“Alas, the awful fight with death!
The hours to hang and die!
The thirsting gasp for common breath!
The weakness that would cry!”
My soul returned: “A faintness soon
Will shroud thee in its fold;
The hours will bring the fearful noon;
’Twill pass—and thou art cold.”
“ ’Tis his to care that thou endure,
To curb or loose the pain;
With bleeding hands hang on thy cure—
It shall not be in vain.”
But, ah, the will, which thus could quail,
Might yield—oh, horror drear!
Then, more than love, the fear to fail
Kept down the other fear.
I stood, nor moved. But inward strife
The bonds of slumber broke:
Oh! had I fled, and lost the life
Of which the Master spoke?
VI
Methinks I hear, as o’er this life’s dim dial
The last shades darken, friends say, “He was good;”
I struggling fail to speak my faint denial—
They whisper, “His humility withstood.”
I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;
And find the unknown world not all unknown:
The bonds that held me from my centre broken,
I seek my home, the Saviour’s homely throne.
How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder;
I think I know what I will say to him;
I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder,
I fear no passing vision great and dim.
But he knows all my weary sinful story:
How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?
I come to him in all his conquered glory,
Won from the life that I went dreaming there!
I come; I fall before him, faintly saying:
“Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win?
Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying;
I have no honour—but may I come in?”
I hear him say: “Strong prayer did keep me stable;
To me the earth was very lovely too:
Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able
To love it greatly!—but thou hast got through.”
Part II
I
A gloomy and a windy day!
No sunny spot is bare;
Dull vapours, in uncomely play,
Go weltering through the air:
If through the windows of my mind
I let them come and go,
My thoughts will also in the wind
Sweep restless to and fro.
I drop my curtains for a dream.—
What comes? A mighty swan,
With plumage like a sunny gleam,
And folded airy van!
She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent
By sea-maids to my shore,
With stately head proud-humbly bent,
And slackening swarthy oar.
Lone in a vaulted rock I lie,
A water-hollowed cell,
Where echoes of old storms go by,
Like murmurs in a shell.
The waters half the gloomy way
Beneath its arches come;
Throbbing to outside billowy play,
The green gulfs waver dumb.
Undawning twilights through the cave
In moony glimmers go,
Half from the swan above the wave,
Half from the swan below,
As to my feet she gently drifts
Through dim, wet-shiny things,
And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts
The shoulders of her wings.
Old earth is rich with many a nest
Of softness ever new,
Deep, delicate, and full of rest—
But loveliest there are two:
I may not tell them save to minds
That are as white as they;
But none will hear, of other kinds—
They all are turned away.
On foamy mounds between the wings
Of a white sailing swan,
A flaky bed of shelterings,
There you will find the one.
The other—well, it will not out,
Nor need I tell it you;
I’ve told you one, and can you doubt,
When there are only two?
Fill full my dream, O splendid bird!
Me o’er the waters bear:
Never was tranquil ocean stirred
By ship so shapely fair!
Nor ever whiteness found a dress
In which on earth to go,
So true, profound, and rich, unless
It was the falling snow!
Her wings, with flutter half-aloft,
Impatient fan her crown;
I cannot choose but nestle soft
Into the depth of down.
With oary-pulsing webs unseen,
Out the white frigate sweeps;
In middle space we hang, between
The air- and ocean-deeps.
Up the wave’s mounting, flowing side,
With stroke on stroke we rack;
As down the sinking slope we slide,
She cleaves a talking track—
Like heather-bells on lonely steep,
Like soft rain on the glass,
Like children murmuring in their sleep,
Like winds in reedy grass.
Her white breast heaving like a wave,
She beats the solemn time;
With slow strong sweep, intent and grave,
Hearkens the ripples rime.
All round, from flat gloom upward drawn,
I catch the gleam, vague, wide,
With which the waves, from dark to dawn,
Heave up the polished side.
The night is blue; the stars aglow
Crowd the still, vaulted steep,
Sad o’er the hopeless, restless flow
Of the self-murmurous deep—
A thicker night, with gathered moan!
A dull dethroned sky!
The shadows of its stars alone
Left in to know it by!
What faints across yon lifted loop
Where the west gleams its last?
With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group
Of Nereids dreaming past.
Row on, fair swan;—who knows but I,
Ere night hath sought her cave,
May see in splendour pale float by
The Venus of the wave!
II
A rainbow-wave o’erflowed her,
A glory that deepened and grew,
A song of colour and odour
That thrilled her through and through:
’Twas a dream of too much gladness
Ever to see the light;
They are only dreams of sadness
That weary out the night.
Slow darkness began to rifle
The nest of the sunset fair;
Dank vapour began to stifle
The scents that enriched the air;
The flowers paled fast and faster,
They crumbled, leaf and crown,
Till they looked like the stained plaster
Of a cornice fallen down.
And the change crept nigh and nigher,
Inward and closer stole,
Till the flameless, blasting fire
Entered and withered her soul.—
But the fiends had only flouted
Her vision of the night;
Up came the morn and routed
The darksome things with light.
Wide awake I have often been in it—
The dream that all is none;
It will come in the gladdest minute
And wither the very sun.
Two moments of sad commotion,
One more of doubt’s palsied rule—
And the great wave-pulsing ocean
Is only a gathered pool;
A flower is a spot of painting,
A lifeless, loveless hue;
Though your heart be sick to fainting
It says not a word to you;
A bird knows nothing of
