Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | BOOK III.
THE BEAUTIFUL YEAR. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
53
BOOK III. THE BEAUTIFUL YEAR.
55
With what soft airs and visionary change,
Sweetly protracted, doth our English spring,
Welcome invader, march by running stream
Or woodland skirt, and capture sunny bank
And sheltered nook, and with a kind surprise
Hang his green-spotted banner in one day
Upon a score of tree-tops, whence he flings,
As from his strongholds over hill and dale,
Long leafy chains until the land is his
By conquest visible, and obvious right
Which the pleased eye accords. More sweet by far
This wayward tardiness, this gentle strife
Twixt day and night, crisp rime and genial sun,
Than spring's approach of strangely mingled speed
And tedious slowness, such as we behold
On Lombard plain or Bergamascan slopes
Facing the warm winds of the south, where dykes,
With herbage newly flushed, glow all at once
With violets both blue and white, and tufts
Of primrose, and the periwinkle, thick
As garlands twisted for a May-day show.
Downward they nod into a thousand streams
Or threads of trickling silver, that enrich
The oozy rice-grounds, or with upward eye,
Their beauty pleading for the season, woo
The unwilling leaves from out the mulberry buds
Week after week in vain. More sweet by far
Our spring, retarded thus delightfully,
Than the wild burst which over Provence hangs,
As if by necromantic touch exhaled,
A tremulous earth-born cloud of almond-bloom,
Pale blush with pearly white ingrained, to mock
The olive-yards. More sweet by far than when
One sunrise over the Trinacrian fields,
From Monte Baido to the sea that chafes
The spurs of Etna, flings a gleamy web
With instantaneous blossoms all outrolled
Of tasselled cactus, woven visibly
Before the traveller's eye as on his mule
He goes, with wizard spring outriding him.
Sweetly protracted, doth our English spring,
Welcome invader, march by running stream
Or woodland skirt, and capture sunny bank
And sheltered nook, and with a kind surprise
Hang his green-spotted banner in one day
Upon a score of tree-tops, whence he flings,
As from his strongholds over hill and dale,
Long leafy chains until the land is his
By conquest visible, and obvious right
Which the pleased eye accords. More sweet by far
This wayward tardiness, this gentle strife
Twixt day and night, crisp rime and genial sun,
Than spring's approach of strangely mingled speed
And tedious slowness, such as we behold
On Lombard plain or Bergamascan slopes
Facing the warm winds of the south, where dykes,
With herbage newly flushed, glow all at once
With violets both blue and white, and tufts
Of primrose, and the periwinkle, thick
As garlands twisted for a May-day show.
Downward they nod into a thousand streams
Or threads of trickling silver, that enrich
The oozy rice-grounds, or with upward eye,
Their beauty pleading for the season, woo
The unwilling leaves from out the mulberry buds
Week after week in vain. More sweet by far
56
Than the wild burst which over Provence hangs,
As if by necromantic touch exhaled,
A tremulous earth-born cloud of almond-bloom,
Pale blush with pearly white ingrained, to mock
The olive-yards. More sweet by far than when
One sunrise over the Trinacrian fields,
From Monte Baido to the sea that chafes
The spurs of Etna, flings a gleamy web
With instantaneous blossoms all outrolled
Of tasselled cactus, woven visibly
Before the traveller's eye as on his mule
He goes, with wizard spring outriding him.
Dear Isle of England, where the seasons meet
And part with such a kindly intercourse
Of change, the weeping brightness of whose sun
Is tempered so with alterations bland
Of inland breezes and salubrious airs,
Which the clouds waft from our circumfluent sea,
Inspiring wandering breaths in summer noon,
And slackening winter's hold upon the earth,—
How fortunately fixed are thy sweet shores
Fronting the warm Atlantic! Neither heat
Nor cold, in mutable excesses each
When present felt least tolerable, reign
O'er thy free landscapes with tyrannic sway,
True vassals here, not lords, where hill and dale
With a kind birthright of locality
Are free as those who till the genial soil,
More truly free, for not like them enslaved
Unto the boast of liberty.
And part with such a kindly intercourse
Of change, the weeping brightness of whose sun
Is tempered so with alterations bland
Of inland breezes and salubrious airs,
Which the clouds waft from our circumfluent sea,
Inspiring wandering breaths in summer noon,
And slackening winter's hold upon the earth,—
How fortunately fixed are thy sweet shores
Fronting the warm Atlantic! Neither heat
Nor cold, in mutable excesses each
When present felt least tolerable, reign
O'er thy free landscapes with tyrannic sway,
True vassals here, not lords, where hill and dale
With a kind birthright of locality
Are free as those who till the genial soil,
More truly free, for not like them enslaved
Unto the boast of liberty.
Not here
In desolating plague of sickly winds,
In blistering mildew or volcano's wrath,
In vernal rivers swollen to a curse,
Or the fierce grandeurs of the avalanche,
In flood or earthquake, are deep nature's powers
In ruinous magnificence displayed:
But o'er the modest scenery, secure
In lowly features, temperate beauty reigns,
By the four seasons checquered, not disturbed.
O pleasant country! Father-land revered!
Thee and thy clime must I perforce extol,
Fit cause perceiving, fit for me who am
From morn till eve a dweller out of doors,
Not seldom later far than eve, content
Now with the neat parterre and laurel walk,
Confinement to some moods adapted most,—
Or breezy deck of elevated lawn
Which overlooks the vale, and throws the eye
Alternately upon the southern lake
Or mountain cove with mist or sunlight filled,
Purple or green with streaks of ruddy soil;
And, when loose humors will it so, I seek
With aspiration restless and unfixed
A range unlimited among the hills,
Or woody fringes of the distant meres:
In winter unconfined by cold, nor burnt
With more than welcome heat on summer days,
And often with a twilight of soft clouds,
Which most persuasively solicits thought.
And now, unlearning my past mountain life,
With thoughts like anchored things, I walk or sit
Beneath three gables of time-fretted stone,
Watching the huge mimosa's half-clothed boughs
Tracing light-fingered shadows on the house;
Or through the pointed arch of chestnut leaves,
The boasted work of sylvan architect,
Tearfully gazing on the far church-tower,
And pondering deep responsibilities, akin
To austere contemplation, not to song.
In desolating plague of sickly winds,
In blistering mildew or volcano's wrath,
57
Or the fierce grandeurs of the avalanche,
In flood or earthquake, are deep nature's powers
In ruinous magnificence displayed:
But o'er the modest scenery, secure
In lowly features, temperate beauty reigns,
By the four seasons checquered, not disturbed.
O pleasant country! Father-land revered!
Thee and thy clime must I perforce extol,
Fit cause perceiving, fit for me who am
From morn till eve a dweller out of doors,
Not seldom later far than eve, content
Now with the neat parterre and laurel walk,
Confinement to some moods adapted most,—
Or breezy deck of elevated lawn
Which overlooks the vale, and throws the eye
Alternately upon the southern lake
Or mountain cove with mist or sunlight filled,
Purple or green with streaks of ruddy soil;
And, when loose humors will it so, I seek
With aspiration restless and unfixed
A range unlimited among the hills,
Or woody fringes of the distant meres:
In winter unconfined by cold, nor burnt
With more than welcome heat on summer days,
And often with a twilight of soft clouds,
Which most persuasively solicits thought.
And now, unlearning my past mountain life,
With thoughts like anchored things, I walk or sit
Beneath three gables of time-fretted stone,
Watching the huge mimosa's half-clothed boughs
Tracing light-fingered shadows on the house;
Or through the pointed arch of chestnut leaves,
The boasted work of sylvan architect,
58
And pondering deep responsibilities, akin
To austere contemplation, not to song.
