Canto the Fifth. A Vision.
1. Ranolf leaves for the sea-side. 2. Comes to a native village. 3. Remorse
at his former fear of ‘the World.’ 4. Noon-stillness.
5. The vision. 6. His amazement.
I.
Depart then, Ranolf! leave to Grief and Time
The task to cleave out, in some other clime
Less fraught with frenzied thoughts, their ends sublime!
Even Sorrow could not here its fruits mature—
Not here—nor now; for Change and Time, be sure,
Are needed to assist it in its Art
Of Soul-Tuition. This by theory too,
Though spurning now the power of both, he knew;
And felt his only course was to depart.
The land seemed loathsome to his laden heart;
Sick—sick he was; aweary of the skies!
The Mountains seemed to look him in the face—
Cold—calm and sullen, conscious of his woe;
Each shrub and tree that once had charmed him so,
Turned wormwood with the thoughts it bade him trace:
And every River rolled before his eyes,
A Mara-flood of bitterest memories.
When the first shock of Amo's death was o'er,
And he could rouse himself to act once more,
With but one lad his light effects to bear,
He started for some Northwest harbour where
Vessels that haunt these latitudes repair.
A Ship he sought; but cared not whence it came
Or whither bound: to him it was the same
So that away, far distant, he were borne:
All lands seemed now of all attractions shorn!
Perhaps, as most deserted and forlorn,
The barren, dreary, ever-restless Sea,
Would to his desolate Soul most soothing be.
His road was nearly that which Amo chose,
In search self-ruinous of ruthless foes.
Not that he sought with conscious aim the more
To take that path because 'twas hers before:
His unresigning anguish could not crave
To see, or seek for solace at her grave;
Herself—herself! the vain demand—nought less—
His greedy grief insatiable would press;
Not any maddening circumstance or scene
To rouse remembrances of what had been—
Too prompt already, manifold and keen!
Yet haply he was guided on the whole,
By that attraction of his secret soul;
A bias, though unconsciously obeyed,
Towards even the shadow of that loved one's shade—
Towards any place her sweetest presence still
With haunting fondness sadly seemed to fill.
When near the coast, they told him of a Ship
Whose Master would ere long his anchor trip
For three years' chase of his gigantic game,
Run down o'er boundless Ocean hunting-grounds
With hardy boats'-crews for his well-trained hounds—
In that most venturous, gravest, grandest Sport
Which makes all others seem contracted—tame!
His Ship was now with ample produce stored,
Wood—water—fresh provisions all on board;
And he was just about to leave the Port,
Cutting his boisterous crew's rude revels short.
II.
Sad, weary, listless, and alone—
For nought companionship had cheered—
'Twas Ranolf's habit through the day
To take his solitary way,
Letting Te Manu choose his own.
Before him now the Port appeared.
There—with dim spire of masts and shrouds,
And yards across like streaky clouds,—
The Ship he sought at anchor lay.
Crowning a cliff that overstooped
The sea—whence trees o'erhanging drooped,
The village stood the Wanderer neared.
With rows of posts, unequal, high,
That level crest against the sky
Was bristling; and within them grouped,
Thick thatch-roofs nestled peacefully.
Woeworn and weary, then he went
Thoughtfully up the steep ascent;
And passed the log, rough-hewn and laid
For bridge across the empty fosse;
And paused before the opening made
For entrance in the palisade.
He looked around; upon the spot
He saw no living being stirred:
Fast-closed was every silent cot.
The sun was shining, high and hot—
A lingering summer afternoon;
Faint insects hummed a drowsy tune
At times—no other sound was heard.
III.
In doubt what course he should pursue,
On sad and gloomy thoughts intent,
With folded arms and head downbent
Against an entrance post he leant.
Not far below, there hung in view
That immemorial red-blue gleam
Of world-embracing Ocean-fame—
The flag that long shall float supreme
(Its double-cross still side by side
With that of ‘Stars and Stripes’ allied)
Let all of English blood and name
Be to each other staunch and true!
Ah, with what sense of proud delight,
So long unseen, a short time back
That flag had flashed upon his sight!
But now it bade his memory track
The train of evils that had come
Out of that longing for his home.
Well might his heart so busied, feed
On bitter anguish; well might bleed
Remembering why he shunned to share
That home with her! He could not bear
Nor blink the truth, the cause, to-day—
Contemptible and coward care
Of what ‘the World’ might think or say—
That blatant—brainless—soulless World!
Ah with what scorn he would have hurled
Such pitiful respect away
Had one more chance been given to prove
How much he prized that priceless love!
O but one chance—giv'n then and there
The ‘World’ and all its slaves to dare!
With measureless defiance brave
Its worthless worst rebukes and save
A heart, so simply grand beside
Its poor conventions, paltry pride,
Refined frivolities—and cant,
The natural course—or worse—the want
Of real emotions, framed to hide!—
Aye! but too late that wisdom came;
The shame too late of that mean shame;
Remorse and withering self-disdain,
Too late and impotent and vain!
There was nought left him but to rave
With voiceless, useless, inward pain.
His trust in higher things was gone—
His ‘Power Divine’—his ‘God of good,’
What faith in Him could he retain!
It seemed to his despairing mood,
Faith could not, should not, live alone
When Hope and happiness had flown!
IV.
On such distressful thoughts intent,
Against that entrance-post he leant.
Forlorn alike to eye and ear
Seemed time and place and atmosphere!
With wearying, bright unchanging glow
The calm, regardless sunbeams shone;
With wearying faintly-changeful flow
The insects' tune went murmuring on.
