Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | BOOK V.
BLACK COMBE. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
113
BOOK V. BLACK COMBE.
115
The seasons are the keys of song: they can
Rich store of modulated thought unlock;
But as in their ethereal wards they turn
There is full oft a sound of storm in heaven,
And sun and shower upon alternate winds
Ride in disordered speed across the earth.
But in the change, when summer's faltering hand
Yields her capricious sceptre to the grasp
Of noble autumn, days will intervene
Of an elysian softness which belongs
To other lands, not by our seasons claimed;
A short-lived regency may it be deemed,
By some mild southern influence controlled.
Rich store of modulated thought unlock;
But as in their ethereal wards they turn
There is full oft a sound of storm in heaven,
And sun and shower upon alternate winds
Ride in disordered speed across the earth.
But in the change, when summer's faltering hand
Yields her capricious sceptre to the grasp
Of noble autumn, days will intervene
Of an elysian softness which belongs
To other lands, not by our seasons claimed;
A short-lived regency may it be deemed,
By some mild southern influence controlled.
And autumn prematurely came this year,
Or summer ended, from her place disturbed
By shocks of almost tropic thunderstorms.
Or summer ended, from her place disturbed
By shocks of almost tropic thunderstorms.
Sir Lancelot journeyed slowly in the heat,
And halted often, not so much to rest
As to admire the beauty circumfused
With oriental softness in the air.
The sky was blue, but by a pearly haze
Most exquisitely veiled; the little clouds
Lay motionless in some bright element
Of molten silver, which they had absorbed
Until they shone like planets up on high,
Or sunny fleets that rock far off at sea,
Half hidden by illuminated foam.
Eastward the distant mountains hung like banks
Of toppling cloud, in tremulous violet hue
Or marvellous tint of roseate green arrayed;
While to the north a lazy stifled wind
Trailed a white mist transparent o'er the hills,
Where, to unreal distance thrown, Scawfell
Was palpitating in the haze.
And halted often, not so much to rest
As to admire the beauty circumfused
With oriental softness in the air.
The sky was blue, but by a pearly haze
Most exquisitely veiled; the little clouds
Lay motionless in some bright element
116
Until they shone like planets up on high,
Or sunny fleets that rock far off at sea,
Half hidden by illuminated foam.
Eastward the distant mountains hung like banks
Of toppling cloud, in tremulous violet hue
Or marvellous tint of roseate green arrayed;
While to the north a lazy stifled wind
Trailed a white mist transparent o'er the hills,
Where, to unreal distance thrown, Scawfell
Was palpitating in the haze.
Yet while
The unwonted aspect of the lovely day
Of eastern lands reminded him, one thing
There was which to our clime recalled his thoughts:
It was the dim perspective of the view.
The vigorous outline, lucid and compressed,
And the clear darkness of the shadows thrown
Steadfast and motionless, the firmness given
To the faint aspect of the distant hills,
Temples, and groves of trees, are special gifts
Pertaining to the radiant atmosphere
And landscapes of a southern latitude.
But, to imagination far more rich
And to the reverential eye more sweet,
And by Sir Lancelot now confessed a charm
More graceful, are our waving outlines fixed
With an aerial trembling, while the earth
With glimmering motion on her anchor rides,
Tempting the eye, well pleased to be so lured,
To rifle all the unsettled hills and shades
Of nodding wood, and piece by piece retrieve
The distant objects slowly floating up
Out of the vague obscurity wherein
(The fairy-land confusion of the noon)
They swim, sometimes approaching to the sight,
Sometimes receding, as a ship will miss
The harbour-mouth, by feeble gusts betrayed.
The unwonted aspect of the lovely day
Of eastern lands reminded him, one thing
There was which to our clime recalled his thoughts:
It was the dim perspective of the view.
The vigorous outline, lucid and compressed,
And the clear darkness of the shadows thrown
Steadfast and motionless, the firmness given
To the faint aspect of the distant hills,
Temples, and groves of trees, are special gifts
Pertaining to the radiant atmosphere
And landscapes of a southern latitude.
But, to imagination far more rich
And to the reverential eye more sweet,
And by Sir Lancelot now confessed a charm
More graceful, are our waving outlines fixed
With an aerial trembling, while the earth
With glimmering motion on her anchor rides,
Tempting the eye, well pleased to be so lured,
To rifle all the unsettled hills and shades
Of nodding wood, and piece by piece retrieve
The distant objects slowly floating up
Out of the vague obscurity wherein
117
They swim, sometimes approaching to the sight,
Sometimes receding, as a ship will miss
The harbour-mouth, by feeble gusts betrayed.
But lo! a lucid rim of brazen light
Steals o'er the northern hills, and from the abyss
Fabrics of castellated cloud mount up,
Labouring to roll themselves above the heights,
And, as in their unwieldy toil they dash
Against the mountains, muffled voices come
Of growling thunder, while the panting breeze,
First intermitting, wholly dies away.
Steals o'er the northern hills, and from the abyss
Fabrics of castellated cloud mount up,
Labouring to roll themselves above the heights,
And, as in their unwieldy toil they dash
Against the mountains, muffled voices come
Of growling thunder, while the panting breeze,
First intermitting, wholly dies away.
It was a tempest such as rarely sounds
Among these English hills, and by a gale
Of wind succeeded, in whose boisterous rage
The creaking woods fell prostrate, and loose rocks
Clove their rough paths among the belts of pine,
A storm shortlived as fierce. Sir Lancelot,
Who once in woody Lebanon had dwelt
At Zarklè opposite the hoary plain
Of silent Balbec with the Maronites,
Thought of the snowy Sannin, in whose womb
Terrific storms are gendered; and the past,
Roused into wild accordance with the wrath
Of the blind elements, within him raged,
And with a swift eruption of hot thoughts
Ravaged that pure tranquillity, which made
His inmost heart for years a holy home
Of penitence, and very cell of prayer.
Among these English hills, and by a gale
Of wind succeeded, in whose boisterous rage
The creaking woods fell prostrate, and loose rocks
Clove their rough paths among the belts of pine,
A storm shortlived as fierce. Sir Lancelot,
Who once in woody Lebanon had dwelt
At Zarklè opposite the hoary plain
Of silent Balbec with the Maronites,
Thought of the snowy Sannin, in whose womb
Terrific storms are gendered; and the past,
Roused into wild accordance with the wrath
Of the blind elements, within him raged,
And with a swift eruption of hot thoughts
Ravaged that pure tranquillity, which made
His inmost heart for years a holy home
Of penitence, and very cell of prayer.
The storm had slackened; on a platform green
With hurried step the Excommunicate
Was driven to and fro by his wild thoughts.
Beneath was Duddon raving in the glen,
Now visible, now by a drifting shower
Of sleet half veiled or utterly obscured,
While the lashed mountain-sides were heard to moan
Beneath the impetuous cataracts of wind.
