O beloveds, all the air Was a faint, ethereal mist Touched with rose and amethyst— Glints of gold, and here and there Purple splendors that were gone, Like the glory of the dawn, Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, Lit by many a pearly ray, Were the low skies bending dim To the far horizon’s rim; And the landscape stretched away, Fair, illusive, like a dream Wherein all things do but seem! There were mountains, but they rose O’er the subtile vale’s repose, Light as clouds that far and high Soar to meet the untroubled sky. There were trees that overhead Wide their sheltering branches spread, Yet were empty as the shade By the quivering vine-leaves made. There were roses, rich with bloom, Swinging censers of perfume Sweet as fragrant winds of May Blowing through spring’s secret bowers; Yet so phantom-like were they That they seemed the ghosts of flowers.
Oh, the music sweet and strange In that land’s enchanted range! Like the pealing of the bells When the brazen flowers are swinging And the angelus is ringing, Soaring, echoing, far and near, Through the vales and up the dells— Softly on the enraptured ear A melodious murmur swells! As the rhythm of the river Day and night goes on forever, So that pulsing stream of song Rolls its silver waves along. Even silence is but sound, Deeper, softer, more profound!
All the portals were thrown wide! Stretching far on either side Ran the streets, like silver mist, By the moon’s pale splendor kissed; And adown the shadowy way, Forth from many a still retreat, One by one, and two by two, Or in goodly companies; Gliding on in long array, Light and fleet, with silent feet, One by one, and two by two, Phantoms that I could not number, Countless as the wraiths of slumber, Passed before my wondering eyes!
Then I grew aware of one Standing by me in the dun, Gray half-twilight. All the place Grew softly radiant; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not see For the awe that compassed me. Swift I spoke, by longings swayed Deeper than my words betrayed: “Master,” with clasped hands I prayed, “Who are these? Are they the dead?” “Nay, they never lived,” he said; “Whence art thou? How camest thou here?” Low I answered, then, in fear: “Sir, I know not; as I lay Dreaming at the close of day, Wondrous music, thrilling through me, To this land of phantoms drew me, Though I knew not how or why, Even as instinct draws the bird Where Spring’s far-off voice is heard. Tell me, Master, where am I?” “Thou art in the border-land, On the farthest, utmost strand Of the sea that lies between All that is and is not seen. Thou art where the wraiths of song Come and go, a phantom throng. ’Tis their heart’s melodious beat Fills the air with whispers sweet! These, O child, are songs unsung— Songs unbreathed by human tongue; These are they that all in vain Mightiest masters wooed amain— Children of their heart and brain That they could not warm to life By their being’s utmost strife. Every bard that ever sung Since the hoary earth was young Knew the song he could not sing Was his soul’s best blossoming, Knew the thought he could not hold Shrined his spirit’s purest gold. Look!” Where rose the city’s gate In majestic, sculptured state, From a far-off battle-plain, Through the javelins’ silver rain Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, And their standard’s glittering field, Eager, yet with shout nor din, Came a great host trooping in. Burned their eyes with martial fire, And the glow of proud desire, Such as gods and hero’s filled When their mighty souls were thrilled By old Homer’s golden lyre!
Under dim cathedral arches Pacing sad, pacing slow, As to beat of funeral marches Or to music’s rhythmic flow— With their solemn brows uplifted, And their hands upon their breasts, Where the deepest shadows drifted, One by one pale phantoms pressed. Lost in dreams of heights supernal, Mystic dreams of Paradise, Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes. Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor! Oh, the grandeur of their mien— Kin, by birthright proud and tender, To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude, Whereon might none intrude— Majestic, grand and calm, And bearing each the palm; Dwelling, serene and fair, In most enchanted air, Where softest music crept O’er harp-strings deftly swept, And organ-thunders rolled Like storm-winds through the wold, They stood in strength sublime Beyond the bounds of time— They who had been a part Of Milton’s mighty heart!
And where, mysterious ones, Are Shakespeare’s princely sons, Bearing in lavish hands The spoil of many lands? From castles lifted far Against the evening star, Where royal banners float O’er rampart, tower, and moat, And the white moonlight sleeps Upon the Donjon keeps; From fairy-haunted dells Among the lonely fells; From banks where wild thyme grows And the blue violet blows; From caverns grim, and caves Lashed by the deep sea-waves; From darkling forest shade, From busy haunts of trade, From market, court, and camp, Where folly rings her bells, Or sorrow tolls her knells, Or where in cloister cells The scholar trims his lamp— Wearing the sword, the gown, The motley of the clown, The beggar’s rags, the dole Of the remorseful soul, The wedding-robe, the ring, The shroud’s white blossoming, O myriad-minded man, Thus thine immortal clan Passed down the endless ways Of the eternal days!
Then said I to my spirit: “These are they who wore the crown; Well the king’s sons may inherit All his glory and renown. Where are they—the songs unsung By the humbler bards whose lyres Through earth’s lowly vales have rung, Like the notes of woodland choirs? They whose silver-sandalled feet Never climbed the clouds to meet?”
Where?—The air grew full of laughter Low and sweet, and following after Came the softest breath of singing As if lily bells were ringing; And from all the happy closes, Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses, Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands, From the dim secluded places, Through the wide enchanted spaces, With their song-illumined faces Swept the shadowy minstrel bands!
Songs unsung, the high and lowly, Songs, the holy and unholy, In that purest air grown wholly Clean from every spot and stain! And I knew as endless ages Still were turning life’s full pages, Each should find his own again— Find the song he could not sing, As his soul’s best blossoming!