O when the snowdrop gems the bright brown earth
Of merry England, and the tender thrush
Salutes the sunset from the budding spray,
And, pleased with his own aptness, practises
Into the night his last year's melody,—
Then may the poet, alway vigilant
In such deep yearning love of humankind
As will not grieve or joy alone, detect
For the outpouring of kind sympathies
A vent in meditation on the lot
Of the plain pastoral men who in the vales
Of the fair Tyrol dwell. Ah! I have seen,
When the warm breath of deepest summer glowed
On the green slopes, earth's lineaments deformed
By frowns of vernal anger uneffaced,
Marring soft landscapes, like a troubled look
In eyes where love alone hath lawful right
To shine: the meadow-fields with stones besprent,
The paths fierce waters for themselves have hewn
Through woody steeps, the broad and staring seam
Of gravel down the centre of the vales,
The trunks of alder huddled on the banks
In wreek unsightly! Beautiful, and calm,
And darkened with sweet mantling shades, as are
Those glens of Tyrol in the summer-tide,
Who hath the heart to realize the mass
Of dead white snow, the chalets half engulphed,
The stallèd kine, the voiceless streams, the hush
Of Alpine winter terrible, a hush
Broken, most surely not relieved, by winds
And wolves alternately? There Adam's sons
Fight with the snow-drift and the elements
Unmerciful and mighty to invade
Our first prerogative; while Adam's curse,
Like an enchanted loom, incessantly
Plies round the herdsman there, yet masters not
Inventive toil and patient manliness.
Of merry England, and the tender thrush
Salutes the sunset from the budding spray,
And, pleased with his own aptness, practises
Into the night his last year's melody,—
Then may the poet, alway vigilant
In such deep yearning love of humankind
As will not grieve or joy alone, detect
For the outpouring of kind sympathies
A vent in meditation on the lot
Of the plain pastoral men who in the vales
Of the fair Tyrol dwell. Ah! I have seen,
When the warm breath of deepest summer glowed
On the green slopes, earth's lineaments deformed
By frowns of vernal anger uneffaced,
Marring soft landscapes, like a troubled look
In eyes where love alone hath lawful right
To shine: the meadow-fields with stones besprent,
The paths fierce waters for themselves have hewn
Through woody steeps, the broad and staring seam
Of gravel down the centre of the vales,
The trunks of alder huddled on the banks
In wreek unsightly! Beautiful, and calm,
And darkened with sweet mantling shades, as are
Those glens of Tyrol in the summer-tide,
Who hath the heart to realize the mass
Of dead white snow, the chalets half engulphed,
The stallèd kine, the voiceless streams, the hush
Of Alpine winter terrible, a hush
Broken, most surely not relieved, by winds
59
Fight with the snow-drift and the elements
Unmerciful and mighty to invade
Our first prerogative; while Adam's curse,
Like an enchanted loom, incessantly
Plies round the herdsman there, yet masters not
Inventive toil and patient manliness.
O sweet are then responsibilities
Enjoining fortitude through simple love
Of wife and child, when the vexed peasant finds
In obligations lofty and divine
A tranquil haven, and an anchorage
Of chaste enjoyment, of impassioned peace,
And moral elevation, and a trust
Laid up on high, lest love begun on earth
Continuance should miss beyond the grave.
There, from the world cut off, a world they find
Of breadth sufficient for immortal souls
To move unstraitened, while the gentle queens
Of the poor fir-wood cottages with groups
Of prattling children aid the indoor tasks
Of husbandry, by Virgil's graceful muse
So touchingly depicted; and the long
Dark months of winter are illumined there
By that serenity of inward mood
Which simple wants engender, and true love
Heightens, sustains, and ratifies, content
With earth, yet with its dearest hopes beyond.
Enjoining fortitude through simple love
Of wife and child, when the vexed peasant finds
In obligations lofty and divine
A tranquil haven, and an anchorage
Of chaste enjoyment, of impassioned peace,
And moral elevation, and a trust
Laid up on high, lest love begun on earth
Continuance should miss beyond the grave.
There, from the world cut off, a world they find
Of breadth sufficient for immortal souls
To move unstraitened, while the gentle queens
Of the poor fir-wood cottages with groups
Of prattling children aid the indoor tasks
Of husbandry, by Virgil's graceful muse
So touchingly depicted; and the long
Dark months of winter are illumined there
By that serenity of inward mood
Which simple wants engender, and true love
Heightens, sustains, and ratifies, content
With earth, yet with its dearest hopes beyond.
Now the eighth spring unto the Hermit came:
From the warm sunny lowlands, like a tide,
It mounted up the rivers to the vales
And rocky bays; no crash of avalanche
Relaxing its strong grasp, no fall of earth,
Or burst of angry torrents sounded there.
But day by day the pearly streams outgrew
Their parsimonious trickling, and amused
The attentive ear with merry tinkling songs,
Swelled with a pleasant science, as the sun
Thawed the white drifts, to widely dashing falls
Sonorous in the midnight hills. The rooks,
Those noisy builders, on their tasks intent,
Rifled the mossy slopes and from the trees
Snapped the light twigs, impatient to renew
Domestic bliss, while on the sunny banks
A hardy primrose here and there stole out
And looked the weak sun in the face, nor closed
Its yellow eye through all the frosty night.
From the warm sunny lowlands, like a tide,
It mounted up the rivers to the vales
And rocky bays; no crash of avalanche
Relaxing its strong grasp, no fall of earth,
Or burst of angry torrents sounded there.
60
Their parsimonious trickling, and amused
The attentive ear with merry tinkling songs,
Swelled with a pleasant science, as the sun
Thawed the white drifts, to widely dashing falls
Sonorous in the midnight hills. The rooks,
Those noisy builders, on their tasks intent,
Rifled the mossy slopes and from the trees
Snapped the light twigs, impatient to renew
Domestic bliss, while on the sunny banks
A hardy primrose here and there stole out
And looked the weak sun in the face, nor closed
Its yellow eye through all the frosty night.
Seven years of silent solitude, seven years
Of outward beauty acting on a heart,
Humbled through penance cheerfully endured,
Left not Sir Lancelot the man he was
When he disturbed the heron in the sedge
That melancholy day by Kentmere side.
Sweet change—the world-worn heart can well attest
Its sweetness—o'er his softened spirit came
With dewy freshness: and who will not own
How mountain winds and cold pure breaths of sea
Unclasp the pain which girds the aching brow,
And snap the anxious languors that are hung
As fillets round the victim who is led
A sacrifice unto the world's false gods,
Riches, or honor, or invidious place?
Of outward beauty acting on a heart,
Humbled through penance cheerfully endured,
Left not Sir Lancelot the man he was
When he disturbed the heron in the sedge
That melancholy day by Kentmere side.
Sweet change—the world-worn heart can well attest
Its sweetness—o'er his softened spirit came
With dewy freshness: and who will not own
How mountain winds and cold pure breaths of sea
Unclasp the pain which girds the aching brow,
And snap the anxious languors that are hung
As fillets round the victim who is led
A sacrifice unto the world's false gods,
Riches, or honor, or invidious place?
Chief and most holy change, by nature half,
And half by grace, to nature next of kin,
Wrought on the Penitent, was in his faith,
Which now was elevated far above
Sublimest heights which reason ever gains.
For feeling went along with every truth,
Raising the lofty doctrines of the Creed
To those high places in the patient mind
Where they the veneration should receive
Of the whole man. The very atmosphere
Of his keen intellect was purified,
As an indwelling faith did more absorb
Each day his lesser faculties; the light,
Which o'er the regions of his fancy spread,
All truths presented in dimension just
And solemn clearness, beautified no less
By distances through reverence interposed,
While dealing with the mysteries of Heaven.