Soon, like a ponderous pageant upon wheels,
The mass of toppling clouds and flying mists
Rolled seaward, bellowing as it went: and then
Came the sweet sovereignty of azure sky,
And the warm sun, and breezes musical,
Not unacknowledged in the woe-worn heart
Of the lone penitent. He knelt and prayed;
And when he rose, there was within his soul
A lightening which was almost happiness,
A sense that mercy did not yet disdain
To soothe his conscience.
With hurried step the Excommunicate
Was driven to and fro by his wild thoughts.
Beneath was Duddon raving in the glen,
Now visible, now by a drifting shower
118
While the lashed mountain-sides were heard to moan
Beneath the impetuous cataracts of wind.
Soon, like a ponderous pageant upon wheels,
The mass of toppling clouds and flying mists
Rolled seaward, bellowing as it went: and then
Came the sweet sovereignty of azure sky,
And the warm sun, and breezes musical,
Not unacknowledged in the woe-worn heart
Of the lone penitent. He knelt and prayed;
And when he rose, there was within his soul
A lightening which was almost happiness,
A sense that mercy did not yet disdain
To soothe his conscience.
And a pomp ensued
With such significant slowness on the hills
And such surpassing beauty, that his eye,
Fed from the scene, sustained his weary heart.
A mountain of a varying outline rose
Entangled in a vast array of mist,
Here dense and fleecy, there a lucid gauze,
Like a bride's veil, most beautiful to see.
Sometimes in tortuous columns it rolled forth
As from the chambers of the mountain breathed;
Rearing its broad unsteady bulk aloft,
It seemed by sunlight kindled from within:
Then all at once it broke and fell, as if
Dropped suddenly from some invisible hand,
While it disclosed a hundred dizzy feet
Of peak and precipice; then in the grasp
Of strong and eager wind caught up again,
As with a hurried impulse it involved
The mountain all in white: and it appeared
Like some gigantic creature that was torn
Upon the craggy armour of the hill,
And now lay writhing in contortions huge
And pitiful, with its voluminous spires
Catching a silver sunbeam here and there.
But soon the lacerated monster trailed
Itself across the ledges of rude scar,
And on the top of some subordinate heights,
Fir-capped, in five enormous folds coiled up
Sullen, but in repose the creature lay,
While to the open air and clear sunshine
The mountain sprung, a bold and buoyant height.
With such significant slowness on the hills
And such surpassing beauty, that his eye,
Fed from the scene, sustained his weary heart.
A mountain of a varying outline rose
Entangled in a vast array of mist,
Here dense and fleecy, there a lucid gauze,
Like a bride's veil, most beautiful to see.
Sometimes in tortuous columns it rolled forth
As from the chambers of the mountain breathed;
Rearing its broad unsteady bulk aloft,
It seemed by sunlight kindled from within:
Then all at once it broke and fell, as if
Dropped suddenly from some invisible hand,
While it disclosed a hundred dizzy feet
Of peak and precipice; then in the grasp
Of strong and eager wind caught up again,
As with a hurried impulse it involved
The mountain all in white: and it appeared
119
Upon the craggy armour of the hill,
And now lay writhing in contortions huge
And pitiful, with its voluminous spires
Catching a silver sunbeam here and there.
But soon the lacerated monster trailed
Itself across the ledges of rude scar,
And on the top of some subordinate heights,
Fir-capped, in five enormous folds coiled up
Sullen, but in repose the creature lay,
While to the open air and clear sunshine
The mountain sprung, a bold and buoyant height.
There, sculptured on the bending dome of sky,
A frieze of clouds in beautiful relief
Glowed on the ethereal concave of the west;
Even like a land far off at sea evoked
From underneath the horizon by some spell
Of playful light into the upper air.
A chain of rosy mountains did it seem,
Fretted with shades of blue, and veins of pearl
Hung from the heights like trickling waterfalls
Voiceless, though fluent, on a summer day.
And folds of evening wood appeared to sleep
Upon those mountain sides, and single pines
On forward eminences stood, and rows
Of black-barred cedars, and the tapering spires
Of silky birch, and from the sunny glens
Rose up the smoke of fairy villages
Sunk in the cloudy gorges, and dark towers
And old cathedrals with effulgent domes
Were for awhile sustained before the eye
By the sweet light, which is its minister,
And then effaced. O beautiful Effect!
Wrought by the love of God to elevate
Our love to Him, and thus subserve His praise!
How grateful is it to the impatient sight
Of those returning to their mountain home,
However brief their exile, so to meet
This prophecy, in characters of cloud
Engraved, of their own mountains still unseen,
And with what all-sufficient joy they view
That heavenly imitation of the earth,
That exquisite and silent land of clouds!
A frieze of clouds in beautiful relief
Glowed on the ethereal concave of the west;
Even like a land far off at sea evoked
From underneath the horizon by some spell
Of playful light into the upper air.
A chain of rosy mountains did it seem,
Fretted with shades of blue, and veins of pearl
Hung from the heights like trickling waterfalls
Voiceless, though fluent, on a summer day.
And folds of evening wood appeared to sleep
Upon those mountain sides, and single pines
On forward eminences stood, and rows
Of black-barred cedars, and the tapering spires
Of silky birch, and from the sunny glens
Rose up the smoke of fairy villages
Sunk in the cloudy gorges, and dark towers
And old cathedrals with effulgent domes
Were for awhile sustained before the eye
By the sweet light, which is its minister,
And then effaced. O beautiful Effect!
Wrought by the love of God to elevate
120
How grateful is it to the impatient sight
Of those returning to their mountain home,
However brief their exile, so to meet
This prophecy, in characters of cloud
Engraved, of their own mountains still unseen,
And with what all-sufficient joy they view
That heavenly imitation of the earth,
That exquisite and silent land of clouds!
And gorgeous preparation did the sun
That evening make for his descent, a play
Of such ethereal intermingling hues
And blazonry of mists no painter durst
Depict their faithful unreality.
There dropped upon the hills, as though from heaven,
A vest of coloured air, for scarce a haze
Might it be named, so thin it was, in truth
Impalpable but for its watery tints.
Half purple and half crimson did it seem,
Wherein the mountains rose, all girded round
With shining bars of motionless white cloud,
While on the channelled vale of greenest turf
There lay a flood of rosy brightness shot
Slant-wise with gold in tremulous dusky threads,
Through which the green, unmingled, unabsorbed,
Gleamed with the raindrops.
That evening make for his descent, a play
Of such ethereal intermingling hues
And blazonry of mists no painter durst
Depict their faithful unreality.
There dropped upon the hills, as though from heaven,
A vest of coloured air, for scarce a haze
Might it be named, so thin it was, in truth
Impalpable but for its watery tints.
