Chapter II

I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, There was music within and a song, And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. I opened the doors of my heart: and behold, There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes; Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, That murmurs and floats, And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, That maketh the listener full oft To whisper, "Ah! would I might hear it for ever and aye, When I toil in the heat of the day, When I walk in the cold."

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, There was music within, and a song. But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick and strong, Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was drowned, I could hear it no more; For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on the shore, And trees in the dark all around Were shaken. It thundered. "Hark, hark! there is thunder to-night! The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down with a will; The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are all dead;-- There is thunder! it thunders! and ladders of light Run up. There is thunder!" I said, "Loud thunder! it thunders! and up in the dark overhead, A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder!) a down-pouring cloud Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in its bed, And cowers the earth held at bay; and they mutter aloud, And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their rage, The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a crash; And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with the flash, And the story of life was all read, And the Giver had turned the last page.

"Now their bar the pent water-floods lash,
And the forest trees give out their language austere with great age;
And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill,
And there heaveth at intervals wide,
The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside,
Until quiet drop down on the tide,
And mad Echo had moaned herself still."

Lo! or ever I was 'ware,
In the silence of the air,
Through my heart's wide-open door,
Music floated forth once more,
Floated to the world's dark rim,
And looked over with a hymn;
Then came home with flutings fine,
And discoursed in tones divine
Of a certain grief of mine;
And went downward and went in,
Glimpses of my soul to win,
And discovered such a deep
That I could not choose but weep,
For it lay, a land-locked sea,
Fathomless and dim to me.

O, the song! it came and went, Went and came. I have not learned Half the lore whereto it yearned, Half the magic that it meant. Water booming in a cave; Or the swell of some long wave, Setting in from unrevealed Countries; or a foreign tongue, Sweetly talked and deftly sung, While the meaning is half sealed; May be like it. You have heard Also;--can you find a word For the naming of such song? No; a name would do it wrong. You have heard it in the night, In the dropping rain's despite, In the midnight darkness deep, When the children were asleep, And the wife,--no, let that be; SHE asleep! She knows right well What the song to you and me, While we breathe, can never tell; She hath heard its faultless flow, Where the roots of music grow.

While I listened, like young birds, Hints were fluttering; almost words,-- Leaned and leaned, and nearer came;-- Everything had changed its name.

Sorrow was a ship, I found, Wrecked with them that in her are, On an island richer far Than the port where they were bound. Fear was but the awful boom Of the old great bell of doom, Tolling, far from earthly air, For all worlds to go to prayer. Pain, that to us mortal clings, But the pushing of our wings, That we have no use for yet, And the uprooting of our feet From the soil where they are set, And the land we reckon sweet. Love in growth, the grand deceit Whereby men the perfect greet; Love in wane, the blessing sent To be (howsoe'er it went) Never more with earth content. O, full sweet, and O, full high, Ran that music up the sky; But I cannot sing it you, More than I can make you view, With my paintings labial, Sitting up in awful row, White old men majestical, Mountains, in their gowns of snow, Ghosts of kings; as my two eyes, Looking over speckled skies, See them now. About their knees, Half in haze, there stands at ease A great army of green hills, Some bareheaded; and, behold, Small green mosses creep on some. Those be mighty forests old; And white avalanches come Through yon rents, where now distils Sheeny silver, pouring down To a tune of old renown, Cutting narrow pathways through Gentian belts of airy blue, To a zone where starwort blows, And long reaches of the rose.

So, that haze all left behind, Down the chestnut forests wind, Past yon jagged spires, where yet Foot of man was never set; Past a castle yawning wide, With a great breach in its side, To a nest-like valley, where, Like a sparrow's egg in hue, Lie two lakes, and teach the true Color of the sea-maid's hair.

What beside? The world beside! Drawing down and down, to greet Cottage clusters at our feet,-- Every scent of summer tide,-- Flowery pastures all aglow (Men and women mowing go Up and down them); also soft Floating of the film aloft, Fluttering of the leaves alow. Is this told? It is not told. Where's the danger? where's the cold Slippery danger up the steep? Where yon shadow fallen asleep? Chirping bird and tumbling spray, Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, Peace, and echo, where are they?

Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold; Memory must their grace enfold Silently; and that high song Of the heart, it doth belong To the hearers. Not a whit, Though a chief musician heard, Could he make a tune for it.

