Do men praise the labour?—gladden'd
That the homage may endure;
Do they scorn it?—only sadden'd
That thine altar is so poor.
If the Beautiful be clearer
As the seeker's days decline,
Should the Ideal not be nearer
As my soul approaches thine?
Thus the single light bereft me
Fused through all creation flows;
Gazing where a sun had left me,
Lo, the myriad stars arose!
PART VI.
THE MEMORY OF LOVE ASSOCIATES ITS CONSOLATIONS WITH ITS HOPES.
Now the eastern hill-top fadeth
From the arid wastes forlorn,
And the only tree that shadeth
Has the scant leaves of the thorn.
Not a home to smile before me,
Not a voice to cheer is heard;
Hush! the thorn-leaves tremble o'er me,—
Hark, the carol of a bird!
Unto air what charm is given?
Angel, as a link to thee,
Midway between earth and heaven
Hangs the delicate melody!
How it teacheth while it chideth,
Is the pathway so forlorn?
Mercy over man presideth,
And—the bird sings from the thorn.
Floating on, the music leads me,
As the pausing-place I leave,
And the gentle wing precedes me
Through the lullèd airs of eve.
Stay, O last of all the number,
Bathing happy plumes in light,
Till the deafness of the slumber,
Till the blindness of the night.