Half purple and half crimson did it seem,
Wherein the mountains rose, all girded round
With shining bars of motionless white cloud,
While on the channelled vale of greenest turf
There lay a flood of rosy brightness shot
Slant-wise with gold in tremulous dusky threads,
Through which the green, unmingled, unabsorbed,
Gleamed with the raindrops.
O how fair the view
When evening wandered up the vale, and touched
With gentlest visitation hoary cliff
And hanging wood and lawny mountain side.
Yet was the beauty heightened and set off
By many a plain memorial of the storm.
The foamy Duddon forced his clamorous way
Amid the opposing straits of rock, or brawled
With pebbly sound across the shingle blue,
Which in the morning sun had glanced like beds
Of diamond or topaz: and the brooks,
Sequestered in the few collateral glens,
Raised to a strain more loud than they were wont
Their tributary music, soft-voiced streams
Half-stifled in the echoing ravines
By the close-roofing foliage overhead:
And, sweeter symbol still of recent storm,
The pleasant exhalations of the woods,—
Fir-stem, and mossy earth, and silver birch
With aromatic breath,—how fragrant all!
Like the soft converse of a heart which hath
But lately learned in tears and sufferings deep
The kindly wisdom of adversity,
And through meek bearing purchased a degree
In that exalted faculty, whose lore
More heavenly is than aught on earth beside.
When evening wandered up the vale, and touched
With gentlest visitation hoary cliff
And hanging wood and lawny mountain side.
Yet was the beauty heightened and set off
By many a plain memorial of the storm.
The foamy Duddon forced his clamorous way
Amid the opposing straits of rock, or brawled
121
Which in the morning sun had glanced like beds
Of diamond or topaz: and the brooks,
Sequestered in the few collateral glens,
Raised to a strain more loud than they were wont
Their tributary music, soft-voiced streams
Half-stifled in the echoing ravines
By the close-roofing foliage overhead:
And, sweeter symbol still of recent storm,
The pleasant exhalations of the woods,—
Fir-stem, and mossy earth, and silver birch
With aromatic breath,—how fragrant all!
Like the soft converse of a heart which hath
But lately learned in tears and sufferings deep
The kindly wisdom of adversity,
And through meek bearing purchased a degree
In that exalted faculty, whose lore
More heavenly is than aught on earth beside.
Firmer and yet more hollow grows the voice
Of ancient Duddon, and more palpable
The tingling of the woodlands, as the night
Advances her engrossing silence there.
Along the uneven edges of the hills
The gradual muster of the stars begins,
While the green groves turn glossy and obscure.
How overbearing is the loveliness
Of night, the night divine! with her dread show
Thus hushing all the timorous earth to rest;
As though, in some supernal mantle swathed,
A sailing spirit waved his awful wing
Scarcely above the surface. How intense
The tranquil midnight of that sunken vale!
All sounds, the motions of the fluttering breeze,
The mirth of insects, and the troublous sighs
From the tall summits of unsleeping wind,—
All seem suspended as by angel's hand,
And gathered out from the responsive air,
That one Sound only, one dread Sould of sound,
Might in its fulness overflow the vale
With influence unannoyed. That Sound it is
Which in the Word of Life, both Old and New,
Bears the commission to set forth in type,
And nightly illustrate, the Voice of God,—
The Sound of Many Waters, calm and strong,
Most clear, most mighty; as the thunder loud,
When the near storm its rolling voice divides
With sharp articulation mid the rocks,
Yet spiritual and subtle in the air,
The earth, the boughs, as are the whisperings
Of a man's conscience in his solitude.
Of ancient Duddon, and more palpable
The tingling of the woodlands, as the night
Advances her engrossing silence there.
Along the uneven edges of the hills
The gradual muster of the stars begins,
While the green groves turn glossy and obscure.
How overbearing is the loveliness
Of night, the night divine! with her dread show
Thus hushing all the timorous earth to rest;
As though, in some supernal mantle swathed,
A sailing spirit waved his awful wing
Scarcely above the surface. How intense
The tranquil midnight of that sunken vale!
All sounds, the motions of the fluttering breeze,
The mirth of insects, and the troublous sighs
122
All seem suspended as by angel's hand,
And gathered out from the responsive air,
That one Sound only, one dread Sould of sound,
Might in its fulness overflow the vale
With influence unannoyed. That Sound it is
Which in the Word of Life, both Old and New,
Bears the commission to set forth in type,
And nightly illustrate, the Voice of God,—
The Sound of Many Waters, calm and strong,
Most clear, most mighty; as the thunder loud,
When the near storm its rolling voice divides
With sharp articulation mid the rocks,
Yet spiritual and subtle in the air,
The earth, the boughs, as are the whisperings
Of a man's conscience in his solitude.
Sir Lancelot's soul rose in him, like a flower
From which the sun with timely slowness lifts
The burden of the rain, and from whose blooms
The sprinkled soil falls off and leaves no stain.
His heart, o'ercharged with thankfulness, was soothed,
And by the very soothing roused to sing,
As if that Voice of waters in the vale
Called for his voice to give it words of praise.
From which the sun with timely slowness lifts
The burden of the rain, and from whose blooms
The sprinkled soil falls off and leaves no stain.
His heart, o'ercharged with thankfulness, was soothed,
And by the very soothing roused to sing,
As if that Voice of waters in the vale
Called for his voice to give it words of praise.
Great God and Father! (so in thought he sang,
Thought that could hardly keep itself from words,)
Great God and Father! to acknowledge thus
In night, silent or vocal, evermore
Thy Presence with Thy creatures, doth fatigue
The enraptured and adoring intellect.
O raise my soul and spirit, and attune
My body to their heights, that so I may,—
Not with intensity of love outworn,
With beauty restless, or with terror chafed,
Or by solemnity dispirited,—
But with a lowly mind and venturous heart
Of child's affection, worship Thee, First Cause,
Fountain of Godhead, sole and unapproached,
Thine equal Son, from all eternity
Thy Son, to all eternity True Man,
And Thee too, infinite, coequal Spirit,
The personal and abiding Comforter,
And fallen sinner's diligent Paraclete—
Thee may I worship, Blessed Trinity,
Creator, Saviour, Paraclete of man!
In all the glories both of night and day,
Of land and ocean, mountain-top and dale:
But specially vouchsafe that in the night
And darkness, too symbolical of sin,
No idle thoughts, nor evil haunting past,
May claim my heart, while I the rather seek,
Even in my midnight fears, a fount of love,
Of breathless prayer and musings grave and high.
Thee, by the action of a restless mind
And the quick beatings of a heart unweaned
From earth, can I escape or shun by day.
