Then closed her access to the wealthier Of such a love as like a chidden child, After much wailing, hush'd itself at last Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averil farms, Last from her own home-circle of the poor They barr'd her yet she bore it yet spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove; Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read Writhing a letter from his child, for which Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, But scared with threats of jail and halter gave To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits The letter which he brought, and swore besides To play their go-between as heretofore Nor let them know themselves betray'd; and then, Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went Hating his own lean heart and miserable. wrote And bade him with good heart sustain himself All would be well-the lover heeded not, But passionately restless came and went, And rustling once at night about the place, There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, Raging return'd: nor was it well for her Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, Watch'd even there; and one was set to watch The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all, Yet bitterer from his readings once indeed, Warm'd with his wines, or taking prids in her, She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly Not knowing what possess'd him: that one kiss Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth; A Martin's summer of his faded love, Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. Last, some low fever ranging round to spy The weakness of a people or a house, Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, His hair as it were crackling into flames, His body half flung forward in pursuit, And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer: Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry; And being much befool'd and idioted death For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, - made Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd Above them, with his hopes in either grave. Long o'er his bent brows linger'd His face magnetic to the hand from which 66 Your house is left unto you desolate !" Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart Against the desolations of the world. Never since our bad earth became one sea, Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, And all but those who knew the living God Eight that were left to make a purer world When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, Which from the low light of mortality Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest? "Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baäl, And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God. Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baäl. The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts! No coarse and blockish God of acreage Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to Thy God is far diffused in noble groves And princely halls, and farms, and flow. ing lawns, And heaps of living gold that daily grow, And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; for thine Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while The deathless ruler of thy dying house Is wounded to the death that cannot die; And tho' thou numberest with the followers Of One who cried 'leave all and follow me.' Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, Thee with His message ringing in thine Broke into nature's music when they saw her. Low was her voice, but won mysterious way Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one Was all but silence. free of alms her hand The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones; How often placed upon the sick man's brow Cool'd it, or laid his feverish pillow smooth! Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? One burden and she would not lighten it? One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, How sweetly would she glide between your wraths, And steal you from each other! for she walk'd Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee! And one-of him I was not bid to speakWas always with her, whom you also knew. Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. And these had been together from the first; They might have been together till the last. Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, Without the captain's knowledge: hope with me. Whose shame is that, if he went hence Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd | By shores that darken with the gathering his face, Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth; And "O pray God that he hold up" she thought "Or surely I shall shame myself and him." Is there no prophet but the voice that calls Doom upon kings, or in the waste 'Repent'? Is not our own child on the narrow way, Who down to those that saunter in the broad Cries 'come up hither,' as a prophet to us? Is there no stoning save with flint and rock? Yes, as the dead we weep for testify- Not past the living fount of pity in But I that thought myself long-suffering, | meek, Exceeding poor in spirit'-how the words Have twisted back upon themselves, and wolf, Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. Is this a time to madden madness then? Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride? May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all ! Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it: O rather pray for those and pity them, Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave Who broke the bond which they desired to break, Which else had link'd their race with times to come Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good Poor souls, and knew not what they did, Then their eyes vext her; for on entering | The dark retinue reverencing death He had cast the curtains of their seat At golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts, asideBlack velvet of the costliest - she herself And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd Had seen to that: fain had she closed them now, Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd His face with the other, and at once, as falls A creeper when the prop is broken, fell The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd. Then her own people bore along the nave Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years: And her the Lord of all the landscape round Ev'n to his last horizon, and of all Always about to fall, grasping the pews Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. But nevermore did either pass the gate Save under pall with bearers. In one month, Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, The childless mother went to seek her |