University of Virginia Library

The desert hath its pyramid; but there
Silence is sovereign. Mighty is his throne,
Towering above the waste, and unassail'd
By clamoring subjects. The invader, there,
Is spell-bound at the threshold, and grows fix'd,
Chain'd by the subtle spirit of the Past;—
The dead of thirty centuries, that stand round,
Each with glazed, staring eye, and gloomy smile,
That mocks the intrusive insolence that dares
Ascend to their dread summits; with fond passion
Dreaming of idle conquest in a realm
To silence consecrate. His sovereign spell,
No less supreme than imperceptible,
Holds Thought bewilder'd,—holds the exploring eye
Baffled in mazes that provoke to search,
While mocking it with phantoms. O'er the plains—
Tracts burning with the brightness of a sun
That rears no idle flowers, and needs no streams
To quench the thirst of nature—still he roves,
Forgetting the fierce passion in his aim;—
Subdued himself; and feeling, at each march,
The hand of Fate upon him, and her sway
Superior to the idle boast of Earth.
With speaking finger press'd upon his lips,
He makes sad progress, and at length lies down;—
Sleeps in the shadow of the pyramid,
And dreaming of the sovereign of the place,
Yields up the sway to Silence,—that dread power
That holds the treasures of the sun in fee,
Dumb ever, speaking nothing of his wealth!

He is the saddest despot, with a realm
Older than that of Time; for he was strong,
And had full sway, and all the attributes
Of most unlimited rule, ere Time was born;
And still shall sway, when, from the womb of years,
The universal consciousness shall spring,
Which shall unseal all barriers of the Past,
Making it Present; of the Future, show
The full development; while the periods link'd
Declare the death of Time. Until that hour,
How vainly would we read the histories
Of empire seal'd by Silence! Find the speech
For that great stony Archimage, that sits
Vacant amid the desert; with no voice
To answer for that dread abundant life
That's now lock'd up in shadow,—deep in vaults,
Whose treasured mysteries there, securely kept,
Lie guarded by our fears. We may pursue
The stony labyrinths, and unwind the clues
To vaults of vacancy; we may unfold
The mummied sleeper from his unguent sheets;
Unwind the mystic scroll, and trace, with toil,
The written characters that seem to speak
From ancient fingers. What the Magian wrote,
May rest beneath our eyes; but will they read?
Or what proportion of the needful speech,
To answer for so dread an empire,
Shall we extort from meagre chronicles
And empty tongues like these? The Past is past,—
Not needful to our present, and denied,
Perchance, with proper eye to our best knowledge,
To our too curious search. 'Tis through our past
Alone that we shall penetrate the maze;
Leaving our mysteries in turn for those
Who, with irreverent homage, most like ours,
Shall vex the silence of our vaults in death.
The sovereign who presides above the waste,
Stands the sure guardian of its mysteries;
Not to be won; persuaded by no arts;
Awed by no power; defrauded by no skill,
That boldly tries the entrance to his cell
With cunning office; and, with confident tongue
Cries out “Eureka,” at each passage won,
To find himself in a new labyrinth,
Which offers no way out. We must become
True subjects of the Silence sovereign here,—
Ourselves subdued to silence—ere we read
The secrets in his keeping. 'Till that hour
That links the great three periods all in one,
We shall but mock ourselves with wisdom's seeming;
And, with the appetite to sway all kingdoms,
Starve Thought above her scrolls.

But, rising then,
A moving thing of wonder and of life,
Bright in the place of the decaying sun,
This sovereign, speechless now and stony-eyed,
Shall find fit language. From his lips shall fall
The spell that seals them now. With finger lift,
He shall point out the avenues,—unfold
The clues that wind throughout the labyrinth;
Give up the key that locks the mystic scroll,
And solve the enigma. His new song shall wake
Ten thousand other voices, from whose strains
Concurrent, with meet harmonies, shall flow
A second birth of light. The truths, thus won,
Shall speak through myriad voices, but no tongues;
The soul shall drink in consciousness, yet ask
No ears for hearing,—need no breathing words,
Such as are utter'd from elaborate lips,
And by the violent spirit. In his sway
The sense shall gather happiest harmonies;
And, such the symmetry of his perfect tones,
Our dreams shall each have life; each look be speech;
Each flight a revelation; not a wing
Shall speed on mission, but beneath a flood
Of certain light as beauty; eyes shall drink
With joy and gratitude, effortless and fond,
Best knowledge from the gleams in other eyes,
Whose language shall be love!. ...
.... A worship, now,
In this secluded forest of the west,—
(In the cold shadows of the pyramid
No longer,—yet in silence full as deep,—
The silence of a new approaching birth,
Not of a long, and long-forgotten death),—
Shall yet betray to me dim shadowings of
His empire, and the mystic spells that make
His kingdom's secret. Hither, when I rove
At twilight, do the glimmerings lead me on;
And, in a wondrous consciousness, most like
The whisper of a spirit to my soul,
I feel the embodied silence as it grows
To form and feature: a great shadowy form,
That beckons me to follow, till I go
Where the thick woods grow round me to a wall,
And the o'erclosing trees become a roof,
And so, my temple! With bow'd head and heart
I worship! I hear voices, and see forms
That bend above me—echo to my vows—
Receive them; hallow; and, though solemnly,
Smile on me, and unfold their cavernous eyes;
So that I read the mystic in their scrolls,
By supernatural light. There, will they show
Their mysteries; for that there the selfish heart
Comes never; and 'tis only faith that wins
The truth from revelation. Silence there
Possess'd and spell'd me;—sole, in sacred groves
Which held his dim traditions, stood to meet,
And welcomed me to walks of death and ages;
Guiding me as a master, glad to teach,
Yet awing like a god. Solemnly, then,
I bow'd my soul within me, and gave up
The lowlier impulse, and received straightway
The holier spirit. Never yet before
Stood I in such a presence! Thought was nigh,
Brooding, unwhispering; Faith, with orbs uplift,
Drank in great raptures; Hope, beside her, spread
Bright pinions, folding and unfolding vans,
Eager for flight; and Love, with hooded eyes,
Look'd downward, trembling with the quick, sweet beat
Of the awaken'd pulses in her heart.
Oh! the dear fulness of that solitude,
And the rich voices of that sacred speech,
That never broke the silence! Oh! the spells!—
The eternal calm of nature; peace of earth;
Sweet whisperings of the void; the spirit-gleams,
That made the twilight harmony, and crept,
Like wings, all listening, through the tufted tops
Of the great trees, and hung in brooding there,
Filling the vacant world with holy things,
To the fond worshipper; with each a sign,
Making the silence fruitful and divine!
The glorious fulness of the place o'ercame
My humbled nature; and I bow'd me down,
Even on the little hillock where I stood,
And, as the light winds rose, and, here and there,
Shook down the dead leaf from the bending trees,
I could but deem that Silence—that sad god—
Detach'd, with gentle hand, these faded gifts,
In token of his melancholy sway!