The radiant magnificence of light
Can be a hiding-place. Romantic turns,
And alternations of a blended interest,
The bold relief of colour, and the gay
Distracting details of bright loveliness,
Sweetly distracting,—these are coverts all
Where in the depths of daylight we may hide,
Impatient of Thy Presence: but the night
Disarms the spirit which had been so bold
In the sun's eye to feel, to speak, to act;
And in the starry concourse of the sky,
The leaning moonlit mountains, and the woods
By dusk illumination magnified,
And above all in that deep typical Voice
Of Many Waters, now authentic made
By word of revelation, I discern
Thine awful Presence, Majesty Supreme;
And, by Thy Spirit thus solicited,
I worship Thee with trembling utterance, checked
Oft by adoring silence, till my heart,
By thought of sweetest mercies over-borne,
Mercies unasked far more than asked, will dare
To weep for very love before Thy Feet!
Thought that could hardly keep itself from words,)
Great God and Father! to acknowledge thus
In night, silent or vocal, evermore
Thy Presence with Thy creatures, doth fatigue
The enraptured and adoring intellect.
O raise my soul and spirit, and attune
My body to their heights, that so I may,—
Not with intensity of love outworn,
With beauty restless, or with terror chafed,
Or by solemnity dispirited,—
123
Of child's affection, worship Thee, First Cause,
Fountain of Godhead, sole and unapproached,
Thine equal Son, from all eternity
Thy Son, to all eternity True Man,
And Thee too, infinite, coequal Spirit,
The personal and abiding Comforter,
And fallen sinner's diligent Paraclete—
Thee may I worship, Blessed Trinity,
Creator, Saviour, Paraclete of man!
In all the glories both of night and day,
Of land and ocean, mountain-top and dale:
But specially vouchsafe that in the night
And darkness, too symbolical of sin,
No idle thoughts, nor evil haunting past,
May claim my heart, while I the rather seek,
Even in my midnight fears, a fount of love,
Of breathless prayer and musings grave and high.
Thee, by the action of a restless mind
And the quick beatings of a heart unweaned
From earth, can I escape or shun by day.
The radiant magnificence of light
Can be a hiding-place. Romantic turns,
And alternations of a blended interest,
The bold relief of colour, and the gay
Distracting details of bright loveliness,
Sweetly distracting,—these are coverts all
Where in the depths of daylight we may hide,
Impatient of Thy Presence: but the night
Disarms the spirit which had been so bold
In the sun's eye to feel, to speak, to act;
And in the starry concourse of the sky,
The leaning moonlit mountains, and the woods
By dusk illumination magnified,
124
Of Many Waters, now authentic made
By word of revelation, I discern
Thine awful Presence, Majesty Supreme;
And, by Thy Spirit thus solicited,
I worship Thee with trembling utterance, checked
Oft by adoring silence, till my heart,
By thought of sweetest mercies over-borne,
Mercies unasked far more than asked, will dare
To weep for very love before Thy Feet!
Along the sounding shore Sir Lancelot went,
Till down the vale he saw the murky gleam
Of the wet sands far off, which like a tongue
Pierce the green woodlands there: then o'er a bridge
He crossed the Duddon, and northwestward turned
Over some mountain roots of shaggy copse,
Till in the Vale of Whicham now he stood
Beneath the stedfast shadow of Black Combe.
Till down the vale he saw the murky gleam
Of the wet sands far off, which like a tongue
Pierce the green woodlands there: then o'er a bridge
He crossed the Duddon, and northwestward turned
Over some mountain roots of shaggy copse,
Till in the Vale of Whicham now he stood
Beneath the stedfast shadow of Black Combe.
From time to time a restless watchdog bayed,
And a cock crew, or from the echoing hill
The wolf's low whine, prolonged and multiplied,
Possessed the ear of night and over-ruled
All other sounds, until the fitful breeze,
Impatient of the silence, woke once more
And with the dashing of the torrents played,
Throwing their music here and there at will.
The moon hung low: the starry firmament,
Shaking with lights innumerous, was spread
Over the mountain like an eastern tent,
Whose rocking lamps and swaying canopy
Bend in the desert wind. The mighty hill
Rose with the moon behind, and, in the shade
And layers of purple darkness, seemed to swell
Beyond the proper measure of its size,
Through that appearance wherewith solemn night
Is wont to magnify the glimmering earth.
Sir Lancelot gazed upon its dusky breadth
With reverence, while his inward awe confessed
The more than common majesty which breathes
From the mysterious features of Black Combe.
And a cock crew, or from the echoing hill
The wolf's low whine, prolonged and multiplied,
Possessed the ear of night and over-ruled
All other sounds, until the fitful breeze,
Impatient of the silence, woke once more
And with the dashing of the torrents played,
Throwing their music here and there at will.
The moon hung low: the starry firmament,
Shaking with lights innumerous, was spread
Over the mountain like an eastern tent,
Whose rocking lamps and swaying canopy
Bend in the desert wind. The mighty hill
Rose with the moon behind, and, in the shade
And layers of purple darkness, seemed to swell
Beyond the proper measure of its size,
125
Is wont to magnify the glimmering earth.
Sir Lancelot gazed upon its dusky breadth
With reverence, while his inward awe confessed
The more than common majesty which breathes
From the mysterious features of Black Combe.
Who for the first time sees that heavy hill,
Sombre and pale, but he acknowledges
Somewhat of its unwonted character,
The fearfulness of its dark aspect joined
With wild significance of feature, felt
Deep in the spirit, puzzling thought to find
Wherefore the presence of that singular height
Lays such a weight upon the feeling heart?
A dark attraction hath that mighty hill
To fix the wandering gaze upon itself,
Whether the eye may light on its green sides,
Ruffled with combs of fretted rock, far off
At sea to Mona or the Solway bound,
Or in the distance looming, o'er the sands
Of Duddon's sylvan estuary seen
From Hawcoat or the end of Walney Isle,
Or in smooth Whicham where the quiet air
Is loaded with its shadow, while the sheep
Graze silently around its verdant foot.
A silent place is Whicham vale, and not
Without some share of that impressive gloom
Which clouds the neighbouring hill incessantly,
A lonely spot which to the eye would seem
Most melancholy, if a prattling brook
In a damp woody channel overarched,
Like those who sing most sweetly when they deem
No audience nigh, did not full oft beguile
The traveller's spirit with its merry chimes
Half baffled by the matted roof of boughs,
And yet more beautiful, false distance given
Unto the strain, cheating the well-pleased ear.
Sombre and pale, but he acknowledges
Somewhat of its unwonted character,
The fearfulness of its dark aspect joined
With wild significance of feature, felt
Deep in the spirit, puzzling thought to find
Wherefore the presence of that singular height
Lays such a weight upon the feeling heart?
A dark attraction hath that mighty hill
To fix the wandering gaze upon itself,
Whether the eye may light on its green sides,
Ruffled with combs of fretted rock, far off
At sea to Mona or the Solway bound,
Or in the distance looming, o'er the sands
Of Duddon's sylvan estuary seen
From Hawcoat or the end of Walney Isle,
Or in smooth Whicham where the quiet air
Is loaded with its shadow, while the sheep
Graze silently around its verdant foot.
