The Finding of The Book and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I never yet heard music, howe'er sweet,
Never saw flower or light, ocean or hill,
But a quick thrill of something finer still
Touch'd me with sadness. Never did I meet
Any completeness but was incomplete;
Never found shapes half fair enough to fill
The royal galleries of my boundless will;
Never wrote I one line that I could greet
A twelvemonth after with a brow of fire.
Thus then I walk my way and find no rest—
Only the beauty unattain'd, the cry
After the inexpressible unexpressed,
The unsatiated insatiable desire
Which at once mocks and makes all poesy.

THE FINDING OF THE BOOK

[SUGGESTED BY READING BACON'S ‘NEW ATLANTIS’]

The enchanted island rose before me, drawn
More beautiful than words of mine may reach;
It lay magnificent in a magic dawn,
And full of boscage to the foam-fringed beach.

How well the city of the sons of knowledge
Stood, giving pleasant prospect to the sea!
The fabulous and fancied island college
Unfabled and unfancied grew for me.

In secret conclave of a sea so vast—
Earth's widest wilderness of waves ring'd round—
No mariner ever caught from any mast
A glimpse or inkling of that happy ground.

Yet now (such fair adventure did I win!)
That I could see and hear whate'er of state
Or thought, or work or worship, was within
That Muse-discovered island Fortunate!

I saw the House of Solomon strongly stand,
No fane so noble springs from any sod;
The oracle and lanthorn of the land,
Where Nature is the interpreter of God.

The College of the Six Days' Work well called,
Whence traders issue—not for gain or might,
For gold or silk, for spice or emerald—
Only for God's first creature, which is light.

I saw the masters of the speech and pen,
Those cunning in the secret cause of things;
Whose aspect was as if they pitied men—
A temperate race, a commonwealth of kings.

And, reverencing self, each soul was great,
And, reverencing God, to each was brought
With long calm striving strength inviolate,
With virgin purity victorious thought.

Being such they scorn the mob's vain fierce desires
Whereof coherent reading may not be,
Like the wild message interrupted wires
Send in magnetic storms below the sea.

Yet deem'd I ‘Something wants where all is fair,’
I sigh'd, ‘Man doth not live alone by bread’—
‘What of the higher life, whose breath is prayer?
What of the touch of sacraments?’ I said.

Behold! a chime of bells rang toward the east,
To a cathedral moved a white-robed host,
And of the wisest each man was a priest,
And broadest brows were those that brighten'd most.

Within, i' the midst, was a scroll clasp'd with gold,
And one stood forth of look more sweet than strong,
And (for the day was festival) he told
‘The Finding of the Book’ in measured song.

‘One eve like this, a thousand years ago,
Our merchantmen of light were weary grown;
Wise men are strong, but for the strong 'tis woe
To know the holiest of truth unknown.

‘And then through all the cloister'd aisles of beech,
The fluted stems from whence the builder learns,
There passed a softer breath than any speech—
A dying light stream'd in ward on the ferns.

‘Those trees stand waiting through the silent years,
Expecting some one who doth never come;
So sternly happy over human tears,
To human words so eloquently dumb.

‘They wait some song that winters never sing,
Some summer blue that eye hath never seen,
The far-off footfall of some spellbound spring,
That lingers unimaginably green.

‘But through them passed that eve a mystic breath,
A hint from God to all their leaves was given,
Some inarticulate news of life and death,
The anticipation of some gift from Heaven.

‘And when the sun had sunk, and the night was
Cloudy and calm, some mile into the sea
Upon our eastern coast it came to pass
A light unspeakable hover'd far a-lee.

‘There sail'd a pillar from some shore unknown,
Pillar with cross atop, and both of light;
And all the ocean hush'd its stormy tone,
And awe was on the azure infinite.

‘The throng upon the strand made not a stir,
But boats put forth to see the lights divine,
And the crews stood as in a theatre,
Beholding this, as if a heavenly sign.

‘And after prayer, the wisest of our wise
Toward the pillar rowed with muffled oar,
Half fear'd that at one sound beneath the skies
The delicate dream might fade for evermore.

‘When, as the boat drew near, its crew much awed,
The moon being partly hid by pearly bars,
Pillar and cross did cast themselves abroad
Into a firmament of many stars.

‘What ark was that? How chanced it on the tide?
No gallant ship upon the ocean rode,
No lights were lit the mariners to guide,
On pencill'd spars no sail was moon-besnow'd.

‘Sole there remained that tiny cedar ark,
Wherefrom there grew one small green branch of palm,
Which open'd, nothing but the Book they mark,
Wherein is written every holy Psalm;

‘And all the histories of the Hebrew years,
And all the treasury of soul-complaints,
And all the dim magnificence of seers,
And all the sighs and silences of saints,

‘And all the visions by the Patmian shore,
Cycle in cycle orbing manifold,
And all the hopes that make the sweet heav'n more
Than a mere mist of amethyst and gold.

‘And chief enshrined above earth's waves of strife,
The unfathomable words that Jesus saith—
And all the loveliness of one white Life,
And all the pathos of one perfect Death.’

What high fulfilment hath thy vision found?
What fair adventure hath thy fancy brought?
With what rich wreaths is thy Utopia crown'd?
And what success hath fallen to thy thought?

The thinkers and the workers walk apart
Upon the banks of Isis and of Cam.
The worker from the thing miscall'd his heart
Casts forth like ice his morsell'd epigram.

The thinker owns of mere subjective worth
His thought, and piles his doubts like flakes of snow,
And o'er a darken'd universe drivels forth
His feeble and immeasurable ‘No.’

And that sweet story! Ah! the Book enfolden
Unstain'd and glorious by the branch of palm,
O'er it the shaft of light and cross more golden,
Round it the sea's illimitable calm;

Came it so gently within cedar barr'd,
And floated it on waves so grandly lit,
And kept the angles such a watch and ward,
And arch'd such tender azure over it,

That the white page should be so darkly blotted
By the high treason of the sceptic's ink,
And the one story of a life unspotted
Fall into four as certain critics think?

That the sweet breath of miracle should die,
Like the brief odour of the cedarn ark,
On earth's one truest page be branded—Lie!
On its one chronicle of sunlight—Dark?

And He whom we adore with bended head,
What tints are these the mockers intermix?
The riddle of the years is poorly read,
A contradiction loads the crucifix.

