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THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
“To him that hath shall be given.”
PART I.
In days long past, within a lonely wood,
Far from the sound of levelling axe, there stood
A stately Oak, that seemed itself a grove;
And near it grew, entwining shade with shade,
A slender Ash, that with his branches played,
Though oft at noon, all-motionless with love,
'T would lean upon his breast, as 't were a gentle maid.
Far from the sound of levelling axe, there stood
A stately Oak, that seemed itself a grove;
And near it grew, entwining shade with shade,
A slender Ash, that with his branches played,
Though oft at noon, all-motionless with love,
'T would lean upon his breast, as 't were a gentle maid.
And swift beneath a little brook there ran,
Like some wild creature from the face of man,
So swiftly did it run with smothered voice;
Nor ever was it heard, save only where
Some thwarting pebble sent upon the air
Its tiny moan; or when 't was wont rejoice
For wandering root o'erleaped, that checked its scared career.
Like some wild creature from the face of man,
So swiftly did it run with smothered voice;
Nor ever was it heard, save only where
Some thwarting pebble sent upon the air
Its tiny moan; or when 't was wont rejoice
For wandering root o'erleaped, that checked its scared career.
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But near these loving trees no other grew;
For, made as if for love, kind Nature threw
Around them far a zone of soft, white sand,
Whose very touch nor plant nor hardy brier
Might e'er abide, so scorching was the fire
That lurked within; yet round this charmèd band
Still many a tree and shrub would press, in strange desire.
For, made as if for love, kind Nature threw
Around them far a zone of soft, white sand,
Whose very touch nor plant nor hardy brier
Might e'er abide, so scorching was the fire
That lurked within; yet round this charmèd band
Still many a tree and shrub would press, in strange desire.
In sooth it was a rare and lovely sight,
This quiet sylvan moon, so meekly bright;
For such might seem to musing bard the scene;
A spot where Peace, with all her gentle train
Of blending sympathies, might ever reign:
And cold were he on whom its dreamy sheen
Within that dark green wood shall ever fall in vain.
This quiet sylvan moon, so meekly bright;
For such might seem to musing bard the scene;
A spot where Peace, with all her gentle train
Of blending sympathies, might ever reign:
And cold were he on whom its dreamy sheen
Within that dark green wood shall ever fall in vain.
Nor unbeloved was this secluded place
By some of better world and higher race.
And here, 't was said, a heavenly Stranger came,
If haply he might find some heart content
With Nature's will; that would not murmur vent
For boon withheld of beauty or of fame,
Or pine for aught of good to other creatures sent.
By some of better world and higher race.
And here, 't was said, a heavenly Stranger came,
If haply he might find some heart content
With Nature's will; that would not murmur vent
For boon withheld of beauty or of fame,
Or pine for aught of good to other creatures sent.
Beneath that stately Oak this Stranger kept
His daily watch, and there, too, had he slept,
The Ash had fanned the nightly mist away.
But not, as we, do Spirits need that charm,
That sweet self-losing, that doth oft disarm
The robber grief, bid misery gaunt be gay,
And hate, that cold heart-worm, make powerless to harm.
His daily watch, and there, too, had he slept,
The Ash had fanned the nightly mist away.
But not, as we, do Spirits need that charm,
That sweet self-losing, that doth oft disarm
The robber grief, bid misery gaunt be gay,
And hate, that cold heart-worm, make powerless to harm.
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Such self-oblivion would not him beseem,
Of whose least passing thought no youthful dream
Of man's Elysium might an image give.
The Good and Beautiful in him were joined;
Their conscious union made his happy mind;
And, ever as they moved, fair forms would live,
And sweet according sounds through all his being wind.
Of whose least passing thought no youthful dream
Of man's Elysium might an image give.
The Good and Beautiful in him were joined;
Their conscious union made his happy mind;
And, ever as they moved, fair forms would live,
And sweet according sounds through all his being wind.
'T was on a soft June evening,—when the sun
Was just below the wood, and, one by one,
Seemed through the trees to call his wandering rays,—
That two young Birds, within a hazel-bush,
This converse held. Said one, a lively Thrush,—
“I hardly may deserve this strain of praise;
Such praise, were I a maid, would surely make me blush;
Was just below the wood, and, one by one,
Seemed through the trees to call his wandering rays,—
That two young Birds, within a hazel-bush,
This converse held. Said one, a lively Thrush,—
“I hardly may deserve this strain of praise;
Such praise, were I a maid, would surely make me blush;
“'T is verily too high,”—and here she ducked
Her pretty head beneath a wing, and clucked
Like to a timid hen,—“too high indeed
From one of lineage so renowned in song;
Though thou, I must confess, dost scarce belong
To that proud race, that rarely deign to heed
Aught but their own vain throats, though ne'er so sweet or strong.”
Her pretty head beneath a wing, and clucked
Like to a timid hen,—“too high indeed
From one of lineage so renowned in song;
Though thou, I must confess, dost scarce belong
To that proud race, that rarely deign to heed
Aught but their own vain throats, though ne'er so sweet or strong.”
“Nay,” said a gentle voice, whose gurgling tone
None but the Nightingale might ever own,
“My praise is just: nor can I well divine
Why my own native gift should make me blind
To other gifts, though differing wide in kind.