And half by grace, to nature next of kin,
Wrought on the Penitent, was in his faith,
Which now was elevated far above
Sublimest heights which reason ever gains.
For feeling went along with every truth,
61
To those high places in the patient mind
Where they the veneration should receive
Of the whole man. The very atmosphere
Of his keen intellect was purified,
As an indwelling faith did more absorb
Each day his lesser faculties; the light,
Which o'er the regions of his fancy spread,
All truths presented in dimension just
And solemn clearness, beautified no less
By distances through reverence interposed,
While dealing with the mysteries of Heaven.
As in the intervals of summer rain,
When the low clouds hang softly o'er the earth,
And the dark verdure is enriched with showers,
The light, like eloquence unto the ear,
Fixes the listening eye, which with a joy
Fathoms the cool transparent depths of air,
Wherein the distant objects seem so close
It were a feat not hard across the vale
To lean, and gather ferns or flowers that wave
Upon the mountain opposite: even such
And so translucent was the atmosphere
In which his inward faculties abode
And all their several offices discharged,
Yielding their subsidies unto the work
Of grace now stirring deeply in his soul.
When the low clouds hang softly o'er the earth,
And the dark verdure is enriched with showers,
The light, like eloquence unto the ear,
Fixes the listening eye, which with a joy
Fathoms the cool transparent depths of air,
Wherein the distant objects seem so close
It were a feat not hard across the vale
To lean, and gather ferns or flowers that wave
Upon the mountain opposite: even such
And so translucent was the atmosphere
In which his inward faculties abode
And all their several offices discharged,
Yielding their subsidies unto the work
Of grace now stirring deeply in his soul.
Darkness and daylight, moon and braided stars,
Waters and flowers, the habits and the joys
Of all the inferior creatures, now he saw,
Saw and received them in his loving heart;
And by such visitations was his mind
With more than earthly wisdom so enriched,
That with the Universal Presence he
Came into fearful contact every hour.
Yet was it not sensation vague or dim,
Mere love of beauty, wondrously diffused
In all things like a soul, nor idle rest
In profitless sublimities, which are
But exclamations of poetic minds,
And bind no wholesome yoke upon the heart.
The presence that was round him was the Hand
Of a compassionate Master, throned apart
From all things, yet Himself sustaining all,
With all concurring yet from all distinct,
Fountain of duty, and Himself our law,
The Living God, the Spirit, Son, and Sire!
Waters and flowers, the habits and the joys
Of all the inferior creatures, now he saw,
Saw and received them in his loving heart;
And by such visitations was his mind
With more than earthly wisdom so enriched,
That with the Universal Presence he
62
Yet was it not sensation vague or dim,
Mere love of beauty, wondrously diffused
In all things like a soul, nor idle rest
In profitless sublimities, which are
But exclamations of poetic minds,
And bind no wholesome yoke upon the heart.
The presence that was round him was the Hand
Of a compassionate Master, throned apart
From all things, yet Himself sustaining all,
With all concurring yet from all distinct,
Fountain of duty, and Himself our law,
The Living God, the Spirit, Son, and Sire!
Thus with his spirit did the wilderness
On God's behalf in solemn fashion plead,
Yea, sometimes with an influence that seemed
With an imploring utterance to urge
An attitude of thought more self-rebuked,
More consciously abased before the Power,
Wisdom, and Goodness manifested there,
The Threefold Cord which binds the frame of earth,
And whence the dome of heaven suspended hangs.
All nature seemed to labor with a sense
As of the hidden Deity, and oft
Appeared as though she would unveil the shrine
Which now she covers, while the patient eye
Through her thin vesture may discern its shape,
And build upon its pattern a sweet shrine
Far in the silence of deep thought withdrawn.
On God's behalf in solemn fashion plead,
Yea, sometimes with an influence that seemed
With an imploring utterance to urge
An attitude of thought more self-rebuked,
More consciously abased before the Power,
Wisdom, and Goodness manifested there,
The Threefold Cord which binds the frame of earth,
And whence the dome of heaven suspended hangs.
All nature seemed to labor with a sense
As of the hidden Deity, and oft
Appeared as though she would unveil the shrine
Which now she covers, while the patient eye
Through her thin vesture may discern its shape,
And build upon its pattern a sweet shrine
Far in the silence of deep thought withdrawn.
The sounds of nature, the loud waterfall,
The sea-like surges of the wind, the hum
Of busy midnight like a thousand looms
Weaving the darkness for the hours, all were
The Voice of God in earthly cadence veiled.
The brightness of the earth and air and sea,
The radiant lineaments of day and night,
Stedfast or tremulous, shadowy or serene,
Did at the least, if not much more, reflect
The Eye, to Which all hearts of men lie bare.
And silence might be thought,—but specially
The deep, impassioned silence of the hills,—
To be that awful, listening Ear of God,
At Which the sounding world all day and night
With crying beasts, and infinite speech of man,
Lies close, and not a rustling in the wood,
Nor whispered sin, nor inarticulate thought,
From that unsleeping Audience can escape.
The sea-like surges of the wind, the hum
Of busy midnight like a thousand looms
Weaving the darkness for the hours, all were
The Voice of God in earthly cadence veiled.
63
The radiant lineaments of day and night,
Stedfast or tremulous, shadowy or serene,
Did at the least, if not much more, reflect
The Eye, to Which all hearts of men lie bare.
And silence might be thought,—but specially
The deep, impassioned silence of the hills,—
To be that awful, listening Ear of God,
At Which the sounding world all day and night
With crying beasts, and infinite speech of man,
Lies close, and not a rustling in the wood,
Nor whispered sin, nor inarticulate thought,
From that unsleeping Audience can escape.
O miserably barren is the mind
By feeling unsustained, the reason cold
And, because cold, untrue, which in its acts
And formal operations misseth not
The plaintive adjuncts of the heart, nor craves
Alliance with the wants of humankind,
Smiles not when others smile, nor weeps with them,
Nor in a unity of hope delights,
And in communion of belief still less,
But, wrapped in selfish ease, from out itself
Works to a lonely end, and self-absorbed
Can watch an empire fall, a church grow weak,
And say wise things upon their waning powers,
With calmness uttered, not with prayers or tears,
And which it falsely deems philosophy!
O piteously betrayed is that young life,
Which sees a grandeur in high thoughts exiled
From general sympathy, and fain would dwell
In a poor orbit of loves, hopes, and faiths
Outside the beatings of the common heart
Of venerable nature! Doubly poor
The self-sustaining intellect whose creed
Is subject to itself, no outward help,
No strong ally from heavenly places come,
No solid tower from whence the soul may take
Her observations, and from them divine
Of things to come and hidden destinies
Which, half perceived, may be her present scope.
Ah! liberty, unwisely coveted,
Slavish exemption from obedient love,
To have a reason wherein is enshrined
No truth acknowleged greater than ourselves,
Permitted o'er our littleness to cast
Consoling shadows, and to which we pay
An inward homage of our fear and love,
And through that ritual, not unaided, grow,
Meting ourselves with measure thus sublime,
Up to the standard of divinest truths!
By feeling unsustained, the reason cold
And, because cold, untrue, which in its acts
And formal operations misseth not
The plaintive adjuncts of the heart, nor craves
Alliance with the wants of humankind,
Smiles not when others smile, nor weeps with them,
Nor in a unity of hope delights,
And in communion of belief still less,
But, wrapped in selfish ease, from out itself
Works to a lonely end, and self-absorbed
Can watch an empire fall, a church grow weak,
And say wise things upon their waning powers,
With calmness uttered, not with prayers or tears,
And which it falsely deems philosophy!
