What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?--

'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine.

--The leader is fairest, But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows!

They stream up again!

What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?--

They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road; Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

--Whose praise do they mention?

Of what is it told?-- What will be for ever; What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father Of all things; and then, The rest of immortals, The action of men.

The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.

LATER POEMS

WESTMINSTER ABBEY

JULY 25, 1881.

(_The Day of Burial, in the Abbey, of_ ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY, _Dean of Westminster._)

What! for a term so scant Our shining visitant Cheer'd us, and now is pa.s.s'd into the night?

Couldst thou no better keep, O Abbey old, The boon thy dedication-sign foretold,[33]

The presence of that gracious inmate, light?-- A child of light appear'd; Hither he came, late-born and long-desired, And to men's hearts this ancient place endear'd; What, is the happy glow so soon expired?

--Rough was the winter eve; Their craft the fishers leave, And down over the Thames the darkness drew.

One still lags last, and turns, and eyes the Pile Huge in the gloom, across in Thorney Isle, King Sebert's work, the wondrous Minster new.

--'Tis Lambeth now, where then They moor'd their boats among the bulrush stems; And that new Minster in the matted fen The world-famed Abbey by the westering Thames.

His mates are gone, and he For mist can scarcely see A strange wayfarer coming to his side-- Who bade him loose his boat, and fix his oar, And row him straightway to the further sh.o.r.e, And wait while he did there a s.p.a.ce abide.

The fisher awed obeys, That voice had note so clear of sweet command; Through pouring tide he pulls, and drizzling haze, And sets his freight ash.o.r.e on Thorney strand.

The Minster's outlined ma.s.s Rose dim from the mora.s.s, And thitherward the stranger took his way.

Lo, on a sudden all the Pile is bright!

Nave, choir and transept glorified with light, While tongues of fire on coign and carving play!

And heavenly odours fair Come streaming with the floods of glory in, And carols float along the happy air, As if the reign of joy did now begin.

Then all again is dark; And by the fisher's bark The unknown pa.s.senger returning stands.

_O Saxon fisher! thou hast had with thee_ _The fisher from the Lake of Galilee--_ So saith he, blessing him with outspread hands; Then fades, but speaks the while: _At dawn thou to King Sebert shalt relate_ _How his St. Peter's Church in Thorney Isle_ _Peter, his friend, with light did consecrate._

Twelve hundred years and more Along the holy floor Pageants have pa.s.s'd, and tombs of mighty kings Efface the humbler graves of Sebert's line, And, as years sped, the minster-aisles divine Grew used to the approach of Glory's wings.

Arts came, and arms, and law, And majesty, and sacred form and fear; Only that primal guest the fisher saw, Light, only light, was slow to reappear.

The Saviour's happy light, Wherein at first was dight His boon of life and immortality, In desert ice of subtleties was spent Or drown'd in mists of childish wonderment, Fond fancies here, there false philosophy!

And harsh the temper grew Of men with mind thus darken'd and astray; And scarce the boon of life could struggle through, For want of light which should the boon convey.

Yet in this latter time The promise of the prime Seem'd to come true at last, O Abbey old!

It seem'd, a child of light did bring the dower Foreshown thee in thy consecration-hour, And in thy courts his shining freight unroll'd: Bright wits, and instincts sure, And goodness warm, and truth without alloy, And temper sweet, and love of all things pure, And joy in light, and power to spread the joy.

And on that countenance bright Shone oft so high a light, That to my mind there came how, long ago, Lay on the hearth, amid a fiery ring, The charm'd babe of the Eleusinian king--[34]

His nurse, the Mighty Mother, will'd it so.

Warm in her breast, by day, He slumber'd, and ambrosia balm'd the child; But all night long amid the flames he lay, Upon the hearth, and play'd with them, and smiled.

But once, at midnight deep, His mother woke from sleep, And saw her babe amidst the fire, and scream'd.

A sigh the G.o.ddess gave, and with a frown Pluck'd from the fire the child, and laid him down; Then raised her face, and glory round her stream'd.

The mourning-stole no more Mantled her form, no more her head was bow'd; But raiment of celestial sheen she wore, And beauty fill'd her, and she spake aloud:--

"O ignorant race of man!

Achieve your good who can, If your own hands the good begun undo?

Had human cry not marr'd the work divine, Immortal had I made this boy of mine; But now his head to death again is due And I have now no power Unto this pious household to repay Their kindness shown me in my wandering hour."

--She spake, and from the portal pa.s.s'd away.

The Boy his nurse forgot, And bore a mortal lot.

Long since, his name is heard on earth no more.

In some chance battle on Cithaeron-side The nursling of the Mighty Mother died, And went where all his fathers went before.

--On thee too, in thy day Of childhood, Arthur! did some check have power, That, radiant though thou wert, thou couldst but stay, Bringer of heavenly light, a human hour?

Therefore our happy guest Knew care, and knew unrest, And weakness warn'd him, and he fear'd decline.

And in the grave he laid a cherish'd wife, And men ign.o.ble hara.s.s'd him with strife, And deadly airs his strength did undermine.

Then from his Abbey fades The sound beloved of his victorious breath; And light's fair nursling stupor first invades, And next the crowning impotence of death.

But hush! This mournful strain, Which would of death complain, The oracle forbade, not ill-inspired.-- That Pair, whose head did plan, whose hands did forge The Temple in the pure Parna.s.sian gorge,[35]

Finish'd their work, and then a meed required.

"Seven days," the G.o.d replied, "Live happy, then expect your perfect meed!"

Quiet in sleep, the seventh night, they died.

Death, death was judged the boon supreme indeed.

And truly he who here Hath run his bright career, And served men n.o.bly, and acceptance found, And borne to light and right his witness high, What could he better wish than then to die, And wait the issue, sleeping underground?

Why should he pray to range Down the long age of truth that ripens slow; And break his heart with all the baffling change, And all the tedious tossing to and fro?

For this and that way swings The flux of mortal things, Though moving inly to one far-set goal.-- What had our Arthur gain'd, to stop and see, After light's term, a term of cecity, A Church once large and then grown strait in soul?

To live, and see arise, Alternating with wisdom's too short reign, Folly revived, re-furbish'd sophistries, And pullulating rites externe and vain?

Ay me! 'Tis deaf, that ear Which joy'd my voice to hear; Yet would I not disturb thee from thy tomb, Thus sleeping in thine Abbey's friendly shade, And the rough waves of life for ever laid!

I would not break thy rest, nor change thy doom.

Even as my father, thou-- Even as that loved, that well-recorded friend-- Hast thy commission done; ye both may now Wait for the leaven to work, the let to end.

And thou, O Abbey grey!