University of Virginia Library

At midday or at midnight it is dim
Under the Dome; but the high altar lights
Mark the high hours, and one forgets the sun.
For never could in any sunshine sweep
Such floods of music, overmastering
The vast and glooming spaces, sad and strong
As Love in strife with Death. The full choir swells
And falls, in long-drawn passionate harmony,
And all the great Dome seems as built and borne
On music only, save where gloriously
Burns the high altar in its hundred lights
Dazzling and tall, and over all of them
Rises the Crucifix, and from its height
Christ with the Crown of Thorns looks down and reigns.
I know not whether it was night or day,
Being always twilight there;—the music pealed;
Row above row the altar tapers burned
Up to the feet of Christ;—the incense rose
In dreamy clouds, and higher rose the chaunts,
As if they sang for One, and One alone,
He hearkening in His passion unto them.
O Christ! they chaunted, conquer Death for us!
Remember us as we remember Thee;
We are Thine, and Thou art ours for evermore!
And in the midst, Christ crucified, adored,
Uplifted on the music and the lights,
Seemed not to suffer, only to endure
In silent rapture of unshrinking calm.
The hour is come, the Son is glorified,
And Thou, O God, art glorified in Him!
Sang the sweet voices in a solemn strain.
And still the heart and eyes drew to the One
Set for a sign there betwixt earth and heaven,
And felt it was not hard to watch with Him.

I know not how the passionate hours went by;
But they were ending, and the High Mass done:
And those who filled the great cathedral floor,
Seeming at home in the warm shadowy space,
Began to pour away; the chaunts went low
And sorrowing, and single voices wailed
As in farewell; and one by one the lights
Extinguished on the altar, left the Dome
In darkness, and the last note sank away.
The footfalls of the multitude grew faint
Toward the far doors, and none turned back to look,
Departing to the outer life and air.
The dim and empty height grew cold and grey;
The smoke from dying tapers curled around
The dying Christ, and He was left alone
Upon His Cross, without a worshipper.
And now indeed the Passion of His soul
Began to enter into me, and I
Was loth to leave Him too;—the hour of light
And music was for Him and us; but all
The hours of silence and of darkness were
For Him alone; and while we slept or went,
Upon the Cross He suffered evermore.
So some long time it seemed I watched with Him,
Under the drooping brows and stiffening limbs;
And then my heart was weary too, and I
Left Him, and He remains there all alone.

I found myself abroad in the fresh dark;
The dawn was not yet broken;—where I was
I knew not, but I walked upon my way
Swiftly and surely, neither wondering
Why I was there, nor thinking where I went.
It may have been a short road or a long,
Before I heard a twittering from the roofs,
And saw the faint low light round all the sky,—
For it was Midsummer Day. Then I perceived
The open cornfields either hand of me;
And, far away, beheld the shadowy plain
Before me break into a billowy crest
Of high and higher hills; and still beyond,
The great veiled altar steps, height above height,
Thrilled me with their grey glimpses; but as yet
The darkness and the mists were over them.

Then knew I, I was walking all alone
Through the Garden of the Earth: and as I went
Familiar things grew clear about my path.
The swinging garlands of the happy vines
From mulberry tree to mulberry; the upspring
Of the maize stems; the meadows rather blue
Than green, for flowers; the frequent villages
Awaking, with their gilded metal signs,
And stir of swallows, and the trailing rose
Of the carnations in their balconies.

All shapes grew plainer. Now upon my right,
I saw the Mountain of the Sanctuary,
Still sleeping, white; and farther yet the hills,
Clear, separate, perfect each from base to crown,
Each with its immemorial name and tale,
Which rise so gently from the flowery plain,
That one may stand knee-deep in grass below,
And lay one's hand upon the soft green swell,
And say, This is the first step of the stair
That reaches up to Heaven. And far in front
Stretched the dark line of the sublimer range
From farthest heaven to heaven; and still beyond,
Chain above chain the awful Alpine heights
Began to form themselves in misty air.
Peak after peak stood out in its own place,
Grey from the purple. In the very midst,
Far over all, hung high in upper blue,
Above the myriad mighty mountain-tops,
A vision that might be the Throne of God
Brake forth unfolding, unapproachable,
Pale, shadowy, peerless; and I bowed my head,
For I knew the Queen of Heaven.