They call Him King. They mourn o'er His eclipse,
And fill a cup of half-contemptuous wine,
Foam the froth'd rhetoric for the death-white lips,
And ring the changes on the word ‘divine.’

Divinely gentle—yet a sombre giant;
Divinely perfect—yet imperfect man;
Divinely calm—yet recklessly defiant;
Divinely true—yet half a charlatan.

They torture all the record of the Life,
Give—what from France and Germany they get,
To Calvary carry a dissecting-knife,
Parisian patchouli to Olivet.

They talk of critical battle-flags unfurl'd,
Of the wing'd sweep of science high and grand—
And sometimes publish to a yawning world
A book of patchwork learning second-hand.

Wing'd, did they say? but different wings uplift
The little living ecstasy sunward borne,
And the brown-feather'd thief, with one poor gift,
To stoop and twitter as it steals the corn.

Patience! God's House of Light shall yet be built,
In years unthought of, to some unknown song,
And from the fanes of Science shall her guilt
Pass like a cloud. How long, O Lord, how long?—

When Faith shall grow a man, and Thought a child,
And that in us which thinks with that which feels
Shall everlastingly be reconciled,
And that which questioneth with that which kneels.

And that true Book—the lovely dream is o'er
Which saw it shelter'd well beneath the palm,
Sent by a saint from some mysterious shore,
Its tiny frigate floating o'er a calm.

No vessel bore it to a sacred isle,
No magic kept it from the salt sea-spray,
It had no perfect charm of Grecian style,
No shaft of glory heralded its way.

Yet, peradventure, shall diviner seem
The chronicle of a severer truth,
Than all the fabulous colouring of the dream
That tinted it so richly in our youth.

And yet, for all the puzzle of the lines,
All the discordant copies stain'd with age,
A more miraculous lore it intertwines,
A grander Christ looks radiant from its page.

For all the stammering of those simple men,
A fourfold unity of truth they reach:
Drops as of light fall from their trembling pen,
And Christ speaks through them with a tenderer speech.

And through all time our fathers' faith shall speed,
And the old utterance be still found right,
And eastward chanted rise the changeless creed—
O very God from God, O Light from Light!

And from the human thought that freshly springs
From hearts that ever to the high heaven look,
From the brave student's fearless questionings,
Shall come a fairer ‘Finding of the Book.’

FAITH'S RESURGENCE

I

In the Indian dawn
Many a long, voluminous fold,
Vicious blue and viscous gold,
Twenty living feet of hell,
Glides a snake into the grass
From an old tree in the dell.
Hush! and if thou wilt behold
Vibrant tongue and fang of fire
Through the woodland and the lawn,
Loathlier than by poet drawn,
Yet possessing the strange spell
That doth fascinate too well,

To yon forest, higher, higher,
Let the anaconda pass.
Front not thou that fell small eye,
Lest thou die.

II

In the season's fulness
Out a certain volume came—
Flash and fineness, serpents' flame,
Tints that glitter and enthrall,
Lit it with the rich surprise
Of the art rhetorical.
Fire it had and epigram,
Many a plausible ‘perhaps’;
Finite scales for infinite maps;
Perfect hatred's perfect coolness;
Poetry sometimes, never dulness;
Pictured words which coloured lies
Cast, fantastic fallacies.
Through those painted panes, the eyes;
That one sinless and august
Figure of the Perfect Just,
Crown'd in half-admiring scorn
With a fresh acanthus-thorn,

Patronised with knowing nods
Of a connoisseur of gods;
Doubts well scatter'd if a known
And real God hath any throne;
Lofty words for low surmises,
Mean in beautiful disguises.
Faith! that fatal book pass by,
Lest thou die.

III

In the Indian morn
Out a gallant boy there went,
Archer of the orient.
Young, at the young day he laughed—
Blue heaven smiled on his intent.
Shafts his quiver did contain,
And a death in every shaft;
In his hand his bow was bent,
The long worm rais'd long back, lit head.
Soon his mother came forlorn;
Dead with small stab, as of thorn,
Saw her boy by the serpent, dead,
With an arrow of his craft,
With a sharp and wingèd shaft,
Fastened in its evil brain.

What cared she?—Our darlings slain
Live not with our life again.
What cared she?—Her hunter lay
Dead that day.

IV

In his gentle wrath
One of Christ's young soldiers took
All the peril of that book;
Feared not for the fulgent skin,
Slew the serpent of its thought,
Triumph, as it seemed, did win—
Pen and page of poison! Look,
Strange and terrible surprise!
Something has pierced in of death,
Some fang stricken life's first faith.
All the childlike has passed out
With the small black stab of doubt.
Films are o'er the dewy eyes,
Life's first sweet credulities
Faded under summer skies.
Mother weeps for graces dead,
And will not be comforted.
By the book it overthrew
Faith died too.

V

Make not mourning longer—
Resurrection follows death.
A regenerated Faith
Like the first, but fairer much,
Like the first, but grander, stronger,
Rises where the first fell down—
Proof against the poison'd touch,
Proof against the serpent's tooth.
Broader brow the Risen hath,
Vaster amplitudes of truth;
Understands the peril wholly,
Faces foes more fully seen,
Wider, wiser, more serene,
With a hopeful melancholy.
Mourn not, therefore, overmuch,
Though the child-faith's death be such—
Stronger faith wins starrier crown.
Gone the boy's free thoughtless laughter,
Man's grave smile shall come thereafter,
As he walks contented out
From the shadow of his doubt,
Frosty sunshine round about.

Faith hath her own tonic light—
Faith in Pity infinite
For the infinite pathos found
In our human life all round,
By the God who at its centre
That most sorrowful life did enter,
From it gently feeling thence
Round the vast circumference—
For the first faith, fair and bold,
But by knowledge uncontrolled,
Be consoled.

This poem was written shortly after the appearance of M. Renan's Vie de Jésus, and attempts to convey the author's first impression of that extraordinary performance. The incident of the youth and the snake was read in a volume of travels, but he has not preserved his reference.

THE FOYLE GRAVEL-BOAT

I stood upon yon Bridge, 'neath which
The murmuring Foyle so nobly flows.
The winter made the sunset rich
With brass that in the sunset glows,
With vast and visionary rose,

Born sudden, tremulously dead,
Fading in blue and golden grain—
And westward far one's eye was led
Where the great river's wrinkled lane
Of glory dusk'd and shone again.