Though a bird of sweetest throat, And some lute full clear of note, Could have tried it,--O, the lute For that wondrous song were mute, And the bird would do her part, Falter, fail, and break her heart,-- Break her heart, and furl her wings, On those unexpressive strings.

GLADYS AND HER ISLAND.

(_On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament_.)

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL.

O happy Gladys! I rejoice with her, For Gladys saw the island. It was thus: They gave a day for pleasure in the school Where Gladys taught; and all the other girls Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. But it was said, "We think it were not well That little Gladys should acquire a taste For pleasure, going about, and needless change. It would not suit her station: discontent Might come of it; and all her duties now She does so pleasantly, that we were best To keep her humble." So they said to her, "Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. Look, you are free; you need not sit at work: No, you may take a long and pleasant walk Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach Among the visitors." Then Gladys blushed For joy, and thanked them. What! a holiday, A whole one, for herself! How good, how kind! With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach-- The children with their wooden spades, the band That played for lovers, and the sunny stir Of cheerful life and leisure--to the rocks, For these she wanted most, and there was time To mark them; how like ruined organs prone They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, And let the great white-crested reckless wave Beat out their booming melody. The sea Was filled with light; in clear blue caverns curled The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, As playing at some rough and dangerous game, While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, And said, "O, happy tide, to be so lost In sunshine, that one dare not look at it; And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm; And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, That in remembrance though I lay them up, They are forever, when I come to them, Better than I had thought. O, something yet I had forgotten. Oft I say, 'At least This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, Layer on layer.' And I look--up--up-- High, higher up again, till far aloft They cut into their ether,--brown, and clear, And perfect. And I, saying, 'This is mine, To keep,' retire; but shortly come again, And they confound me with a glorious change. The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them; They redden, and their edges drip with--what? I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, For the next morning they stand up like ghosts In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood.

"There is the boulder where we always turn. O! I have longed to pass it; now I will. What would THEY say? for one must slip and spring; 'Young ladies! Gladys! I am shocked. My dears, Decorum, if you please: turn back at once. Gladys, we blame you most; you should have looked Before you.' Then they sigh,--how kind they are!-- 'What will become of you, if all your life You look a long way off?--look anywhere, And everywhere, instead of at your feet, And where they carry you!' Ah, well, I know It is a pity," Gladys said; "but then We cannot all be wise: happy for me, That other people are.

"And yet I wish,-- For sometimes very right and serious thoughts Come to me,--I do wish that they would come When they are wanted!--when I teach the sums On rainy days, and when the practising I count to, and the din goes on and on, Still the same tune and still the same mistake, Then I am wise enough: sometimes I feel Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 'Now my reflections do me credit! now I am a woman!' and I wish they knew How serious all my duties look to me. And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. But does it last? Perhaps, that very day, The front door opens: out we walk in pairs; And I am so delighted with this world, That suddenly has grown, being new washed, To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, And with a tender face shining through tears, Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, That has been angry, but is reconciled, And just forgiving her, that I,--that I,-- O, I forget myself: what matters how! And then I hear (but always kindly said) Some words that pain me so,--but just, but true; 'For if your place in this establishment Be but subordinate, and if your birth Be lowly, it the more behooves,--well, well, No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes! I am always sorry THEN; but now,--O, now, Here is a bight more beautiful than all."

"And did they scold her, then, my pretty one? And did she want to be as wise as they, To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind? Ay, you may crow; she did! but no, no, no, The night-time will not let her, all the stars Say nay to that,--the old sea laughs at her. Why, Gladys is a child; she has not skill To shut herself within her own small cell, And build the door up, and to say, 'Poor me! I am a prisoner'; then to take hewn stones, And, having built the windows up, to say, 'O, it is dark! there is no sunshine here; There never has been.'"

Strange! how very strange! A woman passing Gladys with a babe, To whom she spoke these words, and only looked Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, And never looked at Gladys, never once. "A simple child," she added, and went by, "To want to change her greater for their less; But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she; We love her--don't we?--far too well for that."

