Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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| I. |
| II. | BOOK II.
THE BOOKS. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
29
BOOK II. THE BOOKS.
31
There to his solitude the seasons came,
And each one took him gently by surprise,
Turning on noiseless hinges unperceived.
Spring calmly passed, like some transparent dream,
Upon the spirit of the wintry earth,
And then was in the shady summer lost,
Ere he was conscious of a growing change:
And though more palpably, yet autumn stole
With subtle step encroaching on the depths
Of summer foliage. And in nothing else
Is nature's sacred influence more confessed
A healing balsam, than in that calm use
Of present hours and opportunities
Which her unfretful transmutations breed,
And soft, deliberate beauty. Then perchance
Each season wore a trace within his heart,
Furthered his discipline, and left his soul
In some advance upon the season past.
Though the gross eye when introverted most
Must be content to measure inward growths
Attained, which in their act of growing shunned
The contemplative gaze.
And each one took him gently by surprise,
Turning on noiseless hinges unperceived.
Spring calmly passed, like some transparent dream,
Upon the spirit of the wintry earth,
And then was in the shady summer lost,
Ere he was conscious of a growing change:
And though more palpably, yet autumn stole
With subtle step encroaching on the depths
Of summer foliage. And in nothing else
Is nature's sacred influence more confessed
A healing balsam, than in that calm use
Of present hours and opportunities
Which her unfretful transmutations breed,
And soft, deliberate beauty. Then perchance
Each season wore a trace within his heart,
Furthered his discipline, and left his soul
In some advance upon the season past.
Though the gross eye when introverted most
Must be content to measure inward growths
Attained, which in their act of growing shunned
The contemplative gaze.
For seven long years
Earth's four magnificent mutations rolled
Above him and around him, while within
His spirit yielded with responsive change.
He loved spring's downy green and brilliant veins
Of vivid fern that striped the sloping hills,
And the white splendors of her sunshine showers,
When birds beneath the rainbow arches sang
With lusty music, and the wild flowers rose
Almost beneath his footsteps as he walked.
And with a pensive humor would he watch
How summer's green grew darker in the rains
Which swept assiduously upon the hills,
Or hung in laboring folds of fleecy mist
Which shed their tear-drops imperceptibly,
And with the sunbeam wild enchantments wrought,
Or ministered nocturnal pageantry
Unto the silver moon. Autumnal days
He noted for their variable lights,
Stirring or still, on those discolored moors
Of green sward slowly withering into white,
Hollows of tawny fern or purple heath,
And blue stones from the trickling mosses wet
Gleaming like polished marble on the steeps,
And through an atmosphere beheld, so soft,
The mountains seemed like cushions that would yield
Elastic to the pressure of the arm
Of one reclining.
Earth's four magnificent mutations rolled
Above him and around him, while within
His spirit yielded with responsive change.
He loved spring's downy green and brilliant veins
32
And the white splendors of her sunshine showers,
When birds beneath the rainbow arches sang
With lusty music, and the wild flowers rose
Almost beneath his footsteps as he walked.
And with a pensive humor would he watch
How summer's green grew darker in the rains
Which swept assiduously upon the hills,
Or hung in laboring folds of fleecy mist
Which shed their tear-drops imperceptibly,
And with the sunbeam wild enchantments wrought,
Or ministered nocturnal pageantry
Unto the silver moon. Autumnal days
He noted for their variable lights,
Stirring or still, on those discolored moors
Of green sward slowly withering into white,
Hollows of tawny fern or purple heath,
And blue stones from the trickling mosses wet
Gleaming like polished marble on the steeps,
And through an atmosphere beheld, so soft,
The mountains seemed like cushions that would yield
Elastic to the pressure of the arm
Of one reclining.
In the bright cold eye
And dazzling aspect of the wintry sun,
Which from the low horizon slanting looks
Into the face, not on the heights of heaven
As in the deep and fervent midsummer
Commodiously enthroned, he loved to mark
The threads of moss which shot across the slopes,
Yellow and scarlet and refulgent green,
All round the springs in bulging pillows swollen;
And night was never half so beautiful
As on the hills in frosty starlight spread
Snow-capped, and with a hundred echoes filled
Waked by the clear-voiced raving of the brooks.
In that pacific splendor of the stars
On wintry nights, with what a fair deceit
Is undue summer born afresh, to one
Who wanders half-way up some wooded hill!
The beeches, whose dry clinging leaves by day
Seem like the rustling shroud upon a ghost,
In the vague light now swell upon the eye
In dusky size, and outline unconfirmed
Of nodding umbrage, while the vale below
Trembles beneath a half translucent sea,
That with alternate waves of light and dark
Clothes the grey marshy fallows at our feet
With dim magnificence, as Christian thought
Sheds on the beaten path of common tasks
The aspect of infinity, by right
To duties appertaining, as to powers
Which, howsoever mean or common-place,
Enclose some portion of the Will of God.
And dazzling aspect of the wintry sun,
Which from the low horizon slanting looks
Into the face, not on the heights of heaven
As in the deep and fervent midsummer
Commodiously enthroned, he loved to mark
The threads of moss which shot across the slopes,
Yellow and scarlet and refulgent green,
All round the springs in bulging pillows swollen;
And night was never half so beautiful
As on the hills in frosty starlight spread
33
Waked by the clear-voiced raving of the brooks.
In that pacific splendor of the stars
On wintry nights, with what a fair deceit
Is undue summer born afresh, to one
Who wanders half-way up some wooded hill!
The beeches, whose dry clinging leaves by day
Seem like the rustling shroud upon a ghost,
In the vague light now swell upon the eye
In dusky size, and outline unconfirmed
Of nodding umbrage, while the vale below
Trembles beneath a half translucent sea,
That with alternate waves of light and dark
Clothes the grey marshy fallows at our feet
With dim magnificence, as Christian thought
Sheds on the beaten path of common tasks
The aspect of infinity, by right
To duties appertaining, as to powers
Which, howsoever mean or common-place,
Enclose some portion of the Will of God.
Nor wanted he another simple joy
Bestowed in that drear sabbath of the earth;
For wandering near the wintry streams, kept low
By frosts that seal the upland springs, he loved
The glistening star which on the ouzle's breast
Twinkles upon the ice-rimmed stones, or flits
Shooting its snowy beam all up the rill,
Winding as it may wind, and not a curve
Evading, nor a cape of meadow-land
In lawless transit crossing, like some orb
That wheels obedient on a tortuous path
Upon the trackless sky. A visitant,
That living Luminary ne'er arrives
Till with the cold of our declining year:
And—not inapt to watchful hearts will seem
The bold comparison—it bodies forth
To pious thought the Migratory Star
Of Christmas, which the swarthy Magians led
To Him new-born among the flocks and herds.
