University of Virginia Library

I

“I told thee how Miletus was the first,”
He said: “of all the cities that I saw
In that long age of my self-banishment:
And so it was the last. Ah me! what need
To tell thee more of the long years between,
Of penury, of sickness, and of care?
I saw it in my youth, and in my age.
I bore away with me into far lands
Fair memories of a happy home, and songs,
And bridal jubilee. When I return'd,
I found but ashes of long-quenched fires.
The spectres of the first realities
Were full of life; sweet memories throng'd the heart
To overflowing; the last realities
Were spectres only. Where was she, the proud
And blissful? where was he, the brave and true?
Dost thou remember Anaktoria,
Whose beauty was the wonder of us all,
Sometime in Mitylene, when she danced,
And sang at our high island festivals,
The proud heart, and the liberal hand—thy friend,
O Sappho? Who should rise up, in my thought,
Before Milesian Anaktoria,
When after my long years I found me here?
Ev'n at Miletus when I thought of her,
'Twas but the picture of her past perfections,
Her large dark eyes, her girlish bloom, her brow
Fair, smooth as virgin marble, her tall stature,
Her swift step, and her lovely motions—all
As though an imaged ideality,
A Nymph, should leave her carven pedestal,
And pass in glory thro' the midst of us,
And bid us see and wonder. I forgot
The years between; where was she, and what now?
Queen she might be as she was born to be.
And then I painted her in Tyrian robe,
The golden circle round her brows, her hand
Grasping the sceptre of Ionia.
Then later memories gather'd o'er the first.
She was a wife; and round her chair might stand
Fair sons and daughters, fruitage of a vine
That overshadow'd them, and promise Time,
Through endless generations, to bear down
Her own imperial beauty—like perspectives
Of endless walks of roses. Then again
Came sadder thoughts, waves of an ebbing tide,
That sons and daughters would be born to them,
So many were the years between. Ah! then
There came the saddest thought. ‘Perhaps,’ I said,
And shudder'd as a sudden gust blew up
The dust around me, and in a murmur ceased
Much like a sigh—an inarticulate dirge
That haply bred in me that mournful forethought
‘If she be dead!’ and a last look of her
Awoke in my remembrance, of the best
Of those brief lightnings of divinity
That for a moment scatter from the earth
All cloud of ill; ev'n then I stood awhile
And stay'd my steps, as though I saw again
That vision radiant.

