 | Benoni |  |
51
THE EREMITES.
“It boots not thus to pace the shingly marge
Of Life's great ocean, dungeon'd in by cliffs
Behind, and forward, the strong restless surge
Booming about us—deafening all the soul
To those still strains of holy thought she loves:
We'll float our worn and batter'd hearts away
Over the billows to yon central sea,
Grand and deep-shadow'd, where no eye o' the world
Intrudes, but only on its face for aye
Broods the clear gaze of heaven, enchanting it
To sympathetic beauty; every one
Of all its changeful sheens and flickering hues
Hath had a mother in the sky, and keeps
Close to her delicate image, unalloy'd
By aught of earth, save filmy transient things
That rarely flit between, as if to enhance
The blue monotony of loveliness
By shades of contrast, and the sweet suspense
Of discords in such harmony of light:
There, with rich-scented incense-drops of prayer
One holiest spot in that lone paradise
We'll smoothen for ourselves—a hallow'd ring
Of calm lagoon, to muse in and be still!”
Of Life's great ocean, dungeon'd in by cliffs
Behind, and forward, the strong restless surge
Booming about us—deafening all the soul
To those still strains of holy thought she loves:
We'll float our worn and batter'd hearts away
Over the billows to yon central sea,
Grand and deep-shadow'd, where no eye o' the world
Intrudes, but only on its face for aye
Broods the clear gaze of heaven, enchanting it
To sympathetic beauty; every one
Of all its changeful sheens and flickering hues
Hath had a mother in the sky, and keeps
Close to her delicate image, unalloy'd
By aught of earth, save filmy transient things
That rarely flit between, as if to enhance
52
By shades of contrast, and the sweet suspense
Of discords in such harmony of light:
There, with rich-scented incense-drops of prayer
One holiest spot in that lone paradise
We'll smoothen for ourselves—a hallow'd ring
Of calm lagoon, to muse in and be still!”
Dear exquisite seductions! How intense
And poignant is the sorrow of our souls,
From such a voice when Reason all severe
This only lesson draws—How far from twins
On the crude Earth are Loveliness and Truth!
Truth? She is wrought with Permanence and Repose,
To make a whole in Beauty: of such trine,
Beloved, in the music of your strain,
Alas! there is but one. Yet men's dull ears
Have echoed that, and with the doubling sound
Peopled the mute chords of the absent twain,
And thought 'twas harmony: or haply thought,—
Pacing a false and foul and restless world—
That truthful Beauty, sure, was all Repose.
And who shall blame them, tenants of a time
When good was but a lesser evil,—when
The trembling heart, cross'd in her arrowy path
Of purity by lust and passionate sin,
Plunged wildly down some cool chance-proffer'd glade
For quiet, and a nearer path to Heaven:
A time when weary men, in the hot glare
Of bustling toilsome noon distracted, heard
Among the half-seen woodlands far away
Soft whisper'd sidelong notes, that wooingly
Stole o'er their fever'd spirits like a dew;—
They did not pause, nor listen if it were
Only a Siren's song, or the echoing trail
Of melodies by lonely beings made
In differing worlds, and floated down to ours
Like wondrous aërolites; but all at once,
Reckless, and mad with hope and the deep hate
Of all behind, they darted on to track
Those sweet sounds, saying in their simple hearts
“They must be true, because they sing of Peace!”
And poignant is the sorrow of our souls,
From such a voice when Reason all severe
This only lesson draws—How far from twins
On the crude Earth are Loveliness and Truth!
Truth? She is wrought with Permanence and Repose,
To make a whole in Beauty: of such trine,
Beloved, in the music of your strain,
Alas! there is but one. Yet men's dull ears
Have echoed that, and with the doubling sound
Peopled the mute chords of the absent twain,
And thought 'twas harmony: or haply thought,—
Pacing a false and foul and restless world—
53
And who shall blame them, tenants of a time
When good was but a lesser evil,—when
The trembling heart, cross'd in her arrowy path
Of purity by lust and passionate sin,
Plunged wildly down some cool chance-proffer'd glade
For quiet, and a nearer path to Heaven:
A time when weary men, in the hot glare
Of bustling toilsome noon distracted, heard
Among the half-seen woodlands far away
Soft whisper'd sidelong notes, that wooingly
Stole o'er their fever'd spirits like a dew;—
They did not pause, nor listen if it were
Only a Siren's song, or the echoing trail
Of melodies by lonely beings made
In differing worlds, and floated down to ours
Like wondrous aërolites; but all at once,
Reckless, and mad with hope and the deep hate
Of all behind, they darted on to track
Those sweet sounds, saying in their simple hearts
“They must be true, because they sing of Peace!”
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