A silent place is Whicham vale, and not
Without some share of that impressive gloom
Which clouds the neighbouring hill incessantly,
A lonely spot which to the eye would seem
Most melancholy, if a prattling brook
In a damp woody channel overarched,
Like those who sing most sweetly when they deem
No audience nigh, did not full oft beguile
The traveller's spirit with its merry chimes
126
And yet more beautiful, false distance given
Unto the strain, cheating the well-pleased ear.
There the dark mountain stands, and seems like one
In a grim slumber by enchantment bound
Hard by the sea, whose murmur throws a voice
Into its inner glens, a solemn sound
Moaning along the treeless banks, less sweet
Than the rill's local music undisturbed,
But with a spell of power far more sublime
And mournful fascination, heavily
Ensnaring him who wanders there alone.
No matter whence the breeze may set, from land
Or from the sea, nor with what steady power
It flows along, still overhead the clouds
Mysteriously pause in their career,
By huge Black Combe retarded in the sky,
Dappling its brow with stationary shades
From hour to hour; while all the summer long
The wizard hill with an ethereal gloom,
Soft and cærulean, wraps his grassy flanks.
In a grim slumber by enchantment bound
Hard by the sea, whose murmur throws a voice
Into its inner glens, a solemn sound
Moaning along the treeless banks, less sweet
Than the rill's local music undisturbed,
But with a spell of power far more sublime
And mournful fascination, heavily
Ensnaring him who wanders there alone.
No matter whence the breeze may set, from land
Or from the sea, nor with what steady power
It flows along, still overhead the clouds
Mysteriously pause in their career,
By huge Black Combe retarded in the sky,
Dappling its brow with stationary shades
From hour to hour; while all the summer long
The wizard hill with an ethereal gloom,
Soft and cærulean, wraps his grassy flanks.
For druid rite and horrid sacrifice
Of savage faith, long ages past might choose
A mountain-height thus visibly with awe
Invested, to the dwellers there no less
Than to chance travellers, or the sea-borne man
Who in wild weather passes by that coast.
Of savage faith, long ages past might choose
A mountain-height thus visibly with awe
Invested, to the dwellers there no less
Than to chance travellers, or the sea-borne man
Who in wild weather passes by that coast.
Not unimpressive is it there to hear,
Far in the heart of those green solitudes,
The pastoral bleating of the flocks, annoyed,
Yea, and displaced upon the silent moors,
By the harsh plaining of the sea-fowl, driven
By rude Atlantic storms to shelter there.
How piteously they strew their broken cries
O'er the wet surface of the quaking moors,
Oft by the hillside echoes taken up
And in the sinuous coves prolonged, as though
That mountain were a giant horn whereon
The sea might wind his own peculiar notes,
Disheartening such plain lovers of the land
As wander there, and question if Black Combe
Be not a blending of both elements
Most wild and mystical, throughout its breadth
Claimed audibly by ocean for his own,
The nuptial chamber of the earth and sea,
With singular celebration set apart,
And strangest rites prolonged from year to year.
Far in the heart of those green solitudes,
The pastoral bleating of the flocks, annoyed,
Yea, and displaced upon the silent moors,
By the harsh plaining of the sea-fowl, driven
By rude Atlantic storms to shelter there.
How piteously they strew their broken cries
127
Oft by the hillside echoes taken up
And in the sinuous coves prolonged, as though
That mountain were a giant horn whereon
The sea might wind his own peculiar notes,
Disheartening such plain lovers of the land
As wander there, and question if Black Combe
Be not a blending of both elements
Most wild and mystical, throughout its breadth
Claimed audibly by ocean for his own,
The nuptial chamber of the earth and sea,
With singular celebration set apart,
And strangest rites prolonged from year to year.
He hath but little of the poet's soul
Who, passing underneath Black Combe, can go
By Duddon's shore, or through the pleasant peace
Of hollow Torver, or with southward course
To the Cistercian seat in Frudernesse
A pilgrim bent, and yet confess no weight
Laid by the sea-side mountain on his heart,
Or without difficulty extricates
The blythe and smiling scenes through which he wends
From out the shadow of that sombre height.
Who, passing underneath Black Combe, can go
By Duddon's shore, or through the pleasant peace
Of hollow Torver, or with southward course
To the Cistercian seat in Frudernesse
A pilgrim bent, and yet confess no weight
Laid by the sea-side mountain on his heart,
Or without difficulty extricates
The blythe and smiling scenes through which he wends
From out the shadow of that sombre height.
While yet Sir Lancelot stood, in musing wrapped,
The sunrise stole unto the higher ridge
Of the dark mountain, and the crest appeared
Through the thin mist as though it had been strewn,
Not with the sunshine, but a flaky shower
Of sprinkled snow, while on the sides beneath
Dawn separated one by one bright knolls
From out the purple mass, which swiftly grew
Translucent with green light; then from above
And from the vale beneath, both up and down
At once, the daylight tremulously crept.
Thereat the Knight commenced the smooth ascent,
Betrayed full often by the slippery sward
Already silvered by the moist sea-breeze,
Which carries autumn prematurely there,
And tarnishes the fern before its time.
The sunrise stole unto the higher ridge
Of the dark mountain, and the crest appeared
Through the thin mist as though it had been strewn,
Not with the sunshine, but a flaky shower
Of sprinkled snow, while on the sides beneath
Dawn separated one by one bright knolls
From out the purple mass, which swiftly grew
Translucent with green light; then from above
And from the vale beneath, both up and down
At once, the daylight tremulously crept.
128
Betrayed full often by the slippery sward
Already silvered by the moist sea-breeze,
Which carries autumn prematurely there,
And tarnishes the fern before its time.
Nigh to the dreary summit of Black Combe
There is a hideous fissure, scooped perchance
By ponderous eddies when the deluge swayed
Incumbent on the broken frame of earth.
Therein Sir Lancelot fixed his hermitage,
Wattled with clay and stakes in journeys brought
Frequent and toilsome from the vale below.
Behind the mountain's solid crest it stood
From the rude northwind sheltered, and ensconced
Behind a natural rampart of green turf,
Safe from the wet and blustering south which throws
Its greeting of salt spray upon the hill.
The only objects from the door beheld
Were seams of ruddy earth which interlaced
The stony cliff,—torrents of fluid soil
When the tempestuous rains came roughly down,
And sometimes lighted up as though the steep
Were braced in wizard mail, with gilded plates
Of sunshine with white silver riveted,
As the wet trickling stones the brightness caught.
There is a hideous fissure, scooped perchance
By ponderous eddies when the deluge swayed
Incumbent on the broken frame of earth.
Therein Sir Lancelot fixed his hermitage,
Wattled with clay and stakes in journeys brought
Frequent and toilsome from the vale below.