'T were to be poor indeed, if but in mine
My solitary heart may pleasure never find.
None but the Nightingale might ever own,
“My praise is just: nor can I well divine
Why my own native gift should make me blind
To other gifts, though differing wide in kind.
'T were to be poor indeed, if but in mine
My solitary heart may pleasure never find.
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“And much I marvel if, in truth, there be
A heart so stricken with its own. For me,—
O, what a prison-house such narrow doom!
I know not why,—but peace within me dwells
Whene'er I hear yon distant chiming bells,
That have no life; nor comes there aught of gloom,
If heard the runnel's song, within the darkest dells.
A heart so stricken with its own. For me,—
O, what a prison-house such narrow doom!
I know not why,—but peace within me dwells
Whene'er I hear yon distant chiming bells,
That have no life; nor comes there aught of gloom,
If heard the runnel's song, within the darkest dells.
“But when from living creatures warm with blood,
When from the countless tribes that haunt this wood,
The morning song of waking joy goes up,
O, how doth leap my pulse, my spirits bound!
The many-mingled notes one only sound
Send to my heart,—as gathered in a drop,—
From swift, high-soaring larks' to sparrows' on the ground.”
When from the countless tribes that haunt this wood,
The morning song of waking joy goes up,
O, how doth leap my pulse, my spirits bound!
The many-mingled notes one only sound
Send to my heart,—as gathered in a drop,—
From swift, high-soaring larks' to sparrows' on the ground.”
“I'll seek no more,” the Stranger said in thought;
“In this sweet Bird is all that I have sought.”
And then—so willed he in his heavenly mind—
The little, wondering Bird before him flew,
And, fluttering round and round, her wonder grew
To see his wings, now floating on the wind,
And now to air exhaled and mingled with its blue.
“In this sweet Bird is all that I have sought.”
And then—so willed he in his heavenly mind—
The little, wondering Bird before him flew,
And, fluttering round and round, her wonder grew
To see his wings, now floating on the wind,
And now to air exhaled and mingled with its blue.
And then she marvelled at his waving locks,
That gleamed like sunshine over running brooks.
But, when upon her turned his lustrous eyes,
With silent awe she seemed transfixed to stand,
The while she felt her little breast expand
As if with something that would reach the skies,—
So full they were of love, so beautifully bland.
That gleamed like sunshine over running brooks.
But, when upon her turned his lustrous eyes,
With silent awe she seemed transfixed to stand,
The while she felt her little breast expand
As if with something that would reach the skies,—
So full they were of love, so beautifully bland.
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“Sweet Bird of eve, thy fate is now with me,
And thou my chosen Bird henceforth shalt be;
And I will bless thee. But I may not say
Why thus I choose thee; for a virtue eyed
Too often in the heart may turn to pride,
And then with cold self-love that heart betray
To hard, contracting thoughts, that curse where they abide.”
And thou my chosen Bird henceforth shalt be;
And I will bless thee. But I may not say
Why thus I choose thee; for a virtue eyed
Too often in the heart may turn to pride,
And then with cold self-love that heart betray
To hard, contracting thoughts, that curse where they abide.”
So spake the guardian Angel; then aloft
His wings, now visible, with heaving soft,
That made mysterious music, fanned the air,
And now the clouds, self-parting, downward sent
A rosy dew, that all the earth besprent;
While, upward as he passed, the stars did wear
A thousand gorgeous hues that from his glory went.
His wings, now visible, with heaving soft,
That made mysterious music, fanned the air,
And now the clouds, self-parting, downward sent
A rosy dew, that all the earth besprent;
While, upward as he passed, the stars did wear
A thousand gorgeous hues that from his glory went.
“No, never,” said the Bird, “may thought of pride
This glorious Being from my fate divide;
But rather let my heart still humbler be,
That one so high should deign a thought bestow
On one so poor: and this alone to know,
Betide what may, were bliss enough for me.
O, how with such a boon can mix a passion low!”
This glorious Being from my fate divide;
But rather let my heart still humbler be,
That one so high should deign a thought bestow
On one so poor: and this alone to know,
Betide what may, were bliss enough for me.
O, how with such a boon can mix a passion low!”
And now, as one by crowding joys oppressed,
The happy Bird in silence sought her nest,
That lay embosomed in the spreading Oak.
Then, O, how sweetly closed—like closing flowers
That fold their petals from the nightly showers—
Her senses all! Nor aught their slumber broke
Till came the sun betimes to wake the morning hours.
The happy Bird in silence sought her nest,
That lay embosomed in the spreading Oak.
Then, O, how sweetly closed—like closing flowers
That fold their petals from the nightly showers—
Her senses all! Nor aught their slumber broke
Till came the sun betimes to wake the morning hours.
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PART II.
In childhood's dawn what bliss it is to live,
To breathe, to move, and to the senses give
Their first fresh travel o'er this glorious Earth!
Yet still of earth we seem, and all we see
But kindred things in other shapes to be;
Nor knows the soul her own distinctive birth
Till some deep inward joy from sense hath made her free.
To breathe, to move, and to the senses give
Their first fresh travel o'er this glorious Earth!
