Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound; Like that long-buried body of the king, Found lying with his urns and ornaments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, Slipt into ashes and was found no more. Here is a story which in rougher shape Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw Sunning himself in a waste field alone— Old, and a mine of memories—who had served, Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, And been himself a part of what he told. Sir Aaylmer Aylmer that almighty man, The county God—in whose capacious hall, Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king— Whose blazing wyvern weathercock’d the spire, Stood from his walls and wing’d his entry-gates And swang besides on many a windy sign— Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head Saw from his windows nothing save his own— What lovelier of his own had he than her, His only child, his Edith, whom he loved As heiress and not heir regretfully? But ‘he that marries her marries her name’ This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, Insipid as the Queen upon a card; Her all of thought and bearing hardly more Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, Little about it stirring save a brook! A sleepy land where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year; Where almost all the village had one name; Where Aylmer follow’d Aylmer at the Hall And Averill Averill at the Rectory Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, Bound in an immemorial intimacy, Were open to each other; tho’ to dream That Love could bind them closer well had made The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up With horror, worse than had he heard his priest Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men Daughters of God; so sleepy was the land. And might not Averill, had he will’d it so, Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs, Have also set his many-shielded tree? There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once, When the red rose was redder than itself, And York’s white rose as red as Lancaster’s, With wounded peace which each had prick’d to death. ‘Not proven’ Averill said, or laughingly ‘Some other race of Averills’—prov’n or no, What cared he? what, if other or the same? He lean’d not on his fathers but himself. But Leolin, his brother, living oft With Averill, and a year or two before Call’d to the bar, but ever call’d away By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim A distant kinship to the gracious blood That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hue Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom Flamed his cheek; and eager eyes, that still Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam’d, Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers. Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, But subject to the season or the mood, Shone like a mystic star between the less And greater glory varying to and fro, We know not wherefore; bounteously made, And yet so finely, that a troublous touch Thinn’d, or would seem to thin her in a day, A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. And these had been together from the first. Leolin’s first nurse was, five years after, hers: So much the boy foreran; but when his date Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he (Since Averill was a decad and a half His elder, and their parents underground) Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll’d His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged Her garden, sow’d her name and kept it green In living letters, told her fairy-tales, Show’d here the fairy footings on the grass, The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, Or from the tiny pitted target blew What look’d a flight of fairy arrows aim’d All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes For Edith and himself: or else he forged, But that was later, boyish histories Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love Crown’d after trial; sketches rude and faint, But where a passion yet unborn perhaps Lay hidden as the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. And thus together, save for college-times Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair As ever painter painted, poet sang, Or Heav’n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, He wasted hours with Averill; there, when first The tented winter-field was broken up Into that phalanx of the summer spears That soon should wear the garland; there again When burr and bine were gather’d; lastly there At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid No bar between them: dull and self-involved, Tall and erect, but bending from his height With half-allowing smiles for all the world, And mighty courteous in the main—his pride Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring— He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, Would care no more for Leolin’s walking with her Than for his old Newfoundland’s, when they ran To loose him at the stables, for he rose Twofooted at the limit of his chain, Roaring to make a third: and how should Love, Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow Such dear familiarities of dawn? Seldom, but when he does, Master of all. So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar Between them, nor by plight or broken ring Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, Wander’d at will, but oft accompanied By Averill: his, a brother’s love, that hung With wings of brooding shelter o’er her peace, Might have been other, save for Leolin’s— Who knows? but so they wander’d, hour by hour Gather’d the blossom that rebloom’d, and drank The magic cup that fill’d itself anew. A whisper half reveal’d her to herself. For out beyond her lodges, where the brook Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran By sallowy rims, arose the laborers’ homes, A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls That dimpling died into each other, huts At random scatter’d, each a nest in bloom. Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought About them: here was one that, summer-blanch’d, Was parcel-bearded with the traveller’s-joy In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle: One look’d all rosetree, and another wore A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars: This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers About it; this, a milky-way on earth, Like visions in the Northern dreamer’s heavens, A lily-avenue climbing to the doors; One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves A summer burial deep in hollyhocks; Each, its own charm; and Edith’s everywhere; And Edith ever visitant with him, He but less loved than Edith, of her poor: For she—so lowly-lovely and so loving, Queenly responsive when the loyal hand Rose from the clay it work’d in as she past, Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice Of comfort and an open hand of help, A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves To ailing wife or wailing infancy Or old bedridden palsy,—was adored; He, loved for her and for himself.A grasp Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, A childly way with children, and a laugh Ringing like proved golden coinage true, Were no false passport to that easy realm, Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, Heard the good mother softly whisper ‘Bless, God bless ’em; marriages are made in Heaven.’ A flash of semi-jealousy clear’d it to her. My Lady’s Indian kinsman unannounced With half a score of swarthy faces came. His own, tho’ keen and bold and soldierly, Sear’d by the close ecliptic, was not fair; Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, Tho’ seeming boastful: so when first he dash’d Into the chronicle of a deedful day, Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile Of patron ‘Good! my lady’s kinsman! good!’ My lady with her fingers interlock’d, And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, Call’d all her vital spirits into each ear To listen: unawares they flitted off, Busying themselves about the flowerage That stood from our a stiff brocade in which, The meteor of a splendid season, she, Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, Stept thro’ the stately minuet of those days: But Edith’s eager fancy hurried with him Snatch’d thro’ the perilous passes of his life: Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye Hated him with a momentary hate. Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he: I know not, for he spoke not, only shower’d His oriental gifts on everyone And most on Edith: like a storm he came, And shook the house, and like a storm he went. Among the gifts he left her (possibly He flow’d and ebb’d uncertain, to return When others had been tested) there was one, A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it Sprinkled about in gold that branch’d itself Fine as ice-ferns on January panes Made by a breath.I know not whence at first, Nor of what race, the work; but as he told The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves He got it; for their captain after fight, His comrades having fought their last below, Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot: Down from the beetling crag to which he clung Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, This dagger with him, which when now admired By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, At once the costly Sahib yielded it to her. And Leolin, coming after he was gone, Tost over all her presents petulantly: And when she show’d the wealthy scabbard, saying ‘Look what a lovely piece of workmanship!’ Slight was his answer ‘Well—I care not for it:’ Then playing with the blade he prick’d his hand, ‘A gracious gift to give a lady, this!’ ‘But would it be more gracious’ ask’d the girl ‘Were I to give this gift of his to one That is no lady?’‘Gracious?No’ said he. ‘Me?—but I cared not for it.O pardon me, I seem to be ungraciousness itself.’ ‘Take it’ she added sweetly ‘tho’ his gift; For I am more ungracious ev’n than you, I care not for it either;’ and he said ‘Why then I love it:’ but Sir Aylmer past, And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. The next day came a neighbor.Blues and reds They talk’d of: blues were sure of it, he thought: Then of the latest fox—where started—kill’d In such a bottom: ‘Peter had the brush, My Peter, first:’ and did Sir Aylmer know That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught? Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, And rolling as it were the substance of it Between his palms a moment up and down— ‘The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him; We have him now:’ and had Sir Aylmer heard— Nay, but he must—the land was ringing of it— This blacksmith-border marriage—one they knew— Raw from the nursery—who could trust a child? That cursed France with her egalities! And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially With nearing chair and lower’d accent) think— For people talk’d—that it was wholly wise To let that handsome fellow Averill walk So freely with his daughter? people talk’d— The boy might get a notion into him; The girl might be entangled ere she knew. Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke: ‘The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences!’ ‘Good’ said his friend ‘but watch!’ and he ‘enough, More than enough, Sir!I can guard my own.’ They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch’d. Pale, for on her the thunders of the house Had fallen first, was Edith that same night; Pale as the Jeptha’s daughter, a rough piece Of early rigid color, under which Withdrawing by the counter door to that Which Leolin open’d, she cast back upon him A piteous glance, and vanish’d.He, as one Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, And pelted with outrageous epithets, Turning beheld the Powers of the House On either side the hearth, indignant; her, Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan, Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr’d, And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. ‘Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her, The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands, The last remaining pillar of their house, The one transmitter of their ancient name, Their child.’ ‘Our child!’ ‘Our heiress!’ ‘Ours!’ for still, Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came Her sicklier iteration.Last he said ‘Boy, mark me! for your fortunes are to make. I swear you shall not make them out of mine. Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, Perplext her, made her half forget herself, Swerve from her duty to herself and us— Things in an Aylmer deem’d impossible, Far as we track ourselves—I say that this,— Else I withdraw favor and countenance From you and yours for ever—shall you do. Sir, when you see her—but you shall not see her— No, you shall write, and not to her, but me: And you shall say that having spoken with me, And after look’d into yourself, you find That you meant nothing—as indeed you know That you meant nothing.Such as match as this! Impossible, prodigious!’These were words, As meted by his measure of himself, Arguing boundless forbearance: after which, And Leolin’s horror-stricken answer, ‘I So foul a traitor to myself and her, Never oh never,’ for about as long As the wind-hover hangs in the balance, paused Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within, Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying ‘Boy, should I find you by my doors again, My men shall lash you from the like a dog; Hence!’ with a sudden execration drove The footstool from before him, and arose; So, stammering ‘scoundrel’ out of teeth that ground As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man Follow’d, and under his own lintel stood Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now, Beneath a pale and unimpassion’d moon, Vext with unworthy madness, and deform’d. Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye That watch’d him, till he heard the ponderous door Close, crashing with long echoes thro’ the land, Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood And masters of his motion, furiously Down thro’ the bright lawns to his brother’s ran, And foam’d away his heart at Averill’s ear: Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed: The man was his, had been his father’s, friend: He must have seen, himself had seen it long; He must have known, himself had known: besides, He never yet had set his daughter forth Here in the woman-markets of the west, Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. Some one, he thought, had slander’d Leolin to him. ‘Brother, for I have loved you more as a son Than brother, let me tell you: I myself— What is their pretty saying? jilted is it? Jilted I was: I say it for your peace. Pain’d, and, as bearing in myself the shame The woman should have borne, humiliated, I lived for years a stunted sunless life; Till after our good parents past away Watching your growth, I seem’d again to grow. Leolin, I almost sin in envying you: The very whitest lamb in all my fold Loves you: I know her: the worst thought she has Is whiter even than her pretty hand: She must prove true: for, brother, where two fight The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, And you are happy: let her parents be.’ But Leolin cried out the more upon them— Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, wealth, Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough was theirs For twenty matches.Were he lord of this, Why, twenty boys and girls should marry on it, And forty blest ones bless him, and himself Be wealthy still, ay wealthier.He believed This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made The harlot of the cities: nature crost Was mother of the foul adulteries That saturate soul with body.Name, too! name, Their ancient name! they might be proud; its worth Was being Edith’s.Ah, how pale she had look’d Darling, to-night! they must have rated her Beyond all tolerance.These old pheasant-lords, These partridge-breeders of a thousand years, Who had mildew’d in their thousands, doing nothing Since Egbert—why, the greater their disgrace! Fall back upon a name! rest, rot in that! Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools, With such a vantage-ground for nobleness! He had known a man, a quintessence of man, The life of all—who madly loved—and he, Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, Had rioted his life out, and made an end. He would not do it! her sweet face and faith Held him from that: but he had powers, he knew it: Back would he to his studies, make a name, Name, fortune too: the world should ring of him To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves: Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be— ‘O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief— Give me my fling, and let me say my say.’ At which, like one that sees his own excess, And easily forgives it as his own, He laugh’d; and then was mute; but presently Wept like a storm: and honest Averill seeing How low his brother’s mood had fallen, fetch’d His richest beeswing from a binn reserved For banquets, praised the waning red, and told The vintage—when this Aylmer came of age— Then drank and past it; till at length the two, Tho’ Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed That much allowance must be made for men. After an angry dream this kindlier glow Faded with morning, but his purpose held. Yet once by night again the lovers met, A perilous meeting under the tall pines That darken’d all the northward of her Hall. Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest In agony, she promised that no force, Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her: He, passionately hopefuller, would go, Labor for his own Edith, and return In such a sunlight of prosperity He should not be rejected.‘Write to me! They loved me, and because I love their child They hate me: there is war between us, dear, Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must remain Sacred to one another.’So they talk’d, Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew; The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt Upon their faces, as they kiss’d each other In darkness, and above them roar’d the pine. So Leolin went; and as we task ourselves To learn a language known but smatteringly In phrases here and there at random, toil’d Mastering the lawless science of our law, That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances, Thro’ which a few, by wit or fortune led, May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. The jests, that flash’d about the pleader’s room, Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,— Old scandals buried now seven decads deep In other scandals that have lived and died, And left the living scandal that shall die— Were dead to him already; bent as he was To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, And prodigal of all brain-labor he, Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise, Except