Then Gladys, flushed with shame and keen surprise, "How could she be so near, and I not know? And have I spoken out my thought aloud? I must have done, forgetting. It is well She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, And here is water cantering down the cliff, And here a shell to catch it with, and here The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare To be alone!" So Gladys sat her down, Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, And thought the earth was happy, and she too Was going round with it in happiness, That holiday. "What was it that she said?" Quoth Gladys, cogitating; "they were kind, The words that woman spoke. She does not know! 'Her greater for their less,'--it makes me laugh,-- But yet," sighed Gladys, "though it must be good To look and to admire, one should not wish To steal THEIR virtues, and to put them on, Like feathers from another wing; beside, That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, When all is said, would little suit with me, Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, Though they be good and humble, one should mind How they are reared, or some will go astray And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both Were only once removed from innocence. Why did I envy them? That was not good; Yet it began with my humility."

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, And right before her, on the horizon's edge, Behold, an island! First, she looked away Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, For she was all amazed, believing not, And then she looked again, and there again Behold, an island! And the tide had turned, The milky sea had got a purple rim, And from the rim that mountain island rose, Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak The higher, and with fell and precipice, It ran down steeply to the water's brink; But all the southern line was long and soft, Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, Covered with forest or with sward. But, look! The sun was on the island; and he showed On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. Then Gladys held her breath; she said, "Indeed, Indeed it is an island: how is this, I never saw it till this fortunate Rare holiday?" And while she strained her eyes, She thought that it began to fade; but not To change as clouds do, only to withdraw And melt into its azure; and at last, Little by little, from her hungry heart, That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, And yearned towards the riches and the great Abundance of the beauty God hath made, It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone; The careless sea had quite forgotten it, And all was even as it had been before.

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, "O, what a little while! I am afraid I shall forget that purple mountain isle, The lovely hollows atween her snow-clad peaks, The grace of her upheaval where she lay Well up against the open. O, my heart, Now I remember how this holiday Will soon be done, and now my life goes on Not fed; and only in the noonday walk Let to look silently at what it wants, Without the power to wait or pause awhile, And understand and draw within itself The richness of the earth. A holiday! How few I have! I spend the silent time At work, while all THEIR pupils are gone home, And feel myself remote. They shine apart; They are great planets, I a little orb; My little orbit far within their own Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more I am alone when those I teach return; For they, as planets of some other sun, Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am! I have not got laid up in this blank heart Any indulgent kisses given me Because I had been good, or yet more sweet, Because my childhood was itself a good Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, And comforting. An orphan-school at best Is a cold mother in the winter time ('Twas mostly winter when new orphans came), An unregarded mother in the spring.

"Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went To gather cowslips. How we thought on it Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, To that one tree, the only one we saw From April,--if the cowslips were in bloom So early; or if not, from opening May Even to September. Then there came the feast At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained For a whole year to us; we could not think Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained.

"Ah, well, but I am here; but I have seen The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time; I know the scent of bean-fields; I have heard The satisfying murmur of the main."

The woman! She came round the rock again With her fair baby, and she sat her down By Gladys, murmuring, "Who forbade the grass To grow by visitations of the dew? Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 'Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors To trouble thy still water?' Must we bide At home? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe Without? O, we shall draw to us the air That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, Delivering of a tune to make her youth More beautiful than wheat when it is green.

"What else?--(O, none shall envy her!) The rain And the wild weather will be most her own, And talk with her o' nights; and if the winds Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her In a mouthful of strange moans,--will bring from far, Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad Masterful tramping of the bison herds, Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, In savage rifts of hair; the crack and creak Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world Mumbling their meals by twilight; or the rock And majesty of motion, when their heads Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. No holidays," quoth she; "drop, drop, O, drop, Thou tirèd skylark, and go up no more; You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, Nor give out your good smell. She will not look; No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, "A most strange woman, and she talks of me." With that a girl ran up; "Mother," she said, "Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, "The mother will not speak to me, perhaps The daughter may," and asked her courteously, "What do the fairies smell of?" But the girl With peevish pout replied, "You know, you know." "Not I," said Gladys; then she answered her, "Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, Because I want to ride."

Full slowly, then, The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes Upon her little child. "You freakish maid," Said she, "now mark me, if I call you one, You shall not scold nor make him take you far."

"I only want,--you know I only want," The girl replied, "to go and play awhile Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned And muttered low, "Mother, is this the girl Who saw the island?" But the mother frowned. "When may she go to it?" the daughter asked. And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind To hear the answer. "When she wills to go; For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." Then Gladys turned to look, and even so It was; a ferry boat, and far away Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks Of her loved island.