O piteously betrayed is that young life,
Which sees a grandeur in high thoughts exiled
From general sympathy, and fain would dwell
In a poor orbit of loves, hopes, and faiths
Outside the beatings of the common heart
Of venerable nature! Doubly poor
64
Is subject to itself, no outward help,
No strong ally from heavenly places come,
No solid tower from whence the soul may take
Her observations, and from them divine
Of things to come and hidden destinies
Which, half perceived, may be her present scope.
Ah! liberty, unwisely coveted,
Slavish exemption from obedient love,
To have a reason wherein is enshrined
No truth acknowleged greater than ourselves,
Permitted o'er our littleness to cast
Consoling shadows, and to which we pay
An inward homage of our fear and love,
And through that ritual, not unaided, grow,
Meting ourselves with measure thus sublime,
Up to the standard of divinest truths!
Far otherwise in his most worldly days
Had been Sir Lancelot's mind, with feeling fraught,
Mingling his moral being with the powers
Of his keen intellect, and to the faith
Of Holy Church submissive with an awe
Intelligent, not servile, and deep love.
To him the Creed substantial wisdom was,
Objective to himself, and bearing up
As a strong hand the feeble faith of man.
Therefore it was that in his solitude
His faith had failed him not, nor his whole mind
Collapsed upon itself in weak dismay,
When bodily health or lively spirits ceased
To feed self-trust, but called on him to lean
On holier aids external to himself,
In ritual appliances made known,
Or through a wise obedience to the Church
Acknowledged as the visible Ground of Truth.
Had been Sir Lancelot's mind, with feeling fraught,
Mingling his moral being with the powers
Of his keen intellect, and to the faith
Of Holy Church submissive with an awe
Intelligent, not servile, and deep love.
To him the Creed substantial wisdom was,
Objective to himself, and bearing up
As a strong hand the feeble faith of man.
Therefore it was that in his solitude
His faith had failed him not, nor his whole mind
Collapsed upon itself in weak dismay,
When bodily health or lively spirits ceased
To feed self-trust, but called on him to lean
On holier aids external to himself,
In ritual appliances made known,
Or through a wise obedience to the Church
65
There was no need for nature to achieve
The healing of an intellect debased
Through unbelief or frivolous self-trust.
But the blind darkness of his moral eye,
Successive films by years of sin induced,
She couched by small degrees: her beauty was
Medicinal, her operation slow
But durable; and something there appeared
Of sweet solicitude in all her shows,
While they applied perpetual euphrasy
Unto his moral vision; and sometimes,
When hope of pardon due proportion lost
Unto the greatness of his sins, and doubt,
Injected so, remained unwelcome guest,
She wanted not a virtue to dislodge,
By trivial apparitions oft supplied,
The intrusive stranger. From the high hill-top
In the calm sunshine did the Knight look down
Upon a frolic breeze below at play
With the light tresses of a grove of ash;
And there was something in the gentle shock,
Wherewith sight did her office when surprised
Far off by objects she was used to judge
While hearing sate assessor at her side,
Which to uncertainty could reconcile
The inward mind, and, exorcising doubt,
Give a more ample liberty to faith
As to an eye, of reason's aid most glad,
Yet needing not the alliance which it claims.
The healing of an intellect debased
Through unbelief or frivolous self-trust.
But the blind darkness of his moral eye,
Successive films by years of sin induced,
She couched by small degrees: her beauty was
Medicinal, her operation slow
But durable; and something there appeared
Of sweet solicitude in all her shows,
While they applied perpetual euphrasy
Unto his moral vision; and sometimes,
When hope of pardon due proportion lost
Unto the greatness of his sins, and doubt,
Injected so, remained unwelcome guest,
She wanted not a virtue to dislodge,
By trivial apparitions oft supplied,
The intrusive stranger. From the high hill-top
In the calm sunshine did the Knight look down
Upon a frolic breeze below at play
With the light tresses of a grove of ash;
And there was something in the gentle shock,
Wherewith sight did her office when surprised
Far off by objects she was used to judge
While hearing sate assessor at her side,
Which to uncertainty could reconcile
The inward mind, and, exorcising doubt,
Give a more ample liberty to faith
As to an eye, of reason's aid most glad,
Yet needing not the alliance which it claims.
And to this elevation of his faith
Were added now a trembling happiness
And scattered joys, which beat within his heart
Like intermitting pulses. By degrees
A softness of demeanor gently stole
Upon him, and he bore himself as one
Acting before the sight of those he loves,
Or a meek Saint, with mindful reverence fraught
Of those angelic witnesses who turn
Their beautiful regards on all he does,
Whether in attitude of prayer composed
Before his Crucifix of mossy wood,
Or with calm gait abroad among the fields
Seeking salubrious herbs, his simple fare.
Thus was it with Sir Lancelot: and there grew
A pensive tenderness within his mind,
That soon bade fair to over-rule the gloom
Which by ascetic ways he daily strove
To deepen: a meek tenderness it was,
In localized affections taking root,
Whence, out in life, domestic joys proceed
And household sanctities, then only safe
When anchored to the earth by local ties.
Were added now a trembling happiness
And scattered joys, which beat within his heart
Like intermitting pulses. By degrees
66
Upon him, and he bore himself as one
Acting before the sight of those he loves,
Or a meek Saint, with mindful reverence fraught
Of those angelic witnesses who turn
Their beautiful regards on all he does,
Whether in attitude of prayer composed
Before his Crucifix of mossy wood,
Or with calm gait abroad among the fields
Seeking salubrious herbs, his simple fare.
Thus was it with Sir Lancelot: and there grew
A pensive tenderness within his mind,
That soon bade fair to over-rule the gloom
Which by ascetic ways he daily strove
To deepen: a meek tenderness it was,
In localized affections taking root,
Whence, out in life, domestic joys proceed
And household sanctities, then only safe
When anchored to the earth by local ties.
This new and gradual softening of the heart,
Which stole upon him like a silent bliss,
A feeling was, akin to love, disclosed
In what may not inaptly be described
As the domestic joys of lonely life,
The recompenses to the hermit given
For the sweet charities he has forsworn.
Which stole upon him like a silent bliss,
A feeling was, akin to love, disclosed
In what may not inaptly be described
As the domestic joys of lonely life,
The recompenses to the hermit given
For the sweet charities he has forsworn.
Not mean or few are they: the sense of home
Hangs like a charm about the lonely place;
And solitary nooks are set apart
With daily consecrations, by some hour
Of prayer remembered, or some gift of tears,
Or some disclosure of long-pondered truth
Whose actual dawn broke on the spirit there.
And somewhat too of mute significance
And various character becomes impressed
Upon the solitude; here morning shines
Earliest and warmest; there the green arcades
Suggest a lurking-place at sultry noon;
And there in evening's shadow it is sweet
Upon the valley's sombre side to walk,
And with responsive gaiety look forth
Upon the sunlit mountain opposite.
The bonds of sympathy are drawn more close
Between the inferior creatures and the heart,
Whether it be to birds that on the spray
Close to the door at morn or eve may chant,
Or to the patient kine, and bleating tribes,
The nomads of the moorland, which send down
A plaintive greeting from the windy heights.
Nor do the deep affections want the power,
Whereby inanimate things may be embraced
Within the heart of man with pure delight
And wisdom not unthoughtful, till the flowers,
The many-featured trees, the dropping springs,
And frowning rocks, are thankfully received
And entertained as social presences.
