Hail, thou, the ever young, albeit of Night1
And of primæval Chaos eldest born;
Thou, at whose birth broke forth the Founts of Light,
And o'er Creation flush'd the earliest Morn!
Life, in thy life, suffused the conscious whole;
And formless matter took the harmonious soul.
Hail, Love! the death-defier! age to age2
Linking, with flowers, in the still heart of man!
Dream to the bard, and marvel to the sage,
Glory and mystery since the world began.
Like the new moon, whose disk of silver sheen
But halves the circle Heaven completes unseen.
Ghostlike amidst the unfamiliar Past,3
Dim shadows flit along the streams of Time;
Vainly our learning trifles with the vast
Unknown of ages!—Like the wizard's rhyme
We call the dead, and from the Tartarus
'Tis but the dead that rise to answer us!
Voiceless and wan, we question them in vain;4
They leave unsolved earth's mighty yesterday.
But wave thy wand—they bloom, they breathe again!
The link is found!—as we love, so loved they!
Warm to our clasp our human brothers start,
All centuries blend when heart speaks out to heart.
Arch Power, of every power most dread, most sweet,5
Ope at thy touch the far celestial gates;
Yet Terror flies with Joy before thy feet,
And, with the Graces, glide unseen the Fates.
Eos and Hesperus; one, with twofold light,
Bringer of day, and herald of the night.
But, lo! again, where rise upon the gaze6
The Tuscan Virgin in the Alpine bower,
The steel-clad wanderer, in his rapt amaze,
Led through the flowerets to that living flower:
Eye meeting eye, as in that blest survey
Two hearts, unspeaking, breathe themselves away!
Calm on the twain reposed the Augur's eye,7
A marble stillness on his solemn face;
Like some cold image of Necessity
When fated hands lay garlands on its base.
And slanted sunbeams, through the blossoms stealing,
Lit circled Childhood round the Virgin kneeling.
Slow from charm'd wonder woke at last the King,8
Well the mild grace became the lordly mien,
As, gently passing through the kneeling ring,
The warrior knelt with Childhood to the queen;
And on the hand, that thrill'd in his to be,
Press'd the pure kiss of courteous chivalry;
In the bold music of his mountain tongue,9
Speaking the homage of his frank delight.
Is there one common language to the young
That, with each word more troubled and more bright,
Stirr'd the quick blush—as when the south wind heaves
Into sweet storm the hush of rosy leaves?
But now the listening Augur to the side10
Of Arthur moves; and, signing silently,
The handmaid children from the chamber glide,
And Ægle followeth slow, with drooping eye.—
Then on the King the soothsayer gazed and spoke,
And Arthur started as the accents broke;—