Yet still of earth we seem, and all we see
But kindred things in other shapes to be;
Nor knows the soul her own distinctive birth
Till some deep inward joy from sense hath made her free.
And, when in after years she feels the press
From things without,—and not as once to bless,
But forming bondage, while the quick, sore sense
Of freedom still survives,—O, then, how sweet
Again within one pure heart-joy to greet,
And feel it cause our very bonds dispense
Harmonious thoughts, that make the Soul and world to meet!
From things without,—and not as once to bless,
But forming bondage, while the quick, sore sense
Of freedom still survives,—O, then, how sweet
Again within one pure heart-joy to greet,
And feel it cause our very bonds dispense
Harmonious thoughts, that make the Soul and world to meet!
E'en such the charm the Angel's parting word
Left in the bosom of our gentle Bird.
And, though too blest her morn of life had been
To know of clouding grief one fleeting shade,
Yet, O, in what surpassing light arrayed
Seemed nature now! 'T was but the light within
That ever from the heart on all around her played.
Left in the bosom of our gentle Bird.
And, though too blest her morn of life had been
To know of clouding grief one fleeting shade,
Yet, O, in what surpassing light arrayed
Seemed nature now! 'T was but the light within
That ever from the heart on all around her played.
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She loved the world so lovely she had made,
And well the grateful world the gift repaid:
Its all was hers; for e'en the tiny moan
That came so faintly from the brook beneath
Now seemed her breast to heave, and forth to breathe,
And blend in deeper sadness with her own.
No, never round the heart did sadder murmur wreathe.
And well the grateful world the gift repaid:
Its all was hers; for e'en the tiny moan
That came so faintly from the brook beneath
Now seemed her breast to heave, and forth to breathe,
And blend in deeper sadness with her own.
No, never round the heart did sadder murmur wreathe.
So time went on, and tributary strains
From hill and dale, and from the breezy plains,
Came pouring all, to lose themselves in her.
Then, lost in ecstasy, how all night long
Her own sweet tribe would sit to hear her song!
Sure ne'er was known such soul-dissolving stir
In soft Italia's courts, her melting race among.
From hill and dale, and from the breezy plains,
Came pouring all, to lose themselves in her.
Then, lost in ecstasy, how all night long
Her own sweet tribe would sit to hear her song!
Sure ne'er was known such soul-dissolving stir
In soft Italia's courts, her melting race among.
Then went her fame abroad; and from the sea,
And from the far-off isles, wherever tree
Gave shelter to the wing,—from every clime
Endeared to bird, or where the spicy grove
Embalms the gale, or where, the clouds above,
The mountain pine stands sentry over time,—
The winged pilgrims came,—for fashion, or for love.
And from the far-off isles, wherever tree
Gave shelter to the wing,—from every clime
Endeared to bird, or where the spicy grove
Embalms the gale, or where, the clouds above,
The mountain pine stands sentry over time,—
The winged pilgrims came,—for fashion, or for love.
And now the wondering moon would see her light
Flash on the eagle in his downward flight,
Bending his conquered majesty to Song;
And then afar along the snowy host
Of albatross, from off the stormy coast
Of dreary Horn, that veered the clouds among,
Like to a gallant fleet by ocean-tempest tost;
Flash on the eagle in his downward flight,
Bending his conquered majesty to Song;
And then afar along the snowy host
Of albatross, from off the stormy coast
Of dreary Horn, that veered the clouds among,
Like to a gallant fleet by ocean-tempest tost;
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And then it seemed, in one vast, jaggèd sheet,
Some rising thunder-cloud's broad breast to meet,
Upheaving heavily above the sea;
But soon the seeming tempest nearer drew;
And then it broke: then how his files to view
The Western chieftain wheeled,—how loftily!—
The mighty winged prince, the condor of Peru.
Some rising thunder-cloud's broad breast to meet,
Upheaving heavily above the sea;
But soon the seeming tempest nearer drew;
And then it broke: then how his files to view
The Western chieftain wheeled,—how loftily!—
The mighty winged prince, the condor of Peru.
But who describe the ever-growing throng,
Of warring note and plume, that poured along
The tracts of air; or how the welkin rung,
As onward, like the crackling rush of flame,
With flap, and whiz, and whirr of wings, they came?
But hushed again was all; nor wing nor tongue
Stirred in the charmèd air that breathed the Bird of fame.
Of warring note and plume, that poured along
The tracts of air; or how the welkin rung,
As onward, like the crackling rush of flame,
With flap, and whiz, and whirr of wings, they came?
But hushed again was all; nor wing nor tongue
Stirred in the charmèd air that breathed the Bird of fame.
Nor easy were the task in words to paint
The congregated mass, of forms so quaint,
So wild and fierce and beautiful, that now,
Together mixed, o'erspread the enchanted wood.
Suffice to say, that gentler crowd ne'er stood
In princely hall, where all is smile and bow.
In sooth, our polished birds were quite as true and good.
The congregated mass, of forms so quaint,
So wild and fierce and beautiful, that now,
Together mixed, o'erspread the enchanted wood.
Suffice to say, that gentler crowd ne'er stood
In princely hall, where all is smile and bow.
In sooth, our polished birds were quite as true and good.