Bestowed in that drear sabbath of the earth;
For wandering near the wintry streams, kept low
By frosts that seal the upland springs, he loved
The glistening star which on the ouzle's breast
Twinkles upon the ice-rimmed stones, or flits
Shooting its snowy beam all up the rill,
Winding as it may wind, and not a curve
Evading, nor a cape of meadow-land
In lawless transit crossing, like some orb
That wheels obedient on a tortuous path
Upon the trackless sky. A visitant,
That living Luminary ne'er arrives
Till with the cold of our declining year:
34
The bold comparison—it bodies forth
To pious thought the Migratory Star
Of Christmas, which the swarthy Magians led
To Him new-born among the flocks and herds.
The lesser revolutions of the day,
And silent-footed night, were meted out
By him with ritual observances,
And an affectionate formality.
The sun, now burning in the azure heaven,
Now urging on his white and spectral disk
Perceptibly behind a veil of clouds,
Was his sole altar-lamp, a Voice of Light—
So may an inmate of a mountain home
Not over-boldly name the sun—a Voice,
Which from the pearly east invoked him first
To rise, and, when with risen orb it stood
Above the hills, it summoned him to prime;
And when the vale was filled with light, it rang
With its descending beams the hour of tierce;
Or when it sparkled in the central sky
(Not least a Voice at that deep earth-stilled hour)
Bespoke the noon-day service, and, half-way
Sloped westward, then a fresh monition gave,
Ere yet the sunset waked his vesper thoughts;
And, the moist twilight of the compline passed,
The moon three times in her ascent proclaimed,
Stooping from out her balcony serene,
Three several nocturns, and the dubious light
Of dawn, whose sweet confusion mingles half
Night's softness with day's clear transparent hue,
Seemed interposed for lauds, that at the prayer
Of His true Church the Bridegroom might unveil
His spiritual sunrise to the soul.
And silent-footed night, were meted out
By him with ritual observances,
And an affectionate formality.
The sun, now burning in the azure heaven,
Now urging on his white and spectral disk
Perceptibly behind a veil of clouds,
Was his sole altar-lamp, a Voice of Light—
So may an inmate of a mountain home
Not over-boldly name the sun—a Voice,
Which from the pearly east invoked him first
To rise, and, when with risen orb it stood
Above the hills, it summoned him to prime;
And when the vale was filled with light, it rang
With its descending beams the hour of tierce;
Or when it sparkled in the central sky
(Not least a Voice at that deep earth-stilled hour)
Bespoke the noon-day service, and, half-way
Sloped westward, then a fresh monition gave,
Ere yet the sunset waked his vesper thoughts;
And, the moist twilight of the compline passed,
The moon three times in her ascent proclaimed,
Stooping from out her balcony serene,
Three several nocturns, and the dubious light
Of dawn, whose sweet confusion mingles half
Night's softness with day's clear transparent hue,
Seemed interposed for lauds, that at the prayer
Of His true Church the Bridegroom might unveil
His spiritual sunrise to the soul.
35
Thus were his hours partitioned, and no less
Had he invented rituals minute,
Which with the fluctuations harmonized
Of our unsteady climate: patterns sweet
He found, and drew from his remembrances
Of catholic observance, and the forms
Divine of Rome's magnificent liturgies.
And gradually mounting in degree
As observation monthly added fresh
Intelligence, he to a strange extent
Evoked the spirit of earth's ritual,
The natural liturgies of storm and calm,
And swelling symphonies of choral winds
With solitary breezes blending faintly;
While in the stately gestures of the clouds
He studied her processional. Yet poor
And feeble was the approach which he could make
Toward shadowing out a service for himself
From earth's disjointed symbols. Still from these,
And from his punishment endured with awe,
And from the grace of Christ which runneth over
Even on the outcast and the separate,
And from the weekly mass, heard in the porch
Of grey St. Catherine's by the lonely lake,
And ritual joys upon occasional feasts
In secret snatched, and only half enjoyed
As aids to penance, rather than reliefs,—
He gathered wherewithal to train his soul
Through penitential gloom to filial love:
And angels ministered without disdain
Unto that Excommunicated Man.
Had he invented rituals minute,
Which with the fluctuations harmonized
Of our unsteady climate: patterns sweet
He found, and drew from his remembrances
Of catholic observance, and the forms
Divine of Rome's magnificent liturgies.
And gradually mounting in degree
As observation monthly added fresh
Intelligence, he to a strange extent
Evoked the spirit of earth's ritual,
The natural liturgies of storm and calm,
And swelling symphonies of choral winds
With solitary breezes blending faintly;
While in the stately gestures of the clouds
He studied her processional. Yet poor
And feeble was the approach which he could make
Toward shadowing out a service for himself
From earth's disjointed symbols. Still from these,
And from his punishment endured with awe,
And from the grace of Christ which runneth over
Even on the outcast and the separate,
And from the weekly mass, heard in the porch
Of grey St. Catherine's by the lonely lake,
And ritual joys upon occasional feasts
In secret snatched, and only half enjoyed
As aids to penance, rather than reliefs,—
He gathered wherewithal to train his soul
Through penitential gloom to filial love:
And angels ministered without disdain
Unto that Excommunicated Man.
And other aids he had of no mean sort,
But mighty in accomplishing his end.
For not a soul inhabits the wide earth,
Inside the Church or out, which is not reached
By some stray blessing and uncertain grace
Irregular, and oft miraculous
As oft dispensing with appointed forms:
So all untiring is the love of God,
So all unsearchable the grace of Christ.
But mighty in accomplishing his end.
For not a soul inhabits the wide earth,
36
By some stray blessing and uncertain grace
Irregular, and oft miraculous
As oft dispensing with appointed forms:
So all untiring is the love of God,
So all unsearchable the grace of Christ.
Two Books he had brought with him to the hills
By happy chance, for not more suitable
Could they have been, or to his present lot
More curiously appropriate, if he
With choice long-pondered had selected them:
Aids might they be and complements, perchance,
Which could supply unto his mind what lacked
Of self-interpretation in the earth,
To comment on her own fair mysteries
With illustrations of a moral kind.
Keys were they, aptly fitted to unlock
Her inspiration of sustaining thought,
Her subsidies of spiritual strength,
And consolations, with sublimity
No less than a relieving gentleness
Adapted to the variable walks
And destinies of fallen humanity.