Behind the mountain's solid crest it stood
From the rude northwind sheltered, and ensconced
Behind a natural rampart of green turf,
Safe from the wet and blustering south which throws
Its greeting of salt spray upon the hill.
The only objects from the door beheld
Were seams of ruddy earth which interlaced
The stony cliff,—torrents of fluid soil
When the tempestuous rains came roughly down,
And sometimes lighted up as though the steep
Were braced in wizard mail, with gilded plates
Of sunshine with white silver riveted,
As the wet trickling stones the brightness caught.
It was a rougher life than he had spent
In the old Ash-tree Hermitage; for here
He had no vassals to forecast his wants.
His toils were doubled and his scanty fare,
Rude as it was, precariously supplied.
Yet not unprofitable was the change,—
A loss which over every feature threw
Somewhat of doubt, which haply might evoke
Meekness and trust, in little things most hard
As aiding not to feed that self-respect,
Whereon endurance leans with dignity,
And a proud patience, for awhile sustained,
Mimics the gait of Christian fortitude.
A profitable task it was to learn
Amid anxieties of such a sort,
And petty hindrances, to keep unsoiled
The springs of prayer, and copious as before.
The hedgerow birds for whom the Lord purveys
Have leisure morn and eve to sing His love:
And even the abasement of a beggar's life
Is hourly sowing, oft in sterile hearts,
The seeds of patient love and happy faith.
In the old Ash-tree Hermitage; for here
He had no vassals to forecast his wants.
His toils were doubled and his scanty fare,
Rude as it was, precariously supplied.
Yet not unprofitable was the change,—
A loss which over every feature threw
Somewhat of doubt, which haply might evoke
Meekness and trust, in little things most hard
129
Whereon endurance leans with dignity,
And a proud patience, for awhile sustained,
Mimics the gait of Christian fortitude.
A profitable task it was to learn
Amid anxieties of such a sort,
And petty hindrances, to keep unsoiled
The springs of prayer, and copious as before.
The hedgerow birds for whom the Lord purveys
Have leisure morn and eve to sing His love:
And even the abasement of a beggar's life
Is hourly sowing, oft in sterile hearts,
The seeds of patient love and happy faith.
Then sometimes would be leave his lofty cell
For days, and wander on the smooth sea-beach,
Sleeping in ragged copses which deform
That windy shore, or with a plank content
Of some wrecked ship upon the moonlit sands.
And round by pastoral Millum many a time
Belated men would cross themselves, and tell
How they, night-foundered in the forest, saw
Sir Lancelot sleeping in a shaggy brake;
While the red vivid embers of his fire,
Fanned by the fitful airs, appeared to bring
The gloom of midnight closer round, until
The darkness hung in almost visible folds
From bough to bough, like waving tapestries.
And oft, attracted by the flickering light
From the cold moor which bordered on the wood,
With head and neck protruding through the leaves
The kine were seen, guarding, the shepherds thought,
Haply commissioned from above, the sleep
Of that forlorn and solitary man;—
Such patient vigilance and doubtful sense
Of what the scene imported was portrayed
In quiet fear upon their lineaments.
And in their touching way the peasants called
These midnight slumbers in the dusky wood
His Rests in Egypt, prompted by the scene
Rudely depicted on their chapel wall,—
The wood in Egypt, where the rushing Nile
Made a strange distant undersong all night,
The lantern hung upon the broken bough
Above St. Joseph's head, whose sleepless eyes
From time to time explored the umbrage round,
Yet ever came to rest upon the Child,
As though the sight an admonition were
To watchfulness; and, seated on the ground,
Our Lady with her left hand held the Babe,
And with her right she strove to shade her eyes
From the red streaming lamp, that she might see
His Countenance more clearly as He slept,
While with affectionate caution she had drawn
A wimple o'er His Face to keep the light
From troubling His repose; and through the leaves,
So dimly pictured, that, at first unseen,
It only grew upon the eye that looked
For long, the Ass with silent shadowy head
Gazed on the Infant Saviour, as He slept,
The only Sleeper there;—yet that wild scene
With sweet felicity was named a Rest:—
Calmer than sleep that Mother's pondering thoughts,
Vigil for Christ the most restoring peace
St. Joseph's heart could know, and for the Ass,
To gaze on Him who saves both man and beast
Lifted his patient nature to a calm
Transcending far the purposes of sleep.
For days, and wander on the smooth sea-beach,
Sleeping in ragged copses which deform
That windy shore, or with a plank content
Of some wrecked ship upon the moonlit sands.
And round by pastoral Millum many a time
Belated men would cross themselves, and tell
How they, night-foundered in the forest, saw
Sir Lancelot sleeping in a shaggy brake;
While the red vivid embers of his fire,
Fanned by the fitful airs, appeared to bring
The gloom of midnight closer round, until
The darkness hung in almost visible folds
From bough to bough, like waving tapestries.
And oft, attracted by the flickering light
From the cold moor which bordered on the wood,
With head and neck protruding through the leaves
The kine were seen, guarding, the shepherds thought,
Haply commissioned from above, the sleep
Of that forlorn and solitary man;—
Such patient vigilance and doubtful sense
130
In quiet fear upon their lineaments.
And in their touching way the peasants called
These midnight slumbers in the dusky wood
His Rests in Egypt, prompted by the scene
Rudely depicted on their chapel wall,—
The wood in Egypt, where the rushing Nile
Made a strange distant undersong all night,
The lantern hung upon the broken bough
Above St. Joseph's head, whose sleepless eyes
From time to time explored the umbrage round,
Yet ever came to rest upon the Child,
As though the sight an admonition were
To watchfulness; and, seated on the ground,
Our Lady with her left hand held the Babe,
And with her right she strove to shade her eyes
From the red streaming lamp, that she might see
His Countenance more clearly as He slept,
While with affectionate caution she had drawn
A wimple o'er His Face to keep the light
From troubling His repose; and through the leaves,
So dimly pictured, that, at first unseen,
It only grew upon the eye that looked
For long, the Ass with silent shadowy head
Gazed on the Infant Saviour, as He slept,
The only Sleeper there;—yet that wild scene
With sweet felicity was named a Rest:—
Calmer than sleep that Mother's pondering thoughts,
Vigil for Christ the most restoring peace
St. Joseph's heart could know, and for the Ass,
To gaze on Him who saves both man and beast
Lifted his patient nature to a calm
Transcending far the purposes of sleep.