As if of ancient feud each breast bereft,
Or haply each at home its feud had left,
A high-bred sympathy here seemed to wend
Its oily way, and, like a summer stream,
Made all that on it looked more lovely seem.
So all were pleased, as gently each did bend
To see so smooth and bright his mirrored image beam.
Or haply each at home its feud had left,
A high-bred sympathy here seemed to wend
Its oily way, and, like a summer stream,
Made all that on it looked more lovely seem.
So all were pleased, as gently each did bend
To see so smooth and bright his mirrored image beam.
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Then side by side were seen the tiny form
Of wizard petrel, brewer of the storm,
And giant ostrich from Zahara's plain;
Next the fierce hawk, the robber of the skies,
With gentle dove, of soft, beseeching eyes;
And there, from Belgian fen, the bowing crane,
And dainty Eastern queen, the bird of Paradise.
Of wizard petrel, brewer of the storm,
And giant ostrich from Zahara's plain;
Next the fierce hawk, the robber of the skies,
With gentle dove, of soft, beseeching eyes;
And there, from Belgian fen, the bowing crane,
And dainty Eastern queen, the bird of Paradise.
Yet one there was that seemed with none to pair,
But rather like a flower that grew in air,
Which ever and anon, as there it stood,
Would ope its petal to the passing gale,
And then, with fitful gleam, its hues exhale,—
The little humming-bird. So Fortune wooed
Seems to the dreaming Bard; so bright,—so dim,—so frail!
But rather like a flower that grew in air,
Which ever and anon, as there it stood,
Would ope its petal to the passing gale,
And then, with fitful gleam, its hues exhale,—
The little humming-bird. So Fortune wooed
Seems to the dreaming Bard; so bright,—so dim,—so frail!
'T was passing faith, I ween, such sight to see,—
These strange and motley tribes as one agree;
But one the power that hither bade them hie,—
The magic power of Song: though some would fain
The motive deem but hope of fame to gain
For taste refined;—and what beneath the sky
Could harden e'er the heart to self-applauding strain?
These strange and motley tribes as one agree;
But one the power that hither bade them hie,—
The magic power of Song: though some would fain
The motive deem but hope of fame to gain
For taste refined;—and what beneath the sky
Could harden e'er the heart to self-applauding strain?
Ah, darling self! what transformations come
Aye at thy bidding,—eloquent or dumb,
Or loose or pure, as might beseem the time!
E'en as with man, in purple or in cowl,
So with the feathered race: hence many an owl
Hath doffed his mousing mien for look sublime,
And ruffian vulture smoothed to peace his bloody scowl.
Aye at thy bidding,—eloquent or dumb,
Or loose or pure, as might beseem the time!
E'en as with man, in purple or in cowl,
So with the feathered race: hence many an owl
Hath doffed his mousing mien for look sublime,
And ruffian vulture smoothed to peace his bloody scowl.
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PART III.
Who reaches fame attains that dizzy height
Where seldom foot is sure, or sure the sight:
So runs the adage. Yet we deem not so.
Who reach it worthily still higher aim,
And, looking upward, steadfast stand the same.
But woe to him, self-pleased, who looks below,
To measure in his pride the fearful way he came!
Where seldom foot is sure, or sure the sight:
So runs the adage. Yet we deem not so.
Who reach it worthily still higher aim,
And, looking upward, steadfast stand the same.
But woe to him, self-pleased, who looks below,
To measure in his pride the fearful way he came!
And what is genius but the gift to see
Supernal Excellence, that aye doth flee
The grasp of man, yet ever still in view
To lead him on, revealing as it flies
Ideal forms, at every step that rise
And crowd his path with beauty ever new?
O, who of self could think with these before his eyes?
Supernal Excellence, that aye doth flee
The grasp of man, yet ever still in view
To lead him on, revealing as it flies
Ideal forms, at every step that rise
And crowd his path with beauty ever new?
O, who of self could think with these before his eyes?
No,—rather would he deem a thing of clay
Were thus too blest to dream itself away.
So felt our favored Bird, so passed her days,
Nor e'en did fame one anxious thought awake;
She prized it never for its own vain sake;
Yet well she loved at that pure fount of praise,
A sympathizing heart, her nature's thirst to slake.
Were thus too blest to dream itself away.
So felt our favored Bird, so passed her days,
Nor e'en did fame one anxious thought awake;
She prized it never for its own vain sake;
Yet well she loved at that pure fount of praise,
A sympathizing heart, her nature's thirst to slake.
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And, truth to say, her gentle spirit rose
And grew in strength from each applauded close.
Ah no! not hers the art,—if such there be,—
Herself unmoved, another's breast to sway:
And well she proved that truth will truth repay,
As now to hers, as 't were a mighty sea,
A thousand heaving hearts sent up their joyous spray.
And grew in strength from each applauded close.
Ah no! not hers the art,—if such there be,—
Herself unmoved, another's breast to sway:
And well she proved that truth will truth repay,
As now to hers, as 't were a mighty sea,
A thousand heaving hearts sent up their joyous spray.
Now from his throne of light the Angel bent
Towards Earth his ear, if unaware were blent
In these applauded strains one gush of pride.