On the right bank the frosty mist
Wrapt street and church,—but up far higher
What sacred pointing finger is 't?
The cross on the cathedral spire,
White under a wild stretch of fire,

As if to teach that everywhere
O'er task of toil and field of fate,
Whatever be the sky or air,
Are signs that tell our low estate
Of gentleness that makes us great.

Then I looked next with lifted heart—
Lo! a barge on the far-lit line.
Galley or argosy thou art
For all that night-dark sail of thine,
Part of some dim old song divine.

Down-stream thou droppest with no stir,—
On such as thee in golden days
Some credulous old chronicler,
His finger on his lips, did gaze
Childlike in credulous amaze;

Waited to carry home with him
Some story it was well to ponder,
Looking, while heaven grew half dim,
Now musing and now smiling, under
A sky whose light was one of wonder.

A traveller told him on the quay,
And swore that he on board had shipp'd—
Who could doubt one with beard so gray?
So from the chronicler it slipp'd
Richly into his manuscript.

O traveller! whose golden hap
Found wild seas foaming far from us
Ungirt by the insult of a map.
(His ample stories broadened thus
Mandeville or Herodotus.)

Ship!—he averr'd that thou didst pass
With gum wept from Arabian trees
To burn at Christmas midnight mass
—And some suspicion faint of these
Sweet cargoes stole out on the seas;

As when the first Epiphany sent
Those kings (than whom were wiser none)
Westward to find the Orient,
Star-led all day to make the one
Star-lit discovery of the Sun;

Or else thou borest over-sea
The rare stone that enricheth so
Gem-gravel of Taprobane,
That hath the blood-drop's delicate glow
On the white pigeon's wing of snow.

Or, an it liketh you, a tale
Of a young king in battle slain—
His queen bid hoist such night-black sail—
Upon the deck is a red stain,
And on his white cheek is a rain.

O'er his closed lids a gold veil rare,
And a voice on the river cries—
The pale gold is a woman's hair,
The rain falls from a woman's eyes
Under the January skies.

Or else, O ship! 'twas told that thou
Some holy missioner had on board—
God's love lay gently on his brow—
Who came to tell some heathen horde
Of the Incarnation of the Lord.

Pointing so gently to the rood
That irresistible sweetness lay
Upon it—and the men of blood
Asked for the holy font that day
To wash the stains of sin away.

Silence!—yon barge is but a boat
Where poor men carry day by day
—Not gems and gums from isles remote.
Not kings from battles far away,
But gravel to the city-quay.

Yet those we see not looking on,
Better than poesy in their glance,
Ere further homeward they are gone,
May deem that bearing loads perchance
Is earth's poor nearest to romance.

Suggested to the writer upon Derry Bridge in January 1888.

PICTURA POESIS

GENOA, 1872

Two sunny winter days I sped along
The Riviera's winding mountain way;
Scarcely I caught the blue sea's faint far song,
By terraced hill and olive-shaded bay.

Far off the Alpine snow's eternal line
Stretch'd over hills with wondrous curves cut well,
Against the iridescent dome divine,
The cupola of light ineffable.

They say thought loses 'neath the Italian heaven
The mortal languor of its modern scorn;
That England's passionless pilgrims may be given
An ampler soul beneath an ampler morn.

Would it were thus! In sooth it may be so,
Yet well I ween, my littleness I bore
In sight of the imperishable snow,
In presence of the glory of that shore,—

Selfish before that purity without end,
Faith's eye ungifted with a sight more keen,
What time the outward eye had fullest kenn'd
Those long deep distances of lustrous sheen.

False where our God so many a secret writes
In lovely syllables for souls elect,
Here, where the very winter half his nights
In gardens sleeps of roses not undeck'd.

If he have wrinkles, they are greenly hid;
If murmurings, they are tuned to silver seas;
And any dimness from his brow is chid
By the gold lamps of all the orange-trees.

And so we came to that world-famous sweep
Where, on her amphitheatre of hill,
Old Genoa looks superbly on the deep,
As if she held her own Columbus still;

As if toward Africa, at close of day,
Her galleys headed under press of sail,
And brave old Admiral Doria, grim and gray,
Watch'd from the terraces their golden trail,

And to the gentle girl who paced beside
Told tales of sinking ships and war-clouds dun,
Until he heard again the hurrying tide
And the long growling of the battle-gun.

Yet still, through all the witchery of the clime,
My heart felt burden'd with its former pain;
I asked for something beyond reach of time
To make me for a little young again.

Nor ask'd in vain,—for wandering here and there
To see the pictures with an idle heart,
Above the red Palazzo's marble stair
I own'd the magic of old Vandyck's art.

Be still, and let me gaze—a noble child
Upon the Master's canvas here I see:
Surely two hundred summer suns have smiled
Italian light, young Brignola, on thee.

The light that makes such violets divine,
And hangs such roses on the haunted soil,
And spheres such flashes in the flask of wine,
And fills the olive with such golden oil.

The light, too, that makes hearts with living chords
Too fine for happiness—that never fails
To ripen lives too richly—whence the words
Of all those strange pathetic passion tales.

But thou, immortal child! with those dark eyes,
And that proud brow—I will not call it white,—
A something rather like the snow that lies
Between dark clouds and the unclouded light.

I know not, will not ask what was thy fate—
Whether thou laughedst in this very spot,
Then wentest forth in beauty with thy mate,
A fair adventure and a gentle lot.

Whether with intermingling gleam and gloom
Thy shadows and thy sunshine did rain down,
Like that sweet lady in the other room,
Thy sister with the gold on her green gown.

Whether thou livedst till the winter came,
And the calm with it that life's spring denies,
Retaining only of thy present frame
The unextinguish'd light of those full eyes.

Whether thou lovedst, and the winds of heaven
Blew favourably,—and, thy moon-touch'd sail
Glimm'ring into the dark, to thee was given
The voyage of a little fairy tale.

Whether thou lovedst—after that forlorn
Tasting the bitter out of human sweet,
Thy forehead pierced with some acanthus-thorn,
The cruel thistles stabbing all thy feet,

Till, as befalls in this strange land of thine,
Where prayer and passion, earth and heav'n so mix,
A mournful thing thou fledd'st to love divine,
And found'st a bridegroom in the crucifix.

But as it is, thou standest here for aye,
Type of the gracious childhood of the South,
Thy dark hair never fleck'd with threads of gray,
No channell'd lines under thy perfect mouth.

