Its gay farewell to hospitable eaves The swallow twitter'd in the autumn heaven; Dumb on the crisp earth fell the yellowing leaves, Or, in small eddies, fitfully were driven
Down the bleak waste of the remorseless air. Out, from the widening gaps in dreary boughs, Alone the laurel smiled,— as freshly fair As its own chaplet on immortal brows,
When Fame, indifferent to the changeful sun, Sees waning races wither, and lives on.— An old man sate before that deathless tree Which bloom'd his humble dwelling-place beside;
The last pale rose which lured the lingering bee To the low porch it scantly blossom'd o'er, Nipp'd by the frost-air had that morning died. The clock faint-heard beyond the gaping door,
Low as a death-watch, click'd the moments’ knell; And through the narrow opening you might see Uncertain foot-prints on the sanded floor ( Uncertain foot-prints which of blindness tell );
The rude oak board, the morn's untasted fare; The scatter'd volumes and the pillow'd chair, In which, worn out with toil and travel past, Life, the poor wanderer, finds repose at last.
The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing Waving thin locks from musing temples pale; Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going, And the light dance of leaves upon the gale,
In that mysterious symbol-change of earth Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. Seasons return; for him shall not return Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn.
Whatever garb the mighty mother wore, Nature to him was changeless evermore.— List, not a sigh!— though fall'n on evil days, With darkness compass'd round — those sightless eyes
Need not the sun; nightly he sees the rays, Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise. High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone, Death-like in calm as monumental stone,
Lifting his looks into the farthest skies, He sate: And as when some tempestuous day Dies in the hush of the majestic eve, So on his brow — where grief has pass'd away,
Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave. And while he sate, nor saw, nor sigh'd,— drew near A timorous trembling step;— from the far clime The Pilgrim Woman came: long year on year,
In brain-sick thought that takes no heed of time, How had she pined to gaze upon that brow Last seen in youth, when she was young:— AND NOW! And now! O words that make the sepulchre
Of all our Past! Life sheds no sadder tear Than, when recalling what the Hours inter Of hopes, of passions, of the things that made Our hearts once quicken with tumultuous bliss,
We feel what worlds within ourselves can fade, Sighing “And now!” — Alas the nothingness Even of love — had it no life but this! Thus as she stood and gazed, and noiseless wept,
Two young slight forms across the threshold crept And reach'd the blind grey man, and kiss'd his hand, And then a moment o'er his lips there stray'd The old, familiar, sweet yet stately smile.
On either side the children took their stand, And all the three were silent for awhile: Till one, the gentler, whisper'd some soft word, Mingling her young locks with that silvery hair;
And the old man the child's meek voice obey'd, Rose,— lingering yet to breathe the gladsome air — Or catch the faint note of the neighbouring bird; Then leaning on the two, his head he bow'd,
And from the daylight pensive pass'd away. Sharp swept the wind, the thrush forsook the spray, And the poor Pilgrim wept at last aloud. Hark, from within, slow and sonorous stole
Deep organ-tones; with solemn pomp of sound Meet to bear up the disimprison'd soul From mortal homage in material piles, To blend with Angel Halleluiahs!— Round
The charmed place the notes melodious roll As with a visible flood: adown the aisles Of Nature's first cathedrals ( vistas dim, Through leafless woodlands ), far and farther float
On to the startled haunts of toiling men, The marching music-tides: the heavenly note Thrills through the reeking air of alleys grim; Awes wolf-eyed Guilt close skulking in its den;
Lulls Childhood, wailing with white lips for bread, On the starved breast of nerveless Penury; Fever lies soothed upon its burning bed: Indignant Worth stills its world-weary sigh;
The widow'd bride looks upward from the dead, And deems she hears his welcome to the sky. On, the grand music, more and more remote, Bore the grey blind man's soul, itself a hymn,
Till lost in air amid the Seraphim. Our life is as a circle, and our age Back to our youth returns at last in dreams; The intermediate restless pilgrimage
Vexing the earth with toils, the air with schemes, Pays our hard tribute to the work-day world. That done, as some storm-shatter'd argosy Puts to the port from whence its sail unfurl'd,
The soul regains the first familiar shore, And greets the quiet it disdain'd before. He who in youth from purple poetry Flush'd the grey clouds in this cold common sky,
After his shadeless undelusive noon Shall mark the roseate hues, which morning wore, Herald the eve, and gird his setting sun; And the last Hesperus shine on Helicon.
O long ( yet nobly, since for man ) resign'd Nature's most sovereign, care's most soothing boon; Again, again, with vervain fillets bind Anointed brows — O Mage supreme of song!
Again before the enchanted crystal glass Let the celestial phantoms glide along — Thou, whose sweet tears yet hallow Lycidas; Thou, who the soul of Plato didst unsphere,
By chaste Sabrina's beryl-paven cell! If now no more thou deign'st to charm the ear “With measures ravish'd from Apollo's shell,” Re-wake the harp which mournful willows hide
Left by the captives of Jerusalem; For thou hast thought of Sion, and beside The streams of Babylon, hast wept — like them! Aged, forsaken — to the crowd below
( As to the Priest who chronicled the time ), “One Milton!— The blind Teacher” — be it so. Neglect and ruin make but more sublime The last lone column which survives the dearth
Of a lost city,— when it lifts on high. Above the waste and solitude of earth Its front: and soars, the Neighbour of the Sky. To him a Voice floats down from every star;
An Angel bends from every cloud that rolls; Life has no mystery from our sight more far Than the still joy in solemn Poet-souls. As some vast river, fresh'ning lands unknown
Where never yet a human footstep trod, Leave the grand Song to flow majestic on And hymn delight, from all its waves, to God. A death-bell ceased;— beneath the vault were laid
A great man's bones;— and when the rest were gone, Veil'd, and in sable widow -‘ d weeds array'd, An aged woman knelt upon the stone. Low as she pray'd, the wailing notes were sweet
With the strange music of a foreign tongue: Thrice to that spot came feeble, feebler feet, Thrice on that stone were humble garlands hung. On the fourth day some formal hand in scorn
The flowers that breathed of priestcraft cast away; But the poor stranger came not with the morn, And flowers forbidden deck'd no more the clay. A heart was broken!— and a spirit fled!
Whither — let those who love and hope decide — But in the faith that Love rejoins the dead, The heart was broken ere the garland died.
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