Sing we Halleluiah — singing Halleluiah to the Three; Where, vain Death, oh, where thy stinging? Where, O Grave, thy victory?
As a sun a soul hath risen, Rising from a stormy main; When a captive breaks the prison, Who but slaves would mourn the chain
Fear for age subdued by trial, Heavy with the years of sin: When the sunlight leaves the dial, And the solemn shades begin;—
Not for youth!— although the bosom With a sharper grief be wrung; For the May wind strews the blossom, And the angel takes the young!
Saved from sins, while yet forgiven;— From the joys that lead astray, From the earth at war with heaven, Soar, O happy soul, away!
From the human love that fadeth, In the falsehood or the tomb; From the cloud that darkly shadeth; From the canker in the bloom;
Thou hast pass'd to suns unsetting, Where the rainbow spans the flood, Where no moth the garb is fretting, Where no worm is in the bud.
Let the arrow leave the quiver, It was fashioned but to soar; Let the wave pass from the river, Into ocean evermore!
Mindful yet of mortal feeling, In thy fresh immortal birth; By the Virgin mother kneeling, Plead for those beloved on earth.
Whisper them thou hast forsaken, “Woe but borders unbelief!” Comfort smiles in faith unshaken: Shall thy glory be their grief?
Let one ray on them descending, From the prophet Future stream; Bliss is daylight never ending, Sorrow but a passing dream.
O'er the grave in far communion, With the choral Seraphim, Chaunt in notes that hail reunion, Chaunt the Christian's funeral hymn;—
Singing Halleluiah — singing Halleluiah to the Three; Where, vain Death, oh where thy stinging? Where, O Grave, thy victory?
So rests the child of creeds before the Greek's, In our Lord's holy ground — between the walls Of the grey convent and the verdant creeks Of the sequester'd mere; afar the falls
Of the fierce torrent from her native vale, Vex the calm wave, and groan upon the gale. Survives that remnant of old races still, In its strange haven from the surge of Time?
There yet do Camsee's songs at sunset thrill, At the same hour when here, the vesper chime Hymns the sweet Mother? Ah, can granite gate, Cataract, and Alp, exclude the steps of Fate?
World-wearied man, thou knowest not on the earth What regions lie beyond, yet near, thy ken! But couldst thou find them, where would be the worth? Life but repeats its triple tale to men.
Three truths unite the children of the sod — All love — all suffer — and all feel a God! By AEgle's grave the royal mourner sate, And from his bended eyes the veiling hand
Shut out the setting sun; thus, desolate, He sate, with Memory in her spirit-land, And took no heed of Lancelot's soothing words, Vain to the oak, bolt-shatter'd, sing the birds!
Vain is their promise of returning spring! Spring may give leaves, can spring reclose the core? Comfort not sorrow — sorrow's self must bring Its own stern cure!— All wisdom's holiest lore,
The “KNOW THYSELF” descends from heaven in tears; The cloud must break before the horizon clears. The dove forsook not:— now its poised wing, Bathed in the sunset, rested o'er the lake;
Now brooded o'er the grave beside the King; Now with hush'd plumes, as if it fear'd to wake Sleep, less serene than Death's, it sought his breast, And o'er the heart of misery claim'd its nest.
Night falls — the moon is at her full;— the mere Shines with the sheen pellucid; not a breeze! And through the hush'd and argent atmosphere Sharp rise the summits of the breathless trees.
When Lancelot saw, all indistinct and pale, Glide o'er the liquid glass a mistlike sail. Now, first from Arthur's dreams of fever gain'd, And since ( for grief unlocks the secret heart )
Briefly confess'd, the triple toil ordain'd The knightly brother knew;— so with a start He strain'd the eyes, to which a fairy gave Vision of fairy forms, along the wave.
Then in his own the King's cold hand he took, And spoke — “Arise, thy mission calls thee now! Let the dead rest — still lives thy country!— look, And nerve thy knighthood to redeem its vow.
This is the lake whose waves the falchion hide, And yon the bark that becks thee to the tide!” The mourner listless rose, and look'd abroad, Nor saw the sail;— though nearer, clearer gliding,
The Fairy nurseling, by the vapoury shroud And vapoury helm, beheld a phantom guiding. “Not this,” replied the King, “the lake decreed; Where points thy hand, but floats a broken reed!
“Where are the dangers on that placid tide? Where are the fiends that guard the enchanted boon Behold, where rests the pilgrim's plumed guide On the cold grave — beneath the quiet moon!
So night gives rest to grief — with labouring day Let the dove lead, and life resume, the way!” Then answer'd Lancelot — for he was wise In each mysterious Druid parable:—
“Oft in the things most simple to our eyes, The real genii of our doom may dwell — The enchanter spoke of trials to befal; And the lone heart has trials worse than all!
“Weird triads tell us that our nature knows In its own cells the demons it should brave; And oft the calm of after glory flows Clear round the marge of early passion's grave!”
And the dove came ere Lancelot ceased to speak, To its lord's hand — a leaflet in its beak, Pluck'd from the grave! Then Arthur's labouring thought Recall'd the prophet words — and doubt was o'er;
He knew the lake that hid the boon he sought Both by the grave, and by the herb it bore; He took the bitter treasure from the dove, And tasted Knowledge at the grave of Love,
And straight the film fell from his heavy eyes; And moor'd beside the marge, he saw the bark, And by the sails that swell'd in windless skies, The phantom Lady in the robes of dark.
O'er moonlit tracks she stretch'd the shadowy hand, And lo, beneath the waters bloom'd the land! Forests of emerald verdure spread below, Through which proud columns glisten far and wide,
On to the bark the mourner's footsteps go; The pale King stands by the pale phantom's side; And Lancelot sprang — but sudden from his reach Glanced the wan skiff, and left him on the beach.
Chain'd to the earth by spells, more strong than love, He saw the pinnace steal its noiseless way, And on the mast there sate the steadfast dove, With white plume shining in the steadfast ray —
Slow from the sight the airy vessel glides, Till Heaven alone is mirror'd on the tides.
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