And then he smiled, as angels on a child
Are wont to smile; upon her heart he smiled;
For, no, not one small spot was there descried,
Left by the breath of praise,—so treacherously mild.
Towards Earth his ear, if unaware were blent
In these applauded strains one gush of pride.
And then he smiled, as angels on a child
Are wont to smile; upon her heart he smiled;
For, no, not one small spot was there descried,
Left by the breath of praise,—so treacherously mild.
Well pleased he saw, unsoiled of earthly stain,
His high creative gift still pure remain,
E'en as he gave it from the world above;
For he had marked her in her glory's blaze,
And seen the grateful Bird to heaven upraise
Her glittering eyes, in meek, adoring love:
And well in them he read, “No, never mine the praise.”
His high creative gift still pure remain,
E'en as he gave it from the world above;
For he had marked her in her glory's blaze,
And seen the grateful Bird to heaven upraise
Her glittering eyes, in meek, adoring love:
And well in them he read, “No, never mine the praise.”
“Thus far, sweet Bird, thy life of joy is pure.
'T is now thy lot to suffer and endure;
For now await thee other scenes, to try
And prove thee true. But Love the change ordains,
That Love that never sleeps where Evil reigns,
Bending his hateful rule to purpose high,
Till, sin by sin consumed, the good alone remains.”
'T is now thy lot to suffer and endure;
For now await thee other scenes, to try
And prove thee true. But Love the change ordains,
That Love that never sleeps where Evil reigns,
Bending his hateful rule to purpose high,
Till, sin by sin consumed, the good alone remains.”
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So, musing, spake in thought her Angel friend.
And now again to Earth our course we bend.
But here, alas! in silent pain awhile
Our tale would pause; for sad it were to trace
The fall of greatness in our human race,
But sadder here, where no ambitious guile,
Or thought of glory won by others' loss, had place.
And now again to Earth our course we bend.
But here, alas! in silent pain awhile
Our tale would pause; for sad it were to trace
The fall of greatness in our human race,
But sadder here, where no ambitious guile,
Or thought of glory won by others' loss, had place.
'T were but to tell how troop by troop fell off
Of courtly friends, with loud and open scoff,
Or secret sneer, the vice of meaner heart;
The envious these. But most, they knew not why,
Went as they came, or else to roll the eye
As others did, or play the patron's part,
And buy at second hand cheap immortality.
Of courtly friends, with loud and open scoff,
Or secret sneer, the vice of meaner heart;
The envious these. But most, they knew not why,
Went as they came, or else to roll the eye
As others did, or play the patron's part,
And buy at second hand cheap immortality.
Yet some there were,—a scattered, kindly few,
Who felt, and loved, the beautiful and true,—
Awhile did linger in the saddened wood,
Where now nor song, nor other sound, was heard,
Save when the night-hawk thro' the darkness whirred.
At length 'gan these to pine for present good,
And left, as in the past, our solitary Bird.
Who felt, and loved, the beautiful and true,—
Awhile did linger in the saddened wood,
Where now nor song, nor other sound, was heard,
Save when the night-hawk thro' the darkness whirred.
At length 'gan these to pine for present good,
And left, as in the past, our solitary Bird.
But whence the change? Some unknown Power, 't is said,
And strong as dark, had on her fortunes laid
His fatal ban, that daily seemed to drain
The fountain of her song, till all was still;—
E'en as the sandy grave of some small rill,
Erewhile a mighty stream, that, towards the main
From mountain torrents sent, would fain its course fulfil.
And strong as dark, had on her fortunes laid
His fatal ban, that daily seemed to drain
The fountain of her song, till all was still;—
E'en as the sandy grave of some small rill,
Erewhile a mighty stream, that, towards the main
From mountain torrents sent, would fain its course fulfil.
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And soon her fame a cold tradition proved
Of barren words; if ever tongue it moved
Of some kind friend, yet colder grew the heart
That strove in vain its raptures to recall
As when it warmed beneath the magic thrall
Of living sound; 't was but of some vague art
A vaguer chronicle: and so alike to all.
Of barren words; if ever tongue it moved
Of some kind friend, yet colder grew the heart
That strove in vain its raptures to recall
As when it warmed beneath the magic thrall
Of living sound; 't was but of some vague art
A vaguer chronicle: and so alike to all.
Alas! to think that from the mind should pass,
E'en as an image from the insensate glass,
This all-subduing mystery of Sound,
That with a breath can from our stubborn clay
Set free the Soul, and launch her forth to stray,
With wandering stars, through yon blue depths profound,
Where blessed spirits bask in empyrean day!
E'en as an image from the insensate glass,
This all-subduing mystery of Sound,
That with a breath can from our stubborn clay
Set free the Soul, and launch her forth to stray,
With wandering stars, through yon blue depths profound,
Where blessed spirits bask in empyrean day!
'T is even so; the shadow of a dream
Were sooner held,—doth more substantial seem
Than this celestial trance; as if 't were given,
Not to the Memory in her hoarding pride,
But to the Soul, that, while to earth allied,
Free of its thraldom, she might know of heaven.
Ah, how may trance like this with erring flesh abide?
Were sooner held,—doth more substantial seem
Than this celestial trance; as if 't were given,
Not to the Memory in her hoarding pride,
But to the Soul, that, while to earth allied,
Free of its thraldom, she might know of heaven.
