And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 170 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, 175 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too? 180 And then we suffer! and amongst us one, His seat upon the intellectual throne; 185 Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 This for our wisest! and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, 195 With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, But none has hope like thine! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, 200 With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife 205 Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! 210 Stiil nursing the unconquerable hope, With a free, onward impulse brushing through, Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 215 220 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; 225 Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! 230 235 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine And knew the intruders on his ancient home, 240 The young light-hearted masters of the waves — And day and night held on indignantly Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves 245 Outside the western straits; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy shore; She will not come though you call all day; Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? Through the surf and through the swell, Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 50 And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea; 55 She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. "Twill be Easter-time in the world ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee." I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves; 60 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 66 Children dear, were we long alone? The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 65 70 From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! 80 Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more! Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, 85 Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!" And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, 95 |