Then she raised her arms, And ran toward the boat, crying out, "O rare, The island! fair befall the island; let Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, And after her stepped in the freakish maid And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child; And this one took the helm, and that let go The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up A flaky hill before, and left behind A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam; And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot Toward the island; then, when Gladys looked, Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, And would be leaning down her head to mew At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own Rebuked her in good English, after cried, "Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." "I will not luff," Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." "For shame!" the mother shrieked; "luff, luff, my dear; Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, And presently a dolphin bouncing up, She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm.

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware In the smooth weather that this woman talked Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; And can it give good reason, it is set Beside the actual, and reckoned in To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so The possible stands by us ever fresh, Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, And makes divine amends. Now this was set Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; An equal;--and not suffered to fence in A little plot of earthly good, and say, 'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand The grandeur of the story, not to feel Satiate with good possessed, but evermore A healthful hunger for the great idea, The beauty and the blessedness of life.

"Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, "We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, And they were in it: and she saw the snow, And under that the rocks, and under that The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw Numerous dips, and undulations rare, Running down seaward, all astir with lithe Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, Meets in that island.

So that woman ran The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, "It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran And hid herself among the nearest trees And panted, shedding tears.

So she looked round, And saw that she was in a banyan grove, Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped Lower on azure stars. The air was still, As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, And Gladys was the only thing that moved, Excepting,--no, they were not birds,--what then? Glorified rainbows with a living soul? While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, Not otherwhere, but they were present yet In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit That lay about removing,--purple grapes, That clustered in the path, clearing aside. Through a small spot of light would pass and go, The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went; But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, Behold them! they had wings, and they would pass One after other with the sheeny fans, Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed Not to disturb the waiting quietness; Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams; Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid Across her little drowsy cubs; nor swans, That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool; Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, Was Eden. She was passing through the trees That made a ring about it, and she caught A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen Was nothing to them; but words are not made To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. Why? One was working in a valley near, And none might look that way. It was understood That He had nearly ended that His work; For two shapes met, and one to other spake, Accosting him with, "Prince, what worketh He?" Who whispered, "Lo! He fashioneth red clay." And all at once a little trembling stir Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, And laid its head down, listening. It was known Then that the work was done; the new-made king Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, And it acknowledged him.

But in her path Came some one that withstood her, and he said, "What doest thou here?" Then she did turn and flee, Among those colored spirits, through the grove, Trembling for haste; it was not well with her Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, And set her feet upon the common grass, And felt the common wind.

Yet once beyond, She could not choose but cast a backward glance. The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, And means of entering were not evident,-- The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy: She said, "Remoteness and a multitude Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, To-day I have been in Eden. O, it blooms In my own island."

And she wandered on, Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, And all the earth was sandy where she walked,-- Sandy and dry,--strewed with papyrus leaves, Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids Of mummies (for perhaps it was the way That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths,-- Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat And smiled upon the ruin. O how still! Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. She was above her ankles in the sand, When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo! It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers The brown old Pharaohs; for the ruts led on To a great cliff, that either was a cliff Or some dread shrine in ruins,--partly reared In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps Of sand and stones on either side there lay; And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, Dog-headed, and behind them winged things Like angels; and this carven multitude Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road.

At last, the cliff,--and in the cliff a door Yawning: and she looked in, as down the throat Of some stupendous giant, and beheld No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. So she did enter; also she went down Till it was dark, and yet again went down, Till, gazing upward at that yawning door, It seemed no larger, in its height remote, Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, She doubted of the end, yet farther down A slender ray of lamplight fell away Along the stair, as from a door ajar: To this again she felt her way, and stepped Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light; But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore Entrance, and listened. Ay! 'twas even so,-- A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid Against the door, and pushed it; but the light Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within-- Hark, hark! A spirit was it, and asleep? A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared A flickering speck of light, and disappeared; Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,-- Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, Breathing and languid through prolonged repose.

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed.

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,-- The whiteness,--and asleep again! but now It was a woman, robed, and with a face Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed Murmured, "O terrible! I am afraid To breathe among these intermittent lives, That fluctuate in mystic solitude, And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? A baby god with finger on his lips, Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, He will not tell."

The woman coming down! "Child, what art doing here?" the woman said; "What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?" (_Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,-- pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed._) The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,-- Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, And all the gear they took to bed with them! Horrible! Let us hence.

And Gladys said, "O, they are rough to mount, those stairs"; but she Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight Shot like a meteor with her. "There," said she; "The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, Down in unholy heathen gloom; farewell." She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, Reared of hewn stones; but, look! in lieu of gate, There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, And on the lintel there were writ these words: "Ho, every one that cometh, I divide What hath been from what might be, and the line Hangeth before thee as a spider's web; Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, Or else forbear the hill."