II

'Twas a morn of May;
And once more the old haunts, the well-known streets,
The fountains, and the gardens of this bright
And lordly city, brought back ev'n to sense
The hours of wondering bliss, when, but a boy
Curious and eager, I had revell'd here.
Again the voices of the passers by
Seem'd those I then had heard; and, often struck
By some familiar tone, which wrought on me
As 'twere a spell, and brought up from the dead
Of long oblivion moments rich and rare,
I turn'd round to the speaker, when, alas!
I saw but some strange face; for those I knew
Were mostly old and changed, their voices now
Unlike what I remembered, and for which
I took the happier tones of younger men.
Their eyes were sunken, and their cheeks, dry beds
Of torrents, show'd the strength of many winters;
And some were bow'd with grief, and some with pain;
Some stared with large eyes, and would beat their brows
To recollect my name; and many, ah!
How many, now were fallen from Fortune's wheel,
And trodden under foot, their woods and fields
Made over to the stranger, and their palaces
Struck with decay; and many more, how many
Were dead! and some were mad and knew me not,
Or mock'd and threaten'd me, and their young heirs—
The good sometimes inheritors of ill,
Oftener the ill of good—were shown to me.
And tears would dim my sight as I beheld
Their faces like their fathers. But hard eyes,
And laughing lips, untemper'd with affliction,
Would cross me, like the cruel morning wind
To one aweary with a sleepless watch,
And faint with pain. Rather would I have sat
Down by the pilgrim's side, and heard his moan;
Or with the bruised soldier stood, and talk'd,
Or listen'd to the story of his woes;
Or with the grey old beggar, as he wiped
The dust from off his forehead, and again
Took up his lowly plaint. To them a word
Of pity, or a slender offering woke
The concord of a human heart with mine,
That after those drear dissonances came
With something of sweet music. Now, the while
I linger'd sadly by the city gate,
Watching the passers by, and naming them
Fondly by names of friends I knew of old,
Oft as I mark'd in them similitude
Of motion or of aspect: as I stood,
Came by a lady, and her daughter, one
Aged, tho' yet unbow'd by years, her stature
Majestic, and her noble features told
Of her young beauty, and her youth of triumphs.
But she who walk'd beside her, still in flower
Of girlhood, and in virgin loveliness
Fresh as an Oread or a Naiad—she
Was daughter to that mother—but how like
Fair Anaktoria, as she had been,
Ev'n like as is the morn unto the morn!
Who, as I look'd upon her, held me there
As by a charm. Not only that proud beauty,
Those large eyes, and that forehead marble-clear,
Were such as might take captive old and young;
But in that mould she seem'd so fully cast,
That I, methought, beheld the selfsame form,
That marvellous creature, taken at her prime
Of all delights, and from that hour endow'd
With immortality. So like she seem'd,
As tho' great Aphrodite had forgot
For once her envies at the sight of her,
And, smit with admiration, crown'd her thus
With a perpetual youth. I felt as though
All days since then had been a moment's sleep
Dilated by a painful dream. I stood
Again before the selfsame city-gate,
The selfsame happy boy; and mark'd as then
The flood of men, the motions, and the tumult,
And the gay festivals come forth with songs
And garlands; and her too the fairest flower,
Daughter of Agathyrsus, whom we paused
To gaze on as she pass'd. A sudden thought
Urged me to simulate a poor man's state.
Yet 'twas not all unreal, for my cares
Were grave, and my necessity was true,
My bow'd and wrinkled age, my snowwhite hair,
Ev'n from my Melanippus—were that friend
Still living—might have hid, as in a mask,
All traces of my other self, that boy
Whom he had known. My worn apparel sprent
With dust, and tatter'd, left no likelihood
That he who sued for alms with a sad voice
Was not a lowly beggarman, but one
Of the old Lesbian nobles. As they stood
To look on me, and gave into my hand
Their bounty, I gave utterance to the words
Of an old song, a flower of hope and youth,
Which Anaktoria full oft had pour'd
Into the morning air; before two rhythms
Were well exhausted, they had given a cry
Of mere astonishment; and, ‘Who art thou?’
The young girl said, ‘for oh! that dear sweet song
My mother sang, and I have learnt it from her.
Alcæus writ it, ere he fled away,
No one knows where; he was my father's brother:’
‘Then art thou my own niece, for I am he!’
I utter'd; and I lifted up my voice,
And wept, to think that I was not forsaken,
And that the moonless night of my dark years
Should lapse into, and kiss the morn again!
O wondrous Life! O Time, and Change, and Death!
I look'd upon ye now, as one who stands
In the last days of autumn, and looks down
A vinewalk, scatter'd with the fallen leaves,
Which in the spring made arches overhead,
And gambol'd in the wind, with promise hung
Of lordly vintage, and the end of all
Sunshine, and song, and dance, and jubilee,
But not a shade of sorrow. Then I knew
That I was old; ah! then I had no need
To look into a mirror to be sure
My hair was white, my forehead delved with care.
I stood as one who treads a forest aisle,
Where once tall trees o'ershadow'd either side;
They are laid low, and far away he sees
Green undergrowths, that shake their leafy sprays
In the low light: the race that met my sight
Was the third generation after ours:
My brother and his mate long since were dead;
So was their offspring; for they left one son,
Who early took to wife a maid of Cos,
And he died early; now the widow ruled
In the great house of Anaktoria;
And he too left a daughter and a son.
I found this boy my nephew's youthful heir,
And brought him here to see the famous land
Of his forefathers; his sweet sister soon
Shall wed one worthy of her. When I saw
The young girl stand before me, ah! it seem'd
To my old eyes a miracle, that wrought
The resurrection of the loveliness
Of Anaktoria, when first I saw her
Step from her bark upon the Lesbian shore.
And that dear image started forth again,
As some old picture, thrown aside, and marr'd
By time, and dust, and darkness, touch'd once more
By the same hand that drew it, leaps again
To its first life with all its colours true.”