By happy chance, for not more suitable
Could they have been, or to his present lot
More curiously appropriate, if he
With choice long-pondered had selected them:
Aids might they be and complements, perchance,
Which could supply unto his mind what lacked
Of self-interpretation in the earth,
To comment on her own fair mysteries
With illustrations of a moral kind.
Keys were they, aptly fitted to unlock
Her inspiration of sustaining thought,
Her subsidies of spiritual strength,
And consolations, with sublimity
No less than a relieving gentleness
Adapted to the variable walks
And destinies of fallen humanity.
One was a fragment of the Written Word,
By God consigned unto the Holy Church,
Her charter, whence with her vast mind informed
With apostolic saying, by the cloud,
That luminous pillar of our wilderness,
Of old tradition throughout her descents
Not without miracle accompanied,
She was to teach the hearts of Christian men;
Sole teacher she, and that one Book the chief
Original fountain of her teaching! There,
In mute magnificent procession led,
We see the fortunes of Humanity,
The various discipline of Adam's race;
And from our childhood upward learn to weep
Or smile in cherished sympathy with him
In Bethel dreaming, or with Joseph sold
To foreign merchants, and with bursting heart
Weeping impassionedly upon the neck
Of Rachel's youngest-born. There man is seen
In fluctuations marvellous and wild,
And yet by revelation ascertained
Infallible, drawn forward to the Cross,
The everlasting haven of our kind.
There with that solitary, blameless man
Beginning, tenant of God's Paradise,
Now fallen we behold our nature led
Through dreams and expiations shadowy
In blood of beasts approached, through old
Traditions of hereditary forms
Of service primitive, and colloquies
With angel apparitions, and a law
Of onerous significance imposed
On private life and on the social state,
In its pure self a blessing, to a curse
By sin commuted unendurable,
Through prophecy translated more and more,
And goaded by a harsh captivity,
Into the dawning of Messiah's Day.
And then upon the threshold of two worlds
In the drear wilderness the Baptist stood,
And with authentic voice proclaimed aloud
The ceremonial education over,
And that the beautiful and solemn Day
Had absolutely broken in the East.
By God consigned unto the Holy Church,
Her charter, whence with her vast mind informed
With apostolic saying, by the cloud,
That luminous pillar of our wilderness,
Of old tradition throughout her descents
Not without miracle accompanied,
She was to teach the hearts of Christian men;
Sole teacher she, and that one Book the chief
Original fountain of her teaching! There,
In mute magnificent procession led,
37
The various discipline of Adam's race;
And from our childhood upward learn to weep
Or smile in cherished sympathy with him
In Bethel dreaming, or with Joseph sold
To foreign merchants, and with bursting heart
Weeping impassionedly upon the neck
Of Rachel's youngest-born. There man is seen
In fluctuations marvellous and wild,
And yet by revelation ascertained
Infallible, drawn forward to the Cross,
The everlasting haven of our kind.
There with that solitary, blameless man
Beginning, tenant of God's Paradise,
Now fallen we behold our nature led
Through dreams and expiations shadowy
In blood of beasts approached, through old
Traditions of hereditary forms
Of service primitive, and colloquies
With angel apparitions, and a law
Of onerous significance imposed
On private life and on the social state,
In its pure self a blessing, to a curse
By sin commuted unendurable,
Through prophecy translated more and more,
And goaded by a harsh captivity,
Into the dawning of Messiah's Day.
And then upon the threshold of two worlds
In the drear wilderness the Baptist stood,
And with authentic voice proclaimed aloud
The ceremonial education over,
And that the beautiful and solemn Day
Had absolutely broken in the East.
And then—O Wisdom graciously vouchsafed,
To be by us affectionately prized
And by the Church assiduously taught!—
The eye beholds how, for a few short years
Divine Exemplar, dwelt upon the earth
Goodness and Truth, the Eternal Plenitude
Of the true Godhead bodily comprised
In Flesh the blissful Mary minister'd,
Two Natures deeply intercommuning
With a mysterious intimacy, joined
In unity of Person all Divine,—
And how at length, our sole Atonement made
In His health-giving Passion, He went up
To Glory He had never left, to sit,
Yet not divorced from Flesh so late assumed,
Man, worshipped by the hierarchies of heaven.
38
And by the Church assiduously taught!—
The eye beholds how, for a few short years
Divine Exemplar, dwelt upon the earth
Goodness and Truth, the Eternal Plenitude
Of the true Godhead bodily comprised
In Flesh the blissful Mary minister'd,
Two Natures deeply intercommuning
With a mysterious intimacy, joined
In unity of Person all Divine,—
And how at length, our sole Atonement made
In His health-giving Passion, He went up
To Glory He had never left, to sit,
Yet not divorced from Flesh so late assumed,
Man, worshipped by the hierarchies of heaven.
Then far across the universal earth,
Through God's election secretly exhaled,
By sacramental links in unity
Compact, the Mystic Body grew apace,
On twelve foundation stones reposing sure;
Which through supernal pilotage hath steered
Right o'er opposing ages westward bound,
And still shall steer, transfigured evermore
With varying splendors suitably ordained
Unto the age and sickness of the world,
Whether in her magnific decadence,
Or fresh returns towards her primal strenght.
Through God's election secretly exhaled,
By sacramental links in unity
Compact, the Mystic Body grew apace,
On twelve foundation stones reposing sure;
Which through supernal pilotage hath steered
Right o'er opposing ages westward bound,
And still shall steer, transfigured evermore
With varying splendors suitably ordained
Unto the age and sickness of the world,
Whether in her magnific decadence,
Or fresh returns towards her primal strenght.
O Book most good! most holy! on our knees
To be full often scanned, how blest was he,
That lonely, Excommunicated Man,
That one small portion of thy heavenly lore
At least was his, whence fervors unreproved
Were fed, and terror deepened and chaste love,
Love far beyond a sinner's worth or hope,
Begotten of calm prayer within his soul,
And thanksgivings which hardly dared to be
Thanksgivings, as above his guilty state!
To be full often scanned, how blest was he,
That lonely, Excommunicated Man,
That one small portion of thy heavenly lore
At least was his, whence fervors unreproved
Were fed, and terror deepened and chaste love,
Love far beyond a sinner's worth or hope,
39
And thanksgivings which hardly dared to be
Thanksgivings, as above his guilty state!
A little parchment Manuscript it was,
Laboriously written, and emblazed
With uncial letters fancifully streaked
In flourishes of vermeil and of gold,
A task of love by some most diligent monk
In cloistered leisure reverently adorned.
