The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 20

And in the centre of that spot, which lay A ring embosom'd in the wood's embrace, A fountain, clear as ever gla.s.s'd the day, Breathed yet a fresher luxury round the place; But now it slept, as if its silver shower, And the wide reach of its aspiring sound, Were far too harsh for that transparent hour:-- Yet--like a gnome that mourneth underground-- You caught the murmur of the rill which gave The well's smooth calm the pa.s.sion of its wave; Ev'n as man's heart that still, with secret sigh, Stirs through each thought that would reflect the sky.

VII.

And, group'd around the fountain, forms were seen, Shaped as for courts in loving Chivalry, Such as Boccacio placed, 'mid alleys green, Listening to tales in careless Fiesole!

Dress'd as for nymphs, the cla.s.sic banquet there Was spread on gra.s.sy turfs, with coolest fruit And drinks Falernian--while the mellow air Heaved to the light swell of the amorous lute; And by the music lovers grew more bold, And Beauty blush'd to secrets, murmuring told.

VIII.

But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were none Who yielded not to him--that English guest.

Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won, Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd; And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold, And manhood stately with a Dorian grace, He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of old The simple sons of thoughtful Hercules On Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece.

Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazed On him--the radiant cynosure of all, While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed, What that bright heart was destined to befall!

That worst of wars--the Battle of the Soil-- Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side!

The daily fever, and the midnight toil; The hope defeated, and the name belied; Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art, The watchful viper of the evil tongue;-- The sting which pride defies, but not the heart-- The n.o.blest heart is aye the easiest wrung: The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life, Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth; The march--but not the action--of the strife Without;--and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth: The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night, Along those eyes which now in all survey A tribute and a rapture;--the despite Of Fortune wreak'd on his declining day; The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;-- Oh! little dream'd they this!--nor less what light Should through those clouds--a new-born glory--start; And from the spot man's mystic Father trod, Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray, Cast its great shadow to the Throne of G.o.d!

IX.

The festive rite was o'er--the group was gone, Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone-- For round his eye, and in his heart, there lay The tender spells which cleave to solitude.

Who, when some gay delight hath pa.s.s'd away, Feels not a charmed musing in his mood, A poesy of thought, which yearns to pour Still wors.h.i.+p to the Spirit of the Hour?

Ah! they who bodied into deity The rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err.

Sweet hours, ye _have_ a life, and holily That life is worn! and when no rude sounds stir The quiet of our hearts--we inly hear The hymnlike music of your floating voices, Telling us mystic tidings of the sphere Where hand in hand your linked choir rejoices, And filling us with calm and solemn thought, Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught.

With folded arms and upward brow, he leant Against the pillar of a sleeping tree; When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there went A murmur and a sigh along the air, And a light footstep, like a melody, Pa.s.s'd by the flowers. He turn'd;--What Nymph is there?

What Hamadryad from the green recess Emerging into beauty like a star?-- He gazed--sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose loveliness Had in his England's gardens first (and far From these delicious groves) upon him beam'd, And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd.

X.

They met again and oft! what time the Star Of Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high; Love's earliest beacon, from our storms afar, Lit in the loneliest watch-tower of the sky, Perchance by souls that, ere this world was made, Were the first lovers the first stars survey'd.

And Mystery o'er their twilight meeting threw The charm that nought like mystery doth bestow: Her name--her birth--her home he never knew; And she--_his_ love was all she sought to know.

And when in anxious or in tender mood He pray'd her to disclose at least her name, A look from her the unwelcome prayer subdued So sad the cloud that o'er her features came: Her lip grew blanch'd, as with an ominous fear, And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear.

So wors.h.i.+pp'd he in silence and sweet wonder, Pleased to confide, contented not to know; And Hope, life's checkering moonlight, smiled asunder Doubts, which, like clouds, rise ever from below.

And thus his love grew daily, and perchance Was all the stronger circled by romance.

He found a name for her, if not her own, Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear-- "Zoe"--name stolen from the tuneful Greek, It meaneth 'life,' when common lips do speak-- And more on those that love;--sweet language known To lovers, sacred to themselves alone; Words, like Egyptian symbols, set apart For the mysterious Priesthood of the Heart.