III

Far into the calm moonlight night they sat
Together, and remember'd the old life
That once was new; when thro' the dawn of days,
They look'd, as one to the unrisen sun,
And fill'd the gold haze of futurity
With dreams, as vain as the sweet-colour'd clouds
That melt ere noonday. Now they turn'd their eyes,
And saw, in place of their imaginings
That had no life, and yet were beautiful,
Realities, once living, and now dead.
He told her of long years in some few words,
Long years, that cut their shares into the brow,
And leave no other sign to mark their course;
Eventless changes, but, when past and gone,
No longer worth the utterance; things to see
While passing, as one looks into a street
To mark its motions for an hour, looks on
The acts and moods of men, as in a picture,
And straight forgets; for all the life of man
Mirror'd in memory is an evening plain
Where lesser things are drown'd in gloomy nought;
And only a few years of pain and joy
Stand out like towers that catch the setting sun.

IV

A few days more, and in the afternoon,
Two hours ere set of sun, a step was heard
In Sappho's garden, and a well-known voice,
Beneath the porch where they in childish days
Had gambol'd, waking blithest echoes there.
“Come, Sappho, come, it is a marriage-feast
As in the days before,” Alcæus said.
“O Sappho, we are changed; but they are not,
Summer, and Winter, Life, and Death; and so
I gather from thy garden, ere we go,
A dewy garland of young budding flowers,
That smell as sweet as the first roses did,
To wreathe the brows of the young bride withal,
Thou heldest in thy hand that fateful day
That Citharus was wed; and look, they are
The same in colour as that very morn.
These are as they were, yet, 'twixt these and them,
Our lives have pass'd, our days and hours are fallen;
And half our memories of them, like their leaves
Shed in the dust that day, and found no more.
And yet there are twin hearts, that wait us now,
As full of blisses as these stainless flowers,
As full of hope, as were the aged ones
That hail'd us then; come, Sappho, let us go.”
Silently along the well-known walks
The two old minstrels pass'd, and arm in arm
Went forth in silence. All the earth was still;
The western sunlight bridged the waveless sea;
But, ere they left the garden, came the sound
Of mountain waters, rushing to the main
Heard underneath its leafy walls, a low
Melodious, friendly, old familiar voice,
Dear to their childhood, and the golden light
Danced on the waters. Sappho prest his arm,
And in a low voice musical and sad
Spoke gazing on the sunlit watercourse;
“Cast thou thine eyes along that river-stream
That charms the valley with its voice, until
It laughs out flowers; ah! well I know that stream,
Ay, every bank of violets that it feeds,
And every secret of its winding course,
Up to its clear cold fountain in the hills.
For many a day, when all the town, astir
With some new pomp, was busy with its gauds,
I have been wandering on its shore alone,
And singing to myself, the low-toned chime
Of those sweet waters burthening my song.
There have I shaped, in shadow of the trees,
Blissful imaginations, and held talk
With phantoms of the Past, and thought I saw—
Like clouds that, soaring o'er far mountainpeaks,
Were pictured in the waters near me—forms
Of unborn years, and greater things to be.
Look on it, how it dances, how it flings
Its bubbles up into the light, and twines
Its silver arms about the lucent necks
Of the young lilies, and the savage roots
Of secular oaks, that joy to feel its touch;