And therein was contained the Book of Job,
In the quaint style and sinewy rhythm composed,
And touching diction of the barbarous
And powerful Latin of the western Church,
Rich in a strange felicity to print
Expressions picturesquely turned, and thoughts
Through bold ellipses darkly signified,
Upon the memory, by that darkness wooed
To deep attention.
Laboriously written, and emblazed
With uncial letters fancifully streaked
In flourishes of vermeil and of gold,
A task of love by some most diligent monk
In cloistered leisure reverently adorned.
And therein was contained the Book of Job,
In the quaint style and sinewy rhythm composed,
And touching diction of the barbarous
And powerful Latin of the western Church,
Rich in a strange felicity to print
Expressions picturesquely turned, and thoughts
Through bold ellipses darkly signified,
Upon the memory, by that darkness wooed
To deep attention.
And there could not be
Of Holy Writ a portion suited more
Unto the aspirations of his soul
And wholesome sadness than that Book of Job.
In the far east long centuries ago
Of which we have no count, amid the tents
Of Hus, and pastoral magnificence
Of its great men, a marvellous Voice was heard,—
Anguish, submission, patience, all conjoined
With solemn vindications, and expressed
In interrogatories boldly urged,
Yet with a reverent spirit, to the Judge
Supreme in Heaven and Maker of mankind.
The Voice it was of lorn Humanity
Turning abrupt, like oxen on the goads,
On its intolerable destiny,
Its woes intense and hungry sympathies
Unsatisfied, and craving hopes and loves,
And bodily torments vile, all unsustained
By dignity in the endurance. There,
In Hus, Humanity thus turned abrupt,
As though refusing further to advance,
With thoughtful obstinacy, not unpraised
Of God, by purblind men not understood.
And now no more by destiny pursued,
A flying victim in ignoble rout,
It turned to face the curse, and wise in faith
Questioned the lofty quarter whence it came;
Not in the tame philosophy content
With explanations timidly beneath
God's glory, offered by the poverty
Of common consolation, and the world's
Unspiritual humility of speech,—
An unregarded offering. It was bold
In lofty thought, and in its questionings
Not ignorant. O surely not without
Divine suggestion of the nobleness
Of its original nature, and the sense
Of supernatural alliance fed
Within the spirit by deep communings
With worlds invisible, and obvious prints
Of an Almighty Presence on the earth.
Of Holy Writ a portion suited more
Unto the aspirations of his soul
And wholesome sadness than that Book of Job.
In the far east long centuries ago
Of which we have no count, amid the tents
Of Hus, and pastoral magnificence
Of its great men, a marvellous Voice was heard,—
Anguish, submission, patience, all conjoined
With solemn vindications, and expressed
In interrogatories boldly urged,
Yet with a reverent spirit, to the Judge
Supreme in Heaven and Maker of mankind.
The Voice it was of lorn Humanity
Turning abrupt, like oxen on the goads,
On its intolerable destiny,
40
Unsatisfied, and craving hopes and loves,
And bodily torments vile, all unsustained
By dignity in the endurance. There,
In Hus, Humanity thus turned abrupt,
As though refusing further to advance,
With thoughtful obstinacy, not unpraised
Of God, by purblind men not understood.
And now no more by destiny pursued,
A flying victim in ignoble rout,
It turned to face the curse, and wise in faith
Questioned the lofty quarter whence it came;
Not in the tame philosophy content
With explanations timidly beneath
God's glory, offered by the poverty
Of common consolation, and the world's
Unspiritual humility of speech,—
An unregarded offering. It was bold
In lofty thought, and in its questionings
Not ignorant. O surely not without
Divine suggestion of the nobleness
Of its original nature, and the sense
Of supernatural alliance fed
Within the spirit by deep communings
With worlds invisible, and obvious prints
Of an Almighty Presence on the earth.
Never was music heard among mankind
Like that most fluctuating Voice! Wild strains,
Beating in awful cadence like the surge
Which marks the rough pulsations of the storm,
Making the solid shore to groan, or like
The cry of angry torture oft dispersed
By wounded eagles in the echoing vales
Of the hushed mountains. Wild and lofty strains
Were they of venturous passion now, and now
Of self-abasement dignified, which rose
And fell,—with troublous warbling of loose notes
Rose thrillingly, and with a prelude strange
Of shaken keys disorderly, and fell
With steady sound and pressure masculine,
Like a loud march in music, or the close
Of some full-hearted requiem. One while
Most querulous, yet not unsweetly so,
It sued for rest in death, and then accused
The blessed functions of the fruitful womb,
Declaring life unprized, and preaching how
The moist clods of the valley should be sweet
Unto the weary limbs and world-worn heart.
Like that most fluctuating Voice! Wild strains,
Beating in awful cadence like the surge
Which marks the rough pulsations of the storm,
Making the solid shore to groan, or like
The cry of angry torture oft dispersed
By wounded eagles in the echoing vales
Of the hushed mountains. Wild and lofty strains
41
Of self-abasement dignified, which rose
And fell,—with troublous warbling of loose notes
Rose thrillingly, and with a prelude strange
Of shaken keys disorderly, and fell
With steady sound and pressure masculine,
Like a loud march in music, or the close
Of some full-hearted requiem. One while
Most querulous, yet not unsweetly so,
It sued for rest in death, and then accused
The blessed functions of the fruitful womb,
Declaring life unprized, and preaching how
The moist clods of the valley should be sweet
Unto the weary limbs and world-worn heart.
With better sense of its own majesty
And possibilities of Heaven, It then
Complained of the Almighty's mystic love
Of darkness and concealment in His ways;
Till by the very greatness of its thoughts
Rebuked, its vileness did It straight confess
With ample self-disparagement. It brooked
The Voice of God, but in forbearance meek
Once, twice It spake, the third time answered not,
But laid its hand, a signet on its mouth;
In lamentation skilful, not in proof,
When God, a sixth in that great colloquy,
Vouchsafed to interpose. It could not brook,—
That plaintive Voice of our Humanity,
It could not brook the Vision of our God,
(Although it quailed not at His gracious Voice)
But speechless was, abhorrent of itself.
How changed the converse since the Almighty talked
In the cool time of Asiatic day,
Beneath the umbrage of the happy groves
Where Adam dwelt, our ancestor revered,
Whose solemn memory we may cherish still
And, silent, wrap it in our tenderest thoughts!