Ah, how may trance like this with erring flesh abide?
But did not she, the gentle Bird, repine,
Her glory gone? O, no! “It was not mine,”
Her wise and grateful heart again would say;
“For, were it else, 't were what I might reclaim.
The gift is gone, yet leaves me still the same;
Nay, richer still; and who shall take away
The memory of love,—the love with which it came?”
Her glory gone? O, no! “It was not mine,”
Her wise and grateful heart again would say;
“For, were it else, 't were what I might reclaim.
The gift is gone, yet leaves me still the same;
Nay, richer still; and who shall take away
The memory of love,—the love with which it came?”
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Thus to herself, in murmurs sweet and low,
Spake the meek-natured Bird, as to and fro
She swung upon the slender, topmost spray
Of that lithe Ash that leaned her nest beside;
While oft the moon, who ne'er did sorrow chide,
In soothing mirth would with her shadow play,
And chase it o'er the sand, or in the forest hide.
Spake the meek-natured Bird, as to and fro
She swung upon the slender, topmost spray
Of that lithe Ash that leaned her nest beside;
While oft the moon, who ne'er did sorrow chide,
In soothing mirth would with her shadow play,
And chase it o'er the sand, or in the forest hide.
The little brook, too, like a lowly friend,
On stilly nights would sometimes humbly send
Its loving plaint: and strange to her it seemed
There came no sadness now in that low wail;
In sooth 't was like some gently-moving tale
Of checkered life, where joy through sadness gleamed,
So tempered each by each that neither might prevail.
On stilly nights would sometimes humbly send
Its loving plaint: and strange to her it seemed
There came no sadness now in that low wail;
In sooth 't was like some gently-moving tale
Of checkered life, where joy through sadness gleamed,
So tempered each by each that neither might prevail.
And wherefore is it so, that grief to grief
No pang should add, but rather bring relief?
Yet so it is. And, O, how blest to feel
The pure and mystic bond, thus shadowed forth,
That binds us to our kind,—that from our birth
Makes self a prison-house in woe or weal,
And self-sufficing hearts as alien to the Earth!
No pang should add, but rather bring relief?
Yet so it is. And, O, how blest to feel
The pure and mystic bond, thus shadowed forth,
That binds us to our kind,—that from our birth
Makes self a prison-house in woe or weal,
And self-sufficing hearts as alien to the Earth!
But chiefly is it blest where virtue dwells,
In kind and gentle hearts; and then it wells,
As 't were a fountain, forth on all around,
So that the woods and fields, and all therein
That breathe or bloom, do seem as if akin,
And man to all one common life had bound.
So to our gentle Bird all nature's self had been.
In kind and gentle hearts; and then it wells,
As 't were a fountain, forth on all around,
So that the woods and fields, and all therein
That breathe or bloom, do seem as if akin,
And man to all one common life had bound.
So to our gentle Bird all nature's self had been.
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And now did Nature in return bestow
That healing sympathy which never woe,
So it be innocent, may seek in vain.
“O, never could I in a world so fair,
So full of love, though losing all, despair;
For thou, sweet, loving world, wouldst still remain.”
The guardian Angel heard, and blessed again his care.
That healing sympathy which never woe,
So it be innocent, may seek in vain.
“O, never could I in a world so fair,
So full of love, though losing all, despair;
For thou, sweet, loving world, wouldst still remain.”
The guardian Angel heard, and blessed again his care.
Still was her humble spirit yet unproved
Of one sore test, which few have stood unmoved,—
That stinging pity which a rival's breath
Drops on the wounded heart. But soon it came.
And now began the Thrush to talk of fame;
Then of its loss,—“how bitter,—worse than death,—
To one who held so late a more than royal name.
Of one sore test, which few have stood unmoved,—
That stinging pity which a rival's breath
Drops on the wounded heart. But soon it came.
And now began the Thrush to talk of fame;
Then of its loss,—“how bitter,—worse than death,—
To one who held so late a more than royal name.
“Alas, my friend, as I recall the time
When to our humble plain that name sublime
Drew from each distant land the wondering throng
That hung upon thy breath, and see thee here,
Alone, despised, in this thy hapless sphere
Of fleeting sway, I fain could wish thy song
No praise had ever won,—or praise at least sincere.”
When to our humble plain that name sublime
Drew from each distant land the wondering throng
That hung upon thy breath, and see thee here,
Alone, despised, in this thy hapless sphere
Of fleeting sway, I fain could wish thy song
No praise had ever won,—or praise at least sincere.”
So spake the Thrush: but harmless fell the shaft
As shot in air. Yet when did lack in craft
The spirit of revenge?—if haply, too,
Of that rank, morbid growth which jealous minds
Breed as by instinct, where fit weapon finds
Each self-made wrong, as they together grew?
The smooth, dissembling Thrush had these of many kinds.
As shot in air. Yet when did lack in craft
The spirit of revenge?—if haply, too,
Of that rank, morbid growth which jealous minds
Breed as by instinct, where fit weapon finds
Each self-made wrong, as they together grew?
The smooth, dissembling Thrush had these of many kinds.