Hangs like a charm about the lonely place;
And solitary nooks are set apart
With daily consecrations, by some hour
Of prayer remembered, or some gift of tears,
Or some disclosure of long-pondered truth
Whose actual dawn broke on the spirit there.
And somewhat too of mute significance
67
Upon the solitude; here morning shines
Earliest and warmest; there the green arcades
Suggest a lurking-place at sultry noon;
And there in evening's shadow it is sweet
Upon the valley's sombre side to walk,
And with responsive gaiety look forth
Upon the sunlit mountain opposite.
The bonds of sympathy are drawn more close
Between the inferior creatures and the heart,
Whether it be to birds that on the spray
Close to the door at morn or eve may chant,
Or to the patient kine, and bleating tribes,
The nomads of the moorland, which send down
A plaintive greeting from the windy heights.
Nor do the deep affections want the power,
Whereby inanimate things may be embraced
Within the heart of man with pure delight
And wisdom not unthoughtful, till the flowers,
The many-featured trees, the dropping springs,
And frowning rocks, are thankfully received
And entertained as social presences.
These were his joys, to him true pleasures tried
By actual use, of real meaning full.
Yet ah! the bare recital but sets forth
The poverty of his enjoyments, sheds
A gleam which lightens only to betray,
A wandering gleam which but illuminates
The solemn waste of his uncheerful life.
By actual use, of real meaning full.
Yet ah! the bare recital but sets forth
The poverty of his enjoyments, sheds
A gleam which lightens only to betray,
A wandering gleam which but illuminates
The solemn waste of his uncheerful life.
From such a scene how gratefully the heart
Turns to the sweetly-peopled hermitage
Of private life, where faith and holy hope
Are perfected in trials manifold,
And earthly love from heavenly love receives
A blissful unction; and the days serene
Vibrate with gentlest impulse up to Heaven,
Spent in the chaste delights not deemed unfit
To shadow forth God's love to humankind,
And even, a greater mystery still, the bonds
Which link the Bridegroom to His Holy Church.
Turns to the sweetly-peopled hermitage
Of private life, where faith and holy hope
Are perfected in trials manifold,
And earthly love from heavenly love receives
68
Vibrate with gentlest impulse up to Heaven,
Spent in the chaste delights not deemed unfit
To shadow forth God's love to humankind,
And even, a greater mystery still, the bonds
Which link the Bridegroom to His Holy Church.
O evening! how thy gentle-footed hours
Glide on with silent pace! thy silver tongues—
How happily they tell the lapse of time,
More happily were it less swiftly.—Oh!
Like the calm wafting of angelic wings
Revolve the days and nights, in love and prayer,
And mutual study of the blessèd Word,
And interchange of pure imaginings,
And humble confidence, and reverence bought
By meek confession of besetting sins
And mingled tears repentant, setting forth
To all the neighborhood an image sweet
Of love in heavenly places felt! O Homes,
Ye countless Christian Homes, that in the Church
Are like so many grace-encircled shrines
Where pilgrims rest upon their way to heaven,
And run while they are resting! Happy Homes,
Of conjugal self-sacrifice and love,
Heroic, equable, calm-tempered love,
Where the sweet Son of God is known and loved,
And the dear Queen of heaven keeps watch and ward
O'er all life's daily round! Oh! blameless joy
Tenfold enhanced, when to a listening ring
Of youthful faces the parental lips,
God's Voice, to childish faith oracular,
With patient repetition strive to teach
The Prayer of Jesus or the great Belief
Of Christian ages, or the angel's words
Hailing the Maiden-Mother of our God,
So sweet to childish ears, on childish lips
So doubly pleasant, while with anxious mind,
Discernment quickened by parental love,
Each, mutual solace seeking, doth predict,
The father now, and now the mother's heart,
From infant graces or expanding faults
The fortunes of these little ones of Christ.
Of earthly scenes this is the one most sweet,
Most graceful; but to faith's exploring eye
What beautiful solemnity is there,
What imagery of the Ways Divine!
The timid children to the Father look,
Yet by the Mother's eye directed, who
With such mute eloquence refers them there
For wisdom or support, yet wanting not
A vocal intercession when distress
Or penitent misdoing so may need,
An intercession—let the world attest
How rarely missing of the grace it asks!
Glide on with silent pace! thy silver tongues—
How happily they tell the lapse of time,
More happily were it less swiftly.—Oh!
Like the calm wafting of angelic wings
Revolve the days and nights, in love and prayer,
And mutual study of the blessèd Word,
And interchange of pure imaginings,
And humble confidence, and reverence bought
By meek confession of besetting sins
And mingled tears repentant, setting forth
To all the neighborhood an image sweet
Of love in heavenly places felt! O Homes,
Ye countless Christian Homes, that in the Church
Are like so many grace-encircled shrines
Where pilgrims rest upon their way to heaven,
And run while they are resting! Happy Homes,
Of conjugal self-sacrifice and love,
Heroic, equable, calm-tempered love,
Where the sweet Son of God is known and loved,
And the dear Queen of heaven keeps watch and ward
O'er all life's daily round! Oh! blameless joy
Tenfold enhanced, when to a listening ring
Of youthful faces the parental lips,
God's Voice, to childish faith oracular,
With patient repetition strive to teach
The Prayer of Jesus or the great Belief
Of Christian ages, or the angel's words
69
So sweet to childish ears, on childish lips
So doubly pleasant, while with anxious mind,
Discernment quickened by parental love,
Each, mutual solace seeking, doth predict,
The father now, and now the mother's heart,
From infant graces or expanding faults
The fortunes of these little ones of Christ.
Of earthly scenes this is the one most sweet,
Most graceful; but to faith's exploring eye
What beautiful solemnity is there,
What imagery of the Ways Divine!
The timid children to the Father look,
Yet by the Mother's eye directed, who
With such mute eloquence refers them there
For wisdom or support, yet wanting not
A vocal intercession when distress
Or penitent misdoing so may need,
An intercession—let the world attest
How rarely missing of the grace it asks!
That isolated hill, whereon the Cell
Behind the ash-tree curtain stood concealed,
Was by a tinkling stream half clasped, which steered
In the long summer heats in glossy threads
Of amber-colored water through a breadth
Of azure gravel, sparkling in the sun
With fragments of bright glistering ore detached
By vernal torrents from the mountain near.
Beneath a slope of waving broom there was
A little earthy bay that slept apart
From the main stream, which now Sir Lancelot's care
With beaten turf had banked, and made secure
By two small sluices skilfully contrived,
Whereat the cool fresh waters entrance won,
And, making circuit of the hollow bay,
Laving its verdant lips with mimic tides,
Found egress by a slanting channel delved
Across the sward, and with blue pebbles lined,
Which to the current gave a song-like sound.
With silver dace and speckled trout the creek
Was populous; for so the Knight preserved
What with his skilful hand he had ensnared
In little hollows or beneath the stones;
For love of the pure creatures, not for food
Preserved, for by his hermitage no flame
Of crackling fire or wreath of smoke went up,
Token of human life.
Behind the ash-tree curtain stood concealed,
Was by a tinkling stream half clasped, which steered
In the long summer heats in glossy threads
Of amber-colored water through a breadth
Of azure gravel, sparkling in the sun
With fragments of bright glistering ore detached
By vernal torrents from the mountain near.
Beneath a slope of waving broom there was
A little earthy bay that slept apart
From the main stream, which now Sir Lancelot's care
With beaten turf had banked, and made secure
By two small sluices skilfully contrived,
70
And, making circuit of the hollow bay,
Laving its verdant lips with mimic tides,
Found egress by a slanting channel delved
Across the sward, and with blue pebbles lined,
Which to the current gave a song-like sound.
