University of Virginia Library

I dwell amongst a silent people here,
O distant Friend! No sound of human cheer
Gladdens my fireside:—though the flashing light
Falls upon faces, young and spirit-bright,
Deep eyes and rounded cheeks and parted lips
That smile upon me through the dim eclipse
Of the brown shadows. Here, a nymph peers out,
Timid, as scared by some mid-forest shout:
There, from 'neath thunderous brows, with solemn stress,
A god glares at me from his far recess,—
Or childhood, clasping flowers that cannot fade,
Makes its own sunshine in the deepest shade.
—And we commune in silence, they and I,
My Statues:—question soft and soft reply
Pass voicelessly; and from the windy weather,
Or the great calm—conversing thus together—
From day or night, from clear or clouded skies,
We take the key-note of our colloquies.
The breeze blows freshly:—“Sea-nymph! sea nymph! thon,
White Galatea, with the starry brow,
On the seaward rocks that standest, beautiful,
Say, sleeps the ocean;—is the moon at full?”
Then, on my dreaming fancy falls a low,
Soft singing murmur, like a rivulet's flow;
“Queen Dian shines not; seek her by the pillow,
Of her love on Latmos—tempest rocks the billow.”
“Sing, Galatea!”—and she sings her old,
Sad Acis story—ne'er too often told,—
None sweeter:—sings it wondrous plaintively
Like a swan's melody, if such there be,
Till the wind drowns the eadence: Then I cry,
“Ho! Hero, Hero! lift thy torch on high,
Higher and higher, lest thy sea-boy die!”
Wailing the answer comes,—a wail of death:
“My Torch is quenched—my life is quenched”—she saith;
“Alone, beneath the stars, alone—aione!”
And the cleft water swallows up the moan.
Shake the worn casements, falls the flooding rain:—
“Titan! rock-climber! the fierce surges gain
On thy retreating steps; thy loved one dies,
Clasping her little one, that feebly cries
For thy strong succour:—one more effort, lo!
Yon crag remains to scale,—the last; below,
Ruin awaits thee;—up! the toil defy!
Titan! rock-climber! is there hope on high?”
“No hope, no refuge!—Death!”—the sole reply,

So we commune, my Friend, while winter rolls
Its storms and sorrows over hearths and souls.
But other converse ours when winds and rains
Are over and gone—and through the through the throbbing veins
Of the sweet Nature courses her warm blood,
And she puts off her weeds of widowhood,
And decks the new fresh beauty she hath won,
And braids her shining tresses in the sun.
Trim buskin'd, slim of form, with eager air,
(She stands half-hidden by the curtain, there)
A nymph, with loose locks floating on the breeze,
Swift courser of the hill-tops,—'neath the trees
Blythe hunter—beckons me, as she would say
“Come forth, O loiterer! hence, away, away!
Earth wooes us,—heav'n invokes us,—all the air
Thrills with a summons: forth! our place is there!”
And I go forth, compassed with phantasy,
And wander with her where the Oreads be
In the hill-hollows; or we join the rout
Of the satyrs 'midst the vines—and drink and shout
Loud as the loudest there; or chase the deer,
O'er broad savannahs with uplifted spear,
And through cool gleaming rivers. There, full oft
A voice arrests me—tender voice and soft;
Hylas, fair struggler, close and closer prest
By white arms intertwined, to glowing breast
And lipes love-burning,—Hylas that, I wis,
Doubteth if wise it be against such bliss
To wrestle, and so pleading with a smile,—
“Loose me! oh loose me!”—clingeth all the while
To his young captors. And I, standing there,
Watch the smooth syrens slowly downward bear—
Down through the lilies shining in still grace,
Down, through the clear wave closing without trace—
Their prize, now passive in their fond embrace.
And I am left alone,—alone! Not so:
On sweep the ages in their mystic flow—
And classic fable, absolute no more,
Yields to new story and a later lore.
—Sweet household creature, that dost sit demure
On the green river-bank, with bare-feet, pure
As the pure water that so lovingly
Doth kiss and kiss them as it creepeth by,
Loth to leave kissing! Little snow-drop, thou
From old Cervantes garden—that shalt live
In the fair form, art-given, thou wearest now
Till beauty cease to charm or art survive,—
Sweet Dorothea! tell me o'er again
That story of thy love and all its pain.—
“Ah yes! I know it well, fair child, but I
Am never weary of the history:
So, let the water have its wayward will
And the pert zephyr flutter round thee still,
While thou and I, like gossips staunch and true,
Run through the chapter of the past anew.”
Thereon, she straight reveals those secrecies,
Just as doves coo such tales 'mid leafy trees,
Fearing strange listeners: and more slowly still,
Creeps that sly water, eddying,—while his fill
Pert zephyr drinketh of the music rare,
Soul-music, that he deemeth past compare.

Shall I go on, and show you more of these
My fire-side guests—my household sanctities?
Ah no, “Enough!” you say:—and truly, Friend,
My silent folk grow garrulous. An end
Must needs be made, ere sagely you conclude
This hermit cell of mine no solitude,
But a rank Babel. So, in fine, take this
My frank confession:—'midst them all I miss
Old voices and old faces, such as brought
Warmth to my heart and freshness to my thought
In the dear time departed. I would give
All Galatea's singing—ay, and strive
To hoard no memory of the sweet despair
Of Hero's passion—to see sitting there,
Just face to face with me, in cheery guise,
A real, live gossip:—to your charities,
See, I appeal, my Friend: come—and I'll make
My silences thrice silent for your sake.