University of Virginia Library

What was it that ye heard? the wind of Night
Playing in cheating tones, with touches light,
Amid the palm-plumes? Or, one stop outblown
Of planetary music, so far flown
Earthwards, that to those innocent ears 'twas brought
Which bent the mighty measure to their thought?
Or, haply, from breast-shaped Beth-Haccarem,
The hill of Herod, some waft sent to them
Of storming drums and trumps, at festival
Held in the Idumæan's purple hall?
Or, it may be, some Aramaic song
Of country lovers, after parting long
Meeting anew, with much “goodwill,” indeed,
Blown by some swain upon his Jordan reed?
Nay, nay! your abbas back ye did not fling,
From each astonished ear, for swains to sing
Their village-verses clear; for sounds well-known
Of wandering breeze, or whispering trees, or tone
Of Herod's trumpets. And ye did not gaze
Heart-startled on the stars (albeit the rays
Of that lone orb shot, sparkling, from the East
Unseen before); for these, largest and least,
Were fold-lamps, lighted nightly: and ye knew
Far differing glory in the Night's dark blue
Suddenly lit with rose, and pierced with spike
Of golden spear beam. Oh, a dream, belike!
Some far-fetched Vision, new to peasant's sleep
Of Paradise stripped bare!—But, why thus keep
Secrets for them? This bar, which doth enclose
Better and nobler souls, why burst for those
Who supped on the parched pulse, and lapped the stream,
And each, at the same hour, dreams the same dream!
Or, easier still, they lied! Yet, wherefore, then
“Rise, and go up to Bethlehem,” and unpen
To wolf and jackal all their hapless fold
So they might “see these things which had been told
In Heaven's own Voice?” And Heaven, whate'er betide,
Spreads surely somewhere, on Death's farther side!
This sphere obscure, viewed with dim eyes to match,
This earthly span—gross, brief—wherein we snatch,
Rarely and faintly, glimpses of Times past
Which have been boundless, and of Times to last
Beyond them timelessly; how should such be
All to be seen, all we were made to see?
This flesh fallacious, binding us, indced,
To sense, and yet so largely leaving freed
That we do know things are we cannot know,
And high and higher on Thought's stairways go
Till each last round leads to some sudden steep
Where Reason swims, and falters; or must leap
Headlong, perforce, into the Infinite,
How should we say outside this shines no light
Of lovelier scenes unseen; of lives which spread
Pleasant and unexpected for the Dead,
As our World, opening to the Babe's wide eyes
New from the Womb, and full of birth's surprise?
How should this prove the All, the Last, the First?
Why shall no inner, under, splendours burst
Once—twice—the Veil? Why put a marvel by
Because too rich with hope? Why quite deny
The Heavenly story, lest our doubtful hearts—
Which mark the stars, and take them for bright parts
Of boundless Being, ships of life that sail
In glittering argosies—without a tale,
Without a term—or, of that shoreless Sea,
The scattered silver Islets, drifting free
To destinies unmeasured—see, too, there
By help of dead believing eyes, which were,
The peoples of the stars; and listen, meek,
To those vast voices of the stars, which speak—
If ever they shall speak—in each man's tongue?