Thou hast no grief, no selfishness at all.
Possessing all of beauty but its scorn,
Thou floatest smilingly outside the Fall,
Unsuffering, unsinning, unforlorn.

I cannot question thee,—if thou couldst speak,
Thy soft Italian would but touch mine ears
As if a sweet wind beat upon my cheek
Through the dim light a rain of flowers and tears.

Enough that, wrought by Vandyck's master hand,
I see thy beauty by an inward sight,
And in a better language understand
Thy childhood's inextinguishable light.

PICTURA MATHESIS

Follow the pictured forms that Vandyck drew,
One life-wide lesson thou mayst learn;
Each happy gift, each perfect work and true,
Thou to thyself mayst turn.
Lo! here the fulness of his Flemish style,
Here the patrician of the opulent seas,
His golden Genoese,—
The noblest work comes last, the sorrow or the smile.

Early he strove to paint as Rubens did,
And then his charmèd soul he sets
Under a spell that doth the first outbid—
Titian's or Tintoret's.
Last he supremely paints, superbly drawn,
Kings that are kings, and forms that float in fold
Of olive-green and gold,
The immortal satin dress with ribbons red as dawn.

Nor only robe of state and courtly pride—
To Genius prophecy is lent—
Upon its wondrous work shadows abide
Of fine presentiment.
Rise above amber sleeve or lovely lace,
Turn thee to Charles, and question breathing low
Why thou art haunted so
By the pathetic king with long, proud, tragic face.

We too begin by being what we are taught,
And work in the traditional gyves,
Pierce not at first to our predestined thought
Nor lead our real lives.
Rise up, my soul! above the narrow shelf
Where thou wert pinion'd by thy former schools;
Wisely forget their rules,
And far more nobly taught, more nobly be thyself.

PICTURA ZETESIS

‘A WINTER GALE IN THE CHANNEL’

(Painted by Henry Moore)

I

I love this ocean picture's pale reserve:
No tints unnatural of purpling grain,
Azure, or opal, mar the rough grey main,
The sweep, the swing, the long froth-churning curve,
The shoreward working and confusèd swerve
Of yellowing water—white blooms wear such stain
All dashed and muddied with the April rain.
No poor ambition did the painter nerve!
Well that no laboured ship or sun-burst broke
The strong monotony of that sky and surge.
Leave, only leave, the line of stormy smoke,
The sea-birds dashed upon the nearer verge,—

Brave in its truth this ocean piece shall be
The type for us of Homer's harvestless sea.

II

Nor only this—lesson of more than art!
Who dares, strong in simplicity, despise
The evanescent beauties that arise
Before his gaze, and, in true thought apart,
Look on straight forward to life's very heart:
Who dares, by gift supernal rendered wise,
Deem truth more beautiful for all true eyes
Than garish things made merely for the mart;
Whether he paint or write or live his thought,
To that which he produces shall be lent
An immortality of ravishment:
One day it shall be own'd divinely wrought;
And all the sternness of its strength shall be
Like the grave beauty of this pictured sea.

BEAUTY OF WORSHIP

GROWTH AND OVERGROWTH

I.GROWTH

Oft have I mused what use the ancients made
Of solemn service and of stately form,
On what fair frame of visible things they stayed;
What music fell in tears or rose in storm,
What soft imaginative rites they had,
With what investiture their faith they clad.

Not then the church rose visibly encrowned;
No mighty minster towered majestic yet;
No organ gave its plenitude of sound;
And on the Alpine pinnacle was set
No carven King, whose crown is of the thorn,
No Calvary crimson in the southern morn.

No miracle of beauty and of woe
Look'd from the wall, or for the rood was hewn;
No colour'd light fell on the floor below.
Under the silver of the Italian moon,
No visible throng of angels made their home
On the white wonder of the Gothic dome.

Yet, fed with inward beauty through the years,
Much did the Church's mind anticipate
Of more majestic fanes, more tuneful tears,
Simplicity more touching, nobler state.
—So the pale bud, where quietly it grows,
Dreams itself on unseen to be a rose.

Questions by meditative wisdom ask'd
Must wait for answer till the hour beseems;
Souls were as yet unborn severely task'd
To give interpretation to such dreams;
Shapes by the master-hands as yet unfreed
Slept in the massive marble of the Creed.

The picture slept within the Gospel story;
The music slept on psalms as on a sea;
In a dim dawn before its dawn of glory
The poem slept, a thought that was to be.
The schoolmen's syllogisms, a countless train,
Were folded in some strong and subtle brain.

Christ said, ‘I need them.’ Out the colour sprang,
The music wailed and triumph'd down the aisles,
With voices like the forest's poets sang,
Invisible thoughts grew visible in smiles—
In smiles, and tears, and songs, and the exact
Majestic speech by centuries compact.

II.OVERGROWTH

‘Nay, over-gaudy grown with time that grows,
Religion robes herself in rainbow dyes.
Ah, sighs and tears! the sighs she doth enclose
In bubbles, and the tears she petrifies;
And pomp enwrappeth in a golden pall
The rich rigidity of ritual.

‘First, let the soul be beautiful within;
Then the soul's beauty duly shall create
Form, colour, harmony, to awe and win—
Outward from inward as inseparate
As music from the river when it flows,
Shadow from light, or fragrance from the rose.

‘My portion be the austere and lowly fane,
The quiet heart that praises ere it sings,
The genuine tears that fall like timely rain,
The happy liberty from outward things,
The wing that winnoweth the ample air,
The heaven's gate touch'd by the soft hand of prayer.’

DEATH OF MATTHEW ARNOLD

Weep, if ye have the power to weep,
All flowers of musical and odorous names
That haunt the woodland or the wave of Thames;
Weep, if ye have the power to weep,
Let sweet mists your quaint eyelids steep,
Fling incense from your many-colour'd flames.

Mourn, if ye have the power to mourn,
Glaciers and Alpine firs—ye too, sea-isles!
Divided now by a blue waste of miles,
In some far summer unforlorn,
Ere each was from the other torn,
Seen by your poet in primæval smiles.

Spirits, if joy perforce must dwell
With you where Arnold's grace upon you breaks,
Goethe and all his golden-thoughted Greeks,—

If ye must hail such stranger well,
At least amidst your asphodel
Let roll in silver up your mystic creeks

Some rippled tidings of our woe,
Who miss the noble voice that sweetly sings,
The central rest through all disquietings,
The far-off light that crowneth so
The line of the eternal snow,
The beauty hidden in the heart of things.

