With her five handmaidens, whose names
Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.
"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.
"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:
Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.
"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles :
And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns and citoles.
"There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me:-
Only to live as once on earth
With Love, only to be,
As then awhile, forever now
Together, I and he."
She gazed and listened and then said,
Less sad of speech than mild,
"All this is when he comes." She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, filled
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
I'LL wake and watch this autumn night,
Till the slow dawn is gray;
Lest I should miss a noble sight
Upon the King's highway.
For now the far-enthroned King
To whom all flesh shall come,
A glorious message sends, to bring
His exiled minstrel home;
And I may see the guards in white
Troop round him, crowned with bay,
And many a starry torch alight,
Along the King's highway ;
May see against the ebon skies,
The banners backward blow,
And hear the io pœan rise
About them, as they go.
What vigil would it not requite,
That glorious array,
*The day of Tennyson's death.
That sure and stately march, forthright
Along the King's highway?
I heard the bells of midnight sound
From many an unseen tower,
But for the minstrel homeward bound
I could not watch one hour.
And now, how strange the growing light,
How blank the morning gray!
What stillness, after yesternight,
Broods on the King's highway!
GOD sends his teachers unto every age,
To every clime, and every race of men,
With revelations fitted to their growth
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of truth,
Into the selfish rule of one sole race.
Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed
The life of man, and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge, reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right;
Else never had the eager soul, which loathes
The slothful down of pampered ignorance,
Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.
Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.
A youth named Rhocus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall;
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,
He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on.
But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind
That murmured "Rhocus!"-"T was as if the leaves,
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it;
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again
It murmured "Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes
What seemed the substance of a happy dream
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.
It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek
For any that were wont to mate with gods.
All naked like a goddess stood she there,
And like a goddess all too beautiful
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.
"Rhocus, I am the dryad of this tree-"
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words,
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew-
"And with it I am doomed to live and die;
The rain and sunshine are my caterers,
Nor have I other bliss than simple life;
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,
And with a thankful heart it shall be thine."
Then Rhocus, with a flutter at the heart,
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold,
Answered: "What is there that can satisfy
The endless craving of the soul but love?
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that
Which must be evermore my spirit's goal."
After a little pause she said again,
But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone,
"I give it, Rhocus, though a perilous gift;
An hour before the sunset meet me here."
And straightway there was nothing he could see
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak;
And not a sound came to his straining ears
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves,
And, far away upon an emerald slope,
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe.
Now, in those days of simpleness and faith,
Men did not think that happy things were dreams
Because they overstepped the narrow bourne
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed
Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful
To be the guerdon of a daring heart.
So Rhœcus made no doubt that he was blest;
And all along unto the city's gate
Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked;
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont,
And he could scarce believe he had not wings—
Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins
Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.
Young Rhocus had a faithful heart enough,
But one that in the present dwelt too much,
And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er
Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that,
Like the contented peasant of a vale,
Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond.
So, haply meeting in the afternoon
|