Creep slowly on, O charm'd reluctant Time-- Rarely so hallow'd, Time, creep slowly on-- Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme, Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone.

Flowers bloom again--leaves glad once more the tree-- Poor life, there comes no second Spring to thee!

[A] In the story of Cupid and Psyche, told in Apuleius, it is said that the lamp itself gladdened at the aspect of the G.o.d.--"Cujus aspectu lucernae quoque lumen _hilaratum_ increbuit."

[B] Galileo--according to the popular legend of Milton's visit to him.

PART THE SECOND.

"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores, Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.

Interea misero quae jam mihi sola placebat Ablata est oculis non reditura meis."--MILT. ELEG. VII.

I.

Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads, From the fine tissues of Philosophy?-- Mounts to one goal, each guess that _upward_ leads, Whether it soar in some impa.s.sion'd sigh Or some still thought; alike, it doth but tend To Light that draws it heavenward.--'Tis but one Great law that from the violet lifts the dew At dawn and twilight to the amorous sun, Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through, From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea.

The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descend From some lost realm (sad aliens here to be), Dim broken memories of the state before Form what we call our 'reason';[C]--nothing taught But all remember'd;--gleams from elder lore, Pallid revivals of sublimer thought, Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd, Make all the light our sense receives below; Like the vague hues down-floating--disenthrall'd From their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow.

Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask?

How judge?--The instant that we leave the ground Of the hard Positive, who saith "I _know_?"

Conjecture, fancy, faith--'tis _these_ we task, When Reason pa.s.ses but an inch the bound In which our senses draw the captive's breath.

And never yet Philosopher severe Strove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death, But straight he enter'd on that atmosphere Poets illume:--Let Logic prove the Known; Truths that we know not, if we would explore, We must imagine! Link, then, evermore Together--each so desolate alone, O Poesy, O Knowledge!--

Is not Love, Of all those memories which to parent skies Mount struggling back--(as to their source above, In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;) Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest?

Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven; Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest; Love, and a world beyond the sense is given; Love, and how many a glorious sleeping power Wakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee; Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour, Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity!

Lose what thou lovest, and the life of old Is from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd; Look beyond Death, and through thy tears behold There, where Love goes--thine ancient home reveal'd.

II.

The lovers met in twilight and in stealth.

Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale, That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles, And there collects and there conceals the wealth, Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale, Love h.o.a.rds aloof the glories that it stealeth; And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells, On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth.

All nature was a treasury which their hearts Rifled and coin'd in pa.s.sion; the soft gra.s.s, The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell; The sighing leaves which, as the day departs, The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell; The stiller boughs blent in one emerald ma.s.s, Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along, Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song; All furnish'd them with images and words, And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer; Their love made life one melody, like birds, And circled earth with its own rosy air.

What in that lovely climate doth the breast Interpret not into some sound of love?

Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest, Like the G.o.d's smile, upon the pictured dream Limn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude, Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?-- Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed?

Nor know that presence by its light,--and deem The Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine, "Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?"

III.

But all round them was _life_--the _living_ scene, The real sky, and earth, and wave, and air: The turf on which Egeria's steps had been, The shade, stream, grotto, which had known her care.

Still o'er them floated an inspiring breath-- The fragrance and the melody of song-- The legend--glory--verse--that vanquish'd death Still through the orange glades were borne along, And sunk into their souls to swell the h.o.a.rd Of those rich thoughts the miser Pa.s.sion stored!

IV.

But _they_ required no fuel to the flame Which burn'd within them, all undyingly; No scene to steep _their_ pa.s.sion in romance, No spell from _outward_ nature to enhance The nature at their bosoms: all the same Their love had been if cast upon a rock, And frown'd on from the Arctic's haggard sky.

Nay, ev'n the vices and the cares, which move Like waves o'er that foul ocean of dull life, That rolls through cities in a sullen strife With heaven, had raged on them, nor in the shock Crumbled one atom from their base of love.

And, like still waters, poesy lay deep Within the hush'd yet haunted soul of each; And the fair moon, and all the stars that steep Heaven's silence and its spirit in delight, Had with that tide a sympathy and speech!

For them there was a glory in the night, A whisper in the forest, and the air; Love is the priest of Nature, and can teach A world of mystery to the few that share, With self-devoted faith, the winged Flamen's care.

V.