Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
VI.
“But tell me now,” said Ranolf, “by what right
Can they assert that unimagined sphere
Of Causes is not varied, powerful, bright
And beautiful as aught we see or hear
Or any way perceive within the Mind?
‘Nature in her insentient solitude
Must as eternal Darkness be defined,
Eternal Silence.’ Wherefore thus conclude?
The Light and Sound are in ourselves, say you;
The Darkness—Silence then should be so too!
The last should our alternatives alone
Be held—not Nature's—when the first are gone.
Say Sound and Light are hers, but only heard
Or seen by us when certain nerves are stirred.
'Tis hard to think, were all Mankind destroyed,
This glorious World would be a dumb black void!—
But those mysterious Agents that can start
Sensations thus in human consciousness,
Would still, if that had vanished, be no less
Active, impulsive, wonderful, divine;
And might at least convey, somehow impart
To other Souls whom other organs bless,
Say (for their nature none of course can guess)
Lights gorgeous, jewel-tinted, more than shine
For us—for our beholding all too fine;
And melodies of such entrancing tone
As would outravish all to mortal music known!
Can they assert that unimagined sphere
Of Causes is not varied, powerful, bright
And beautiful as aught we see or hear
Or any way perceive within the Mind?
‘Nature in her insentient solitude
Must as eternal Darkness be defined,
Eternal Silence.’ Wherefore thus conclude?
The Light and Sound are in ourselves, say you;
The Darkness—Silence then should be so too!
The last should our alternatives alone
Be held—not Nature's—when the first are gone.
Say Sound and Light are hers, but only heard
Or seen by us when certain nerves are stirred.
'Tis hard to think, were all Mankind destroyed,
This glorious World would be a dumb black void!—
But those mysterious Agents that can start
Sensations thus in human consciousness,
45
Active, impulsive, wonderful, divine;
And might at least convey, somehow impart
To other Souls whom other organs bless,
Say (for their nature none of course can guess)
Lights gorgeous, jewel-tinted, more than shine
For us—for our beholding all too fine;
And melodies of such entrancing tone
As would outravish all to mortal music known!
“Surely no sober reason would pretend
To make the wondrous Universe depend
On our perceptions—there begin and end?
Must Senses like our own exhaust its powers?
May there not be more Senses too than ours?
Does the Sun cease to be a Sun, and die,
Hurled from his throne in yon majestic Sky,
Whene'er the Worm that grooves the flowery fret
Of pulpit-work—or Spider at his net
On some rose-knotted oak-carved canopy
Within a great Cathedral's gloom and grace—
May lose the few faint rays it feels through panes
That serve to bound, e'en while they brighten, all
Its tiny being's scant-accorded space;
Dim rays half quenched in that transparent pall,
Yet rainbow-rich with saintly blazonry
And dusky with a wealth of Angel-stains?”
To make the wondrous Universe depend
On our perceptions—there begin and end?
Must Senses like our own exhaust its powers?
May there not be more Senses too than ours?
Does the Sun cease to be a Sun, and die,
Hurled from his throne in yon majestic Sky,
Whene'er the Worm that grooves the flowery fret
Of pulpit-work—or Spider at his net
On some rose-knotted oak-carved canopy
Within a great Cathedral's gloom and grace—
May lose the few faint rays it feels through panes
That serve to bound, e'en while they brighten, all
Its tiny being's scant-accorded space;
Dim rays half quenched in that transparent pall,
Yet rainbow-rich with saintly blazonry
And dusky with a wealth of Angel-stains?”
| Ranolf and Amohia | |