THE SILENT MULTITUDE.
“For we are many in our solitudes.”—Lament of Tasso.
A mighty and a mingled throng
Were gather’d in one spot;
The dwellers of a thousand homes—
Yet midst them voice was not.
The soldier and his chief were there—
The mother and her child:
The friends, the sisters of one hearth—
None spoke—none moved—none smiled.
There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferr’d,
They met—but silently.
You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze’s faintest sound,
The shiver of an insect’s wing,
On that thick-peopled ground.
Your voice to whispers would have died
For the deep quiet’s sake;
Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.
What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-sounding life
Amid so many cease?
Was it some pageant of the air—
Some glory high above,
That link’d and hush’d those human souls
In reverential love?
Or did some burdening passion’s weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe—the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear—the strong fear of death?
A mightier thing—Death, Death himself
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there—yet hermits all,
Thousands—but each apart.