And we in these cold April bowers,
Since Laleham's sod enwrapp'd his hands and feet,
Are poorer by a stately presence sweet,
And miss through all spring's wealth of flowers
Phrases that made them doubly ours,
Poet of meadows, stars, and Marguerite!

Poet in our imperfect time
Of high completeness and of lucid ease—
Calm master touching song's superbest keys,
Magician of the subtler chime
That needs not fatal sweet of rhyme,
Having true Sophocléan cadences.

Poet of exquisite regret,
Of thoughts that aye upon Time's duller height
Out of the storm shall stand in stars of white,
Of perfect lines most purely set,
Each centred in an epithet
Touched with a pencil-tip of fadeless light.

Surely to thee a lot doth fall,
With light and sweetness richly circled round;
Spinosa's rigid lines of wire unwound
No longer hold thee in their thrall—
Thou hast won liberty, and all
‘Sweet reasonableness’ in the Word hast found.

Though we miss sore one Name divine,
Which wanting, so much else beside is miss'd,
No purer air our human brows e'er kissed
Than breathes out from each ice-pure line
In all those starlit songs of thine.
All virgin pages somewhere whisper—‘Christ!’

FONS JUVENTUTIS

No time shall want its verse superbly wrought,
For aye sweet Poesy renews her youth,
Hangs songs like hawthorn from the sharpest thought,
And daisies o'er the ploughshare track of Truth.

And aye let Science disenchant at will,
And set her features free from passion's trace,
A new enchantment waits upon her still,
New lights of passion fall upon her face.

And aye as Poesy is said to die,
Her resurrection comes. She doth create
New heaven, new earth, an ampler sea and sky,
A fairer Nature, and a nobler fate;

For stealth of Science, poverty of Fact,
Indemnifies herself in gold of song,
And claims her heritage in that blue tract
Of land which lies beyond the reach of wrong.

And being divine, believeth the Divine,
And being beautiful, creates the fair,
And always sees a further mountain line,
And stands delighted on a starrier stair.

THE SONNET, THE LADY, AND THE PRINCE

A VIGNETTE AND MORAL

A royal barge once brush'd the meadows
Nigh tall trees by yon river's tide.
Bathed in its leafy lights and shadows
Head-down a linnet dropp'd quick-eyed
In leaves, gold-dipp'd on his green side.

The linnet heard a lady's foot
Who met a princely lover there.
On the deck standing flush'd and mute,
She might have half his gems to wear
For rent of one red rose a year.

Linnet! thou sangest last note of thine
One blue day centuries ago.
The woodlands' various green divine
Hath died, and different branches grow
Over a different river-flow.

The linnet pipes its latest note;
The tree it sang from leafs no more.
There's no plank left of that fair boat,
The river's nearer to the shore—
The king is dead, his line is o'er.

The bird's shy restless heart is still,
The light green wings are woodland clay;
The king's bones moulder at Moville
By that faint-glimmering far-away
Sweep of immeasurable gray.

Wrapt by wild hills both sleep. The cross
Above their graves is lichen'd red,—
The very rain upon the moss
Seems to say more than all they said,
The very shadows there are dead.

THE DISTANT SAIL

One touch there is of magic white,
Surpassing southern mountain's snow,
That to far sails the dying light
Lends, where the dark ships onward go
Upon the tremulous stretch of miles
That leads to the enchanted isles.

O ship! O sail! far must ye be
Ere gleams like that upon you light.
O'er golden spaces of the sea,
From mysteries of the lucent night,
Such touch comes never to the boat
Wherein across the waves we float.

O gleams which seem to us divine,
Life's whitest sail ye still refuse,
And flying on before us shine
Upon some distant bark ye choose.
This only of them can we say,
Such sails are ever far away.

THE OLD MAN AND THE SHIP

AN ARMENIAN LEGEND

'Tis sunset, and the wind is blowing fair;
Her anchor soon the good ship will be weighing,
Toward the cross above the harbour stair
The mariners are praying.

The sky was flaming westward, and the flood
Was flashing all afire by bay and cape,
Till their dazed eyes upon the awful rood
Could scarce discern the shape

That all day long they saw from off the ship—
The imaged Man of Sorrows on the Tree,
With blood-drop on the brow, and thin white lip
Above the pitiless sea.

Now they averr'd that some resplendence came
And on the carven hair and face did smite,
Till in a furnace as of silver flame
The whole was lost in light.

And in the glory as it disappear'd
Suddenly hung an agèd Pilgrim there;
White as the snow was his majestic beard,
White as the snow his hair.

No thorny crown was on his ample brow,
No blood-drops issuing from wounded palm,
Divinely was the bitter passion now
Changed into passionless calm.

The fierce light faded then above, below,
And on the deck the sailors were aware
Of an old man, with beard as white as snow.
Sweet was his pleading prayer:

‘The land I seek is very far away—
Long have I tarried on this shore remote—
My brothers, ye are bound for it to-day,
Oh, take me in your boat!

‘So shall I sooner see its mountain line,
Its immemorial forests’ purple dome,
And hear the musical murmurings divine
Of rivers round my home.

‘Those rivers run in crystal ever clearer,
Sweetly baptising bluer violets,
And those eternal mountain-tops are nearer
Some sun that never sets.

‘Silver and gold for guerdon have I none,
But prayers, deep prayers, I offer for my freight,
Such as Heaven's gentle heart have often won,
When man hath said “Too late!”’

The mariners replied: ‘Our ship is large
And words are light, and merchants must be paid;
A ship like this, with all her heavy charge,
Is not for prayers,’ they said.

Then stepp'd the old man down upon the sand,
Wind-sifted, sparkling as the mountain sleet,
And scoop'd it with his thin and feeble hand,
And flung it at his feet.

And down it fell in spangles on the shore,
A marvellous dust of silver and of gold,
Nor ceased until the mariners twice o'er
The greybeard's freight had told.

Blind souls of men refusing their true bliss,
God's highest offers, and yet sweetly still
He bribes them by these lower gifts of His,
Against their own proud will!

So to the bark once more the pilgrim pass'd.
Out sail'd the gallant vessel homeward bound,
But evermore in silence by the mast
The pilgrim might be found.

While the ship raced upon an even keel
And floated buoyant as an ocean bird,
Upon the deck, or up beside the wheel,
No voice of his was heard.