And lightens back the sun-flashes, and paints
The deep sky, and is soft with imagery
Of bending bowers! now follow on its way,
Far as the opening 'twixt yon purple hills,
And mark how from the shadows it comes forth
With a dim tender light, kin to the gloom
Of the grey uplands whence it hath its spring;
And by and by the azure, and the gold
Of the broad day are lavish'd over it.
Fresh rills flow to it, and its lisping tongue
Swells to a clear glad music, and the pines
Nod o'er it, and the clouds are pictured in it,
And little billows curl upon its face.
But thou, sweet River, ere thou reach the sea,
Art doom'd to other fortunes; hark! the sound
That flows to us at intervals, and seems
Like the sea murmur, is the changing voice
Of peace and hope to passion and despair.
Upon the other side of this green hill,
A hundred paces ere it reach the sea,
Yonder it leaps into a howling gulph
Cumber'd, and dark with ruins of great rocks,
Splinter'd with earthquake, black with thunderbolts,
That part its lovely streams from one another,
And turn its melodies to desolate cries,
Plaints, angers, agonies; and from its face
Sweep all the glory of the earth and heaven,
For ever rend it with tormenting pains,
Shake it with sobs, and waste in stormy tears.
No more on its torn bosom the calm face
Of sun, or moon, or star shall see itself,
Nor shadow of the leaves and soft-hued clouds
Lean, till it falls into the great salt sea.
But whither do I wander, like the stream,
In words that to thine ear seem vain and strange?
O aged friend, it is that the gone days
Of the poor poets have been as the windings
Of that same stream 'twixt dark and bright; and so
Have fallen into sweet vicissitudes,
And sad, and in the fairest of their course,
Under the odorous shade, and golden flowers
Of Phantasy, and in the noon of Honour,
Have been, as lightning (so the Sisters doom)
Dash'd down, and shatter'd on the pitiless edge
Of Passion.—We are tortured like soft dew,
Broken upon the crags; and heart and mind,
That flow'd together in one harmony
Of Poesy, are rack'd and torn asunder.
For when the spirit is at war within,
The mirror of the Phantasy is crack'd,
And never more can show divine affections
Clad as the Iris when she flies from heaven
In vesture of sun-colours; and the harp,
And voice that charm'd in the sweet early days
Can never join again. O aged friend,
'Tis that the old song of the running brook,
Its lights and shadows, and its eddies swift,
Its limpid windings, and its sudden falls,
Will tell our story better than our tongues.
And, as the mighty overhanging oak,
Or the tall pine, is but a shadow on it,
Its leafy whispers, and its summer sighs,
Its stormy voices, and its singing birds,
But lifeless images without a tongue;
So do the great deeds of our busy lives
Live only in the pictures of the soul.
Our fiery passions that are dead and gone,
The hopes that went before, the crowning joys,
Are phantoms only to be fill'd no more.
The soul flows on for ever, as the stream;
And, as the stream, still changes, still the same.
Behold, we stand together on this hill,
The selfsame spirits present here of old,
Our hearts transparent as the mountain spring,
Now dark with many sorrows, like the stream
Bearing down its swoln waters to the sea,
Thro' gulphy darkness hidden from the sun.
This wandering stream, born ere the firstborn man,
Eternal as the hills, as old as time,
Sang of the future to our childish ears,
As now it seems to echo all the past;
Its murmur is the music of a life,
Its surface seems the mirror of our souls.”

