SCENE XII.
An Apartment—Charles and Edward seated.
EDWARD.
Have you seen Walter lately?
CHARLES.
Very much;
I wintered with him.
EDWARD.
What was he about?
CHARLES.
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 casement 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
Orbs 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 passed 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 passages.
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 diseasèd feather from the wing
Of a sick eagle; a scorched meteor-stone
Dropt from the ruined moon.
EDWARD.
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.
God 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.
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 God 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 casement, 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 shore. 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, God, unclasped loving arms,
Rushed wild through Pleasure and through Devil-world,
Till he fell down exhausted.—Do you know
If he believes in God?
CHARLES.
He told me once,
The saddest thing that can befall a soul
Is when it loses faith in God 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 God.
CHARLES.