University of Virginia Library

Still they are scatheless—lock'd in such a deep
And central calm secure as might have seem'd
Immortal: O, let no rude gust invade
The latticed window, startling them to feel
How very near is ruin!

Still the old
Dear ivy clasps the mullion—clusters still
Up the green trellis, and against the panes
Still droops and flickers in the sun: the flowers
Not yet are orphan'd, which upon the sill
Breast the cool air delighted, uttering
Sweet thanks into the room.

Beyond the broad
Bright court, tall elm-trees of the avenue
Slope out into the west; and over head,
Out of the zenith-blue, a consciousness
Of other hues is born,—uncertain things
And faint, which do entreat all wary eyes
To disbelieve them; but, more daring, soon
Blush thro' each other—splendid phantasies
Inextricably weaving of wild lights
Rose-mellow'd into fusion,—which, behind
Quaint antique gables dip transparently
Into a rich unknown.

What time the tides
Of evening light are at the full, and swim
A level flood through all enchanted homes
That open to the west, they also here
Sweep in, and slanting to a cool recess—
Where student-lamps, and songs, and pleasant aids
For leisure lie, not innocent of use,—
Strike on a Belvidere—not instinct
With Memnon's voice thereat, but glistening
More bright and godlike—gazing from his nook
At a coy Venus, whose wet shrinking limbs
Hide in the shade: beneath them, in an arch,
The eloquent Roman gathers up his gown,
Intent to speak. That large delightful home
Of unborn sounds, wherefrom, at whispering eve,
All quick creative fingers lightly draw
Rich births of intricate harmonies, confused,
But most instinct with meaning,—this anear
Stands like a sleeping human countenance,
Suggestive—making in the inanimate room
A sense of life. Around are many songs
Of wordless bards, whose speechful music strikes
Swifter and surer into all men's hearts
Than poets' speech most musical: beside,
Across the entering airs, the sofa lies—
Immortal ‘Sofa’! where, with crude discourse
Possess'd but earnest, friends have used to sit
In gentle idlesse half a summer's night.
Hard by, the central slab is thick with books
Diverse, but which the true eclectic mind
Knows how to group, and gather out of each
Their frequent wisdoms: the great Book of God,
Mother of blessings; and the thoughts of him,
That one columnar spirit, whose great soul
Did antedate the larger growth of life
For which we look—who moves among us yet,
The Baptist of the future; lesser bards
Lie round, and thinkers, whose melodious lips
Yet glow with life; severe philosophies,
Romances, legends of the grand old Greeks—
What skills to speak of more? For in the midst,
Shedding a snowy silence over all,
Stands the white-throated bulbul of the North—
Incarnate music: loveliest she in soul,
And sweetest of the Syrens.

Close beside,
That nest of cushion'd ease, where musing Thought
Oft sits at eve, and ponders with fix'd eyes
The quiet embers; embers whence anon
Some brilliant blaze, waking a kindred hope,
Bursts on the startled room, as from the dark
Springs a white wave against some sleeping shore.
And o'er the shelving lintel of that hearth
Behold a fretted wall, fretted with groups
Of wreathen shafts and flowers, whereon sweet forms
Of moulded grace are throned,—and hanging disks,
Boss'd with wild scenes of that strange alchymist,
And Margaret in his bosom. Also thou,
Melpomene of saints! with buoyant wings
And lucid robe and coronal of stars,
Art domed in the midst.

But chief above
Leans the one pictured angel of the place,—
Unutterable beauty: most austere
And pensive is her silence—one faint shade
Of sadness more, and she had been in tears;
But O, how sweet! Her mute unfailing eyes
Watch me for ever—they are on me now;
And to absorb the fulness of their boons
Asks but an upward look. She hath no heart
That men may wound: and surely eyes like those
Can drink a world of loves and sorrows in
From him that gazes, and give back them all
In blessings, like a god. What tho' she hath
No being? Tho' no child of loveliness
Call this sweet face her own? Sometimes 'tis well
To love a thing that is not; so all wants
That must be fed, feed harmless: and, i' faith,
Our souls may well be joyous, holding up
Betwixt themselves and that nonentity
So fair a mask as this. Not all in skill,
But wisdom too, Pygmalion was a god.

Enough: I, leaning by the studious desk,
Look on these things,—like him, the friend of God,
What time he pondered from his eastern crag
The loveliness of Sodom. Thus laments
Vague expectation in the place of thought:
“To-morrow, with the setting of the sun,
This tent is struck for ever, and its spoils
Flung through a ruthless future into death:
To-morrow, with the darkening of yon blue
And advent of the deathless moon, I gird
My scatter'd self about me, and compress
All love, all friendship, all remember'd sweets
And vivid contrast of this excellence
With that dull mist beyond—all gratitude,
And all frail joys that cannot bear to leave
Their home, but choose to stay behind and die,—
Into that strain'd elastic word—Farewell!”