EDWARD.

That was a hit!

The world is murmuring like a hive of bees: He is its theme--to-morrow it may change.

Was it done at a dash?

CHARLES.

It was; each word sincere, As blood-drops from the heart. The full-faced moon, Set round with stars, in at his cas.e.m.e.nt looked, And saw him write and write: and when the moon Was waning dim upon the edge of morn, Still sat he writing, thoughtful-eyed and pale; And, as of yore, round his white temples reeled His golden hair, in ringlets beautiful.

Great joy he had, for thought came glad and thick As leaves upon a tree in primrose-time; And as he wrote, his task the lovelier grew, Like April unto May, or as a child, A-smile in the lap of life, by fine degrees...o...b.. to a maiden, walking with meek eyes In atmosphere of beauty round her breathed.

He wrote all winter in an olden room, Hallowed with glooms and books. Priests who have wed Their makers unto Fame, Moons that have shed Eternal halos around England's head; Books dusky and thumbed without, _within_, a sphere Smelling of Spring, as genial, fresh, and clear, And beautiful, as is the rainbowed air After May showers. Within this pleasant lair He pa.s.sed in writing all the winter moons; But when May came, with train of sunny noons, He chose a leafy summer-house within The greenest nook in all his garden green; Oft a fine thought would flush his face divine, As he had quaffed a cup of olden wine, Which deifies the drinker: oft his face Gleamed like a spirit's in that shady place, While he saw, smiling upward from the scroll, The image of the thought within his soul; There, 'mid the waving shadows of the trees, 'Mong garden-odours and the hum of bees, He wrote the last and closing pa.s.sages.

He is not happy.

EDWARD.

Has he told you so?

CHARLES.

Not in plain terms. Oft an unhappy thought, Telling all is not well, falls from his soul Like a diseased feather from the wing Of a sick eagle; a scorched meteor-stone Dropt from the ruined moon.

EDWARD.

What are these thoughts?

CHARLES.

I walked with him upon a windy night; We saw the streaming moon flee through the sky, Pursued by all the dark and hungry clouds.

He stopped and said: "Weariness feeds on all.

G.o.d wearies, and so makes a universe, And gathers angels round him.--He is weak; I weary, and so wreak myself in verse,---- Away with scrannel-pipes. Oh, for mad War!

I'd give my next twelve years to head but once Ten thousand horse in a victorious charge.

Give me some one to hate, and let me chase Him through the zones, and finding him at last, Make his accursed eyes leap on his cheeks, And his face blacken, with one choking gripe."

EDWARD.

Savage enough, i' faith!

CHARLES.

He often said, His strivings after Poesy and Fame Were vain as turning blind eyes on the sun.

His Book came out; I told him that the world Hailed him a Poet. He said, with feeble smile, "I have arisen like a dawn--the world, Like the touched Memnon, murmurs--that is all."

He said, as we were lying on the moss, (A forest sounding o'er us, like a sea Above two mermen seated on the sands,) "Our human hearts are deeper than our souls, And Love than Knowledge is diviner food-- Oh, Charles! if G.o.d will ever send to thee A heart that loves thee, reverence that heart.

We think that Death is hard, when he can kill An infant smiling in his very face: Harder was I than Death.--In cup of sin I did dissolve thee, thou most precious pearl, Then drank thee up." We sat one eve, Gazing in silence on the falling sun: We saw him sink. Upon the silent world, Like a fine veil, came down the tender gloom; A dove came fluttering round the window, flew Away, and then came fluttering back. He said, "As that dove flutters round the cas.e.m.e.nt, comes A pale shape round my soul; I've done it wrong, I never will be happy till I ope My heart and take it in."--'Twas ever so; To some strange sorrow all his thoughts did tend, Like waves unto a sh.o.r.e. Dost know his grief?

EDWARD.

I dimly guess it; a rich cheek grew pale, A happy spirit singing on her way Grew mute as winter. Walter, mad and blind, Threw off the world, G.o.d, unclasped loving arms, Rushed wild through Pleasure and through Devil-world, Till he fell down exhausted.--Do you know If he believes in G.o.d?

CHARLES.

He told me once, The saddest thing that can befall a soul Is when it loses faith in G.o.d and Woman; For he had lost them both. Lost I those gems-- Though the world's throne stood empty in my path, I would go wandering back into my childhood, Searching for them with tears.

EDWARD.

Let him go Alone upon his waste and dreary road, He will return to the old faith he learned Beside his mother's knee. That memory That haunts him, as the sweet and gracious moon Haunts the poor outcast Earth, will lead him back To happiness and G.o.d.

CHARLES.

May it be so!

SCENE XIII.

_Afternoon._--WALTER _and_ VIOLET _entering the garden from the house._

VIOLET.

This is the dwelling you have told me of,-- Summer again hath dressed its bloomy walls, Its fragrant front is populous with bees; This is the garden--all is very like, And yet unlike the picture in my heart; I know not which is loveliest. I see Afar the wandering beauty of the stream, And nearer I can trace it as it shows Its broad and gleaming back among the woods.

Is that the wood you slept in?

WALTER.

That is it.

And every nook and glade and tangled dell, From its wide circle to its leafy heart, Is as familiar to me as my soul.

Memories dwell like doves among the trees, Like nymphs in glooms, like naads in the wells; And some are sweet, and sadder some than death.

[_A pause._ I could have sworn the world did sing in air, I was so happy once. The eagle drinks The keen blue morning, and the morn was mine.

I bathed in sunset, and to me the night Was a perpetual wonder and an awe.

Oft, as I lay on earth and gazed at her, The gliding moon with influence divine Would draw a most delicious tide of tears And spill it o'er my eyes. Sadness was joy Of but another sort. My happiness Was flecked with vague and transitory griefs, As sweetly as the shining length of June With evanescent eves; and through my soul At intervals a regal pageant pa.s.sed, As through the palpitating streets the corse Of a great chieftain, rolled in music rich, Moves slow towards its rest. In these young days Existence was to me sufficient joy; At once a throne and kingdom, crown and lyre.

Now it is but a strip of barren sand, On which with earnest heart I strive to rear A temple to the G.o.ds. I will not sadden you.

[_They move on._ This is the fountain: once it flashed and sang (Possessed of such exuberance of joy) To golden sunrise, the blue day, and when The night grew gradual o'er it, star by star,-- Now it is mute as Memnon.

VIOLET.

Sad again!

Its brim is written over--o'er and o'er; 'Tis mute; but have you made its marble lips As sweet as Music's?

WALTER.

Miserable words!

The offspring of some most unhappy hours.

To me this fountain's brim is sad as though 'Twere splashed with my own blood.

VIOLET (_reads_).

"Nature cares not Although her loveliness should ne'er be seen By human eyes, nor praised by human tongues.

The cataract exults among the hills, And wears its crown of rainbows all alone.

Libel the ocean on his tawny sands, Write verses in his praise,--the unmoved sea Erases both alike. Alas for man!

Unless his fellows can behold his deeds He cares not to be great." 'Tis very true.