The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume I Part 25

And spiritual thunders, born of soul Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole And o'er him roll and counter-roll,

Crus.h.i.+ng their echoes reboant With their own wheels. Did Heaven so grant His spirit a sign of covenant?

At last came silence. A slow kiss Did crown his forehead after this; His eyelids flew back for the bliss--

The lady stood beside his head, Smiling a thought, with hair dispread; The moons.h.i.+ne seemed dishevelled

In her sleek tresses manifold Like Danae's in the rain of old That dripped with melancholy gold:

But SHE was holy, pale and high As one who saw an ecstasy Beyond a foretold agony.

"Rise up!" said she with voice where song Eddied through speech, "rise up; be strong: And learn how right avenges wrong."

The poet rose up on his feet: He stood before an altar set For sacrament with vessels meet

And mystic altar-lights which s.h.i.+ne As if their flames were crystalline Carved flames that would not shrink or pine.

The altar filled the central place Of a great church, and toward its face Long aisles did shoot and interlace,

And from it a continuous mist Of incense (round the edges kissed By a yellow light of amethyst)

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly, Cloud within cloud, right silverly, Cloud above cloud, victoriously,--

Broke full against the arched roof And thence refracting eddied off And floated through the marble woof

Of many a fine-wrought architrave, Then, poising its white ma.s.ses brave, Swept solemnly down aisle and nave

Where, now in dark and now in light, The countless columns, glimmering white, Seemed leading out to the Infinite:

Plunged halfway up the shaft, they showed In that pale s.h.i.+fting incense-cloud Which flowed them by and overflowed

Till mist and marble seemed to blend And the whole temple, at the end, With its own incense to distend,--

The arches like a giant's bow To bend and slacken,--and below, The niched saints to come and go:

Alone amid the s.h.i.+fting scene That central altar stood serene In its clear steadfast taper-sheen.

Then first, the poet was aware Of a chief angel standing there Before that altar, in the glare.

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw That _they_ saw G.o.d; his lips and jaw Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's law

They could enunciate and refrain From vibratory after-pain, And his brow's height was sovereign:

On the vast background of his wings Rises his image, and he flings From each plumed arc pale glitterings

And fiery flakes (as beateth, more Or less, the angel-heart) before And round him upon roof and floor,

Edging with fire the s.h.i.+fting fumes, While at his side 'twixt lights and glooms The phantasm of an organ booms.

Extending from which instrument And angel, right and left-way bent, The poet's sight grew sentient

Of a strange company around And toward the altar, pale and bound With bay above the eyes profound.

Deathful their faces were, and yet The power of life was in them set-- Never forgot nor to forget:

Sublime significance of mouth, Dilated nostril full of youth, And forehead royal with the truth.

These faces were not multiplied Beyond your count, but side by side Did front the altar, glorified,

Still as a vision, yet exprest Full as an action--look and geste Of buried saint in risen rest.

The poet knew them. Faint and dim His spirits seemed to sink in him-- Then, like a dolphin, change and swim

The current: these were poets true, Who died for Beauty as martyrs do For Truth--the ends being scarcely two.

G.o.d's prophets of the Beautiful These poets were; of iron rule, The rugged cilix, serge of wool.

Here Homer, with the broad suspense Of thunderous brows, and lips intense Of garrulous G.o.d-innocence.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world: O eyes sublime With tears and laughters for all time!

Here aeschylus, the women swooned To see so awful when he frowned As the G.o.ds did: he standeth crowned.

Euripides, with close and mild Scholastic lips, that could be wild And laugh or sob out like a child

Even in the cla.s.ses. Sophocles, With that king's-look which down the trees Followed the dark effigies

Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old, Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold, Cared most for G.o.ds and bulls. And bold

Electric Pindar, quick as fear, With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear Slant startled eyes that seem to hear

The chariot rounding the last goal, To hurtle past it in his soul.

And Sappho, with that gloriole

Of ebon hair on calmed brows-- O poet-woman! none forgoes The leap, attaining the repose.

Theocritus, with glittering locks Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks He watched the visionary flocks.

And Aristophanes, who took The world with mirth, and laughter-struck The hollow caves of Thought and woke

The infinite echoes hid in each.

And Virgil: shade of Mantuan beech Did help the shade of bay to reach

And knit around his forehead high: For his G.o.ds wore less majesty Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly.

Lucretius, n.o.bler than his mood, Who dropped his plummet down the broad Deep universe and said "No G.o.d--"

Finding no bottom: he denied Divinely the divine, and died Chief poet on the Tiber-side