And then, in low and tremulous tones, she told The story of his birth-night; the boy's eyes, As the wild tale went on, were bright and bold, With a weird look that did not seem surprise: "Perhaps," he said, "this lady and her elves Will one day come, and take me to themselves."
XX
"And wouldst thou leave us?" "Dearest mother, no!
Hush! I will check these thoughts that give thee pain; Or, if they flow, as they perchance must flow, At least I will not utter them again; Hark! didst thou hear a voice like many streams?
Mother! it is the spirit of my dreams!"
XXI
Thenceforth, whatever impulse stirred below, In the deep heart beneath that childish breast, Those lips were sealed, and though the eye would glow, Yet the brow wore an air of perfect rest; Cheerful, content, with calm though strong control He shut the temple-portals of his soul.
XXII
And when too restlessly the mighty throng Of fancies woke within his teeming mind, All silently they formed in glorious song, And floated off unheard, and undivined, Perchance not lost--with many a voiceless prayer They reached the sky, and found some record there.
XXIII
Softly and swiftly sped the quiet days; The thoughtful boy has blossomed into youth, And still no maiden would have feared his gaze, And still his brow was noble with the truth: Yet, though he masks the pain with pious art, There burns a restless fever in his heart.
XXIV
A childish dream is now a deathless need Which drives him to far hills and distant wilds; The solemn faith and fervor of his creed Bold as a martyr's, simple as a child's; The eagle knew him as she knew the blast, And the deer did not flee him as he passed.
XXV
But gentle even in his wildest mood, Always, and most, he loved the bluest weather, And in some soft and sunny solitude Couched like a milder sunshine on the heather, He communed with the winds, and with the birds, As if they might have answered him in words.
XXVI
Deep buried in the forest was a nook Remote and quiet as its quiet skies; He knew it, sought it, loved it as a book Full of his own sweet thoughts and memories; Dark oaks and fluted chestnuts gathering round, Pillared and greenly domed a sloping mound.
XXVII
Whereof--white, purple, azure, golden, red, Confused like hues of sunset--the wild flowers Wove a rich dais; through crosslights overhead Glanced the clear sunshine, fell the fruitful showers, And here the shyest bird would fold her wings; Here fled the fairest and the gentlest things.
XXVIII
Thither, one night of mist and moonlight, came The youth, with nothing deeper in his thoughts Than to behold beneath the silver flame New aspects of his fair and favorite spot; A single ray attained the ground, and shed Just light enough to guide the wanderer's tread.
XXIX
And high and hushed arose the stately trees, Yet shut within themselves, like dungeons, where Lay fettered all the secrets of the breeze; Silent, but not as slumbering, all things there Wore to the youth's aroused imagination An air of deep and solemn expectation.
XXX
"Hath Heaven," the youth exclaimed, "a sweeter spot, Or Earth another like it?--yet even here The old mystery dwells! and though I read it not, Here most I hope--it is, or seems so near; So many hints come to me, but, alas!
I cannot grasp the shadows as they pass.
XXXI
"Here, from the very turf beneath me, I Catch, but just catch, I know not what faint sound, And darkly guess that from yon silent sky Float starry emanations to the ground; These ears are deaf, these human eyes are blind, I want a purer heart, a subtler mind.
XXXII
"Sometimes--could it be fancy?--I have felt The presence of a spirit who might speak; As down in lowly reverence I knelt, Its very breath hath kissed my burning cheek; But I in vain have hushed my own to hear A wing or whisper stir the silent air!"
XXXIII
Is not the breeze articulate? Hark! Oh, hark!
A distant murmur, like a voice of floods; And onward sweeping slowly through the dark, Bursts like a call the night-wind from the woods!
Low bow the flowers, the trees fling loose their dreams, And through the waving roof a fresher moonlight streams.
XXXIV
"Mortal!"--the word crept slowly round the place As if that wind had breathed it! From no star Streams that soft lustre on the dreamer's face.
Again a hushing calm! while faint and far The breeze goes calling onward through the night.
Dear God! what vision chains that wide-strained sight?
XXXV
Over the grass and flowers, and up the slope Glides a white cloud of mist, self-moved and slow, That, pausing at the hillock's moonlit cope, Swayed like a flame of silver; from below The breathless youth with beating heart beholds A mystic motion in its argent folds.
XXXVI
Yet his young soul is bold, and hope grows warm, As flashing through that cloud of shadowy crape, With sweep of robes, and then a gleaming arm, Slowly developing, at last took shape A face and form unutterably bright, That cast a golden glamour on the night.
XXXVII
But for the glory round it it would seem Almost a mortal maiden; and the boy, Unto whom love was yet an innocent dream, Shivered and crimsoned with an unknown joy; As to the young Spring bounds the passionate South, He could have clasped and kissed her mouth to mouth.
XXXVIII
Yet something checked, that was and was not dread, Till in a low sweet voice the maiden spake; She was the Fairy of his dreams, she said, And loved him simply for his human sake; And that in heaven, wherefrom she took her birth, They called her Poesy, the angel of the earth.
XXXIX
"And ever since that immemorial hour, When the glad morning-stars together sung, My task hath been, beneath a mightier Power, To keep the world forever fresh and young; I give it not its fruitage and its green, But clothe it with a glory all unseen.
XL
"I sow the germ which buds in human art, And, with my sister, Science, I explore With light the dark recesses of the heart, And nerve the will, and teach the wish to soar; I touch with grace the body's meanest clay, While noble souls are nobler for my sway.
XLI
"Before my power the kings of earth have bowed; I am the voice of Freedom, and the sword Leaps from its scabbard when I call aloud; Wherever life in sacrifice is poured, Wherever martyrs die or patriots bleed, I weave the chaplet and award the meed.
XLII