CONCLUSION.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart: And I was‘ ware of walking down

That same green forest where had gone The poet-pilgrim. One by one I traced his footsteps. From the east A red and tender radiance pressed

Through the near trees, until I guessed The sun behind shone full and round; While up the leafiness profound A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when I turned that way, and now and then The birds sang and brake off again To shake their pretty feathers dry

Of the dew sliding droppingly From the leaf-edges and apply Back to their song:‘ twixt dew and bird So sweet a silence ministered,

God seemed to use it for a word, Yet morning souls did leap and run In all things, as the least had won A joyous insight of the sun,

And no one looking round the wood Could help confessing as he stood, This Poet-God is glad and good. But hark! a distant sound that grows,

A heaving, sinking of the boughs, A rustling murmur, not of those, A breezy noise which is not breeze! And white-clad children by degrees

Steal out in troops among the trees, Fair little children morning-bright, With faces grave yet soft to sight, Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach, And others leapt up high to catch The upper boughs and shake from each A rain of dew till, wetted so,

The child who held the branch let go And it swang backward with a flow Of faster drippings. Then I knew The children laughed; but the laugh flew

From its own chirrup as might do A frightened song-bird; and a child Who seemed the chief said very mild, “Hush! keep this morning undefiled.”

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres, His soul upon his brow appears In waiting for more holy years. I called the child to me, and said,

“What are your palms for?” “To be spread,” He answered, “on a poet dead. “The poet died last month, and now The world which had been somewhat slow

In honouring his living brow, “Commands the palms; they must be strown On his new marble very soon, In a procession of the town.”

I sighed and said, “Did he foresee Any such honour?” “Verily I cannot tell you,” answered he. “But this I know, I fain would lay

My own head down, another day, As he did,— with the fame away. “A lily, a friend's hand had plucked, Lay by his death-bed, which he looked

As deep down as a bee had sucked, “Then, turning to the lattice, gazed O'er hill and river and upraised His eyes illumined and amazed

“With the world's beauty, up to God, Re-offering on their iris broad The images of things bestowed “By the chief Poet.‘ God!’ he cried,

‘ Be praised for anguish which has tried, For beauty which has satisfied: “‘ For this world's presence half within And half without me — thought and scene —

This sense of Being and Having Been. “‘ I thank Thee that my soul hath room For Thy grand world: both guests may come — Beauty, to soul — Body, to tomb.

“‘ I am content to be so weak: Put strength into the words I speak, And I am strong in what I seek. “‘ I am content to be so bare

Before the archers, everywhere My wounds being stroked by heavenly air. “‘ I laid my soul before Thy feet That images of fair and sweet

Should walk to other men on it. “‘ I am content to feel the step Of each pure image: let those keep To mandragore who care to sleep.

“‘ I am content to touch the brink Of the other goblet and I think My bitter drink a wholesome drink. “‘ Because my portion was assigned

Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind, And I am blessed to my mind. “‘ Gifted for giving, I receive The maythorn and its scent outgive:

I grieve not that I once did grieve. “‘ In my large joy of sight and touch Beyond what others count for such, I am content to suffer much.

“‘ I know — is all the mourner saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth, And Life is perfected by Death.’” The child spake nobly: strange to hear,

His infantine soft accents clear Charged with high meanings, did appear; And fair to see, his form and face Winged out with whiteness and pure grace

From the green darkness of the place. Behind his head a palm-tree grew; An orient beam which pierced it through Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown Traced on its brightness up and down In fine fair lines,— a shadow-crown: Guido might paint his angels so —

A little angel, taught to go With holy words to saints below — Such innocence of action yet Significance of object met

In his whole bearing strong and sweet. And all the children, the whole band, Did round in rosy reverence stand, Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

“And so he died,” I whispered. “Nay, Not so,” the childish voice did say, “That poet turned him first to pray “In silence, and God heard the rest

‘ Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west. Then he called one who loved him best, “Yea, he called softly through the room ( His voice was weak yet tender ) —‘ Come,’

He said,‘ come nearer! Let the bloom “‘ Of Life grow over, undenied, This bridge of Death, which is not wide — I shall be soon at the other side.

“‘ Come, kiss me!’ So the one in truth Who loved him best,— in love, not ruth, Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth: “And in that kiss of love was won

Life's manumission. All was done: The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone. “But in the former, confluent kiss, The same was sealed, I think, by His,

To words of truth and uprightness.” The child's voice trembled, his lips shook Like a rose leaning o'er a brook, Which vibrates though it is not struck.

“And who,” I asked, a little moved Yet curious-eyed, “was this that loved And kissed him last, as it behoved?” “I,” softly said the child; and then

“I,” said he louder, once again: “His son, my rank is among men: “And now that men exalt his name I come to gather palms with them,

That holy love may hallow fame. “He did not die alone, nor should His memory live so,‘ mid these rude World-praisers — a worse solitude.

“Me, a voice calleth to that tomb Where these are strewing branch and bloom Saying,‘ Come nearer:’ and I come. “Glory to God!” resumed he,

And his eyes smiled for victory O'er their own tears which I could see Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin — “That poet now has entered in

The place of rest which is not sin. “And while he rests, his songs in troops Walk up and down our earthly slopes, Companioned by diviner hopes.”

“But thou,” I murmured to engage The child's speech farther — “hast an age Too tender for this orphanage.”