The light spread fast,
The sky was growing radiant. Now drew nigh
The hour supreme of all the earth, that brings
Once every day the marriage of the Sun
With Monte Rosa; and of all the year
This was the day supreme. The earth lay still
And waited in a deep and dewy calm:
The bloom of all the year was at its full.

The glorious mountain stands white as a bride,
Alone, above. The lesser mountain lights
Stand for a hundred miles from east to west
Unkindled yet. Unnumbered shimmering ways,
Melting from moonlight into ashen grey,
Mark the mysterious kingdom of the snow;
The upper world, with all its territories,
Stretches itself in revelation clear
At this pale hour. Suddenly quivers up
A flame in the East. The white side thrills and heaves
In a wave of gold, as if a chord had struck
Of a vast music, and we scarce can tell
If we see or hear, so fast the glory rolls
In the great rush of the angel of the light.
Whiter and whiter shine th' immortal fronts
Before the coming touch, till all at once
The colour and the radiance break on them,
And lift them into unapproachèd heaven,
Lying aloft there in their crimson dream;
While sweeping giant shadows to the West
In violet darkness go before the fire.

Slowly it comes—it comes! The beacon-fires
Draw towards the feet of the Mount marvellous,
A change begins to flutter over her.
The Flower of the World unfolded waits to know
The mightier Monarch, and the Master's rod
Omnipotent, and all her pride grows pale.
Through all the silvery spaces in the highest,
Of the supreme and solitary shape,
A murmurous movement like a child's asleep
Rises and falls, until our own hearts beat.
Hush now! she stirs,—she has felt the wings afar
Sweep through the sapphire silence of the skies:
The awfulness of a great change comes close.
And now one wan swift shudder visibly
Runs over her, and leaves her still more white.
There is a moment that we dare not see.
Then we look up, and lo! the glory in heaven!
One reddening wave of utter loveliness
Drowns all her pearly light in overflow;
And glowing through the still suspended depths,
The lamp of roses, the celestial face
Seems lighted from the passionate heart within;
Till all th' intense blue of the heavens beyond
Seems to burn from her, set a sovereign there,
With the resurrection kiss upon her brow.
O Rose of God, fade not, nor float away!
Crowned by thy conqueror, rule and reign the lands
That blossom from the rivers of thy breast!

The sun is in heaven, the larks are in the air.
This was a battlefield of liberty
Not long ago; the very earth I tread
Seems to send back glad echoes to my feet.
Beside the fountain of Saint Ambrose sat
A child of three years old with naked limbs,
And blue eyes sweet and fearless, and bright hair
And cheeks,—some mother's perfect piece of joy.
This was the first face I had met that morn:
It laughed good-morrow to me with a kiss.
Leaving the main road I began to ascend
A circuit to the right. Past gate and shrine,
A broad and stony road, the Pilgrim's Way,
Wound upward, with a chapel at each turn.
The banks were delicate with harebell stems
Taller than the tall grass, and wild deep pinks;
The chestnut trees threw shadows on the moss.
As I gained higher, the unfolding hills
Opened themselves beneath me, dale and swell
Of smoothest sward for many a heaving mile,
With many a green track leading to the brow,
Then dropping downward to some hollow unknown.
—Fain would I follow, and find the other side,
But my way held me to it. Overhead
In front of me the hillside falcons wheeled;
And as the slope grew steeper, down below
Sheer from the wall the meadows fell away
In one long roll of herbage deep and damp,
Golden with globe-flower and marsh-marigold
I passed the Station of Calvary, nor sighed;
And quickly mounting through the morning air,
Stood at the steps of the Sanctuary itself,
The centre of the little huddled pile,
That on the summit of a thousand feet
In ancient rock and masonry is set
Together, like one many-cornered stone.
Hostel and street and walls were all awake
On the Mount of the Madonna; fresh and clear
The new day shone upon the gilded spires
And the white Convent. Entering into shade
Of the low inn, I found a spacious room
Set ready for me, cool and brown and dim.
There I sat down,—and as one waited for,
They put their best before me: fresh baked loaves,
Whereon to break my fast, new milk and eggs,
White mountain cheese, and fruit, and tender meat
In crisp and yellow fillets, parsley strewn:
Closed by a cup of cool and purple wine
From the hill's foot. The walls were bare and rough,
And the low windows looked into the street
In shadow; but the farther end was lit
Towards a rude loggia looking to the sky.
And through the window opening to the ground
A sunbeam stole;—I rose and followed it
Out to a little terrace and low wall;
There leaned and looked—but looked and saw no more.
For on my knees I sank, and hid my eyes
In a rain of tears, so suddenly it brake,
A vision like to Moses' ere he died;
For,—rested in mid air, and all the earth
A thousand feet below me,—lay the land,
—The tears rise now when I remember it,—
The land lay all below me far away;
The land that all men have desired and dreamed,
The land that ever ravished cannot fade,
The land that ever trampled cannot die,
The land that draws a thousand miles away,
Unerring through the awful mountain gates,
Unknown the unknown spoilers on their march,—
The Plains of Promise to the pilgrim's feet,
Stretching for ever in level of living green,
Lost low down in the glory of the light.
While silver bands unrolling glittered out
In league-long stretches, here and there, away,
Historic rivers of the sacred soil.
And the first lake was silver, and the next
Opal between low hills, and on the third
The light of heaven lay blue, and farther yet
Lake beyond lake in purest azure lay
Beneath the morning mountains. On the verge
Of the horizon, rather felt than seen,
Hovered and brooded in a radiant haze
Many a musical and ancient name.