No sign of living thing beside;
Not even a dog's out-wearied howl;—
Yes—once his listless eye espied
Scarce noting it, a sleepy fowl
Ruffling its feathers in the dust;
Companionless—the moping bird,
Stalking and pecking leisurely
Beneath a cottage wall, went by;
No longer were its mutterings heard.
Yes—once a rat, in open day
Stole forth, and crossed at easy pace
The silent solitary place;
Stopped often, showing no distrust
Nor any haste to slink away.
It too had vanished. Still fast-shut,
In sunshine stood each silent hut:
And dark, distinct, beside it lay
Its shadow still—no cloudlet slow
Passing to make it come or go—
Unfading—seeming changeless too
As if it neither moved nor grew,
That lingering, loitering afternoon.
Then even the murmuring, dreamy tune,
That now would swell and now subside,
Awhile in utter silence died.
V.
Fair Reader! have you ever been
Sauntering in meditative mood,
In some sequestered sunny scene,
Some perfect solitude serene,
Where tenantless a building stood—
Old ruined Castle, if you will—
Neglected Hall of later days,
Though fit for habitation still,
Long empty;—any place almost
Where human beings once have dwelt
And ceased to dwell;—but if your gaze,
On such deserted Mansion lone
Were fixed awhile, will you not own
How strong a fancy you have felt
That some still human visage—ghost
Or not—through one blank window less
Observed—or loophole's high recess—
With eyes in vague abstraction lost,
Not marking minding you at all—
Was looking out?—Did you not feel
As if you saw or soon would see
A lonely Figure, silently,
With features haply undiscerned
Because its back towards you was turned,
Across some empty courtyard steal—
Or glide beneath some ruined wall?—
As Ranolf leant there so distrest,
Once with a writhe of ill-represt
Impatient anguish at the tide
Of keen regrets which o'er his breast—
Remorseful, merciless, upheld
By that full moon of memory, swelled—
As wearily his head he raised,
His glance unconscious chanced to rest
Upon a distant cot—whose side
Of close-packed wisps of bulrush dried,
Stood half in brightness—half in gloom;
The sunbeam's glow still bright below—
Its upper part in clear deep shade
Beneath some palm-trees' tufts of bloom,
With a square opening in it made
For light—a window though unglazed.
Then suddenly he seemed aware
A wan pale face—how wan and fair,
Was in the square of blackness there;
With eyes unmoving—eyes all light—
So preternaturally bright—
Haggardly beautiful!—Amazed,
His very heart turned sick and faint;
Almost he could have fallen with fear—
That Spirit from the Dead—so near!—
He rallied quickly; for he knew
How fancy can send back again,
Some image from the heated brain,
And on the retina repaint
Such apparitions, till they seem
External, actual, and no dream.
He passed his hand across his eyes;
Sprang forward; shook himself to free
His fancy from such phantasies,
His brain from this delusion. There,
Framed in the blackness of that square,
Still showed the visage, haggard, fair,
And would not vanish into air!—
And then it changed before his sight;
A sudden gleam of wild delight
Illumed it; the next moment checked,
As from the vision seemed to come
A shriek that died off in a moan—
Painful, unnatural—as the tone
Wrung from the wretched deaf and dumb
Whom sudden pangs of passion stir.
Then to the hut—for nought he recked—
“What could it be?” he thought, “but her!”
He would have rushed; but yet once more
Those earnest gestures—looks—deter;
So vehemently they implore,
So unmistakably entreat
Silence—and that he should not greet—
Heed—recognize the vision then.
For the same moment might be seen
Behind him, close upon the fence,
What stifled as it rose that keen
Great cry of joy or pain intense;—
The inmates of the village—men
And women and a merry crowd
Of children; all with laughter loud
Returning from the plot where they
Within the woods not far away
Had been at pleasant work all day.
VI.
With lips comprest—clenched hand—knit brow—
By violent effort he restrained
Emotions nigh o'ermastering now.
He turned—accosted them—explained
In terms he scarce knew what, but brief,
To one who seemed to be their Chief
Why he had come to that seaport.
At once they knew their guest unknown
Must be, from bearing, mien and tone,
Though roughly drest and travel-stained,
A ‘Rangatira’—of the sort
Who paid for all attentions shown:
So to his use a cot assigned;
Brought food; and as he seemed inclined
For little converse, or to care
About themselves or ways; or share
The interest newer comers take
In all that might the curious wake
To wonder; but appeared to be
Absorbed in troubles of his own;
They soon with truest courtesy
Left him to his reflections lone.
And all that evening, in a maze
He seemed:—a sort of luminous haze
Of anxious, wondering, strange delight
Moved with him, move where'er he might:
Nor could he lie, or sit, or stand,
Or many moments keep at rest,
Howe'er he strove at self-command.
He closed his eyes—his temples pressed;—
That light, for all his efforts vain
Still hovered o'er his haunted brain:
And once, in this his feverish fret,
He checked himself in looking round
As half expectant he would yet
See, though long since the sun had set,
His shadow fall upon the ground.
And oft he tried if he could still
By strong exertion of the will
Make that fair, haggard vision rise
Again, and stand before his eyes
With such a sharp external show
Of life, and every feature so
Distinct in joy, surprise, or woe!
That face, so sweet, though so careworn,
And of its brilliant beauty shorn;
The hollow cheek; the shrunken hand;
And the too delicate finger laid
Upon the faded lips; and grand
All wonder, joy, or woe above—
That deep unfathomable love
In eyes whose brightness could not fade!
Yes! he could shape them in his mind;
But overjoyed was he to find
No yearning made the illusion dear
As real or outward reappear.