when for a breathing-while at eve, Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran Beside the river-bank: and then indeed Harder the times were, and the hands of power Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men Seem’d harder too; but the soft river-breeze, Which fann’d the gardens of that rival rose Yet fragrant in a heart remembering His former talks with Edith, on him breathed Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, After his books, to flush his blood with air, Then to his books again.My lady’s cousin, Half-sickening of his pension’d afternoon, Drove in upon the student once or twice, Ran a Malayan muck against the times, Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, Answer’d all queries touching those at home With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, And fain had haled him out into the world, And air’d him there: his nearer friend would say ‘Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.’ Then left alone he pluck’d her dagger forth From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. And wrinkled benchers often talk’d of him Approvingly, and prophesied his rise: For heart, I think, help’d head: her letters too, Tho’ far between, and coming fitfully Like broken music, written as she found Or made occasion, being strictly watch’d, Charm’d him thro’ every labyrinth till he saw An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. But they that cast her spirit into flesh, Her worldy-wise begetters, plagued themselves To sell her, those good parents, for her good. Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth Might lie within their compass, him they lured Into their net made pleasant by the baits Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. So month by month the noise about their doors, And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made The nightly wirer of their innocent hare Falter before he took it.All in vain. Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return’d Leolin’s rejected rivals from their suit So often, that the folly taking wings Slipt o’er those lazy limits down the wind With rumor, and became in other fields A mockery to the yeomen over ale, And laughter to their lords: but those at home, As hunters round a hunted creature draw The cordon close and closer toward the death, Narrow’d her goings out and comings in; Forbad her first the house of Averill, Then closed her access to the wealthiest farms, Last from her own home-circle of the poor They barr’d her: yet she bore it: yet her cheek Kept color: wondrous! but, O mystery! What amulet drew her down to that old oak, So old, that twenty years before, a part Falling had let appear the brand of John— Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now The broken base of a black tower, a cave Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Raking in that millenial 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. Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream Panting he woke, and oft as early as dawn Aroused the black republic on his elms, Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, brush’d Thro’ the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who made A downward crescent of her minion mouth, Listless in all despondence, read; and tore, As if the living passion symbol’d there Were living nerves to feel the rent; and burnt, Now chafing at his own great self defied, Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn In babyisms, and dear diminutives Scatter’d all over the vocabulary Of such a love as like a chidden babe, After much wailing, hush’d itself at last Hopeless of answer: then tho’ Averill wrote And bad 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 pride 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; Seconded, for my lady follow’d suit, Seem’d hope’s returning rose: and then ensued A Martin’s summer of his faded love, Or ordeal by kindness; after this He seldom crost his child without a sneer; The mother flow’d in shallower acrimonies: Never one kindly smile, one kindly word: So that the gentle creature shut from all Her charitable use, and face to face With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 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, or men, Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt— Save Christ as we believe him—found the girl And flung her down upon a couch of fire, Where careless of the household faces near, And crying upon the name of Leolin, She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul Strike thro’ a finer element of her own? So,—from afar,—touch as at once? or why That night, that moment, when she named his name, Did the keen shriek ‘yes love, yes Edith, yes,’ 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 By the rough amity of the other, sank As into sleep again.The second day, My lady’s Indian kinsman rushing in, A breaker of the bitter news from home, Found a dead man, a letter edged with death Beside him, and the dagger which himself Gave Edith, reddn’d with no bandit’s blood: ‘From Edith’ was engraven on the blade. Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. And when he came again, his flock believed— Beholding how the years which are not Time’s Had blasted him—that many thousand days Were clipt by horror from his term of life. Yet the sad mother, for the second death Scarce touch’d her thro’ that nearness of the first, And being used to find her pastor texts, Sent to the harrow’d brother, praying him To speak before the people of her child, And fixt the Sabbath.Darkly that day rose: Autumn’s mock sunshine of the faded woods Was all the life of it; for hard on these, A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens Stifled and chill’d at once: but every roof Sent out a listener: many too had known Edith among the hamlets round, and since The parents’ harshness and the hapless loves And double death were widely murmur’d, left Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, To hear him; all in mourning these, and those With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove Or kerchief; while the church,—one night, except 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 Averill, His face magnetic to the hand from which Livid he pluck’d it forth, and labor’d thro’ His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse ‘Behold, Your house is left unto you desolate!’ But lapsed into so long a pause again As half amazed half frighted all his flock: Then from his height and loneliness of grief 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 Baal, 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 Baal. 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 flowing 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 ears, Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, Born of a village girl, carpenter’s son, Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, Count the more base idolater of the two; Crueller: as not passing thro’ the fire Bodies, but souls—thy children’s—thro’ the smoke, The blight of low desires—darkening thine own To thine own likeness; or if one of these, Thy better born unhappily from thee, Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair— Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one By those who most have cause to sorrow for her— Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, Fair as the Angel that said ‘hail’ she seem’d, Who entering fill’d the house with sudden light. For so mine own was brighten’d: where indeed The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven Dawn’d sometime thro’ the doorway? whose the babe Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, Warm’d at her bosom?The poor child of shame, The common care whom no one cared for, leapt To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, As with the mother he had never known, In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes Had such a star of morning in their blue, That all neglected places of the field 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 feverous pillow smooth! Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? One burthen 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 speak— Was 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 with shame? Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these I cry to vacant chairs and widow’d walls, “My house is left unto me desolate.” While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; but some, Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl’d At their great lord.He, when it seem’d he saw No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork’d Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, Sat anger-charm’d from sorrow, soldierlike, Erect: but when the preacher’s cadence flow’d Softening thro’ all the gentle attributes Of his lost child, the wife, who watch’d 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.’ ‘Nor yours the blame—for who beside your hearths Can take her place—if echoing me you cry “Our house is left unto us desolate?” But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, O thou that stonest, hadst thou understood The things belonging to thy peace and ours! 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— No desolation but by sword and fire? Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek, Exceeding “poor in spirit”—how the words Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean Vileness, we are grown so proud—I wish’d my voice A rushing tempest of the wrath of God To blow these sacrifices thro’ the world— Sent like the twelve-divided concubine To inflame the tribes: but there—out yonder—earth Lightens from her own central Hell—O there The red fruit of an old idolatry— The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, They cling together in the ghastly sack— The land all shambles—naked marriages Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder’d France, By shores that darken with the gathering 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, but sat Ignorant, devising their own daughter’s death! May not that earthly chastisement suffice? Have not our love and reverence left them bare? Will not another take their heritage? Will there be children’s laughter in their hall For ever and for ever, or one stone Left on another, or is it a light thing That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, I made by these the last of all my race Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried Christ ere His agony to those that swore Not by the temple but the gold, and made Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, And left their memories a world’s curse—”Behold, Your house is left unto you desolate?”’ Ended he had not, but she brook’d no more: Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, Her crampt-up sorrow pain’d her, and a sense Of meanness in her unresisting life. Then their eyes vext her; for on entering He had cast the curtains of their seat aside— Black velvet of the costliest—she herself 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 here the Lord of all the landscape round Ev’n to its last horizon, and of all Who peer’d at him so keenly, follow’d out Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle Reel’d, as a footsore ox in crowded ways Stumbling across the market to his death, Unpitied; for he groped as blind, and seem’d Always about to fall, grasping the pews And oaken finials till he touch’d the door; Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood, 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 wearier hours, The childless mother went to seek her child; And when he felt the silence of his house About him, and the change and not the change, And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors Staring for ever from their gilded walls On him their last descendant, his own head Began to droop, to fall; the man became Imbecile; his one word was ‘desolate’; Dead for two years before his death was he; But when the second Christmas came, escaped His keepers, and the silence which he felt, To find a deeper in the narrow gloom By wife and child; nor wanted at his end The dark retinue reverencing death At golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts, And those who sorrow’d o’er a vanish’d race, Pity, the violet on the tyrant’s grave. Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, And the broad woodland parcell’d into farms; And where the two contrived their daughter’s good, Lies the hawk’s cast, the mole has made his run, The hedgehog underneath the plaintain bores, The rabbit fondles his own harmless face, The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there Follows the mouse, and all is open field.