There on the utmost East a light film lies,
Wavering and grey, with broken gleams of white.
There is it, but I know not if I see,
My eyes strain to it, my blood thrills to it,
All the plain reaches to it gloriously,
The great old City of the Emperors.
And as I gazed, and strove to find it clear,
The vision of it seemed to rise on me
And overshadow, and I stood within
The vast and vaulted space, the golden choir
Gleaming amid the gloom, the rainbow-flood
Of splendour smiting from the farther side,
And drowning all between in one full flow.
A mighty floor of shadow and stateliness,
Ready for sweeping in of some high pomp
In movement measured by the music's march;
The iron crown upon a monarch's brow
Won from the wars, or marriage of a queen.
Thousands still pressing onwards, and still room,
Crimson and gold and shining white array
Mingling from pillar to pillar;—and at once,
Here as I dream, what is it suddenly
Rings with a silver clangour that stirs the blood?
A peal of coronation!—such a sound
As from the highest tower of any town
Floats far and wide to tell triumphant news.
Can the bells sound so fifty miles away?
Or is it there, or here, or out of heaven,
The faint, far, glorious sound? Howe'er it be,
I still was standing on the Holy Mount,
Quiet above the noises of the world,
And still was gazing on the peaceful plain,
Lovelier than the lost Eden, yet still mine.
And all the stillness of the morning stole
Into my spirit; and the cloudless light
And the unspeakable sweet strength of the air
Breathed into me, and I felt calm and glad.

Needs must I leave the hospitable house:
The day was but begun;—who knows how far
One has to travel ere the day be done?
All the poor people of the little place
Thronged at the doors to see a stranger pass;
And many of them sad and over-aged,
Sick, dull, disfigured, in the midst of all
The glory round them;—why should these things be?
But then it grieved me not,—I only knew
They asked of me, with hands and voice and eyes,
As of one going, happier than themselves.
And what I had of money, among them all,
All showering ‘God be with you’ with one voice,
I gave away, and saw their eyes grow glad,
And hardly noted I had nothing left
Myself;—but I was light of heart that morn,
And free, and set forth on my way once more,
As one who had no more need of anything
Silver could buy, nor would want food again.

Under the very sanctuary I passed,
The way being built and hollowed in the rock;
And in the vaulted roof a stone is set,
Most ancient, that from immemorial times
Has here been guarded on the Sacred Mount,
Engraved with letters of an unknown tongue;
And none of all the wise and learned men
Who from all lands have hither, pilgrims, come,
Can read the letters or can tell the tongue,
Or guess its history or its intent.

Issuing upon the other side, the way
Was hot already, for the sun was high:
Still there were hours to spare before the noon.
Midsummer Day is long: if God should give
But one day in our lives for happiness,
Surely it would be kind to choose that day.

