The Downing legends : Stories in Rhyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thank God that I may hear agen
The blessid speech of living men!
Thank God that men without a curse
May welcome me, so long perverse,
The slave of sin for many a year,
The haunting fiend of many a mere!”

This utterance of gladness rung
In syllables of English tongue,
But English other than we know,
A mother-speech of yore-ago.

[_]

Long ago.

The tones were sweet. But strangely old
They seemed, as though the funeral mould
Of centuries had gathered round
The words. They had a ghostly sound
That brought to mind the eldritch lay
And requiem of ivies gray,
Lamenting o'er a riven keep
Whose knights are dust, whose bugles sleep.

At first the sense was dimly marked;
But presently, as Downing harked
And fiercely strove to comprehend,
He saw a beam of meaning wend
Its way along the words; and soon
The purport sparkled clear as noon;
Although the wight who understood
Deemed it patter of alien brood;
Nor guessed that thus his fathers spake,
Nor quite believed himself awake.

As one can hear discourse in sleep
That moveth him to curse and weep,
Yet cannot answer, though he sighs

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And grimaces to mouth replies,
So Downing heard his fearful guest
With palsied tongue and heaving breast;
And when the Flying Dutchman bade
Our Yankees follow, they obeyed
And eftersoon set foot upon
That ever-cruising galleon,
The weirdest visit, I opine,
That ever was on turf or brine.