And possibilities of Heaven, It then
Complained of the Almighty's mystic love
Of darkness and concealment in His ways;
Till by the very greatness of its thoughts
Rebuked, its vileness did It straight confess
With ample self-disparagement. It brooked
The Voice of God, but in forbearance meek
Once, twice It spake, the third time answered not,
But laid its hand, a signet on its mouth;
In lamentation skilful, not in proof,
When God, a sixth in that great colloquy,
Vouchsafed to interpose. It could not brook,—
That plaintive Voice of our Humanity,
It could not brook the Vision of our God,
(Although it quailed not at His gracious Voice)
But speechless was, abhorrent of itself.
How changed the converse since the Almighty talked
In the cool time of Asiatic day,
Beneath the umbrage of the happy groves
42
Whose solemn memory we may cherish still
And, silent, wrap it in our tenderest thoughts!
The blazoned Manuscript a spirit was,
Instinct with grandeur, to that lonely Man;
And his whole temper consciously was raised
With an uplifting of his thoughts, while he,
Listening the pathos of that awful Voice
From out the depths of poor Humanity,
Gazed like a seer upon the thrilling scene
Where Everlasting Mercy justified
The Voice which, unalarmed, maintained its ways.
Instinct with grandeur, to that lonely Man;
And his whole temper consciously was raised
With an uplifting of his thoughts, while he,
Listening the pathos of that awful Voice
From out the depths of poor Humanity,
Gazed like a seer upon the thrilling scene
Where Everlasting Mercy justified
The Voice which, unalarmed, maintained its ways.
Nor wanted he a fountain whence to draw
Improving sadness, and no less beguile
The melancholy leisure of his time.
A Book it was, in true ascetic tone
Composed, the labor of the austere pen
Of old Hieronymus, which from a monk
Of Brescia in his youth he had received,
A student in Bologna's grim arcades.
Through years of pleasure, love, and idle joust,
And in far darker scenes of wilful sin,
With a contemptuous care he had preserved
The gift, at first with courteous sneer received;
While his companions rang a giddy change
Of gibes upon the monk who so misplaced
In sinful hands his pious offering.
But thus not seldom is the eye of age
By Heaven illuminated to discern
Upon the lineaments of youth some trace
Of character behind the character
Of our first years, hereafter to absorb
Our lives with unexpected mastery:
And thus it speaks and warns in words that seem
To indicate a most misjudging eye,
Till time avenges it upon the harsh
And forward condemnations of our youth.
Improving sadness, and no less beguile
The melancholy leisure of his time.
A Book it was, in true ascetic tone
Composed, the labor of the austere pen
Of old Hieronymus, which from a monk
Of Brescia in his youth he had received,
A student in Bologna's grim arcades.
Through years of pleasure, love, and idle joust,
And in far darker scenes of wilful sin,
With a contemptuous care he had preserved
The gift, at first with courteous sneer received;
While his companions rang a giddy change
Of gibes upon the monk who so misplaced
In sinful hands his pious offering.
But thus not seldom is the eye of age
By Heaven illuminated to discern
Upon the lineaments of youth some trace
Of character behind the character
Of our first years, hereafter to absorb
Our lives with unexpected mastery:
And thus it speaks and warns in words that seem
43
Till time avenges it upon the harsh
And forward condemnations of our youth.
For now the Penitent in that old Book
A power encountered both to heal and bless,
An angel guest most gladly entertained.
Three scant biographies the Book comprised,
Which did to him abound; for thence he drew
An application ever fresh, because
In some sort mated to his changeful moods.
A power encountered both to heal and bless,
An angel guest most gladly entertained.
Three scant biographies the Book comprised,
Which did to him abound; for thence he drew
An application ever fresh, because
In some sort mated to his changeful moods.
One while amid the parched Thebaid sands
With that first eremite, the holy Paul,
He conversed to the profit of his soul.
And specially at even-tide he stood,
Translated in his spirit, at the cave
Now in Egyptian sand-drifts all engulfed.
Embayed within a horrid cliff it was,
Where the scorched mountains confine on the sand,
A lonely, miserable place, yet not
Without some insulated loveliness.
It was most sweetly roofed with bluest sky
Stopping the chinks of a suspended palm,
Which overhead hung like a green alcove,
And ever found a feebly suing breeze,
Even from the sands, in whose weak breath it was
Floating and stationary both at once.
Amid its roots a lucid fountain sprung
With copious jet, and with a tinkling sound
Which seemed to augment the coolness of the place.
And, touching marvel! by the selfsame vent,
Through which the little silver column rose,
Was it continually absorbed again.
A habitation was it once where dwelt
Unlawful coiners, and in it pursued
Their trade, what time voluptuous Antony
With Cleopatra dallied by the Nile
As though Rome was not, and their implements
Lay scattered in the corners of the rock.
There Paul the Hermit dwelt, in amity
And mutual understanding marvellous
With the rough beasts; there on his knees he died:
A lion dug his grave, while Antony,
That choice ascetic, wrapped his sacred corpse
In his own treasured cloak, the humble gift
Of Athanasius, pillar of the faith.
For miracles, upon the outer world
Effected, are but shadows from within
Of those mysterious heights of power, attained
Through the unseen miracles of faith and love,
And long afflictive penance in the soul.
With that first eremite, the holy Paul,
He conversed to the profit of his soul.
And specially at even-tide he stood,
Translated in his spirit, at the cave
Now in Egyptian sand-drifts all engulfed.
Embayed within a horrid cliff it was,
Where the scorched mountains confine on the sand,
A lonely, miserable place, yet not
Without some insulated loveliness.
It was most sweetly roofed with bluest sky
Stopping the chinks of a suspended palm,
Which overhead hung like a green alcove,
And ever found a feebly suing breeze,
Even from the sands, in whose weak breath it was
Floating and stationary both at once.
Amid its roots a lucid fountain sprung
With copious jet, and with a tinkling sound
Which seemed to augment the coolness of the place.
And, touching marvel! by the selfsame vent,
Through which the little silver column rose,
Was it continually absorbed again.
A habitation was it once where dwelt
Unlawful coiners, and in it pursued
44
With Cleopatra dallied by the Nile
As though Rome was not, and their implements
Lay scattered in the corners of the rock.
There Paul the Hermit dwelt, in amity
And mutual understanding marvellous
With the rough beasts; there on his knees he died:
A lion dug his grave, while Antony,
That choice ascetic, wrapped his sacred corpse
In his own treasured cloak, the humble gift
Of Athanasius, pillar of the faith.
For miracles, upon the outer world
Effected, are but shadows from within
Of those mysterious heights of power, attained
Through the unseen miracles of faith and love,
And long afflictive penance in the soul.
In like communion with the inferior tribes
St. Francis lived, who, on Alvernia rapt,
At the Seven Hours was duly called to prayer
By a mysterious falcon on the hills,
The wandering creature self-constrained through love,
With no reluctant office, to supply
The holy purpose of a convent bell.
