She was to him as to the bard his muse56
The solace of a sweet confessional:
The hopes—the fears which manly lips refuse
To speak to man, those leaves of thought that fall
With every tremulous zephyr from the Tree
Of Life, whirl'd from us down the darksome sea;—
Those hourly springs and winters of the heart57
Weak to reveal to Reason's sober eye,
The proudest yet will to the muse impart,
And grave in song the record of a sigh.
And hath the muse no symbol in the Dove?—
Both give what youth most miss'd in human love!
Over the world of winter strays the King,58
Seeking some track of hope—some savage prey
Which, famish'd, fronts and feeds the famishing;
Or some dim outlet in the darkling way
From the dumb grave of snows which form with snows
Wastes wide as realms through which a spectre goes.
Amazed he halts:—Lo, on the rimy layer59
That clothes sharp peaks—the print of human feet!
An awe thrill'd through him, and thus spoke in prayer,
"Thee, God, in man once more then do I greet?
Hast thou vouchsafed the brother to the brother,
Links which reweave thy children to each other?
"Be they the rudest of the clay divine,60
Warm with the breath of soul, how faint so ever,
Yea, though their race but threat new ills to mine,
All hail the bond thy sons cannot dissever!
Bow'd to thy will, of life or death dispose,
But if not human friends, grant human foes!"
Thus while he pray'd, blithe from his bosom flew61
The guiding Dove, along the frozen plain
Of a mute river, winding vale-like through
Rocks lost in vapour from the voiceless main.
And as the man pursues, more thickly seen,
The foot-prints tell where man before has been.
Sudden a voice—a yell, a whistling dart!62
Dim through the fog, behold a dwarf-like band
(As from the inner earth, its goblins) start;
Here threatening rush, there hoarsely gibbering stand!
Halts the firm hero; mild but undismay'd,
Grasps the charm'd hilt, but will not bare the blade.
And with a kingly gesture eloquent,63
Seems to command the peace, not shun the fray;
Daunted they back recoil, yet not relent;
As Indians round the forest lord at bay,
Beyond his reach they form the deathful ring,
And every shaft is fitted to the string.
When in the circle a grand shape appears,64
Day's lofty child amid those dwarfs of Night,
Ev'n through the hides of beasts (its garb) it rears
The glorious aspect of a son of light.
Hush'd at that presence was the clamouring crowd;
Dropp'd every hand and every knee was bow'd.
Forth stepp'd the man, advancing towards the King;65
And his own language smote the Cymrian's ear,
"What fates, unhappy one, a stranger bring
To shores,"—he started, stopp'd,—and bounded near;
Gazed on that front august, a moment's space,—
Rush'd,—lock'd the wanderer in a long embrace;