 | Ernest |  |
The old man ceased: and as speech failed, his tears
Like a soft shower when the gust is stilled,
'Gain filled his furrowed cheeks—genuine tears—
Not such as dotards—but a heart-fresh spring,
Forth from the smitten rock. His listener
Stood fixed in wonder how that mouldering stem
Should beget leaves so green: had hearkened him
Thro' all that fitful outbreak, wilful and wild,
Nor hearkened only, but the truths he heard
He felt them, as their woes had been his own
Stamped on his heart. There is full often a soul
In silence, and the words that feeling speaks
Are quick and penetrative thro' and thro',
That the heart thrilled by them, answers them not
Again—no outward answer, but as true
Kindred, without all question takes them home
To con them there within—so silently
Surrendering itself to sympathy;
Felt but unsaid. Conception hath no voice,
Nor sense—a life-shoot only, sudden and strange
Striking throughout. Thus Linsingen spake not
When that outflush of warmth flooded his soul,
But inly brooded all—how his high birth
Might further his high ends: for it behoved
His fancy such, and his ambition more—
If hope should e'er bear fruit—
Like a soft shower when the gust is stilled,
'Gain filled his furrowed cheeks—genuine tears—
Not such as dotards—but a heart-fresh spring,
Forth from the smitten rock. His listener
Stood fixed in wonder how that mouldering stem
Should beget leaves so green: had hearkened him
Thro' all that fitful outbreak, wilful and wild,
Nor hearkened only, but the truths he heard
He felt them, as their woes had been his own
96
In silence, and the words that feeling speaks
Are quick and penetrative thro' and thro',
That the heart thrilled by them, answers them not
Again—no outward answer, but as true
Kindred, without all question takes them home
To con them there within—so silently
Surrendering itself to sympathy;
Felt but unsaid. Conception hath no voice,
Nor sense—a life-shoot only, sudden and strange
Striking throughout. Thus Linsingen spake not
When that outflush of warmth flooded his soul,
But inly brooded all—how his high birth
Might further his high ends: for it behoved
His fancy such, and his ambition more—
If hope should e'er bear fruit—
| Ernest | |