The maiden said, "So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed Among some oak-trees on the farther side, And waded through the bracken round their bolls, Until she saw the open, and drew on Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. Here she put up a creature, that ran on Before her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned, Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, With other talk enough to make one fear To walk in lonely places. After passed A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine; He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell," Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not"; Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap Of thunder, and a shape in amice gray, But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint, Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon," Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come, Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie."

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, And got away, towards a grassy down, Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy To tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herb Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on Nearer to listen. "O Content, Content, Give me," sang he, "thy tender company. I feed my flock among the myrtles; all My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, From the other side the river, where their harps Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, And pitch thy tent by mine; let me behold Thy mouth,--that even in slumber talks of peace,-- Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance."

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, Till she had rested; then did ask the boy, For it was afternoon, and she was fain To reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray, That leads one to the water?" But he said, "Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, The path that leads one to the golden gate Across the river." So she wandered on; And presently her feet grew cool, the grass Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. The air was full of voices, and the scent Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts; For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, And reared in such a sort that it looked down Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, And richest plains o' the island. It was set Midway between the snows majestical And a wide level, such as men would choose For growing wheat; and some one said to her, "It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear The calling of an unseen multitude To some upon the mountain, "Give us more"; And others said, "We are tired of this old world: Make it look new again." Then there were some Who answered lovingly--(the dead yet speak From that high mountain, as the living do); But others sang desponding, "We have kept The vision for a chosen few: we love Fit audience better than a rough huzza From the unreasoning crowd."

Then words came up: "There was a time, you poets, was a time When all the poetry was ours, and made By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they: Our heroes die and drop away from us; Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, That many of us think scorn of honest trade, And take no pride in our own shops; who care Only to quit a calling, will not make The calling what it might be; who despise Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work Dull, and degrade them."

Then did Gladys smile: "Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it, There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks I see him burnishing of golden gear, Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 'London is thirsty'--(then he weighs a chain): ''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would give The worth of this, and many such as this, To bring it water.'

"Ay, and after him There came up Guy of London, lettered son O' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him, Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, After his shop was closed: a still, grave man, With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,' He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd Cheerily working; where the river marge Is blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharves Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,-- 'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well. But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,-- I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you, Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' Well, we have heard the rest.

"Ah, next I think Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart To dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he, (The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 'I sit a captive from the ship detained; This heathenry doth let thee visit her. Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst fail To ransom thy poor father, they are free As yet, the mariners; have wives at home, As I have; ay, and liberty is sweet To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate This my command, to leave me, and set sail. As for thyself--' 'Good father,' saith the son; 'I will not, father, ask your blessing now, Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate We two shall meet again.' And so they did. The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,-- The son returned to share his father's cell.

"O, there are many such. Would I had wit Their worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet, "I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talk Around this hill Parnassus." And, behold, A piteous sight--an old, blind, graybeard king Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved Of the crowd below the hill; and when he called For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known To say, that if the best of gold and gear Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made kind The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, They would have gladly paid it from their store Many times over. What is done is done, No help. The ruined majesty passed on. And look you! one who met her as she walked Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light Her name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned, "O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, No, nor be comforted.

And after this, Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meet One Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys took And kissed her hand: she could not answer her, Because she guessed the end.

With that it drew To evening; and as Gladys wandered on In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, And she ran down to set her feet again On the sea margin, which was covered thick With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red As wine. The water played among bare ribs Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto To ask her way, and one so innocent Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, And love just born.

She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, All blushing. She told Gladys many things That are not in the story,--things, in sooth, That Prospero her father knew. But now 'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripes In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay Out in the west. And lo! the boat, and more, The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm: "Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer, For I am your liege lady." Then she sang The sweetest songs she knew all the way home.

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand; While in the sunset glory died away The peaks of that blest island.

"Fare you well. My country, my own kingdom," then she said, "Till I go visit you again, farewell."

She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,-- The carriages were coming. Hastening up, She was in time to meet them at the door, And lead the sleepy little ones within; And some were cross and shivered, and her dames Were weary and right hard to please; but she Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. "For, come what will," she said, "I had _to-day_. There is an island."

_The Moral._

What is the moral? Let us think awhile, Taking the editorial WE to help, It sounds respectable.