Only sweet virtues grew beneath his eye—
Both Charity and Hope, which are Heaven's sole
Prime roses, and Humility, the shy
Meek violet of the soul.

Only at vesper-tide, from time to time,
Invisible angels, from the starlit stair,
Touch'd all their spirits to a more sublime
And an intenser prayer.

Only by night, what time they cross'd the pale
Moonlight into the darkness, high and higher
Each topmast seem'd a cross, and its white sail
Was snow'd with sacred fire.

At last a storm rush'd down upon the flood,
And the tyrannic winds sang loud and strong;
The pilot cried, ‘Beneath this dreadful scud
No vessel can live long.’

Soon rose surmise who might the pilgrim be,
His passage-money how he came to win:
‘God's wrath,’ they thought, ‘is working in the sea
Because of this man's sin.’

Whereat the old man rose, and, ‘Through the storm
Give me your ship,’ he said, and straight did take
Mysterious likeness to the wondrous Form
On Galilee's wild lake.

‘Sleep sweetly while the ocean works and stirs,
Sleep sweetly till we cross the seething bar,
Sleep on, and take your rest, O mariners,
For mine own crew ye are.’

So look'd He upward with His calm bright eye,
So made the holy sign with His right hand,
His left upon the helm—immediately
The ship was at the land.

But as the ship with all sail set was steer'd
Bravely into the port around the cape,
No more might ye have seen a silver beard,
No more an old man's shape.

But calm He stood, as when He wears His crown
Upon the Calvary on some southern peak,
Or where above the altar He looks down,
With blood-drops on His cheek.

And those who knew the Cross so far away,
Toward which they pray'd above the harbour stair,
Said that its perfected reflection lay
Upon the Pilgrim there.

So the shore redden'd with the holy dawn,
And the bells chimed from all the churches round,
And the long surf's fall on the beach was drawn
Into one psalm-like sound.

And, ‘Rise from your sweet sleep,’ the hymn outrang,
‘From your sad dream, or from your slumber sweet;
Here is our Lord, and here our ship,’ they sang,
‘Oh, fall at Jesus’ feet!’

Venice, 1872.

[This legend is given in a small collection which I read in the Armenian Convention the Liddo.]

VOYAGE TO BABYLON

A FRAGMENT

Behold! on an Assyrian quay
Fast by the town of Nineveh,
At moon of night, methought I stood
Where Tigris went with glimmering flood;
And walls were there all storied round
With old grim kings, enthroned, encrown'd,
Strange-visaged chief, and wingèd bull,
Pine-cone, and lotus wonderful.
Embark'd, I floated fast and far,
For I was bound to Babylon.
I saw the great blue lake of Wan,
And that green island Ahktamar.
I saw above the burning flat
The lone and snow-capp'd Ararat.

But ever spellbound on I pass,
Sometimes hearing my shallop creep,
With its cool rustle, through the deep
Mesopotamian meadow-grass.
And now (as when by moons of old,
Grandly with wrinkling silver roll'd,
It glimmer'd on through grove and lea,
For the starry eyes of Raphael
Journeying to Ecbatane)
The ancient Tigris floweth free,
Through orange-grove, and date-tree dell,
To pearl and rainbow-colour'd shell,
And coral of the Indian sea.
Take down the sail, and strike the mast,
Here is Euphrates old, at last.
Begirt with many a belt of palm,
Round fragrant garden-beds of balm,
(in one whereof old Chelcias' daughter
Went to walk down beside the water,
The lily both in heart and name,
Whose white leaf hath no blot of shame)
Grandly the king of rivers greets
His Sheshach's hundred-gated streets.
Through the great town the river rolls.

Who are these sitting by the billows,
With their harps hung upon the willows?
What time on Judah's hills they trod,
Science of song to them was given,
The harpers on the harps of God,
The poets of the King of Heaven.
Mournful their strains, but through them still
The hope of their return is seen,
Like a sun-silver'd sail between
Dark sea and darkly purple hill.
Strange race! that reads for ever scrolls
With future glories pictured bright,
As sunset's golden pencils write
Those slanting sentences of light,
When tree-tops dusk, on dark green boles.
By the broad pulses of this river,
Keeping one even time for ever,
Since Amraphel was King of Shinar,
They long for Jordan's spray and shout,
And linkèd music long drawn out,
Passioning with song diviner,
From waterfall to waterfall.
O for the line of long green meadows,
Waters whose gleams are silver shadows,
Whose glooms, where wood-hung hills arise,

Are darkness dash'd with silver fire,
And glens through which those waters come
With many a crashing downward call,
With sweeping sound of battle pomp,
With blaring of the battle trump
And double of the battle drum.

DEATH OF SAMUEL WILBERFORCE, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER

How thin the veil between our eyes
And angel wings in motion!
How narrow the long ledge that lies
'Twixt us and death's dim ocean!

They rode by sunlit copse and glen,
And 'neath the woodland's shadow
They spurn'd, with hoofs that rang again,
The cruel sloping meadow.

A plunge—a fall—and lo! the rock,
The veil was rent asunder.
How swift the change, how sharp the shock,
How bright the waking yonder!

Old England heard it with a start;
She mourns with voice uplifted:
Mother of many a noble heart,
But ah! what son so gifted?

From his own Oxford's storied hall,
Her stream by light oars ruffled,
To where, beside the plane-trees tall,
His Winton's bells are muffled,

The whole land has an air of grief
For that great wealth departed—
Her peerless prelate, statesman, chief,
Large-soul'd and gentle-hearted;

The man so eloquent of word,
Who sway'd all spirits near him,
Who did but touch the silver chord,
And men perforce must hear him;

Who won rude natures at his will,
And charm'd them with the glamour
Of his sweet tongue, and kept them still
Forgetful of their clamour;

Who from no task for Christ soe'er,
True soldier, sought indulgence,—
To him it wore so grand an air,
Was lit with such effulgence;

Who sweetly smiled, and deftly plann'd,
And his true work to fashion,
Like hammers in a skilful hand,
Took every party's passion;

Whom men call'd subtle overmuch
Because all threads of beauty
He interwork'd with magic touch
Into the web of Duty,

And from their hundred varying dyes
Wove well a wondrous colour,
That might have pleased malignant eyes
More, if it had been duller;

He for whom many hearts are sore,
Lost to so many places—
The great cathedral's crowded floor
A hush of upturn'd faces,—

The village church, where children knelt
Beneath his hands o'ershading,
And rugged men sweet comfort felt
Or tender true upbraiding,—

The Senate, barren evermore
Of the rich voice that stirr'd it,—
The platform, where the charm is o'er
That spellbound all who heard it.

