And swear by earth, by Heaven's throne, and Him
Who sitteth on the throne, there shall be time
No more, no more! Then, veiled Eternity
Shall straight unveil her awful countenance
Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place
Of seasons, years, and ages. Aye and aye
Shall be the time of day. The wrinkled heaven
Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white
With an exterminating light: the wind,
Unchained from the poles, nor having charge
Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail
Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death.
Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale
Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by
From out her ancient place, and leave a void.
Yet haply by that void the saints redeemed
May sometimes stray; when memory of sin
Ghost-like shall rise upon their holy souls;
And on their lips shall lie the name of earth
In paleness and in silentness; until
Each looking on his brother, face to face,
And bursting into sudden happy tears,
(The only tears undried) shall murmur-"Christ!"
THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.
THEY spoke unto me from the silent ground,
They looked unto me from the pictured wall:
The echo of my footstep was a sound
Like to the echo of their own footfall,
What time their living feet were in the hall.
I breathed where they had breathed—and where they
Their souls to moralise on glory's pall,
I walked with silence in a cloud of thought:
So, what they erst had learned, I mine own spirit taught.
Ay! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold
The likeness of their flesh! They, the great dead,
Stood still upon the canvas, while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed.
There, I beheld the Sidneys :-he, who bled
Freely for freedom's sake, bore gallantly
His soul upon his brow ;-he, whose lute said
Sweet music to the land, meseemed to be
Dreaming with that pale face, of love and Arcadie.
Mine heart had shrinèd these. And therefore past
Where these, and such as these, in mine heart's pride,
Which deemed death, glory's other name.
I stayed my pilgrim feet, and paused beside
A picture,* which the shadows half did hide.
The form was a fair woman's form; the brow
Brightly between the clustering curls espied:
The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so
As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go.
And rested there the lips, so warm and loving,
That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess :
Only they had been much too bright, if moving,
To stay by their own will, all motionless.
One outstretched hand its marble seal 'gar. press
On roses which looked fading; while the eyes,
Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness,
Seemed busy with their flow'ry destinies,
Drawing, for ladye's heart, some moral quaint and wise
She perished like her roses. I did look
On her, as she did look on them-to sigh!
Alas, alas! that the fair-written book
Of her sweet face should be in death laid by,
As any blotted scroll! Its cruelty
Poisoned a heart most gentle-pulsed of all,
And turned it unto song, therein to die :
For grief's stern tension maketh musical,
Unless the strained string break or ere the music fall
Worship of Waller's heart! no dream of thine
Revealed unto thee, that the lowly one,
Who sate enshadowed near thy beauty's shine,
Should, when the light was out, the life was done,
* Vandyke's portrait of Waller's Sacharissa.
Record thy name with those by Memory won
From Time's eternal burial. I am wooed
By wholesome thoughts this sad thought hath begun,
For mind is strengthened when awhile subdued,
As he who touched the earth, and rose with power renewed.
A FAR harp swept the sea above;
A far voice said thy name in love :
Then silence on the harp was cast;
The voice was chained-the love went last!
And as I heard the melodie,
Sweet-voiced Fancy spake of thee:
And as the silence o'er it came,
Mine heart, in silence, sighed thy name.
I thought there was one only place,
Where thou couldst lift thine orphaned face:
A little home for prayer and woe ;-
A stone above-a shroud below ;-
That evermore, that stone beside,
Thy withered joys would form thy pride;
As palm-trees, on their South Sea bed,
Make islands with the flowers they shed.
Child of the Dead! my dream of thee
Was sad to tell, and dark to see;
And vain as many a brighter dream;
Since thou canst sing by Babel's stream!
For here, amid the worldly crowd,
'Mid common brows, and laughter loud,
And hollow words, and feelings sere,
Child of the Dead! I meet thee here!
And is thy step so fast and light?
And is thy smile so gay and bright?
And canst thou smile, with cheek undim,
Upon a world that frowned on him?
The minstrel's harp is on his bier;
What doth the minstrel's orphan here?
The loving moulders in the clay;
The loved, she keepeth holiday!
"Tis well! I would not doom thy years
Of golden prime, to only tears.
Fair girl! 'twere better that thine eyes
Should find a joy in summer skies,
As if their sun were on thy fate.
Be happy; strive not to be great;
And go not, from thy kind apart,
With lofty soul and stricken heart.
Think not too deeply: shallow thought,
Like open rills, is ever sought
By light and flowers; while fountains deep
Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.
Feel not too warmly; lest thou be
Too like Cyrene's waters free,
Which burn at night, when all around
In darkness and in chill is found.
Touch not the harp to win the wreath :
Its tone is fame, its echo death!
The wreath may like the laurel grow,
Yet turns to cypress on the brow!
And, as a flame springs clear and bright,
Yet leaveth ashes 'stead of light;
So genius (fatal gift!) is doomed
To leave the heart it fired, consumed.
For thee, for thee, thou orphaned one,
I make an humble orison !
Love all the world; and ever dream
That all are true who truly seem.
Forget! for, so, 'twill move thee not,
Or lightly move; to be forgot!
Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth;
Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.
So, when grief plays her natural part,
And visiteth thy quiet heart;
Shall all the clouds of grief be seen
To show a sky of hope between.
So, when thy beauty senseless lies,
No sculptured urn shall o'er thee rise;
But gentle eyes shall weep at will,
Such tears as hearts like thine distil.
"One asked her once the resun why
She hadde delyte in minstrelsie;
She answered on this manère."
FOR ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
I know that much whereof I sing
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer's flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
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