VIOLET.
This is the dwelling you have told me of,—
Summer again hath dressed its bloomy walls,
Its fragrant front is populous with bees;
This is the garden—all is very like,
And yet unlike the picture in my heart;
I know not which is loveliest. I see
Afar the wandering beauty of the stream,
And nearer I can trace it as it shows
Its broad and gleaming back among the woods.
Is that the wood you slept in?
WALTER.
That is it.
And every nook and glade and tangled dell,
From its wide circle to its leafy heart,
Is as familiar to me as my soul.
Memories dwell like doves among the trees,
Like nymphs in glooms, like naïads in the wells;
And some are sweet, and sadder some than death.
[A pause.
I could have sworn the world did sing in air,
I was so happy once. The eagle drinks
The keen blue morning, and the morn was mine.
I bathed in sunset, and to me the night
Was a perpetual wonder and an awe.
Oft, as I lay on earth and gazed at her,
The gliding moon with influence divine
Would draw a most delicious tide of tears
And spill it o'er my eyes. Sadness was joy
Of but another sort. My happiness
Was flecked with vague and transitory griefs,
As sweetly as the shining length of June
With evanescent eves; and through my soul
At intervals a regal pageant passed,
As through the palpitating streets the corse
Of a great chieftain, rolled in music rich,
Moves slow towards its rest. In these young days
Existence was to me sufficient joy;
At once a throne and kingdom, crown and lyre.
Now it is but a strip of barren sand,
On which with earnest heart I strive to rear
A temple to the Gods. I will not sadden you.
[They move on.
This is the fountain: once it flashed and sang
(Possessed of such exuberance of joy)
To golden sunrise, the blue day, and when
The night grew gradual o'er it, star by star,—
Now it is mute as Memnon.
VIOLET.
Sad again!
Its brim is written over—o'er and o'er;
'Tis mute; but have you made its marble lips
As sweet as Music's?
WALTER.
Miserable words!
The offspring of some most unhappy hours.
To me this fountain's brim is sad as though
'Twere splashed with my own blood.
VIOLET (reads).
"Nature cares not
Although her loveliness should ne'er be seen
By human eyes, nor praised by human tongues.
The cataract exults among the hills,
And wears its crown of rainbows all alone.
Libel the ocean on his tawny sands,
Write verses in his praise,—the unmoved sea
Erases both alike. Alas for man!
Unless his fellows can behold his deeds
He cares not to be great." 'Tis very true.
The next is written in a languid hand:
"Sin hath drunk up my pleasure, as eclipse
Drinks up the sunlight. On my spirit lies
A malison and ban. What though the Spring
Makes all the hills and valleys laugh in green,—
Is the sea healed, or is the plover's cry
Merry upon the moor? I now am kin
To these, and winds, and ever-suffering things."
Oh, I could blot these words out with my tears!