How many a noble deed he plann'd!
How many a soul he guided,
With sympathy of heart and hand,
And feelings many-sided!

And when the social lists were lit,
And worthy foemen tilted,
How flash'd the poignard of his wit,
Keen-bladed, diamond-hilted.

Sleep calm in earth, a Bishop robed,
Waiting God's golden morrow.
O memory, leave the wound unprobed,
Nor bring too sharp a sorrow!

Let love draw near, and hope and faith,
Where the good saint lies sleeping;
His white face beautiful in death,
His soul in Christ's own keeping.

WILLIAM DERRY.

C. F. ALEXANDER.

EPITAPH ON AGNES JONES

BURIED IN FAHAN CHURCHYARD

Alone with Christ in this sequester'd place
Thy sweet soul learn'd its quietude of grace;
On sufferers waiting in this vale of ours,
Thy gifted touch was train'd to higher powers.
Therefore when death, O Agnes! came to thee—
Not on the cool breath of our lakelike sea,
But in the workhouse hospital's hot ward,
A gentle helper with the gentle Lord,—
Proudly as men heroic ashes claim,
We ask'd to have thy fever-stricken frame,
And lay it in our grass beside our foam,
Till Christ the Healer call His healers home.

EPITAPH ON REV. ROBERT HIGINBOTHAM

IN DERRY CATHEDRAL

Down through our crowded lanes, and closer air,
O friend, how beautiful thy footsteps were;
When through the fever's waves of fire they trod,
A form was with thee like the Son of God.
'Twas but one step for those victorious feet,
From their day's walk unto the golden street;
And they who watch'd that walk, so bright and brief,
Have mark'd this marble with their hope and grief.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE STATUE ERECTED TO CAPTAIN BOYD IN ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN

O in the quiet haven, safe for aye,
If lost to us in port one stormy day,
Borne with a public pomp by just decree,
Heroic sailor! from that fatal sea,
A city vows this marble unto thee.
And here, in this calm place, where never din
Of earth's great waterfloods shall enter in,
Where to our human hearts two thoughts are given—
One Christ's self-sacrifice, the other Heaven,—
Here is it meet for grief and love to grave
The Christ-taught bravery that died to save,
The life not lost, but found beneath the wave.

EPITAPH ON SINCLAIR MULHOLLAND

FOR A WARD OF A HOSPITAL

Thy body rests beneath the Italian sod,
Thy soul's inheritance is the light of God;
Yet here our hopes and memories of thee
Who sleepest well beside the far blue sea
We twine, all fair and sunny as they are,
With other sights and scenes that differ far,—
With sickness, mortal agony, and tears;
Yet not reproach from thee affection fears.
In anguish comforted and want sufficed
Thy spirit joy'd on earth, as now with Christ.

THE HIMALAYAN DAWN

AN OLD MAN'S OPTIMISM

I

'Tis dark around on either hand—
Old I am, marching in a mountain land.
Will the dawn never be unroll'd?
Mercy of heaven! but it is cold.
Hush! in some tongue I understand
A song is sung, a tale is told,
Telling of things that are both new and old.
Voice of the mountains grave and grand,
It tells how earth shall yet be rosed
With sweeter dawn than ever yet reposed
On it, when I was there to see.
When shall this be?
Not yet, not yet.
When, oh when?

II

When o'er my grave the grass shall still be wet
With dews of morn I cannot know,
The day of God shall dawn on earth below
With splendid glimmer far above the dark.—
What song was that from some dim distant glen?
Hark! hark!

III

Thou, whose soul with darkness aches,
Among these Himalayan brakes
Higher, look higher! some glory wakes,
Some glory that is grandly lent
For morning's fine presentiment;
Sure there are watchers for whose sakes,
Divinely on the mountain lawn
The long succession of the peaks
Is lit with fires.
From sacred snows superbly drawn
Touch'd with the dawn before the dawn,
The morn that cometh ere the morn,
The day's faint fancy of the day unborn—

A light is on yon far-up spires
Long ere it lies upon the lakes,
Striking the rhododendrons red
That circle round the rocks so far away,
Whilst the heav'ns' vault is still so gray
Starry, and thou in shadow art,
As yet a prophecy in part
Dark based, peak touch'd with fulgency divine,
The Himalaya of the heart
Begins to show the immeasurable line.

IV

Pilgrim, pass on!—in lands beneath the hill
It shall be day when thou art gone,
For other eyes to see, not thine.
Thus man's long hope our God shall yet fulfil,
When we are still.

This poem was suggested by a description which was given to the author by a traveller of the beautiful phenomenon of the dawn before the dawn in the highest region of the Himalayas.

ROBERT BURNS

All Scottish legends did his fancy fashion,
All airs that richly flow,
Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion,
Broken with love-lorn woe;

Ballads whose beauties years have long been stealing
And left few links of gold,
Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing
Grew fairer, not less old.

Grey Cluden, and the vestal's choral cadence,
His spell awoke therewith;
Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens
Upon the banks of Nith.

His, too, the strains of battle nobly coming
From Bruce, or Wallace wight,
Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming
Before some famous fight.

Nor only these—for him the hawthorn hoary
Was with new wreaths enwrought,
The ‘crimson-tippèd daisy’ wore fresh glory,
Born of poetic thought.

From the ‘wee cow'ring beastie’ he could borrow
A moral strain sublime,
A noble tenderness of human sorrow,
In wondrous wealth of rhyme.

Oh, but the mountain breeze must have been pleasant
Upon the sunburnt brow
Of that poetic and triumphant peasant
Driving his laurell'd plough!

A FINE DAY ON LOUGH SWILLY

Soft slept the beautiful autumn
In the heart, on the face of the Lough—
Its heart, whose pulses were hush'd,
Till you knew the life of the tide
But by a wash on the shore.
A whisper like whispering leaves
In green abysses of forest—
Its face, whose violet melted,
Melted in roseate gold—
Roses and violets dying
Into a tender mystery
Of soft impalpable haze.