The moral; yes. We always read, when any fable ends, "Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. What do you think of this? "Hence we may learn That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, And Admiralty maps should now be drawn By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, And they can spy out islands." Will that do? No, that is far too plain,--too evident.

Perhaps a general moralizing vein-- (We know we have a happy knack that way. We have observed, moreover, that young men Are fond of good advice, and so are girls; Especially of that meandering kind, Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all They ought to be and do and think and wear, As one may say, from creeds to comforters. Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein; That is the thing; but how to manage it? "_Hence we may learn_," if we be so inclined, That life goes best with those who take it best; That wit can spin from work a golden robe To queen it in; that who can paint at will A private picture gallery, should not cry For shillings that will let him in to look At some by others painted. Furthermore, Hence we may learn, you poets,--(_and we count For poets all who ever felt that such They were, and all who secretly have known That such they could be; ay, moreover, all Who wind the robes of ideality About the bareness of their lives, and hang Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world_),-- Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all We should be most content. The earth is given To us: we reign by virtue of a sense Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. Humanity is given to us: we reign By virtue of a sense, which lets us in To know its troubles ere they have been told, And take them home and lull them into rest With mournfullest music. Time is given to us,-- Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside Have seen it well, have walked this empty world When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns?

Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, And peered between the linen curtains, blue, Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, And, frighted, have not dared to look again? But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought, A chest that might have held the manna pot And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet Of Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards, We saw fair Venice looking at herself In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth In all his bravery to the wedding.

This, However, counts for nothing to the grace We wot of in time future:--therefore add, And afterwards have done: "_Hence we may learn_," That though it be a grand and comely thing To be unhappy,--(and we think it is, Because so many grand and clever folk Have found out reasons for unhappiness, And talked about uncomfortable things,-- Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, The hollowness o' the world, till we at last Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, Being so hollow, it should break some day, And let us in),--yet, since we are not grand, O, not at all, and as for cleverness, That may be or may not be,--it is well For us to be as happy as we can!

Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex, As thus: we pray you carry not your guns On the full-cock; we pray you set your pride In its proper place, and never be ashamed Of any honest calling,--let us add, And end; for all the rest, hold up your heads And mind your English.

Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND."

The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth.

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History.

The girl is Fancy.

SONGS WITH PRELUDES.

SONGS WITH PRELUDES.

WEDLOCK.

The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said, "Where is my wife,--that has been made my wife Only this year?" The casement stood ajar: I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped, The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves And blossom, under heavens of happy blue.

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down Into the orchard. All the air was calm; Audible humming filled it. At the roots Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills Were tossing down their silver messengers, And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, Gave them good answer; all things else were mute; An idle world lay listening to their talk, They had it to themselves. What ails my wife? I know not if aught ails her; though her step Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends One thick with bloom to look on it. "O love! A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, At unaware to think thy thoughts alone: How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart The reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own. Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,-- Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again. No; all is right. But who can give, or bless, Or take a blessing, but there comes withal Some pain?" She walks beside the lily bed, And holds apart her gown; she would not hurt The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked Yet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,-- Fairest of colors!--and a darker brown The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. A bloom as of blush roses covers her Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her, And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul! To think that thou art mine! My wife came in, And moved into the chamber. As for me, I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, And feigned to be asleep.

I.

The racing river leaped, and sang
Full blithely in the perfect weather,
All round the mountain echoes rang,
For blue and green were glad together.

II.

This rained out light from every part,
And that with songs of joy was thrilling;
But, in the hollow of my heart,
There ached a place that wanted filling.

III.

Before the road and river meet,
And stepping-stones are wet and glisten,
I heard a sound of laughter sweet,
And paused to like it, and to listen.

IV.

I heard the chanting waters flow,
The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,--
Then turned the hedge, and did not know,--
How could I?--that my time was coming.

V.

A girl upon the nighest stone,
Half doubtful of the deed, was standing,
So far the shallow flood had flown
Beyond the 'customed leap of landing.

VI.

She knew not any need of me,
Yet me she waited all unweeting;
We thought not I had crossed the sea,
And half the sphere to give her meeting.

VII.

I waded out, her eyes I met,
I wished the moment had been hours;
I took her in my arms, and set
Her dainty feet among the flowers.

VIII.

Her fellow maids in copse and lane,
Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling;
The wind's soft whisper in the plain,
The cushat's coo, the water's falling.