Smiling so slow, he seemed to see Her smile the last thing, gloriously Beyond her, far as memory.

Then he looked round: he was alone.

He lay before the breaking sun, As Jacob at the Bethel stone.

And thought's entangled skein being wound, He knew the moorland of his swound, And the pale pools that smeared the ground;

The far wood-pines like offing ships; The fourth pool's yew anear him drips, _World's cruelty_ attaints his lips,

And still he tastes it, bitter still; Through all that glorious possible He had the sight of present ill.

Yet rising calmly up and slowly With such a cheer as scorneth folly, A mild delightsome melancholy,

He journeyed homeward through the wood And prayed along the solitude Betwixt the pines, "O G.o.d, my G.o.d!"

The golden morning's open flowings Did sway the trees to murmurous bowings, In metric chant of blessed poems.

And pa.s.sing homeward through the wood, He prayed along the solitude, "THOU, Poet-G.o.d, art great and good!

"And though we must have, and have had Right reason to be earthly sad, THOU, Poet-G.o.d, art great and glad!"

CONCLUSION.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart:

And I was 'ware of walking down That same green forest where had gone The poet-pilgrim. One by one

I traced his footsteps. From the east A red and tender radiance pressed Through the near trees, until I guessed

The sun behind shone full and round; While up the leafiness profound A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when I turned that way, and now and then The birds sang and brake off again

To shake their pretty feathers dry Of the dew sliding droppingly From the leaf-edges and apply

Back to their song: 'twixt dew and bird So sweet a silence ministered, G.o.d seemed to use it for a word,

Yet morning souls did leap and run In all things, as the least had won A joyous insight of the sun,

And no one looking round the wood Could help confessing as he stood, _This Poet-G.o.d is glad and good._

But hark! a distant sound that grows, A heaving, sinking of the boughs, A rustling murmur, not of those,

A breezy noise which is not breeze!

And white-clad children by degrees Steal out in troops among the trees,

Fair little children morning-bright, With faces grave yet soft to sight, Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach, And others leapt up high to catch The upper boughs and shake from each

A rain of dew till, wetted so, The child who held the branch let go And it sw.a.n.g backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew The children laughed; but the laugh flew From its own chirrup as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child Who seemed the chief said very mild, "Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres, His soul upon his brow appears In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said, "What are your palms for?" "To be spread,"

He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month, and now The world which had been somewhat slow In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms; they must be strown On his new marble very soon, In a procession of the town."

I sighed and said, "Did he foresee Any such honour?" "Verily I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know, I fain would lay My own head down, another day, As _he_ did,--with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked, Lay by his death-bed, which he looked As deep down as a bee had sucked,

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed O'er hill and river and upraised His eyes illumined and amazed

"With the world's beauty, up to G.o.d, Re-offering on their iris broad The images of things bestowed

"By the chief Poet. 'G.o.d!' he cried, 'Be praised for anguish which has tried, For beauty which has satisfied:

"'For this world's presence half within And half without me--thought and scene-- This sense of Being and Having Been.

"'I thank Thee that my soul hath room For Thy grand world: both guests may come-- Beauty, to soul--Body, to tomb.

"'I am content to be so weak: Put strength into the words I speak, And I am strong in what I seek.

"'I am content to be so bare Before the archers, everywhere My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

"'I laid my soul before Thy feet That images of fair and sweet Should walk to other men on it.

"'I am content to feel the step Of each pure image: let those keep To mandragore who care to sleep.

"'I am content to touch the brink Of the other goblet and I think My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

"'Because my portion was a.s.signed Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind, And I am blessed to my mind.

"'Gifted for giving, I receive The maythorn and its scent outgive: I grieve not that I once did grieve.

"'In my large joy of sight and touch Beyond what others count for such, I am content to suffer much.

"'_I know_--is all the mourner saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth, And Life is perfected by Death.'"