Light as the soul, whose archetype it was81
The Genius touch'd, yet spurn'd the pedestal;
Behind, the foliage, in its purple mass,
Shut out the flush'd horizon; clasping all,
Nature's hush'd giants stood to guard and girth
The only home of peace upon the earth.
And when, at last, from Ægle's lips, the voice82
Came soft as murmur'd hymns at closing day,
The sweet sound seem'd the sweet air to rejoice—
To give the sole charm wanting,—to convey
The crowning music to the Musical;
As with the soul of love infusing all!
And to the Northman's ear that antique tongue,83
Which from the Augur's lips fell weird and cold,
Seem'd as the thread in fairy tales,[15] which strung
Enchanted pearls, won from the caves of old,
And woven round a sunbeam;—so was wrought
O'er cordial love the pure and delicate thought.
She spoke of youth's lost years, so lone before,84
And coming to the present, paused and blush'd;
As if Time's wing were spell-bound evermore,
And Life, the restless, in the hour were hush'd:
The pause, the blush, said more than words, "And thou
Art found!—thou lov'st me!—Fate is powerless now!"
That hand in his—that heart his own entwining85
With its life's tendrils,—youth his pardon be,
If in his heaven no loftier star were shining—
If round the haven boom'd unheard the sea—
If in the wreath forgot the thorny crown,
And the harsh duties of severe renown.
Blame we as well the idlesse of a dream,86
As that entranced oblivion from the reign
Of the Great Curse, which glares in every beam
Of labouring suns to the stern race of Cain;
So life from earth did Nature here withdraw,
That the strange peace seem'd but earth's common law.
Yet some excuse all stronger spirits take87
For all repose from toil (to strength the doom)
How sweet in that fair heathen soil to wake
The living palm God planted on the tomb!
And so, and long, did Passion's subtle art
Mask with the soul the impulse of the heart.
Wonderous and lovely in that last retreat88
Of the old Gods,—the simple speech to hear
Tell of the Messenger whose beauteous feet
Had gilt the mountain-tops with tidings clear
Of veilless Heaven, while Ægle, thoughtful said,
"This, love makes plain—yes, love can ne'er be dead!"
Now, as Night gently deepens round them, while89
Oft to the moon upturn their happy eyes—
Still, hand in hand, they range the lullèd isle.
Air knows no breeze, scarce sighing to their sighs;
No bird of night shrieks bode from drowsy trees,
Nought lives between them and the Pleïades;
Save where the moth strains to the moon its wing,90
Deeming the Reachless near;—the prophet race
Of the cold stars forewarn'd them not; the Ring
Of great Orion, who for the embrace
Of Morn's sweet Maid had died,[16] look'd calm above
The last unconscious hours of human love.