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And soon she changed, and spake in blither mood,—
“How pleasant it would be in this lone wood
To hear the converse of some cheerful friends:
And many such she knew, whose chat would cheer
Her dearest friend,—might she invite them here.
And, troth, she would.” So straight aloft she bends
Her charitable flight, and soon is lost in air.
“How pleasant it would be in this lone wood
To hear the converse of some cheerful friends:
And many such she knew, whose chat would cheer
Her dearest friend,—might she invite them here.
And, troth, she would.” So straight aloft she bends
Her charitable flight, and soon is lost in air.
Nor strange the enmity in one so late
A seeming friend. 'T was but the common hate
Which cold, vain hearts deem solace in their need;
These covet fame as if a thing of will,
By suffrage won; so count it grievous ill
If luckier rivals win the voted meed.
Then what but sweet revenge the craving heart can fill?
A seeming friend. 'T was but the common hate
Which cold, vain hearts deem solace in their need;
These covet fame as if a thing of will,
By suffrage won; so count it grievous ill
If luckier rivals win the voted meed.
Then what but sweet revenge the craving heart can fill?
Nor aught with such avails a rival's fall,—
Save that he feel it; then, perchance, the gall
May cease to flow. But, let him brook it well,—
His sad reverse,—as did our gentle Bird,
Without complaining look or fretful word;
Then how afresh this bitter spring of hell,
With hotter-reeking hate, to fiercer flow is stirred!
Save that he feel it; then, perchance, the gall
May cease to flow. But, let him brook it well,—
His sad reverse,—as did our gentle Bird,
Without complaining look or fretful word;
Then how afresh this bitter spring of hell,
With hotter-reeking hate, to fiercer flow is stirred!
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PART IV.
'T was now the hour,—that boding hour of life,
When half-awakened forms of care or strife
Mix with the broken dream,—that shadowy hour,
That like a spectre stands 'twixt night and day,
For good or ill, and with his finger gray
Points to the daily doom no mortal power,
For virtue or for vice, can either change or stay.
When half-awakened forms of care or strife
Mix with the broken dream,—that shadowy hour,
That like a spectre stands 'twixt night and day,
For good or ill, and with his finger gray
Points to the daily doom no mortal power,
For virtue or for vice, can either change or stay.
And never came that hour more winning mild
To mar the fancies of a sleeping child,
Than now it came to our sweet Philomel.
She looked abroad upon the hueless wood,
Then on the sandy plain, where lately stood
That breathing multitude no tongue could tell;
All, all was still and blank, yet all to her was good.
To mar the fancies of a sleeping child,
Than now it came to our sweet Philomel.
She looked abroad upon the hueless wood,
Then on the sandy plain, where lately stood
That breathing multitude no tongue could tell;
All, all was still and blank, yet all to her was good.
For e'en the stillness seemed as if a part
Of that pure peace that wrapt her gentle heart.
Then how like thoughts, or rather like the cloud
Of formless feeling growing into thought,
The dusky mass, as now she sees it wrought
Slow into shapes, that all around her crowd,
As each their hue of life from day's first herald caught,—
Of that pure peace that wrapt her gentle heart.
Then how like thoughts, or rather like the cloud
Of formless feeling growing into thought,
The dusky mass, as now she sees it wrought
Slow into shapes, that all around her crowd,
As each their hue of life from day's first herald caught,—
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The purple rack, that from the eastern sky
Tells to the waking earth that day is nigh.
So mused she undepressed in this lone scene.
But now the sun is up; and soon a train,
Led by the wily Thrush, athwart the plain
Is seen to bend. More gorgeous sight, I ween,
Ne'er made the ethereal bow when bent through morning rain!
Tells to the waking earth that day is nigh.
So mused she undepressed in this lone scene.
But now the sun is up; and soon a train,
Led by the wily Thrush, athwart the plain
Is seen to bend. More gorgeous sight, I ween,
Ne'er made the ethereal bow when bent through morning rain!
The tenants of the wood what this might mean
Quick gathered round to learn; for they had seen
The stranger band afar, like some gray mist,
Loosed from a mountain peak, wreathing its way
Slow up the west; and there anon to play
As with the sun; now, dark, his light resist,
And now, in flickering flakes, fling far each shivered ray.
Quick gathered round to learn; for they had seen
The stranger band afar, like some gray mist,
Loosed from a mountain peak, wreathing its way
Slow up the west; and there anon to play
As with the sun; now, dark, his light resist,
And now, in flickering flakes, fling far each shivered ray.
These were the creatures of that regal clime
Where reigns the imperial Sun; whose soil sublime
Teems through its glowing depths e'en with his light,
There ripening into gems; the while he dyes,
With his own orient hues, the earth and skies,
But most the feathered race,—that so their flight
Might bring his glory back in radiant sacrifice.
Where reigns the imperial Sun; whose soil sublime
Teems through its glowing depths e'en with his light,
There ripening into gems; the while he dyes,
With his own orient hues, the earth and skies,
But most the feathered race,—that so their flight
Might bring his glory back in radiant sacrifice.
“Behold my promised friends; far travellers they,—
E'en from the new-found world,—who fain would pay
Their passing homage to a Bird so famed.”