Calm lay the woodlands of Fahan:
The summer was gone, yet it lay
On the gently yellowing leaves
Like a beautiful poem, whose tones
Are mute, whose words are forgot,

But its music sleepeth for ever
Within the music of thought.
The robin sang from the ash,
The sunset's pencils of gold
No longer wrote their great lines
On the boles of the odorous limes,
Or bathed the tree-tops in glory,
But a soft strange radiance there hung
In splinters of tenderest light.
And those who look'd from Glengollen
Saw the purple wall of the Scalp,
As if through an old church window
Stain'd with a marvellous blue.

From the snow-white shell strand of Inch
You could not behold the white horses
Lifting their glittering backs,
Tossing their manes on Dunree,
And the battle boom of Macammish
Was lull'd in the delicate air.
As in old pictures the smoke
Goes up from Abraham's pyre,
So the smoke went up from Rathmullen;
And beyond the trail of the smoke
Was a great deep fiery abyss
Of molten gold in the sky,

And it set a far track up the waters
Ablaze with gold like its own.
Over the fire of the sea,
Over the chasm in the sky,
My spirit as by a bridge
Of wonder went wandering on,
And lost its way in the heaven.

The ship is out on the lake,
The fisherman stands on the deck.
Rosy and violet sea;
Delicate haze in the distance;
Woodlands softer than summers;
Great golden eye of intense,
Concentrated, marvellous light;
Mysterious suggestions of thought;
Beautiful yearnings of fancy;
Wonderful imaginations;
Throbs of the being immortal
Who, prison'd deep in the heart,
Looks through the bars of the flesh:—
What recketh he of them all?
So to the reasonless eye
The Master's picture is only
A heap of colouring flat,
A strange confusion of strokes,

And thought, and study, and books,
And fine traditions of taste,
Are the glasses through which we survey
The beauty of natural things,
Till stars come splendidly out
That our eyes would have never beheld;
And cultured association
Hangeth to things that we see,
Hints and prophetical types,
Shadows grand and immortal,
Sacraments dim and delightful,
Of the things that the eye hath not seen.

O this ship and ocean of life!—
I, like the fisherman's boy,
On this awful beautiful sea
Gaze on a glory for ever
That I love not, nor know as I ought—
Sail on a beautiful deep,
Hear the soft washing of waves
That set to the shore of our God—
Look on purpureal hills,
Look on exquisite woods,
Soft, and most solemn and stately—
Sail toward the gate of Heaven,
Yet know it not, nor consider!

Hues more radiant by far
Than the Autumn ever could give
Move round my wondrous existence,
The daily deep of my life;
Prospects of things that shall be
In the country over the waves—
Memories, sorrows, and thoughts—
Noble and beautiful words,
Deeds that darkly reveal
The transparent measureless depth
Of the soul of our nature's Redeemer.
O for the day that shall teach me
To know their meaning at last,
Beyond the lake of this life,
Beyond the gate of the sunset
Upon the hyaline sea!

YESTERDAY

Never was yet to-day whose incompleteness
Lack'd not a somewhat of the bliss it brought,
Till it inherited the dim faint sweetness,
The mystic distance of the sky of thought,
Till we baptized the dead hours now away
By the ethereal name of yesterday.

THE BIRTHDAY CROWN

If aught of simple song have power to touch
Your silent being, O ye country flowers,
Twisted by tender hands
Into a royal brede,

O hawthorn, tear thou not the soft white brow
Of the small queen upon her rustic throne,
But breathe thy finest scent
Of almond round about.

And thou, laburnum, and what other hue
Tinct deeper gives variety of gold,
Inwoven lily, and vetch
Bedropp'd with summer's blood,

I charge you wither not this long June day!
Oh, wither not until the sunset come,
Until the sunset's shaft
Slope through the chestnut-tree;

Until she sit, high-gloried round about
With the great light above her mimic court—
Her threads of sunny hair
Girt sunnily by you.

What other crown that queen may wear one day,
What drops may touch her forehead not of balm,
What thorns, what cruel thorns,
I will not guess to-day.

Only, before she is discrowned of you,
Ye dying flowers, and thou, O dying light,
My prayer shall rise—‘O Christ!
Give her the unfading crown.

‘The crown of blossoms worn by happy bride,
The thorny crown o'er pale and dying lips,
I dare not choose for her—
Give her the unfading crown!’

AMONG THE SANDHILLS

From the ocean half a rood
To the sandhills long and low
Ever and anon I go;
Hide from me the gleaming flood,
Only listen to its flow.

To those billowy curls of sand
Little of delight is lent—
As it were a yellow tent,
Here and there by some wild hand
Pitch'd, and overgrown with bent.

Some few buds like golden beads
Cut in stars on leaves that shine
Greenly, and a fragrance fine
Of the ocean's delicate weeds,
Of his fresh and foamy wine.

But the place is music-haunted.
Let there blow what wind soever;—
Now as by a stately river,
A monotonous requiem's chanted;
Now you hear great pine-woods shiver.

Frequent when the tides are low
Creep for hours sweet sleepy hums.
But when in the spring tide comes,
Then the silver trumpets blow
And the waters beat like drums.

And the Atlantic's roll full often,
Muffled by the sandhills round,
Seems a mighty city's sound,
Which the night-wind serves to soften
By the waker's pillow drown'd:

Seems a salvo—state or battle's—
Through the purple mountain gaps
Heard by peasants; or perhaps
Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles;
Seems an eagle's wing that flaps;

Seems a peal of thunder, caught
By the mountain pines and tuned
To a marvellous gentle sound;
Wailings where despair is not,—
Hearts self-hushing some heart wound.

Still what winds there blow soever,
Wet or shine, by sun or star,
When white horses plunge afar,
When the palsied froth-lines shiver,
When the waters quiet are;

On the sandhills where waves boom
Or with ripples scarce at all
Tumble not so much as crawl,
Ever do we know of whom
Cometh up the rise and fall.

Need is none to see the ships,
None to mark the mid-sea jet
Softening into violet,
While those old pre-Adamite lips
To those boundary heaps are set.

Ah! I see not the great foam
That beyond me strangely rolls,
Whose white-wingèd ships are souls
Sailing from the port called Home,
When the signal bell, Death, tolls.

And I catch not the broad shimmer,
Catch not yet the hue divine
Of the purpling hyaline;
Of the heaving and the glimmer
Just hid from these eyes of mine.

But by wondrous sounds not shut
By the sandhills, I may be
Sure that a diviner sea
Than earth's keels have ever cut
Rolls towards eternity.