University of Virginia Library

Book 5: From Underworld Returned. A Day of the Sun

Meseemed I waked, from heavy Dream of Sleep;
In grave-pit, óf dead ages of the Earth;
Where souls deceased have rest.
And viewing thence,
Wars massacres, mirrored ón Worlds living face.
Methought, What bóoteth it, thíther to revert;
And see, Sun, Moon again and Stars' glad light:
But see, in every household, bleeding hearts!
Is not this Peace, of spirits already passed;
Better than Lifes-day, as viewed in Merlin's glass!
Take comfort! seemed then whisper, ín my breast,
That dívine Voice; Not yet, the World is lost.
Whence looking úp, from Underworlds Deep, tó breach
Which gaping dimly appeared, of living Earth,
Above: as fróm long Night and desolate murk;
Such as whelms úpon dwellers in North Parts;
Whose frost-bound Season, sees no Sun in heaven:
I ware was of a freshing breath, like that
Which flows at dayspring, o'er Worlds hills and heaths.
And gleam, with fearful joy, of heavens sweet Light!
Then, ín mine heart, I thought, might I live yet;
To once more, that glad gracious smile behold,
Of Suns uprising, all with roses crowned;
From Gardens of the East: when, unsealed springs,
Anew, Great Fountain of Earths slumbering Life.
Come to myself, meseemed a quarry it was.
Wherein, with these numbed joints and sapless flanks;
And pupils' dull yet ánd uncertain seeing;
O'er ledges and sharp shelves, I upward groped,
Of cliffs rock-face.
Reached, stumbling, to cliff-brink:
Uneasy it seemed me, to climb thence. The Stars
Be fading in their courses. Hour is when
Night-Mother, in sécret Chamber of the East;
Travailleth and díeth, tó once more Day bring forth.
I darkly again see this wide Foster Earth!
Where lo, me awaiteth an arm, like crudded milk.
And, strong to save, an hand, like the snow-flake,
Stretcht forth; which deigns me úplift ón Worlds sod!
The Muse.
Thy Land this is: rouse! Waken Minimus!

Minimus.
Is this not a Dream-Music in mine ears?
Mine Albans goddess-Muse, me succoureth.
It is Her voice!

The Muse.

Minimus.
Meseems none other this, than brow of Earth;
Where yet is little light. A field yet wet
With cold night drops. Stars shining in their courses,
Part veiled with mist; and daisies under-foot.
Or is it mine eyes' dull uncertain seeing;
Returned from ghostly voyage, in Realms beneath.

Oh joy! it is days morn. Those beams are His:
Sun cometh up, the heavens 'gin gather light.
Already a man might know his fellows face.
Slowly He rears his great-maned glorious head.
A moment paused, He seemeth to stretch himself;
And take on Him vast saffron royal robe;
All bordered with bright gold. Now soars he forth,
In heavens steep!
How blissful is this Dawn;
Wherein that kindly rádiance of the Sun;
And Britains Muse divíne, I see again.
She, a goddess stands, in homely weed arrayed;
As upland maidens use on holidays,
Of their sheeps fleece. But hardly might to-day,
The like be found in hundred folds, I trow,
Being of rare golden hue.
Broad golden broach
It fastens; shining with fair pearls beset;
Treasure of restless waves, on Albans shore.
Her camis bright, is broidered with Spring flowers.
Her wimple, súbtle is as gossamer weft:
(She it, goddess, letteth fall, before Her face;
As dreading taint of Great Dead Underworld.)
And beckoned, in the same, the Muses hand;
In that, to further pass, She now Her turned:
I should, in this dim bent, her follow forth.
Well as I might, I sued with tottering pace;
Stiff yet, from Worlds Great Pit, Her sacred steps.
Lap of Her wimple lifting the Winds breath;
Revealed locks, shining as the harvest-sheaf.
Mingled with sunbeams, falling on her nape.
Her twin bent brows, in that She turned a moment,
Her cóuntenance; were líke to that bow, conjoined,
Of Amaltheas horns; set midst the stars:
Her eyes seemed crystal wells; and their glance was
Fúll of undying light and deathless gladness.
Yet in them lurked a glance arcane, not all
Of solace, thát befits the divine state:
(Immortals, may not sigh, for mortals dead,
Though they be sad;) of Virgin Mothers grief.
Methought I, ón Her habit, newly-shed,
Had drops seen pearling, for Her Islands slain;
Ín the Great War, which no more may return.