So spake the insidious Thrush: and then around
Her snaky eyes she cast, as one who found
Full sure revenge. “Nay, wherefore shrink, ashamed
Thy meaner form to show? for what is form to sound?”
E'en from the new-found world,—who fain would pay
Their passing homage to a Bird so famed.”
So spake the insidious Thrush: and then around
Her snaky eyes she cast, as one who found
Full sure revenge. “Nay, wherefore shrink, ashamed
Thy meaner form to show? for what is form to sound?”
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The taunting words came dead upon the ear
Of her they would have smote; the cruel sneer
Touched not a heart so flooded o'er with love,—
That pure, supernal love which now gushed forth:—
“O blessed creatures! whence your glorious birth?
From what bright region of the world above?
Sure never things so fair first breathed upon the Earth!”
Of her they would have smote; the cruel sneer
Touched not a heart so flooded o'er with love,—
That pure, supernal love which now gushed forth:—
“O blessed creatures! whence your glorious birth?
From what bright region of the world above?
Sure never things so fair first breathed upon the Earth!”
So deep, yet passionless, that wondrous love
Which Beauty wakes! Pure Instinct from above!
That, 'mid the selfish needs, and pains, and fears,
That waste the heart, still fresh dost ever live!
O, who can doubt the promise thou dost give
Of higher destiny,—when toiling years
And pain and sin shall flee, and only love survive?
Which Beauty wakes! Pure Instinct from above!
That, 'mid the selfish needs, and pains, and fears,
That waste the heart, still fresh dost ever live!
O, who can doubt the promise thou dost give
Of higher destiny,—when toiling years
And pain and sin shall flee, and only love survive?
Scarce had she spoke, when o'er the wondering crowd,
Grazing the dark tree-tops, there stood a cloud
Of dazzling white; while 'gainst the deep blue sky
Aloft it rose, as 't were some feudal pile,
Where tourneys, held for gentle ladies' smile,
Brought from each polished land her chivalry,
From proud Granada's realm to Britain's gallant isle.
Grazing the dark tree-tops, there stood a cloud
Of dazzling white; while 'gainst the deep blue sky
Aloft it rose, as 't were some feudal pile,
Where tourneys, held for gentle ladies' smile,
Brought from each polished land her chivalry,
From proud Granada's realm to Britain's gallant isle.
But how unlike to them the radiant throng
That from these cloudy towers poured down their song,
Breathing of Heaven in each hallowed word!
“All hail!” they sang,—“all hail, sweet Nightingale!
Who enviest not, who hatest not, all hail!
Who sufferest all, yet lovest all, sweet Bird!
Thy glory here begun shall never, never fail!”
That from these cloudy towers poured down their song,
Breathing of Heaven in each hallowed word!
“All hail!” they sang,—“all hail, sweet Nightingale!
Who enviest not, who hatest not, all hail!
Who sufferest all, yet lovest all, sweet Bird!
Thy glory here begun shall never, never fail!”
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But, lo! a sudden darkness, deep as night,
Fell on the thick, hot air. With strange affright
The winged crowd against each other dashed:
All but our gentle Bird; she fearless stood,
And saw the towery cloud, now changed to blood,
Boil as in wrath; and now with fire it flashed,
And forth the thunder rolled, and shook the appalled wood.
Fell on the thick, hot air. With strange affright
The winged crowd against each other dashed:
All but our gentle Bird; she fearless stood,
And saw the towery cloud, now changed to blood,
Boil as in wrath; and now with fire it flashed,
And forth the thunder rolled, and shook the appalled wood.
Then straight again the quiet sylvan scene
Lay bright and basking in the morning sheen;—
So like a dream had this wild vision fled!
Nor left it aught its fearful truth to note,
Save on the sandy plain one small, dark spot,
Where lay the envious Thrush,—black, stiff, and dead.
Alas, too well deserved her miserable lot!
Lay bright and basking in the morning sheen;—
So like a dream had this wild vision fled!
Nor left it aught its fearful truth to note,
Save on the sandy plain one small, dark spot,
Where lay the envious Thrush,—black, stiff, and dead.
Alas, too well deserved her miserable lot!
A cold, brief look was all the useless dead
Had from her parting friends, who forthwith sped
Each to his tropic home. But what befell
Our gentle Bird? Some say her glorious strain
Within that dreadful cloud was heard again,
Deepening the thunder; then afar to swell
'Mid soft, symphonious sounds, like murmurs from the main.
Had from her parting friends, who forthwith sped
Each to his tropic home. But what befell
Our gentle Bird? Some say her glorious strain
Within that dreadful cloud was heard again,
Deepening the thunder; then afar to swell
'Mid soft, symphonious sounds, like murmurs from the main.
Howe'er it was, one faith had all possessed,—
Her spirit then was numbered with the blest.
And still there are who hold a faith as strong,
Though years have passed, far, far upon the drift
Of ebbless time, that some have now the gift
On a still, starlight night to hear her song,—
As 't were their blameless hearts still nearer heaven to lift.
Her spirit then was numbered with the blest.
And still there are who hold a faith as strong,
Though years have passed, far, far upon the drift
Of ebbless time, that some have now the gift
On a still, starlight night to hear her song,—
As 't were their blameless hearts still nearer heaven to lift.
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