And there the poet of our latest times,
Poet and sage, and with lay-priesthood clothed
To wind the prelude on the magic horn
Of ancient truth, behind the cuckoo's cry
Discerned, and with obedient ear received,
The Baptist's call to deeper penitence,—
A pilgrim in the Tuscan Apennines,
Met by the admonitions of the Faith
Within that vernal liturgy consigned.
St. Francis lived, who, on Alvernia rapt,
At the Seven Hours was duly called to prayer
By a mysterious falcon on the hills,
The wandering creature self-constrained through love,
With no reluctant office, to supply
The holy purpose of a convent bell.
And there the poet of our latest times,
Poet and sage, and with lay-priesthood clothed
To wind the prelude on the magic horn
Of ancient truth, behind the cuckoo's cry
Discerned, and with obedient ear received,
The Baptist's call to deeper penitence,—
A pilgrim in the Tuscan Apennines,
Met by the admonitions of the Faith
Within that vernal liturgy consigned.
Thus was the Penitent full oft with Paul
And the wild beasts in conclave most uncouth.
Or in the noisy midnights went his thoughts
(A second history prompting now his mind)
With young Hilarion on the rough sea-shore
Of Palestine, with robbers prowling round,
Or sick from Gaza journeying to be healed.
Again in other moods his Book would lead
His rapt imagination far away
To eastern noontide, and the drowsy plains,
Where brittle salt-herbs struggle with wild thyme,
And Malchus, captive monk, who pastured there
The sheepflocks of the ungodly Saracens.
And the wild beasts in conclave most uncouth.
45
(A second history prompting now his mind)
With young Hilarion on the rough sea-shore
Of Palestine, with robbers prowling round,
Or sick from Gaza journeying to be healed.
Again in other moods his Book would lead
His rapt imagination far away
To eastern noontide, and the drowsy plains,
Where brittle salt-herbs struggle with wild thyme,
And Malchus, captive monk, who pastured there
The sheepflocks of the ungodly Saracens.
Then humble Joy, the heavenly exile, came
In various guise to that most lonely cell.
For, wandering like a pilgrim o'er the world,
She visits all and sojourneth with none;
For either churlish sin will bar her out,
Or peevish and inhospitable mirth
Will seek a quarrel with her, brooking not
The admonition of her quiet ways.
And yet, methinks, it were a thought more true,
That Joy, which knocks so often at our doors,
No prompt departure takes, but lingering still,
Like an importunate benefactor, stays
To wait a kindlier mood; and at our feet
She lies, when we go forth, as one that asks
An alms; and in the heyday of our dreams,
And chiefly in our foolish youth, we spurn
The Angel with as little thought, or even
With something of the whim wherewith we spurn,
With more intention than we need, the leaves
Of yellow autumn; and then sadness comes,
Slackening the current of our dreams, and does
Her pleasant office, bending to the ground
Our lofty spirits, till our eyes find out
Her whom we thought far off, whose modest place
And most unlikely fashion staring hope
Had overlooked. Alas! we live too fast
And look too forward to be joyful men.
We get and gain too much. Our faith in Christ
Is written in our holy books, a thing
Of bliss which we can never make of it,
Or will not make of it, although we can.
And when we would constrain our worldly hearts
To attitude of joy, we but presume,
Or vex our lips to utter formal words
Which have no inward echo: for to joy
In Jesus is a spiritual gift,
A simple, childlike power, that sings its songs
Leaning upon obedience strict and calm,
And nurtured at the breast of sacred fear.
In various guise to that most lonely cell.
For, wandering like a pilgrim o'er the world,
She visits all and sojourneth with none;
For either churlish sin will bar her out,
Or peevish and inhospitable mirth
Will seek a quarrel with her, brooking not
The admonition of her quiet ways.
And yet, methinks, it were a thought more true,
That Joy, which knocks so often at our doors,
No prompt departure takes, but lingering still,
Like an importunate benefactor, stays
To wait a kindlier mood; and at our feet
She lies, when we go forth, as one that asks
An alms; and in the heyday of our dreams,
And chiefly in our foolish youth, we spurn
The Angel with as little thought, or even
With something of the whim wherewith we spurn,
With more intention than we need, the leaves
Of yellow autumn; and then sadness comes,
Slackening the current of our dreams, and does
Her pleasant office, bending to the ground
Our lofty spirits, till our eyes find out
46
And most unlikely fashion staring hope
Had overlooked. Alas! we live too fast
And look too forward to be joyful men.
We get and gain too much. Our faith in Christ
Is written in our holy books, a thing
Of bliss which we can never make of it,
Or will not make of it, although we can.
And when we would constrain our worldly hearts
To attitude of joy, we but presume,
Or vex our lips to utter formal words
Which have no inward echo: for to joy
In Jesus is a spiritual gift,
A simple, childlike power, that sings its songs
Leaning upon obedience strict and calm,
And nurtured at the breast of sacred fear.
Of all the rituals to which humble Joy
Consigned herself for that most lonely Man,
Let one be named. When autumn's wailing winds,
Or silent action of November's frost,
With tawny acorns strewed the leafy ground,
There passed a pleasant change upon the place,
A sweet invasion of the solitude.
A tide of little children daily flowed
Up the deserted valley, and outspread,
Single or in associate bands, all day
To glean the woodland fruitage, and at eve
Softly receded to their distant homes
As though the sunset ruled their silent ebb.
In the first year Sir Lancelot had endured
This brief intrusion with unquiet mind.
And then his shyness bore it, as he brooked
The rustic eyes that looked on him at mass,
And with an awkward delicacy strove
To look as though they did not mean to look.
But afterward did it become a change,
A little revolution in the vale,
Which expectation looked for, and, when come,
Enjoyed without reluctance; for it brought
An influx of sweet images, and trains
Of profitable pleasure, which it seemed
An ill-directed penance to avoid.
The merry voices cast into the woods,
Ubiquitous, like cuckoo's muffled cries,
The encounter with blythe faces, and the awe,
Endeavouring to look bold, with which they made
Frightened obeisance, and the cheerful sound
Of many footsteps tripping o'er the leaves,
The diligent ambition, often foiled,
To drag their heavy sack of acorns home,
Loaded beyond their strength, the unselfish aid
By sisters to their little brothers given,
Themselves by elder brothers all unhelped
Such images, that for a single week
Peopled the valley, yielded harmless store
Of grateful meditation, blythe or sad,
Abetted by the silence that ensued,
Itself incomparably deepened there
By those bright presences, which left it now
A melancholy breadth of shore whereon
An hour ago the sparkling waters were.
