by the captives of Jerusalem; For thou hast thought of Sion, and beside The streams of Babylon, hast wept—like them!

VII. Aged, forsaken—to the crowd below (As to the Priest[F] who chronicled the time), "One Milton!—The blind Teacher"—be it so. Neglect and ruin make but more sublime The last lone column which survives the dearth Of a lost city,—when it lifts on high. Above the waste and solitude of earth Its front: and soars, the Neighbour of the Sky. To him a Voice floats down from every star; An Angel bends from every cloud that rolls; Life has no mystery from our sight more far Than the still joy in solemn Poet-souls. As some vast river, fresh'ning lands unknown Where never yet a human footstep trod, Leave the grand Song to flow majestic on And hymn delight, from all its waves, to God.

VIII. A death-bell ceased;—beneath the vault were laid A great man's bones;—and when the rest were gone, Veil'd, and in sable widow-'d weeds array'd, An aged woman knelt upon the stone. Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweet With the strange music of a foreign tongue: Thrice to that spot came feeble, feebler feet, Thrice on that stone were humble garlands hung. On the fourth day some formal hand in scorn The flowers that breathed of priestcraft cast away; But the poor stranger came not with the morn, And flowers forbidden deck'd no more the clay. A heart was broken!—and a spirit fled! Whither—let those who love and hope decide— But in the faith that Love rejoins the dead, The heart was broken ere the garland died.