III.
And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,—drew near
A timorous trembling step;—from the far clime
The Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year,
In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time,
How had she pined to gaze upon that brow
Last seen in youth, when she was young:—And Now!
And now! O words that make the sepulchre
Of all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tear
Than, when recalling what the Hours inter
Of hopes, of passions, of the things that made
Our hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss,
We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade,
Sighing "And now!"—Alas the nothingness
Even of love—had it no life but this!
IV.
Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept,
Two young slight forms across the threshold crept
And reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand,
And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'd
The old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile.
On either side the children took their stand,
And all the three were silent for awhile:
Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word,
Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair;
And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd,
Rose,—lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air—
Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird;
Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd,
And from the daylight pensive pass'd away.
Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray,
And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud.
V.
Hark, from within, slow and sonorous stole
Deep organ-tones; with solemn pomp of sound
Meet to bear up the disimprison'd soul
From mortal homage in material piles,
To blend with Angel Halleluiahs!—Round
The charmèd place the notes melodious roll
As with a visible flood: adown the aisles
Of Nature's first cathedrals (vistas dim,
Through leafless woodlands), far and farther float
On to the startled haunts of toiling men,
The marching music-tides: the heavenly note
Thrills through the reeking air of alleys grim;
Awes wolf-eyed Guilt close skulking in its den;
Lulls Childhood, wailing with white lips for bread,
On the starved breast of nerveless Penury;
Fever lies soothed upon its burning bed:
Indignant Worth stills its world-weary sigh;
The widow'd bride looks upward from the dead,
And deems she hears his welcome to the sky.
On, the grand music, more and more remote,
Bore the grey blind man's soul, itself a hymn,
Till lost in air amid the Seraphim.
VI.
Our life is as a circle, and our age
Back to our youth returns at last in dreams;
The intermediate restless pilgrimage
Vexing the earth with toils, the air with schemes,
Pays our hard tribute to the work-day world.
That done, as some storm-shatter'd argosy
Puts to the port from whence its sail unfurl'd,
The soul regains the first familiar shore,
And greets the quiet it disdain'd before.
He who in youth from purple poetry
Flush'd the grey clouds in this cold common sky,
After his shadeless undelusive noon
Shall mark the roseate hues, which morning wore,
Herald the eve, and gird his setting sun;
And the last Hesperus shine on Helicon.
O long (yet nobly, since for man) resign'd
Nature's most sovereign, care's most soothing boon;
Again, again, with vervain fillets bind
Anointed brows—O Mage supreme of song!
Again before the enchanted crystal glass
Let the celestial phantoms glide along—
Thou, whose sweet tears yet hallow Lycidas;
Thou, who the soul of Plato didst unsphere,
By chaste Sabrina's beryl-paven cell!
If now no more thou deign'st to charm the ear
"With measures ravish'd from Apollo's shell,"
Re-wake the harp which mournful willows hide
Left by the captives of Jerusalem;
For thou hast thought of Sion, and beside
The streams of Babylon, hast wept—like them!
VII.
Aged, forsaken—to the crowd below
(As to the Priest[F] who chronicled the time),
"One Milton!—The blind Teacher"—be it so.
Neglect and ruin make but more sublime
The last lone column which survives the dearth
Of a lost city,—when it lifts on high.
Above the waste and solitude of earth
Its front: and soars, the Neighbour of the Sky.