SCENE II.
An open plain in the nave.
PILGRIM.
We have been stepping fast, and must have come
A league upon our way.
SHEPHERD BOY.
'Tis difficult,
I've noticed, to judge here of distances.
What seem'd remote but now being often found
At hand when least expected; what seem'd near
In turn far off; such mystery there is
In all that to this Minster appertains.
PILGRIM.
I have observed it too; and had ascribed it
To some rare trick of fancy. But, behold,
The curtain of the mist is lifting up
Its heavy folds, and shows the massive pillars
Clear to their base; the windows, or what may
To windows correspond, begin to cast
Through their diminish'd cloudy drapery
A rainbow tint; and a suffusèd purple
Is gathering overhead; while far away
Yon screen its range of crested pinnacles
Shows like an alabaster glacier
Betwixt two mountains piled!
[Music.
Ah! what a strain
Of harmony was there! Never before
Heard I such music. Hark! it swells again
And rains down like a shower.
SHEPHERD BOY.
There are strange harps,
Pendent at intervals by golden threads
Along the nave, whence spring these gracious sounds,
As it would seem, spontaneous. Come this way,
And I will show thee one. Lo! where it hangs;
Would it were near enough for thee to touch!
PILGRIM.
O beauteous Instrument! O Harp of eld!
What symmetry it hath, resembling those
Of th' ancient Druids! with a hoary moss
Of silver sprouting on its delicate frame!
But for the present mute!
SHEPHERD BOY.
It will begin
To sound again, if we but wait. I see
Already a vibration in the chords.
[It sounds, gradually increasing in depth and variety.
PILGRIM.
O miracle of tones!
O most divine capacity
In instrument so slight and delicate!
Or is it rather that the music flows
Not from the chords themselves, but from the stir
Which by some deep affinity they work
In the surrounding natural influences?
It must be so. For now it sounds afar,
Now near, now all around, in height and depth
Ascending and descending through the scales
Of such a multitudinous harmony,
As though within itself it did embrace
All the wide compass of creation's tones.
Now 'tis the tinkling of a shower—and now
The whistling wind—anon the solemn roll
Of mountain waves, changing by slow degrees
To muttering thunder. Oh, I could stay and listen
For ever to the ever-varying strain,
So jubilant awhile; and then so sad,
Enough to melt the very soul away
With its deep hidden pathos!
SHEPHERD BOY.
I have heard say,
The tones of jubilation are the praise
Which Nature pays her Lord; the sad her moans
For her own fall in Adam; mix'd with yearnings
For the great Day of Restitution,
When all things shall in Christ be made anew.
But see the spot where dwells the holy Hermit
I told thee of!
PILGRIM.
I see it:—a long range
Of curious cells scoop'd in the solid rock,
With immemorial ivy over-brow'd;
In front a sloping sward, on which appears
A broken altar of th' old Pagan time,
If right I guess.
SHEPHERD BOY.
Here, then, I leave thee, Pilgrim;
My task complete: God's blessing rest on thee!
[Exit.
