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.