V

Once more together in the Hall of arms
The aged and the young. We full of years
Look'd up again to the high walls, o'erlaid
With panoplies of war; the flow of time,
But for the care of Citharus and his spouse,
Had darken'd the old shields, and spears, and helms,
With rusty dyes; now once more they recall'd
The marriage banquet, and the midnight fray.
We heard a hundred voices without tongues
That now were hush'd for ever; Sappho show'd
Where the pale girl had sign'd with her weak hand,
And slain the tyrant; where the bloodshed flow'd
Over the marble floor; and how the hand
Of Pittacus had drawn aside the veil
When his cry rent the darkness, and a host
Had thunder'd back their answer: all the past
Was present; on the stage of memory all
Came back like life; and would this marriage feast
Go before death and anguish, like the first?
We knew not, but it seem'd that nought could stay
The merrymaking, or affright the guests,
Mixing the wine with blood; what were we now
So full of glory then, of hope and might
With starry eyes, and dark locks? We were there
In the dear children; she, young Kleis, a flower
Such as the weary Sappho once had shone,
Such as her mother in the days between.
And there was he, my kinsman, second self;
I saw his face, as 'twere my own again.
Why should we not rejoice? Although my own
Best loved ones were no more; although her Kleis
Long since had parted? For we seem'd to see,
In the twain images of the far past,
As 'twere the resurrection of ourselves.
They seem'd to say, “Look on us, as we are,
Ye were;” again we seem'd to say to them;
“Such as we are ye shall be, when the years,
That seem so vast before ye, fleet away
In days, and hours, in minutes, and in moments,
Ev'n as a river far away is hush'd
And moveless, but, when we look down upon it,
Comes and goes by like lightning:” Young and old
A few years hence shall mingle in one sleep
To those who shall come after, as the streams
Of the same river lapse into a calm
Without a sound or motion; if such fears,
Regrets, and yearnings tremble in man's heart,
Such as no other life on earth can feel,
Breathe without tongues unutterable things,
Are not his sighs oracular? Will the Gods
Be deaf to Nature's everlasting plaint,
Nor share the immortal life with mortal men?
What if the joyous youth, and damsel fair,
Images in the present of the past,
Be symbols of the Future? What, if Life,
Mysterious star that dawns, we know not whence,
And lights the dim earth and its ways of grief,
And sets we know not whither, shall outlive
Day, night, and dust, and darkness? What, if Life
Can never die, but clothes itself again,
And gives us back our beauty, as of old
Elysian youth, and joy, and peace again,
After the racking world, and throes of Time?
“Come hither to us, little ones,” she said,
“And let me look into your dawning eyes,
Once more, ere mine, like setting stars, are sunk
No more to rise; come to me, let me look
Upon your faces, if I may retrace,
As in a picture wrought by cunning hands,
In your unwrinkled aspects the sweet youth
That once was ours; and, while I see ye, feel
One sympathetic moment of that life.
To us the only joy left in this world
Is to behold ye, as unwither'd flowers,
Last of a garden stript of summer blooms.
And, if I seem to be the thing I was
In looking on ye, haply in the days
Unborn, there shall be other gladder eyes
Of some far generation, to behold
A daughter of the ancient house again
Apparell'd for the bridal, as thou art.
Haply some yet unfashion'd tongue may say:
‘If she, whose songs be in our hearts and homes,
Were standing where thou art, such would she be.
Such was her shape, her lips, her hair, her eyes,
Her stature;’ and if then the dower of song
Should bless her with a happier fate than mine,
And she should lift up a sweet voice and sing,
Haply my soul would hear it, and rejoice
To know that I was born again in her.
And if so be in other days remote
Of far-off generations other eyes
Should look upon some dark-eyed heritor
Of thy fair name, young bridegroom, and the dower
Of song should bless him, with a happier fate,
Haply some other bridal like to this
May join the two together; and the earth
May listen to the concord of twin souls,
Giving and taking music from each other
In years to be; which in the days of old
To us, dissever'd minstrels, was denied.
And he who sits beside me may rejoice
To see a happier self reborn in him.”