Oft would Sir Lancelot wander from the Point
Which fronts the Isle of Walney, to the north,
Until the sacred headland of St. Bees
Should greet his earnest gaze; but most he sought,
For its peculiar desolation loved,
That wild sea-bank, so beautiful and lone,
Where ocean roughly knocks upon the strand,
Or laves with fawning tongue the bright-ribbed shore,
And hardly wins the admission which he seeks
Into the sand-locked bay of Ravenglass;
Where, but a reign before, a few poor men
Set up their fish-garths at the mouth of Esk,
Vassals protected by the powerful arm
Of the bold Penningtons, and by the Sword
Much more of great St. Michael, from whose shrine
A blessing to the rugged fishers went,
And nights serene upon the moonlit gulf.
131
Until the sacred headland of St. Bees
Should greet his earnest gaze; but most he sought,
For its peculiar desolation loved,
That wild sea-bank, so beautiful and lone,
Where ocean roughly knocks upon the strand,
Or laves with fawning tongue the bright-ribbed shore,
And hardly wins the admission which he seeks
Into the sand-locked bay of Ravenglass;
Where, but a reign before, a few poor men
Set up their fish-garths at the mouth of Esk,
Vassals protected by the powerful arm
Of the bold Penningtons, and by the Sword
Much more of great St. Michael, from whose shrine
A blessing to the rugged fishers went,
And nights serene upon the moonlit gulf.
No common inlet is that jealous bay,
A curious chamber where the Atlantic comes
Smoothing his ruffled swell, and so receives
With an innocuous ripple on his brow,
(A graceful barter of the land and sea,
The rental paid for his reluctant calm,)
An ancient tribute of sweet waters, there
Brought by three vassal streams which gently mix
Their mountain music with that other strain,
The sea's soft thunder on the outer shore.
The Esk there is, by clusters of wild tarns
Suckled in sylvan places, which shoots forth
From its rich vale by lordly Muncaster,
And shallow Mite, which from its moorland dell,
Winding amid low dislocated hills,
Comes lisping o'er the pebbles; and clear Irt,
Translucent as his solitary lake
That images Seatallan when the sun
Burns in the glowing sky, with many a bend
Affectionately lingering near the hills,
Clasping and then unclasping many a knoll,
Procrastinates his meeting with the deep;
Fetching a wayward sweep almost to touch
The sea, he runs within the shore awhile,
Until, by ocean found in his strange creek,
Spite of his skill he yields at length to fate,
And mingles his sweet crystals with the brine.
A curious chamber where the Atlantic comes
Smoothing his ruffled swell, and so receives
With an innocuous ripple on his brow,
(A graceful barter of the land and sea,
The rental paid for his reluctant calm,)
An ancient tribute of sweet waters, there
Brought by three vassal streams which gently mix
Their mountain music with that other strain,
The sea's soft thunder on the outer shore.
The Esk there is, by clusters of wild tarns
Suckled in sylvan places, which shoots forth
From its rich vale by lordly Muncaster,
And shallow Mite, which from its moorland dell,
Winding amid low dislocated hills,
Comes lisping o'er the pebbles; and clear Irt,
Translucent as his solitary lake
132
Burns in the glowing sky, with many a bend
Affectionately lingering near the hills,
Clasping and then unclasping many a knoll,
Procrastinates his meeting with the deep;
Fetching a wayward sweep almost to touch
The sea, he runs within the shore awhile,
Until, by ocean found in his strange creek,
Spite of his skill he yields at length to fate,
And mingles his sweet crystals with the brine.
Four years a Hermit was the Knight enclosed
Within that mountain's solitary heart.
An utter solitude it was, yet not
By silentness enhanced, but resonant
With a perpetual sound which might appal
The timid listener in the depth of night,
Or in the misty calm of noonday moors.
Whether it was the murmur of the sea
Which travelled heavily among the glens,
The meeting of far echoes, or the moan
Of some unsleeping wind in that drear place,
Or the thick respiration of the hill
While to the sunshine it exhaled its mists,
Or greedily imbibed the globes of dew,
Or if it were the sailing of the clouds
Whose rudders made the cloven ether sound,—
I know not, but a resonance there is,
Strange and perpetual, in that savage hill.
Within that mountain's solitary heart.
An utter solitude it was, yet not
By silentness enhanced, but resonant
With a perpetual sound which might appal
The timid listener in the depth of night,
Or in the misty calm of noonday moors.
Whether it was the murmur of the sea
Which travelled heavily among the glens,
The meeting of far echoes, or the moan
Of some unsleeping wind in that drear place,
Or the thick respiration of the hill
While to the sunshine it exhaled its mists,
Or greedily imbibed the globes of dew,
Or if it were the sailing of the clouds
Whose rudders made the cloven ether sound,—
I know not, but a resonance there is,
Strange and perpetual, in that savage hill.
The wind is viewless: but its voice and path
Are spiritual; upon the mountain side
It leaves no impress; sea or inland lake
Sustain it, as the hard highways may bear
A chariot or the throng of nimble hoofs;
A momentary ruffling of the dust,
A momentary drifting of the spray,
And all is over; on the waving woods
The elastic foliage starts ere it be passed,
And with a studious speed obliterates
The wake it scored upon it now; and who could hope
One livelong day to chronicle the winds
Or fluttering breezes which at times may throw
Into the mantled faces of the woods
Expression sweet, and skilfully displace
The show of mute reserve wherewith they hide
(As Holy Church secretes her mystic truths
And touching rites, until with voiceless call
The Spirit, for the humbling of an age
Or its tuition, may solicit them,
In glad spontaneous teaching then expressed)
Their beautiful interiors, trunk and branch,
Sylvan arcades, and dimly lighted naves,
And marigold windows pierced among the leaves,
And transepts dusk, and crypts of underwood
With honeysuckle groined? Ah! who could hope
To fix in song the beauty of one day
Written upon the woods, and by the wind
Upon their flexile lineaments impressed,
And at one stroke expunged? Such interchange
Of look have those green seas!
Are spiritual; upon the mountain side
It leaves no impress; sea or inland lake
Sustain it, as the hard highways may bear
A chariot or the throng of nimble hoofs;
A momentary ruffling of the dust,
133
And all is over; on the waving woods
The elastic foliage starts ere it be passed,
And with a studious speed obliterates
The wake it scored upon it now; and who could hope
One livelong day to chronicle the winds
Or fluttering breezes which at times may throw
Into the mantled faces of the woods
Expression sweet, and skilfully displace
The show of mute reserve wherewith they hide
(As Holy Church secretes her mystic truths
And touching rites, until with voiceless call
The Spirit, for the humbling of an age
Or its tuition, may solicit them,
In glad spontaneous teaching then expressed)
Their beautiful interiors, trunk and branch,
Sylvan arcades, and dimly lighted naves,
And marigold windows pierced among the leaves,
And transepts dusk, and crypts of underwood
With honeysuckle groined? Ah! who could hope
To fix in song the beauty of one day
Written upon the woods, and by the wind
Upon their flexile lineaments impressed,
And at one stroke expunged? Such interchange
Of look have those green seas!