Consigned herself for that most lonely Man,
Let one be named. When autumn's wailing winds,
Or silent action of November's frost,
With tawny acorns strewed the leafy ground,
There passed a pleasant change upon the place,
A sweet invasion of the solitude.
A tide of little children daily flowed
Up the deserted valley, and outspread,
Single or in associate bands, all day
To glean the woodland fruitage, and at eve
Softly receded to their distant homes
As though the sunset ruled their silent ebb.
In the first year Sir Lancelot had endured
This brief intrusion with unquiet mind.
And then his shyness bore it, as he brooked
The rustic eyes that looked on him at mass,
And with an awkward delicacy strove
47
But afterward did it become a change,
A little revolution in the vale,
Which expectation looked for, and, when come,
Enjoyed without reluctance; for it brought
An influx of sweet images, and trains
Of profitable pleasure, which it seemed
An ill-directed penance to avoid.
The merry voices cast into the woods,
Ubiquitous, like cuckoo's muffled cries,
The encounter with blythe faces, and the awe,
Endeavouring to look bold, with which they made
Frightened obeisance, and the cheerful sound
Of many footsteps tripping o'er the leaves,
The diligent ambition, often foiled,
To drag their heavy sack of acorns home,
Loaded beyond their strength, the unselfish aid
By sisters to their little brothers given,
Themselves by elder brothers all unhelped
Such images, that for a single week
Peopled the valley, yielded harmless store
Of grateful meditation, blythe or sad,
Abetted by the silence that ensued,
Itself incomparably deepened there
By those bright presences, which left it now
A melancholy breadth of shore whereon
An hour ago the sparkling waters were.
And let it not a trifling help be deemed,
A subsidy which conscience would disdain,
That, when the soft and steady south wind blew
On holy days, it wafted to his ear
From the old priory by the neighbouring lake
The pleasant admonitions of the bells.
Few hearts there are so hard that they can hear
That soothing sound unmoved, so sweet it is,
And in the spirit of old childhood steeped,
A very plaintive haunting, pregnant all
With memories of our lost maternal love,
And the first innocent delights of home.
O while association, of pure thoughts
Begotten and chaste memories, hath the power
To purify and heighten, let it not
With poor disdainful wantonness forswear
Its old and true alliance with church-bells!
A subsidy which conscience would disdain,
That, when the soft and steady south wind blew
On holy days, it wafted to his ear
From the old priory by the neighbouring lake
The pleasant admonitions of the bells.
Few hearts there are so hard that they can hear
48
And in the spirit of old childhood steeped,
A very plaintive haunting, pregnant all
With memories of our lost maternal love,
And the first innocent delights of home.
O while association, of pure thoughts
Begotten and chaste memories, hath the power
To purify and heighten, let it not
With poor disdainful wantonness forswear
Its old and true alliance with church-bells!
There sometimes did the Penitent steal down,
Ere the green mountains in the sunrise blushed,
Unto St. Catherine's chapel by the mere;
Half doubting, whether it were well his soul
Should feed upon sweet sounds, and drink the cup
Of exquisite church-music, to allay
For one short hour the weary strife within.
And through the underwood obscure he crept
Inside a curtain of dark elder boughs,
Shading the buttresses upon the north:
And there with many a tear, and yet a joy
Amid his tears, he heard the chanted Mass
Sound feebly through the old and solid wall.
And often in the summer did he catch,
Through open windows tremulously borne,
A breath of incense; and, returned once more
To his lone hermitage, that odor hung
Around his temper like an atmosphere
Of blessing, sometimes undispersed for days.
To this and other holdfasts, that may seem
But trivial unto us who are so rich
In our neglected means, his spirit clung,
And by them climbed, and from them knew to draw
Apt nourishment.
Ere the green mountains in the sunrise blushed,
Unto St. Catherine's chapel by the mere;
Half doubting, whether it were well his soul
Should feed upon sweet sounds, and drink the cup
Of exquisite church-music, to allay
For one short hour the weary strife within.
And through the underwood obscure he crept
Inside a curtain of dark elder boughs,
Shading the buttresses upon the north:
And there with many a tear, and yet a joy
Amid his tears, he heard the chanted Mass
Sound feebly through the old and solid wall.
And often in the summer did he catch,
Through open windows tremulously borne,
A breath of incense; and, returned once more
To his lone hermitage, that odor hung
Around his temper like an atmosphere
Of blessing, sometimes undispersed for days.
To this and other holdfasts, that may seem
But trivial unto us who are so rich
In our neglected means, his spirit clung,
And by them climbed, and from them knew to draw
Apt nourishment.
49
Two Portals dread there are,
Whereby a thousand, thousand catholic souls,
On their invisible occupations bound,
Are passing and repassing in and out
The spiritual world the whole day through.
Chief from the blessèd Incarnation hewn,
With Blood and Water tempered, is the Gate
Of Sacramental Access to the Throne,
Unseen but not far off, of God Supreme.
Then, mighty though subordinate, the Gate
Of Prayer, or rather Gateway without gate,
Open, unsentinelled by day or night.
Thence to and fro, from earth to Heaven, and back
From Heaven to earth, the living spirits range
Through regions infinite, and see great sights,
And come across calm foretastes of the bliss
To be hereafter.
Whereby a thousand, thousand catholic souls,
On their invisible occupations bound,
Are passing and repassing in and out
The spiritual world the whole day through.
Chief from the blessèd Incarnation hewn,
With Blood and Water tempered, is the Gate
Of Sacramental Access to the Throne,
Unseen but not far off, of God Supreme.
Then, mighty though subordinate, the Gate
Of Prayer, or rather Gateway without gate,
Open, unsentinelled by day or night.
Thence to and fro, from earth to Heaven, and back
From Heaven to earth, the living spirits range
Through regions infinite, and see great sights,
And come across calm foretastes of the bliss
To be hereafter.
From the first of these
Sir Lancelot was for a while repulsed
For his soul's health at last; but through the Gate
So mercifully left without a guard,
With the devotion of pure thought, and rite
Of actual prayer, his spirit hourly passed.
Yet I would fain believe, if so the thought
Acceptance find with wisdom more assured
Than mine, that, in the daily pomps and shows
Of nature, there are posterns ill discerned,
Through negligence long overgrown with weeds,
Or in the effulgence of the present Church
O'ershadowed, and by which a guided soul,
Through sweet discoveries led, may entrance gain
Into the world of spirit that confines
So closely on our own, and meet with God
Not wholly from our Eden yet withdrawn,
Or through the reconciling Cross content
His hidden Presence once more to renew
Elsewhere than in the grave disclosures made
By Holy Church in Mysteries Divine,
Yet there, there only, surely manifest.