VI

She paused, and for a while she bow'd her head
Upon her hand in silence; then took up
The broken links again in solemn words,
And yet not sad. “My children, we must part;
Yet may it be without regrets or fears.
For I would fly into the deep Unknown,
Hopeful, and glad, ev'n as the nightingale
With songs into the dark, or wandering bird
That seeks the south, and leaves all death behind.
Methinks it were a lovely thing to sit
Clad as a Bride, my grey head wreath'd with rose;
To sit beneath a vine beside the sea,
From morn to noon, from noon to set of sun,
Talking with joyous friends, as old as I,
Talking of ventures and vicissitudes,
Fair accidents of life, and happy loves,
And merrymakings in the good old time;
Telling quaint tales, and singing some sweet songs,
While the sea-murmur mingled with the sound.
To wait till Death should knock for me at eve;
And when the cypress shadows, eastward thrown,
Were lengthen'd to my feet, as tho' to lay
A path for him, and a chill-breathing air
Should moan thro' the dark branches ‘Come away!’
I would unlatch for him the garden gate,
And bid him enter with a smile of welcome.
And He should come, but not as he is wont,
A pitiless presence with a spear and crown,
A king unshakeable with prayers and tears,
But like a bridegroom, with a lovebright eye,
Who comes to bear away his bride at even,
And kind sweet smile; and I would say,—‘dear friend,
Come hither, but, I pray thee, in passing down
The garden-walk atween my cherish'd flowers,
Spare them, and touch them not, lest they should faint,
And hang their heads, and shed their bloom, and weep.
Come hither, and be welcome.’ I would see
In parting nothing that seems sad for me.
Oh! let my last looks see them as of old;
Wither not one green leaf, one crimson rose;
Steal not one diamond from the fount, nor hush
One smooth note of the blackbird's summersong.
‘Come hither.’ Stay a little there apart
In shadow of that pine, while I shall sing
A few brief parting notes, a last farewell.
O my beloved, we have often met
And often parted; why should this farewell
Leave sorrow? Often last words lightly spoken
Were pledges of glad welcomes still to be.
So let it be to-day; but, if ye seek,
Ye shall not find me here to-morrow morn;
But in the pleasant fields of asphodel,
Lingering to breathe eternal sweets of Spring,
Spring, that as vainly flatters my poor heart
On earth, as when its earliest breezes kiss
A trembling sere leaf of the parted year;
Spring, that to-morrow shall fly back again
To part no more upon the swallow's wing.
Thither I go to find for us, O friends,
Some garden seats where we may sit, and hear
Each other speak as now: and so farewell.
I will provide that with the immortal Life
Of tearless Youth, and unrepining Love,
Wing'd with swift hopes, and tireless phantasies,
Something shall mingle of the days of old.
There shall be rustling leaves, and, 'twixt the stems
Of the tall trees, some azure peaks afar;
And there shall run bright waters, with the whir
Of wings, and turtles mourning in the shade;
And wandering ghosts should pass us by, and turn
To look on us, and stay to hear us sing;
Farewell, dear friends, farewell! I would untwine
Softly the roses, giving one to each,
And, taking Him my bridegroom by the hand,
Into the cypress shadows I would turn.
Then would they rise, those well-beloved guests,
And catch me by the robe, and weep, ‘Ah! no,
Say not farewell, say not that word farewell.
That word, however toned, is still an arrow
Wing'd from Despair's pale hand, though armed Time
May step between, and glance the shaft aside;
Are we not old? Then wherefore should we part?
Have we not gather'd first flowers in the vale
Of Youth together, and together clomb
The thunder-shaken summits of midlife,
And downward wander'd to the other side?
The Sun is set behind the snows of Time;
And we are here in shade together still,
Then wherefore part? oh! say not thou farewell.
Wilt thou be glad in the Elysian Spring
Without us? And shall we who look'd to thee,
As to the morning and the evening star,
Live in that darkness that comes after thee?
We will go with thee, we will go with thee!’
Then would I take the harp into my hand
As though it were a trumpet, and would shake
The strings with notes of triumph, while the tears
Of rapture, trembling in my sunward eyes,
Should flash back the last glory of the Day;
And Death, brought nearer as my swelling voice
Soar'd into victory, should leave his shade,
And wonder at my song! and as the fires
Of eve were quench'd amid the purple isles,
He should put forth his wings, and we would flee
With him and the last sunlight o'er the sea,
I and mine aged friends would flee together!”