Like fruitless task
Is his, who should endeavour to record
The daily path which natural objects make
Across the spirit, trailing hope and fear
Like ploughshares after them, that, not by chance,
Here idly skim the surface, there indent
A furrow which the man walks in for years,
But knows not when or how it was upturned.
Beauty and terror, sunshine, storm, and calm,
Write their obscure inscriptions as they pass,
Rarely decyphered then; the feeling heart
Counts the bright landscapes which have moved her, dates
From sunsets, rainbows, or cool starry nights
Which, with a strange prerogative endowed,
Inward or outward, above other nights
That were as bright, as cool, as beautiful,
Have troubled her so sweetly with a sense
Of joy, or influx of poetic power.
Is his, who should endeavour to record
The daily path which natural objects make
Across the spirit, trailing hope and fear
Like ploughshares after them, that, not by chance,
Here idly skim the surface, there indent
A furrow which the man walks in for years,
But knows not when or how it was upturned.
134
Write their obscure inscriptions as they pass,
Rarely decyphered then; the feeling heart
Counts the bright landscapes which have moved her, dates
From sunsets, rainbows, or cool starry nights
Which, with a strange prerogative endowed,
Inward or outward, above other nights
That were as bright, as cool, as beautiful,
Have troubled her so sweetly with a sense
Of joy, or influx of poetic power.
Thus nature acted on Sir Lancelot's soul,
Spreading her blameless empire in the dark,
And now and then in chance disclosures gave
A sign, whereby to measure the degree
Of inward change her influence had wrought.
Somewhat of rude sublimity there was,
By strange ennobling circumstance conferred,
Which o'er that Excommunicated Man
Hung like a cloud of glorious thoughts, when they
Beset the astonished minstrel; and his mind,
To a continuous adoration strung,
Sustained his bodily strength, insensible
To the rough agency of heat and cold.
Even such propinquity there often is
'Twixt miracles and nature's humbler works,
Those higher or lower cycles which embrace
In single law the order of the world;
Single, yet with distracting aspects seen
By our weak minds, which therefore have disjoined
Palpable wonders from the common things
So much more wonderful, that their true size
Transcends the measures of our mortal thoughts,
And we account them but for what they seem.
Thus the elevation of Sir Lancelot's mind
Hardened his bodily frame, till he approached
The eye undimmed, the unabated force,
Which on the Hebrew lawgiver of old
The frequent Presence of the Almighty shed,
When years went by and furrowed not his brow,
And toil inspired had wearied not his limbs.
Spreading her blameless empire in the dark,
And now and then in chance disclosures gave
A sign, whereby to measure the degree
Of inward change her influence had wrought.
Somewhat of rude sublimity there was,
By strange ennobling circumstance conferred,
Which o'er that Excommunicated Man
Hung like a cloud of glorious thoughts, when they
Beset the astonished minstrel; and his mind,
To a continuous adoration strung,
Sustained his bodily strength, insensible
To the rough agency of heat and cold.
Even such propinquity there often is
'Twixt miracles and nature's humbler works,
Those higher or lower cycles which embrace
In single law the order of the world;
Single, yet with distracting aspects seen
By our weak minds, which therefore have disjoined
Palpable wonders from the common things
So much more wonderful, that their true size
Transcends the measures of our mortal thoughts,
And we account them but for what they seem.
135
Hardened his bodily frame, till he approached
The eye undimmed, the unabated force,
Which on the Hebrew lawgiver of old
The frequent Presence of the Almighty shed,
When years went by and furrowed not his brow,
And toil inspired had wearied not his limbs.
Amid those high capacious solitudes
The silent stars beheld the Man insphered
Among themselves; and there alone he sat,
The ample brow of that dread height his chair,
In musing wrapt, above the reveries
Of blind astrologer, and communing
With that intelligent Presence in himself
Wherewith our being is possessed through faith,
And heavenly hope, and silent love of God,
And works of mercy, shadows of the Cross.
Yet like Chaldæan mystic might he seem,
Who in the plain of Tigris, on a knoll
Above the undulating vapor raised,
Ponders the starry writing of the skies.
On that high chair, a more than kingly throne,
His thoughts were crowned by local dignity,
Sharing the elevation of the place,
And the strong freedom of the lofty height.
The silent stars beheld the Man insphered
Among themselves; and there alone he sat,
The ample brow of that dread height his chair,
In musing wrapt, above the reveries
Of blind astrologer, and communing
With that intelligent Presence in himself
Wherewith our being is possessed through faith,
And heavenly hope, and silent love of God,
And works of mercy, shadows of the Cross.
Yet like Chaldæan mystic might he seem,
Who in the plain of Tigris, on a knoll
Above the undulating vapor raised,
Ponders the starry writing of the skies.
On that high chair, a more than kingly throne,
His thoughts were crowned by local dignity,
Sharing the elevation of the place,
And the strong freedom of the lofty height.
Above the clouds or in them, or in air
With cold and pallid brightness circumfused,
Whose dewy breathings made the stars appear
To waver in the dome, he sat; and there
Full many a night with those three powers conversed,
The Moon, the Mountain, and the Sea. Dread life
It was, unearthly, yet not all of Heaven;
A life wherein each passing hour he felt—
Inwardly bleeding as he warred therewith—
The vehement beatings of the impeded soul
Against the bars and hindrances, which met
Its upward aspirations, while it clung
Unto a thousand relics of self-love,
And in the very act the union loathed:
Disheartening warfare were it not for faith,
For supernatural alliances
In worlds unknown contracted by the soul,
For heavenly gifts, inlayings deep and rich
Of Sacraments, forbidding us to deem
Unworthily of our immortal flesh,
No longer ours alone, incorporate
And knit with His, a mortal Maiden's Son,
And Word Eternal! Therefore we endure
The languor of this miserable strife,
As being with Him Who is invisible,—
More truly present with our Lord in Heaven
Than absent from His Presence while on earth.
With cold and pallid brightness circumfused,
Whose dewy breathings made the stars appear
To waver in the dome, he sat; and there
Full many a night with those three powers conversed,
The Moon, the Mountain, and the Sea. Dread life
It was, unearthly, yet not all of Heaven;
A life wherein each passing hour he felt—
Inwardly bleeding as he warred therewith—
136
Against the bars and hindrances, which met
Its upward aspirations, while it clung
Unto a thousand relics of self-love,
And in the very act the union loathed:
Disheartening warfare were it not for faith,
For supernatural alliances
In worlds unknown contracted by the soul,
For heavenly gifts, inlayings deep and rich
Of Sacraments, forbidding us to deem
Unworthily of our immortal flesh,
No longer ours alone, incorporate
And knit with His, a mortal Maiden's Son,
And Word Eternal! Therefore we endure
The languor of this miserable strife,
As being with Him Who is invisible,—
More truly present with our Lord in Heaven
Than absent from His Presence while on earth.
| Sir Lancelot | |