He answered her, “My dream must wait, Fortune will aid me, soon or late! Perhaps the clay I may not find— But a strange tale is in the wind Of an old man whose life has been Shut up wild solitudes within On Alpine mountains. He has found What I have sought the world around. A learnèd, godly man, he knows How the full tide of being flows; And he, in some mysterious way, Makes, if he cannot find, the clay. He will his secret share with me— I go to him, Hermione!”
“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies, And while you dream, the vision dies! And look! Our children suffer lack; There is no coat for Claudio’s back; Theresa’s little feet, unshod, Are torn by shards on which they trod; And Marcius cried but yesterday When the lads mocked him at their play. The very house is crumbling down; The broken hearth-stone needs repair; The roof is open to the air— It wakes the laughter of the town! O Valdemar! if you must go Up to those trackless fields of snow, Mould first from yonder common clay Something to keep the wolf away— A Virgin for some humble shrine, A soldier clad in armor fine, Or even such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells.”
“Now murmur not, Hermione, But be thou patient,” answered he. “Why mind the laughter of the town? It cannot shake my fair renown! A touch of hardship, now and then, Will never harm our little men; And as for this old, crumbling roof, Let rude winds put it to the proof, And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I Surely the Land of Promise spy, Where the fair vision of my dreams, Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams! In its white hand it holdeth up For us, my love, a brimming cup Where wealth and fame and joy divine Mingle in life’s most sparkling wine. Bid me God-speed, Hermione, And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”
So on he sped, from day to day— Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun, Where scarlet-coated poppies run, Gay soldiers ready for the fray— Past vineyards purpling on the hills, Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills, And homes like dovecotes nestling high Midway between the earth and sky! Then on he passed through valleys dim Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim, Up towering heights whence glaciers launch Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight, Or where, dread messenger of fright, Sweeps down the awful avalanche! And still upon the mountain side To every man he met he cried, “Where shall I find, oh! tell me where, The hermit of this upper air, Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?” And, pointing to the eternal snows, Each man replied, with wagging head, “Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”
At length one day, as sank the sun, He reached a low hut, dark and dun, And, entering unbidden, found An old man stretched upon the ground: A white-haired, venerable man, Whose eyes had hardly light to scan The face that, blanched with awful fear, Bent down, his failing breath to hear. “Pax vobiscum” he murmured low, “Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”
“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar. “Alas! alas! I came from far To learn thy secret of the clay— Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!” But while he wet the parchèd lips, The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse; And the old seer in silence lay, Himself a thing of pallid clay, With all his secrets closely hid As Ramses’ in the pyramid.
Long time within that lonely place Valdemar lived, but found no trace In learnèd book or parchment scroll (The ink scarce dry upon the roll) Of aught the stars had taught to him. Within the wide horizon’s rim, Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play, Knew the lost secret of the clay.
Then sought he, after journeyings hard, The holy monks of St. Bernard. But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well, A man not ruled by book and bell. Godly, perhaps—but much inclined Some newer road to heaven to find. And was he dead? God rest his soul, After this life of toil and dole!
And that was all! O Valdemar! Fly to thy desolate home afar, Where wasted, worn, Hermione, With her pale children at her knee, Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!
He finds her, smiling as she sleeps, For night more tender is than day, And softly wipes our tears away. “Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries, As one whose spirit inly dies; “Hear me confess that I have been False to thee in my pride and sin! God give me grace from this blest day To do His work in common clay! ”