VII

She paused, and for a while she bow'd her head
Upon her hand in silence; then took up
The sever'd links again, in solemn words,
And yet not sad; “My children, we must part,
And leave ye this fair world; the time is nigh.
Yet, when it comes, be joyful, as tho' we
Pass'd on before ye through a golden gate,
Into a land where darkness is no more,
A clime of endless spring, and fadeless flowers;
And let your last words be a true farewell.”
She gazed around, and smiled a wondrous smile.
And then she took that harp into her hand
Which just before she had but feign'd to do.
She took the harp as in the days of old,
When the gay-hearted Menon, laughter-eyed,
Joked with her at the banquet, and she sang
In pride of youth; and with a prelude low,
And silvery-sweet as ripplets running in
To kisses of bland Zephyrus, she woke up
Her heart and voice, till they who listen'd heard
No other sound and all forgot themselves.
“Bear with me, for I sing ye a last song;
I sing a song of home, and happy Love.—
It is the breeze of Even curls the sea,
The tuneful wavelets ripple on the shore,
Under the shadow of his native hills,
Thro' breezy vistas cloven in the bowers.—
He sees the golden harvest hills; the sun
Burns thro' the amber leaves against the East,
And the big bunches stooping from the roof.
He hears the murmur of the bees; he hears
The laughter from the vineyards in the vale;
And all things breathe into his spirit peace.
He calls unto him his sweet mate; and she
Takes place beside him under arched rose,
Her braidless tresses flowing o'er his arm;
And the fair children, kneeling at their knees,
Look up with eyes of hope where fear is none.
The sun sinks lower, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’”
Hark! she lifts up her voice in the clear air,
That thrills to the swift arrows of her song;
“O Phosphor, sweet art thou between the peaks
Of the dark hills, that whisperest of the dawn;
Glorious, thou daybreak, scattering off ill dreams
With shadows of the night; divine, thou Sun,
Though old as Time creating all things new
With each new morn; that bidd'st all things awake,
Callest forth hopes, and armest them to act;
Callest the hunter to the field and fell;
The fowler to greenwood, afire with song;
The fisher to the waters deep and clear;
The warrior with a shout and trumpet-sound;
Part'st the young lovers striving against tears;
And makest farewell a sweet word and a song!
The sun sinks lower, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’”
Again she tunes her tongue to softer tones,
As she looks onward to the golden west;
“O Hesper, blessed is thy dewy breath,
And silver star, more blessed than the morn,
Whose glory drinks up all thy tender tears,
Scatters sweet dreams, makes void the silent home,
That calls the shepherd to the mountains frore;
That calls the fisher to the perilous seas;
The hunter to the wildbeast and the waste;
The warrior, or to slay, or to be slain;
And ev'n the young child from his mother's arms,
And makes farewell a sad word and a sigh.
Thou bringest back all that the morn hath stolen,
And into welcomes turnest all farewells.
The sun is sunken, and the winds are still,
And all things to their spirits whisper ‘peace.’
And now the moon shines on them, full and clear.
Still are they seated there, they have not stirr'd.
She sings no more, the children are asleep,
His voice is hush'd; not yet the nightingale
Hath ventured on a note; the silver light
Shines on their faces, and their moveless forms;
Is it a living group or marble cold?
The sun is sunken, and the winds are still,
All things have whisper'd to their spirits ‘peace!’”
She ceased upon that word “peace” as it were
The last faint ripple of a restless sea;
And the last echo from the walls was “peace.”
She held the silent harp between her arms;
And the last glory of the setting sun
Smote on her bright and upward-glancing eye,
Ere it went down. But when the light was gone,
They look'd upon her, and her eyes were dim,
And not a motion stirr'd her; so they rose
And coming near they saw that she was dead.
And what they look'd on now with awful eyes
Was but the ruin'd temple, whence the voice
Of Love's own oracle for all those years
Of her long life came forth in music: dead!
The Muses' home was dark and cold, and still;
And in a moment all the gates were barr'd,
No more to be reopen'd evermore.
And what, and where was the sweet soul that moved
Therein up to that moment? Should they mourn?
Upon the wings of that last day of joy
Her soul had flown; and, ever after, they
Who thought of her would first remember that
Her last word “peace,” as one remembers best
The last sweet sunbeam of a winter day
Parting the clouds: her aged lips had breathed
Peace, then were hush'd for ever; but that word
Seem'd as a charm that blest the speaker's self,
And them that heard her: something that her soul
Bore off with it in parting, something spared
Of bliss to mortal sorrows left behind.

VIII

Alcæus rose, and pass'd amid the guests
Swiftly, yet silently, his head bow'd down
And hidden in his robe, as tho' the hand
Of kingly Death held up another dart,
And beckon'd him away; and he could hear
A voice unheard by all but him, a voice
That made him deaf to lamentation, blind
To all that changed the merriment to mourning,
Swiftly as day to darkness, when the breath
Of winter pours into the golden vales
From the icepeaks in the last autumn-days.
The tongue once hush'd, that best he loved to hear,
All tongues were silent, and the eyes that shone
Their last life-light as though it were the first,
Once closed, the sun would rise on more for him.
He wander'd forth into the twilight air
Still purple with the sunset, and stood long,
And look'd upon the sea till it was dark.
Then took his way along the starless strand
Under a night of cloud; he took his way
Into the darkest darkness, for he knew
All winding paths among the rocks, the home
Of utter silence; or at intervals
Listened the hoarse wind, and the moaning waves,
Until he found a place amid the gloom,
Shaped as a seat for giants, where he loved
To sit in early days, and mark the sea
Through the rent cliffs, as through a portal huge,
And hark its many voices. Now he saw
No light, but only heard the threatful swell
Of gathering winds, and waters; with a voice
Of thunder, as a king that led them on,
The tempest roll'd on swiftly; but amid
The tongues of the dread ministers of night,
A fearful fisher in a helmless bark,
Borne wildly by the wind, in passing by
Heard a lone cry, and saw by lightning-light
As 'twere a monarch falling from his throne,
With his right hand uplifted in his fall.
And here they found him on the morrow-morn,
The sunlight on his face, where yet a smile
Linger'd, as though that last and midnight cry,
And that uplifted hand above his head,
Had been, nor fear, nor anger, nor despair,
Nor fatal call that drew the bolt that slew him,
But a glad answer to a welcome call,
The voice of one that saw what none can see
Till the great gates unbar the loved and lost,
The cry of one who said—“I come, I come!”