When the song ceased, I knelt before the singer
And raised my looks to soft and childlike eyes,
Sighing? "What fountain, O thou nectar-bringer
Feeds thy full urn with golden melodies?
"Interpret sounds, O Hebé of the soul,
Oft heard, methinks, in Ida's starry grove,
When to thy feet the charmèd eagle stole,
And the dark thunder left the brows of Jove!"
Smiling, the Beautiful replied to me,
And still the language flow'd in words unknown;
Only in those pure eyes my sense could see
How calm the soul that so perplex'd my own.
And while she spoke, symphonious murmurs rose;
Dryads from trees, Nymphs murmur'd from the rills;
Murmur'd Mænalian Pan from dim repose
In the lush coverts of Pelasgic hills;
Murmur'd the voice of Chloris in the flower;
Bent, murmuring from his car, Hyperion;
Each thing regain'd the old Presiding Power,
And spoke,—and still the language was unknown.
Dull listener, placed amidst the harmonious Whole,
Hear'st thou no voice to sense divinely dark?
The sweetest sounds that wander to the soul
Are in the Unknown Language.—Pause, and hark!
THE PILGRIM OF THE DESERT.
Wearily flaggeth my Soul in the Desert;
Wearily, wearily.
Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain;
Sun, ever sun, not a shade from the mountain;
Wave after wave flows the sea of the Desert,
Drearily, drearily.
Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys,
Nightly and daily;
Labour had brothers to aid and beguile;
A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile;
And the sweet human voices rang out; and the valleys
Echoed them gaily.