Sir Lancelot was for a while repulsed
For his soul's health at last; but through the Gate
So mercifully left without a guard,
With the devotion of pure thought, and rite
Of actual prayer, his spirit hourly passed.
Yet I would fain believe, if so the thought
Acceptance find with wisdom more assured
Than mine, that, in the daily pomps and shows
Of nature, there are posterns ill discerned,
Through negligence long overgrown with weeds,
Or in the effulgence of the present Church
O'ershadowed, and by which a guided soul,
Through sweet discoveries led, may entrance gain
Into the world of spirit that confines
So closely on our own, and meet with God
Not wholly from our Eden yet withdrawn,
50
His hidden Presence once more to renew
Elsewhere than in the grave disclosures made
By Holy Church in Mysteries Divine,
Yet there, there only, surely manifest.
In some deep ways and through a patient love,
Unseated often from his anxious heart
Through the distress of penitential fears,
The Excommunicated found a church
In natural things, that, shapeless as it was,
Largely enriched his poverty of means.
Even time, unaided in its silent lapse,
Not wholly powerless hath been found to heal,
To elevate, and to sustain: much more
May nature, with her simple earthly shows,
And her betrayings of unearthly powers,
Claim for herself a gift medicinal.
Some have there been of old, some may be now,
Who have devoutly faced earth's mysteries,
(Often most solemnly when least supposed)
Not with the pomp of knowledge, but the approach
Of reverent longing, and have gently worn
By the soft pressure of assiduous love
A pathway through the colored veil of things.
Unseated often from his anxious heart
Through the distress of penitential fears,
The Excommunicated found a church
In natural things, that, shapeless as it was,
Largely enriched his poverty of means.
Even time, unaided in its silent lapse,
Not wholly powerless hath been found to heal,
To elevate, and to sustain: much more
May nature, with her simple earthly shows,
And her betrayings of unearthly powers,
Claim for herself a gift medicinal.
Some have there been of old, some may be now,
Who have devoutly faced earth's mysteries,
(Often most solemnly when least supposed)
Not with the pomp of knowledge, but the approach
Of reverent longing, and have gently worn
By the soft pressure of assiduous love
A pathway through the colored veil of things.
Sir Lancelot was changed. Earth not in vain
Had wooed his heart, which somewhat lighter grew
Without aught being diminished of the sense
Of miserable guilt and fearful stain.
Sin seemed a stranger thing, and it was cast
To a far greater distance in his thoughts
Than heretofore, and virtue lovelier seemed,
And purity more welcome to his heart.
For slowly his repentance had outgrown
The broader shadows of remorse, and grace
In meek anticipations was perceived
A growing light amid his darker thoughts.
And joy once more unto his spirit came
In fitful visitations, like the wind
In measured pauses on a summer's day.
And beautiful as all things were around,
Most beautiful, because contributing
Most freshness and relief, was natural change.
Had wooed his heart, which somewhat lighter grew
Without aught being diminished of the sense
Of miserable guilt and fearful stain.
Sin seemed a stranger thing, and it was cast
To a far greater distance in his thoughts
Than heretofore, and virtue lovelier seemed,
And purity more welcome to his heart.
For slowly his repentance had outgrown
The broader shadows of remorse, and grace
51
A growing light amid his darker thoughts.
And joy once more unto his spirit came
In fitful visitations, like the wind
In measured pauses on a summer's day.
And beautiful as all things were around,
Most beautiful, because contributing
Most freshness and relief, was natural change.
How sweet is change! In sickness or in grief
The very alternations of our pain
Are recognized for ease: and happiness
Is fed by fluctuations in its kind;
And love that would be trustful must have change
To overtake the mutability
Of temper in its object, else the heart
O'ertops the languid passion with its growths.
And when is change more blameless or more soft
Than in the transformations of the earth
And sky? Thus after weeks of sunny days
With mind well-pleased Sir Lancelot would behold
Tenacious mists receive unto themselves
The green hill-tops and promontoried steeps
For other weeks of rain to be involved
In the cool chambers of the humid clouds.
Thence would they issue forth once more, bright cones
Of kindled herbage or of glittering rock,
Which from a region of perpetual gleams
With sunny aspect overlooked the vales.
And, thus emerging from the folds of mist
With freshened tints and store of tinkling springs,
Which fall in trills of bell-like sound from rock
To rock all down, the mountain heights appeared
New features in the scene, by novelty
Clothed in fresh interest, and with envy too
Of their so long communion up on high
With the dark spirit of the mighty mists.
And not less grateful to his mind, the more
That it by melancholy thought was so
Enhanced, was the sad change of faded earth
When summer days were shortening. The gay flush
Of the first evenings of the genial spring
Was not more acceptable to his heart,
Than chill elastic airs which nimbly breathe
O'er the white rime of an autumnal morn.
There was a quickening in them both which gave
An impulse to his soul, an industry
Of thought which could on simple joys bestow
Authentic patent of nobility.
The very alternations of our pain
Are recognized for ease: and happiness
Is fed by fluctuations in its kind;
And love that would be trustful must have change
To overtake the mutability
Of temper in its object, else the heart
O'ertops the languid passion with its growths.
And when is change more blameless or more soft
Than in the transformations of the earth
And sky? Thus after weeks of sunny days
With mind well-pleased Sir Lancelot would behold
Tenacious mists receive unto themselves
The green hill-tops and promontoried steeps
For other weeks of rain to be involved
In the cool chambers of the humid clouds.
Thence would they issue forth once more, bright cones
Of kindled herbage or of glittering rock,
Which from a region of perpetual gleams
With sunny aspect overlooked the vales.
And, thus emerging from the folds of mist
With freshened tints and store of tinkling springs,
Which fall in trills of bell-like sound from rock
To rock all down, the mountain heights appeared
New features in the scene, by novelty
Clothed in fresh interest, and with envy too
52
With the dark spirit of the mighty mists.
And not less grateful to his mind, the more
That it by melancholy thought was so
Enhanced, was the sad change of faded earth
When summer days were shortening. The gay flush
Of the first evenings of the genial spring
Was not more acceptable to his heart,
Than chill elastic airs which nimbly breathe
O'er the white rime of an autumnal morn.
There was a quickening in them both which gave
An impulse to his soul, an industry
Of thought which could on simple joys bestow
Authentic patent of nobility.
| Sir Lancelot | |