With silver dace and speckled trout the creek
Was populous; for so the Knight preserved
What with his skilful hand he had ensnared
In little hollows or beneath the stones;
For love of the pure creatures, not for food
Preserved, for by his hermitage no flame
Of crackling fire or wreath of smoke went up,
Token of human life.
The fishy pool
With willow-herb was edged, and with a fringe
Of pithy rush, and tall osmunda's plumes,
And juicy stalks of brittle orpine made;
And a dead hawthorn stood upon the bank,
Whose mossy branches summer yearly clothed
In pointed ruffles of lank bryony,
Rich in autumnal corals that the winds
Unclasp with difficulty from the boughs.
Upon the middle of the bay there swam
A single Water-Lily, cradled there
In ceaseless agitation: year by year
That Lily came, and ever came alone,
By its green cordage anchored in the pool.
So merrily the lively waters shook
The central deep, and made the rushes nod,
And with brisk bubbles round the Lily wheeled,
They suffered not the snaky root to spread
Amid the shifting ooze; so there it stayed
With its one yearly blossom from the deep,
Like the old queen of beauty, rising up,
A solitary planet which diffused
A flickering radiance on the bubbles near
And on the rushy rampart of dark green,—
A beautiful and waving orb of light.
With willow-herb was edged, and with a fringe
Of pithy rush, and tall osmunda's plumes,
And juicy stalks of brittle orpine made;
And a dead hawthorn stood upon the bank,
Whose mossy branches summer yearly clothed
In pointed ruffles of lank bryony,
Rich in autumnal corals that the winds
Unclasp with difficulty from the boughs.
Upon the middle of the bay there swam
A single Water-Lily, cradled there
In ceaseless agitation: year by year
That Lily came, and ever came alone,
By its green cordage anchored in the pool.
So merrily the lively waters shook
The central deep, and made the rushes nod,
And with brisk bubbles round the Lily wheeled,
They suffered not the snaky root to spread
Amid the shifting ooze; so there it stayed
With its one yearly blossom from the deep,
71
A solitary planet which diffused
A flickering radiance on the bubbles near
And on the rushy rampart of dark green,—
A beautiful and waving orb of light.
Ah me! how sweet are joys when we have few,
Whose advent expectation prophecies
Far off, and on whose legacy of thought
Contented memory lives long afterwards!
Such was that virgin Lily to the Knight,
Which chiefly by its touching singleness
Moved him as no inapt similitude
Of his own being, anchored safely now
Within the arbor of those lonely hills,
But that in its meek celibate the flower
Knew neither sin nor penitence; but bloomed
In dutiful contentment on the pool,
Fulfilling for its hour the Will of Heaven:
Yet paler than was wont, for so it seemed,
A beauty sisterless, and like a star
Whose lonely twinkling rather grieves the eye,
Suggesting absent joys with thoughts that cloud
The vision of its solitary light;
And eager like a spirit to descend
Beneath its veil of waters, when the touch
Of autumn gave it leave, a gentle touch
Upon its tremulous eyelids,—sensitive
As the love-broken heart of tender maid,
Who, wasting inwardly, grows daily less
A thing of earth, and meekly greeting death
As her deliverance, vanishes away
More like an apparition than a life
Of flesh and blood, of smiles and tears, like ours.
Whose advent expectation prophecies
Far off, and on whose legacy of thought
Contented memory lives long afterwards!
Such was that virgin Lily to the Knight,
Which chiefly by its touching singleness
Moved him as no inapt similitude
Of his own being, anchored safely now
Within the arbor of those lonely hills,
But that in its meek celibate the flower
Knew neither sin nor penitence; but bloomed
In dutiful contentment on the pool,
Fulfilling for its hour the Will of Heaven:
Yet paler than was wont, for so it seemed,
A beauty sisterless, and like a star
Whose lonely twinkling rather grieves the eye,
Suggesting absent joys with thoughts that cloud
The vision of its solitary light;
And eager like a spirit to descend
Beneath its veil of waters, when the touch
Of autumn gave it leave, a gentle touch
Upon its tremulous eyelids,—sensitive
As the love-broken heart of tender maid,
Who, wasting inwardly, grows daily less
A thing of earth, and meekly greeting death
As her deliverance, vanishes away
More like an apparition than a life
Of flesh and blood, of smiles and tears, like ours.
For that lone Lily on the waters cold,
That fallen star, for so it might be deemed,
Which nightly to the distant moon looked up
With its unsteady eye, Sir Lancelot felt
A simple love, a moving of the heart
Which not ungratefully would find relief
Full oft in tears. There with a lover's hope,
Which no delays abate, he watched till spring,
Leaning invisibly across the pool,
Whispered the Lily from her dreaming sleep,
Lulled by the booming waters overhead.
But, when the breathing accents bade her wake,
The child of nature rose, and gently shook
The sprinkled ooze from off her genial couch,
And through the pleased and yielding waters went,
And, drawing her white wimple o'er her face,
She stood in nature's presence, while the sun,
Respecting her forlorn estate, allowed
Her beauty to decline his ardent gaze.
Silent companion all the summer long
Was she unto the Knight, and to his thought
There was within that flower a light and look
With which he communed inwardly, as though
A sweet intelligence was deeply couched
Within the lovely orb, whose starry smile
Among the sunbeams rippled on the bay.
72
Which nightly to the distant moon looked up
With its unsteady eye, Sir Lancelot felt
A simple love, a moving of the heart
Which not ungratefully would find relief
Full oft in tears. There with a lover's hope,
Which no delays abate, he watched till spring,
Leaning invisibly across the pool,
Whispered the Lily from her dreaming sleep,
Lulled by the booming waters overhead.
But, when the breathing accents bade her wake,
The child of nature rose, and gently shook
The sprinkled ooze from off her genial couch,
And through the pleased and yielding waters went,
And, drawing her white wimple o'er her face,
She stood in nature's presence, while the sun,
Respecting her forlorn estate, allowed
Her beauty to decline his ardent gaze.
Silent companion all the summer long
Was she unto the Knight, and to his thought
There was within that flower a light and look
With which he communed inwardly, as though
A sweet intelligence was deeply couched
Within the lovely orb, whose starry smile
Among the sunbeams rippled on the bay.
Amid the crowd of Forms and fair Delights
Which beauty scattered o'er the hills and dells,
And lawns and woods, and rocks with herbage veined,
That pallid Lily's solitary gleam
Stood forth among them all, with single power
Contending, and eclipsing all; so deep
Was her one image graven on his heart.
For in that glorious wilderness she seemed
An eye of nature, open visibly,
By that light flowery fringe but half concealed,
And bent with eloquent regards on him,
And with a wooing sensitively felt
Within the pensive quiet of his heart!
Which beauty scattered o'er the hills and dells,
And lawns and woods, and rocks with herbage veined,
That pallid Lily's solitary gleam
Stood forth among them all, with single power
Contending, and eclipsing all; so deep
Was her one image graven on his heart.
For in that glorious wilderness she seemed
An eye of nature, open visibly,
73
And bent with eloquent regards on him,
And with a wooing sensitively felt
Within the pensive quiet of his heart!
Such is the love of nature, and the sweet
Sufficiency of single objects, lodged
Deep in the Oriental, gently tranced
With love of single trees or chosen fount.
Such is the passion, if so wild a name
To that mute worship may be given, beheld
Upon the features of the silent groups
Among the graves collected on the knolls
Which overhang Stamboul, what time the sun
Sinks o'er the golden downs of grassy Thrace,
In meditation rapt upon the dead,
Or on the blissful Unity of God,
Believed unhappily, or with the love
More oft transported of the dreamlike scene
Which glitters at their feet. For hours they sit
While joy without a tide or pulse o'erflows
Their tranquil contemplations, all possessed,
Through every inlet of their being filled,
With love of nature as a source of prayer.