Out of the white rock leaned and brushed my hand
A flower of velvet, rich and dark and strange.
Lightly I plucked the light green tender stalk,
And took the orchis, larger than the wont
Of the bee-orchis, like the queen of them,
A mystic message marking in its flesh
Letters more rare than on the graven stone,
Not to be spelled by every careless eye.
For many flowers are lettered curiously,
And few have read them; or, if they have read,
Fewer have told their secrets;—and to some
Such reading is not needed, being themselves
One with the flowers in life more clear than speech,
Knowing them, and are known to them afar,
And having one growth with them underground.
And such a life and such a gift have I,
Which often in dark hours, in prison and pain,
Hath brought me subtle comfort, such as springs
In draughts of water freshly drawn from earth,
And such as steals down moonbeams winter-white,
Or is wafted by the wandering thistle-down
Out of the wild waste places far away.
But nought of secret or of spiritual aid
Needed I then, beneath the open skies
And open sun, for on this fair free day
All things were friendly to me,—even fate.

A few steps farther, and I came upon
A grassy promontory, hitherside
The Mount; for now the plain behind me lay,
And hidden by the walls: another view
Lay full before me, opening up between
The hills, to meet the mountains and the lakes.
Entranced I paused, forgetful of the way,
For far beneath and far away, enclosed
In a dark frame of over-arching woods,
Down a long vista of the purple hills,
Lay the blue waters with a sacred name
Beyond them, waters never seen before,
As still as heaven, and deeper in their blue.
And all around and all beyond arose
The wilderness of mountains, with the hues
Of morning on them, and the morning clouds
Moving in softest shadows over them.

I needed not to rest, yet could not pass
The picture magically fair and still;
So down I lay upon the thick warm grass,
Fragrant and full of many-coloured bloom,—
Milk-wort and orchis, clover, arnica,
Burnet and sage, daisy and astragale,
Bright lady's-fingers, and the meadow rue,
Scabious, and iris with the scarlet seed;
And over them the joyous little moths,
Red, blue, and yellow, hung in company.
There was no other stir in the air,—I lay
And watched the perfect sapphire shine in sight,
Through the many miles of violet-shadowed air,
Till half I dreamed, and half I slept, o'erfilled
With loveliness that left not one desire.

But something touched me and I started up,
As one who has lost time. The way led now
At the same level, round the outer side
Of the next mountain, which at once arose
A clear two thousand feet above the first:
—The Mountain of Three Crosses, somewhat steep,
And on one side precipitous:—the brow
Is crowned with the Three Crosses, all of iron,
The largest in the midst. There were they found
These many hundred years ago, deep down
Below the earth, buried by unknown hands,
And by a vision to a Saint revealed;
But whence they came, and how, and at what time,
Remains a mystery, like the mural stone.
And from the second summit leads a path
To another mountain yet, the Field of Flowers,
The third one, and the highest of the range;
Four thousand feet in height, a long fair ridge,
With soft and even slope on either side,
All green, all smooth, a perfect league of space.
For in the early ages, a great Saint,
The same whose name is all about the land,
Made war, and hither drove the Arian host,
And massacred them most religiously
Down to the last. This blood of heretics,
Spilt on the open hillside, left no voice
Of glory, but all humbly reconciled
With earth and dews and slow activities
Kept no more memory of men and strife.
But now the mountain is alive again
With the quick-springing armies of the soil,
And who can reach it (for the way is long)
In April, finds the distant sheets of snow
Drawn nearer change into the shining beds
Of the narcissus, and unwillingly
Treads down a hundred stars at every step;
And all the round of the year the mountain keeps
Its constant crown of flowers, from month to month
Flushing into a warmer wealth of bloom.

Not over, but around the mountain flank
My way was—a mere track upon the turf—
Turf as of sheepwalks, delicate and warm,
And all embedded, like the twisted hairs
In a bird's nest, with myriad tiny flowers
O hills! which but to feel one's feet upon
Is worship; where for every least footfall
Ten columns of campanulas bow down!
It was an air to bathe in; every breeze
Streaming around me in a buoyant wave,
And flowing in full joy through every vein;
And in this radiant morning, this sweet air,
The very earth I trod on seemed more rich
In mere content than any paradise.
Low wild rose-bushes straggled here and there
With open crimson flowers; small downy tufts
Of the pink everlastings made a bed
Silkier and softer even than the sward,
With pillows of wild thyme; the slope was strewn
With coloured stars, gentian and centaury;
The wild laburnum copses to the left
Shaded away to meet the tangled heights,
And in their thickets the wild peony glowed.
Here it was joy to be alive and move;
For such a quickness and a springing strength
The glorious freshness lent to heart and limb,
All thought of rest lay far away behind,
And I would so be going evermore,
Fearless and fleet, free and yet following,
As the swallow follows the spring across the sea.