The cooing of a lonely ringdove locked
Within the fibrous fans of cypress leaves,
A single eye of deep blue sea beheld
Through the light foliage of the terebinth,
The evening breath which from the Euxine steals,
Heard fluttering in the walnut branches stirred
By the cool Bosphorus—these for many an hour
They worship with unmoving eye, as joys
Even to the disembodied souls which sit
Upon the heaving waves of turf around.
And yet no Arab in the wilderness
So loved his solitary palm, no Turk
His sunset-gilded cypress, as the Knight
That virgin Lily, gently looking up
From off the moonlit bay into his face,
An eye o'erflowed with spiritual love!
Sufficiency of single objects, lodged
Deep in the Oriental, gently tranced
With love of single trees or chosen fount.
Such is the passion, if so wild a name
To that mute worship may be given, beheld
Upon the features of the silent groups
Among the graves collected on the knolls
Which overhang Stamboul, what time the sun
Sinks o'er the golden downs of grassy Thrace,
In meditation rapt upon the dead,
Or on the blissful Unity of God,
Believed unhappily, or with the love
More oft transported of the dreamlike scene
Which glitters at their feet. For hours they sit
While joy without a tide or pulse o'erflows
Their tranquil contemplations, all possessed,
Through every inlet of their being filled,
With love of nature as a source of prayer.
The cooing of a lonely ringdove locked
Within the fibrous fans of cypress leaves,
A single eye of deep blue sea beheld
Through the light foliage of the terebinth,
The evening breath which from the Euxine steals,
Heard fluttering in the walnut branches stirred
By the cool Bosphorus—these for many an hour
They worship with unmoving eye, as joys
Even to the disembodied souls which sit
Upon the heaving waves of turf around.
And yet no Arab in the wilderness
74
His sunset-gilded cypress, as the Knight
That virgin Lily, gently looking up
From off the moonlit bay into his face,
An eye o'erflowed with spiritual love!
And nought assisted more to raise his heart
Above his gloomy thoughts than this sweet flower,
Haunting his deep affections with a love
Serene and simple, while old happiness
Was daily gathering strength for its return.
In vain he called up mighty powers of will
And masculine resolve to lay the sprite;
Still it returned, like waves upon the shore;
And in his own despite he daily grew
A man of gentler thoughts and lighter heart.
Above his gloomy thoughts than this sweet flower,
Haunting his deep affections with a love
Serene and simple, while old happiness
Was daily gathering strength for its return.
In vain he called up mighty powers of will
And masculine resolve to lay the sprite;
Still it returned, like waves upon the shore;
And in his own despite he daily grew
A man of gentler thoughts and lighter heart.
But this new lightening of his spirit seemed
A pleasure not legitimately his,
And joy, a stranger long, was entertained
With almost terror, lest his penitence
Should thereby miss of its accomplishment,
And with suspicion which went far to abate
Its joyousness. But nature's yoke was on him,
Mild yet irrevocably fixed, and claimed
Over his fickle moods serenest sway,
A safe and pleasant empire, if he durst
Yield himself up to it without reserve.
A pleasure not legitimately his,
And joy, a stranger long, was entertained
With almost terror, lest his penitence
Should thereby miss of its accomplishment,
And with suspicion which went far to abate
Its joyousness. But nature's yoke was on him,
Mild yet irrevocably fixed, and claimed
Over his fickle moods serenest sway,
A safe and pleasant empire, if he durst
Yield himself up to it without reserve.
This year, so chance was over-ruled, all things
Conspired against his efforts to retrieve
His ancient sadness; for the vernal months
With an elysian softness early stole
Into the vales, and earth and sky performed
Their genial functions with a gayer rite
And more abounding grace than they were wont.
And, for the first time since Sir Lancelot came,
Now in this year the foreign cuckoo threw
His homeless cry into that hollow dell.
And never had the many songs of birds
The sylvan chantries so frequented, never
With choral harmonies responsive sent
From off the vale's two sides, alternating,
With such a festal celebration paid
To God their vernal service of sweet sound.
How vocal too was evening, when the spring
Came with a gift of balmy showers, which filled
The twilight with cool incense from the earth
And aromatic shoots, while in the rain
With scattered voices many a thrush prolonged
The vesper hymn, and in each pause the ear
Caught the low whispered undersong of leaves
Struck by the rain-drops, like the distant chords
Of harps whose sound the breezes intercept!
Conspired against his efforts to retrieve
His ancient sadness; for the vernal months
With an elysian softness early stole
Into the vales, and earth and sky performed
Their genial functions with a gayer rite
And more abounding grace than they were wont.
And, for the first time since Sir Lancelot came,
75
His homeless cry into that hollow dell.
And never had the many songs of birds
The sylvan chantries so frequented, never
With choral harmonies responsive sent
From off the vale's two sides, alternating,
With such a festal celebration paid
To God their vernal service of sweet sound.
How vocal too was evening, when the spring
Came with a gift of balmy showers, which filled
The twilight with cool incense from the earth
And aromatic shoots, while in the rain
With scattered voices many a thrush prolonged
The vesper hymn, and in each pause the ear
Caught the low whispered undersong of leaves
Struck by the rain-drops, like the distant chords
Of harps whose sound the breezes intercept!
And not in all the seven preceding years
Had the sweet woodland tapestries been flung
So separately forth in wild-flower webs,
Or with such plain distinction of the kinds,
And with a spotless broidery less marred
By earthy raindrops. Or to other eyes
That long variety of flowers might seem,
As month by month they defiled o'er the ground,
A Flemish guild, wherein the several trades,
By banners known, or cognizances quaint,
In waves of colour sinuously float
Along the streets of Bruges. In kinds they came,
Lawful successions, leading mimic pomps
Through the tall grass or round the twisted roots;
And with calm grace each company withdrew,
Like a soft cloud borne further by the breeze,
Before the straggling blooms which, in advance
Of their own bands, seemed forward equerries
Of their procession coming into sight.
Had the sweet woodland tapestries been flung
So separately forth in wild-flower webs,
Or with such plain distinction of the kinds,
And with a spotless broidery less marred
By earthy raindrops. Or to other eyes
That long variety of flowers might seem,
As month by month they defiled o'er the ground,
A Flemish guild, wherein the several trades,
By banners known, or cognizances quaint,
In waves of colour sinuously float
Along the streets of Bruges. In kinds they came,
Lawful successions, leading mimic pomps
Through the tall grass or round the twisted roots;
And with calm grace each company withdrew,
Like a soft cloud borne further by the breeze,
Before the straggling blooms which, in advance
76
Of their procession coming into sight.
The doorway of the Hermitage looked out
Upon a sunny bank of hazel wood,
With moist rich veins of moorland turf between,
Winding irriguously among the copse;
And frequent openings showed of softest lawn,
Screened by the natural trellis of the boughs,
Which very homes of checquered sunshine seemed,
All interspersed with lichen-spotted rocks
Whose crevices were bearded with wild thyme,
And cuckoo-plant in pendent threads o'erhung
With kindly veil the portals of the wren.
Mid the dark stems beneath whose twilight shade
It was too dark for grass, the woodland floor
A thin apparel of sweet herbs put on,
A plaited work of knotted tendrils, lined
With silky moss of dusky golden dye,
Which, gently bruised beneath the foot of one
Intruding through the copse, exhaled a scent
As though the earth had medicated been
With freshly moistened spice and odorous drugs.