At times the slope was mossy soft and damp,
With shade of chestnuts scattered; under them
The beds of the May lilies still lay green,
But their white music gone. Round every stem
The green shoots clustered, and about them all
Green fairy gardens of the columbine,
And the tall Seal of Solomon bent down.
And the white orchis sprang up everywhere
Single above the moss, and all the flower
Of grasses trembled in a silver spray
Glistening through the green shadows; wild and white
Gleamed the large lamia with the purple spots;
Hither and thither glanced the humming bees.
All things said, Stay, and keep the perfect hour;
Once it is thine, it may not come again:—
Yet something unknown, unuttered, took me on.

Short seemed the miles; at every turn sailed in
New mounts of marvel on the walls of heaven.
One I remember a few miles from here,
Perfect and clear in shape, from every point
It met me, in a steep and even slope
All round, and to the summit grassy smooth
With such grey-headed awful majesty
That as I gazed upon it ever rose
The thought of a mysterious altar spread
High under heaven, and immemorial rites.
And here, I said, have my forefathers come,
Druids and Seers, and worshipped; for they knew
The spirits of the mountains in their forms,
And over all the world the second sight
Can note the sacred river, grove, or hill;
And by the stirring of my blood I knew
This was an olden mountain of my race,
And drew me to it; though I could not learn
Its name, yet I had seen it in the North,
And in the West before. Now, far away,
Eastward, where, inaccessible, the crags
Beyond a sea of mountains catch the light,
I saw the giant pair of eagles rise,
Whose shadows, like the shadows of a storm,
Sweep the long lake in one o'erdarkening rush
To mark the hour, then vanish till the next.
These I saw plunge into their path of light,
Till the great heights opposing darkened them.

I turned the mountain shoulder, heaving down
In long soft swells to meet the road again:
To the last mound I came, and waited there.
All round lay old white quarries, whence the town
Before me had been hewn; among the heaps
Of broken stone the giant mulleins sprang.
Before me swam the liquid field of light,
The open lake that changes every hour
With all the living colours of morn and eve;
And farther out five lakes flashed far and near,
Each a low sapphire set in golden round,
Spreading out sparkles under all the sky.
A light air moved through the delicious heat,
And softly stirred the hair about my neck;
And looking downwards somewhat languidly,
I for the first time took note of myself,
And that I wore a summer gown of white,
Open and light:—and a vague wonder passed
Across me how I came there, and wherefore
I went: but on, without much pause or thought,
I moved again, descending to the road.

Now was the sun both high and hot in heaven,
And lizards darted all about the stones
Of the low wall on either hand, o'erspread
As with a curtain of the finest lace,
By countless delicate crimson-threaded stars
Of the white sandwort, and the waxlike blush
Of stonecrop all in flower, and interwoven
With all the starry and suspended bloom
Of saxifrage and starwort. As I neared
The town, a great black viper suddenly
Glided across the whole breadth of the road,
And plunged into the flowery crevices;
A fearful power and swiftness in the coils
That quivered into darkness. The first house
I passed had set from garden-gate to door
An avenue of lilies white and tall,
Full-blown, and thick together. Next I passed
Under high walls all clothed and waving down
With the valerian's deep red tapestry,
Glorious and crimson as if hung to greet
A conqueror's entry. The small town was gay
With children and with noise of crowing fowls;
A gilded crown of laurel for a sign
Swung from the inn; and opposite, the wall
Was hollowed to a fountain, overhung
With maidenhair; many rude frescoes stood
Over the gateways looking on the street.

I came down to the corner of the lake,
Where grassy shore and shallow water meet;
And for some time the way wound by low creeks
And brimming pools, where waterlilies lay
Large and wide open, filled with frosted dew.
The channels of the water-reeds were filled,
Through wandering levels of mysterious miles,
With hovering clouds of azure dragon-flies,
And greater brown ones glancing in swift pairs
Above the dazzling waters.