And shelving slopes of broken stones were there,
Enclasped with filaments of rosy moss,
And chained with belts of ivy to the ground,
While o'er the whole as at a venture thrown,—
Whether a growth of earth or air might be
A doubt, when it was swimming in the breeze,—
A gossamer of emerald fibres spun,
With flowery points of vivid white besprent,—
The cross-wort with a delicate array
Of holy forms enough to have supplied
All nature were she bent on a crusade.
Upon a sunny bank of hazel wood,
With moist rich veins of moorland turf between,
Winding irriguously among the copse;
And frequent openings showed of softest lawn,
Screened by the natural trellis of the boughs,
Which very homes of checquered sunshine seemed,
All interspersed with lichen-spotted rocks
Whose crevices were bearded with wild thyme,
And cuckoo-plant in pendent threads o'erhung
With kindly veil the portals of the wren.
Mid the dark stems beneath whose twilight shade
It was too dark for grass, the woodland floor
A thin apparel of sweet herbs put on,
A plaited work of knotted tendrils, lined
With silky moss of dusky golden dye,
Which, gently bruised beneath the foot of one
Intruding through the copse, exhaled a scent
As though the earth had medicated been
With freshly moistened spice and odorous drugs.
And shelving slopes of broken stones were there,
Enclasped with filaments of rosy moss,
And chained with belts of ivy to the ground,
While o'er the whole as at a venture thrown,—
Whether a growth of earth or air might be
A doubt, when it was swimming in the breeze,—
A gossamer of emerald fibres spun,
With flowery points of vivid white besprent,—
The cross-wort with a delicate array
Of holy forms enough to have supplied
All nature were she bent on a crusade.
There on that bank Sir Lancelot might watch
The flowery troops in pageant moveable,
Both as they came and as they disappeared.
77
Both as they came and as they disappeared.
First, like a flock of children, purely white,
The snow-drops lead the van, while every breeze
Seems visibly to drift the lovely foam
Upon the knolls; so sweetly do they take
Each mossy nook and arbor by surprise.
Then, as one gazes on the evening sky
And sees the stars in little flashes come
Each to its place, so on the vernal earth,
Mocking the eye, the yellow primrose starts,
Till, ere the doubting sight be yet convinced,
The wood is twinkling with a thousand eyes;
And, by harmonious shading reconciled
With that low-lying atmosphere of stars,
The deep Lent-lilies glow among the flowers
Like constellations girt with lesser orbs.
Next, and most loved, as seeming to restore
The snow-drops perished in their infancy,
Comes that aerial veil of bridal white,
The thick anemones, which rather seem
The southwind's breath to mortal eye made plain
Than droves of separate flowers. Ere they be passed
Begins the march, spring hath no pomp more fair,
Of hyacinths which ring their purple bells
Into the drowsy ear of fragrant May,
Most spiritual chimes which none can hear
But poets slumbering sweetly in the shade.
The snow-drops lead the van, while every breeze
Seems visibly to drift the lovely foam
Upon the knolls; so sweetly do they take
Each mossy nook and arbor by surprise.
Then, as one gazes on the evening sky
And sees the stars in little flashes come
Each to its place, so on the vernal earth,
Mocking the eye, the yellow primrose starts,
Till, ere the doubting sight be yet convinced,
The wood is twinkling with a thousand eyes;
And, by harmonious shading reconciled
With that low-lying atmosphere of stars,
The deep Lent-lilies glow among the flowers
Like constellations girt with lesser orbs.
Next, and most loved, as seeming to restore
The snow-drops perished in their infancy,
Comes that aerial veil of bridal white,
The thick anemones, which rather seem
The southwind's breath to mortal eye made plain
Than droves of separate flowers. Ere they be passed
Begins the march, spring hath no pomp more fair,
Of hyacinths which ring their purple bells
Into the drowsy ear of fragrant May,
Most spiritual chimes which none can hear
But poets slumbering sweetly in the shade.
When these are gone how vacant is the green
Of the same sward, a smooth and wind-swept floor
Where, like the intervals of some bright pomp
By groups in holyday attire engrossed,
The sprinkled orchis wanders up and down
With lychnis tender-eyed, and Bethlehem's star
Among the tufted spear-grass glimmering,
And, happy he who finds it! alkanet
With its deep ocean blue and bearded leaves
With crisp and silvery prickles studded o'er,—
With the bird-primrose joined, the mealy plant
Whose pale pink leaves with gilt effulgence glow,
Streamed from the eye which like a sunbeam sleeps
Concentered in the hollow of the flower.
Then the red honeysuckle sits aloft,
All like a maiden queen with robe of state,
In attitude of one enthroned, her train
In royal folds depending from the boughs:
Till, like the rippling light of distant sea
Divulged by flying sunbeam far away,
There comes a silent glittering o'er the earth,
The advent of the sylvan pimpernel;
And, when the day is still, the greensward seems
With living glowworms tremblingly inflamed,
Or when the wind breathes softly up the brook
A myriad eyes are winking in the sun,
And flashing golden light from off the earth.
Of the same sward, a smooth and wind-swept floor
Where, like the intervals of some bright pomp
By groups in holyday attire engrossed,
The sprinkled orchis wanders up and down
With lychnis tender-eyed, and Bethlehem's star
78
And, happy he who finds it! alkanet
With its deep ocean blue and bearded leaves
With crisp and silvery prickles studded o'er,—
With the bird-primrose joined, the mealy plant
Whose pale pink leaves with gilt effulgence glow,
Streamed from the eye which like a sunbeam sleeps
Concentered in the hollow of the flower.
Then the red honeysuckle sits aloft,
All like a maiden queen with robe of state,
In attitude of one enthroned, her train
In royal folds depending from the boughs:
Till, like the rippling light of distant sea
Divulged by flying sunbeam far away,
There comes a silent glittering o'er the earth,
The advent of the sylvan pimpernel;
And, when the day is still, the greensward seems
With living glowworms tremblingly inflamed,
Or when the wind breathes softly up the brook
A myriad eyes are winking in the sun,
And flashing golden light from off the earth.
Then the proud foxgloves bear their crimson wands
In solemn beauty o'er the summer woods,
Nor yet disdain the melancholy bees
Plaining perpetually within their bells.
And, as they fade, the feathery meadow-sweet,
With undulating censer prodigal,
Drugs the warm breezes with its potent breath,
Through all the leafy shrines ubiquitous.
And, last, from autumn's oozy ground there springs
The snowy blossom, of Parnassus named,
Which in its cup of pencilled porcelain
Great Rome's pontifical insignia bears,
Five peacocks' fans with tremulous green eyes;
And great St. John's wort guards the priestly flower
Through the dark woods with iron-mottled dress
And ebon-headed mace, while frosty winds
Send the loose rabble of autumnal leaves
In picturesque confusion thus to close
The annual Procession of the Flowers.
In solemn beauty o'er the summer woods,
Nor yet disdain the melancholy bees
Plaining perpetually within their bells.
And, as they fade, the feathery meadow-sweet,
With undulating censer prodigal,
Drugs the warm breezes with its potent breath,
Through all the leafy shrines ubiquitous.
And, last, from autumn's oozy ground there springs
The snowy blossom, of Parnassus named,
Which in its cup of pencilled porcelain
79
Five peacocks' fans with tremulous green eyes;
And great St. John's wort guards the priestly flower
Through the dark woods with iron-mottled dress
And ebon-headed mace, while frosty winds
Send the loose rabble of autumnal leaves
In picturesque confusion thus to close
The annual Procession of the Flowers.
| Sir Lancelot | |