Thence I came
Out all among the cornfields and the vines.
The exquisite silver bloom of the wheat ears
Above the myriad sea-blue of the stalks,
Grown quick and fresh in slender stateliness,
Told of no thwarting of the wind or rain.
Love in a mist and Venus' looking-glass
Made gardens in the forest of the corn,
In dazzling masses. As the day drew on
All the more great and distant mountain heights
Drew like a heavenly amphitheatre
Nearer and clearer; round the crystal sky,
Fading in every hue of hyacinth
From deepest purple to the palest rose.

Above the flowery bushes hovered clouds
Of butterflies just born, alive in the heat;
Wherever glanced a tiny watercourse,
Under the chestnut or acacia leaves,
Out they flew as I passed, and fluttered on
Startling and silent, straight before my feet,
In gorgeous pairs with peacock wings immense,
Or a strange splendour of living marigolds;
Yet in their winged glory, these bright things,
With but one day to live, and that for love,
In a mysterious salutation bowed,
—This is thy day, not ours. First one, and then
Another took up the perpetual chain
Of spangled dance that quivered down the road,
A flying line of fairy chamberlains,
Who pointed to some magic palace doors.

The open country narrowed by degrees
Into a closed and grassy vale, between
Wild slopes and cliffs, all of whose sides were clothed
With flower and leaf in tangle, ivory heads
Of privet, and tall orange lilies, mixed
With traveller's joy, and all the lesser bloom
Of pink and blue that carpeted the sward;
The little waterfalls leaped down the rocks
At every turn. On a smooth open space
I came upon a rosebush standing wild
And all alone; as tall and thick it stood
As the white thornbush of a hundred years
Where sings the nightingale. As I approached,
I saw that it was wreathed from head to foot
With the wild roses all in one full bloom
Hastened together; every sweet rose smiled
Upon me as I came, all open wide
As if they waited for me, and just then
A sudden breeze as I passed under them
Shook down a shower of petals over me,
And I was covered by the lovely rain
All in a moment, soft on hands and face.

There was no cloud; the full heat of the sun
Poured down upon me, but oppressed me not,
Nor I did weary with the length of way.
The amethystine mountains seemed to smile
Out of immeasurable heights of calm,
And all things waited for a trumpet burst
Of triumph. Now the little streams began
To gather into one, and slowly poured
Into a peaceful chain of narrow lakes;
And down their bed the water-ousel flew
From stone to stone beside me, fearing not.

A little shallow lake without a bank,
Brimming the meadows either side of it,
All in one sheet of purple flower and flag,
But no firm footing; all around it lay
The beds of myosotis, heavenly blue;
Myriads and myriads of the tenderest flowers
Wreathen in islands from the darker blue.
And as I passed they seemed to call to me
Half wistfully, ‘Thou art going, but we stay;’
And by their clear innumerable eyes
Withholding me again a moment more—
‘Can life be sweeter anywhere than ours?
Set here between soft water and soft sky
In the soft air; we measure not our joy
By any pain or any hardness known;
Nor ever will one cold wind blow on us;
It is always summer where we are born and die.’
But swiftly on I passed, while still they gazed:
‘Forget-me-not! Forget-me-not!’ they cried
In a million small sweet voices, and their cry
Entered into my heart.

Again I came
Into the open country, out among
The long lines of the mulberries and maize.
And now at full the fervour of the day
Began to stir the whole wide earth and heaven;
The mountain peaks high up in shimmering heat
Like breasts of goddesses began to heave
Rosy amid the palpitating air;
And all the world began to be alive
With a strange throb and tumult in my ears.
On the white road the chicory blue burned faint,
Strewn there like stars, and each star seemed a face
With dumb impatient passion beckoning me,
Come, come, make haste!—I followed where they led.
There were no shadows: all the burning sun
Poured down upon me, but I slackened not
My pace, untired: the countless cicala
In every leaf, above, below, around,
Had but one note, Be quick, be quick, be quick!
The pink glad garlands of convolvulus
Ran down before me like the rose-leaves strewn
For a bride's steps, opening as fast and fleet
As I passed over them, and by their bells
I knew that it was on the stroke of noon.