CONCLUSION.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart;

We press too close in church and mart

To keep a dream or grave apart:

And I was‘ ware of walking down

That same green forest where had gone

The poet-pilgrim. One by one

I traced his footsteps. From the east

A red and tender radiance pressed

Through the near trees, until I guessed

The sun behind shone full and round;

While up the leafiness profound

A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when

I turned that way, and now and then

The birds sang and brake off again

To shake their pretty feathers dry

Of the dew sliding droppingly

From the leaf-edges and apply

Back to their song:‘ twixt dew and bird

So sweet a silence ministered,

God seemed to use it for a word,

Yet morning souls did leap and run

In all things, as the least had won

A joyous insight of the sun,

And no one looking round the wood

Could help confessing as he stood,

This Poet-God is glad and good.

But hark! a distant sound that grows,

A heaving, sinking of the boughs,

A rustling murmur, not of those,

A breezy noise which is not breeze!

And white-clad children by degrees

Steal out in troops among the trees,

Fair little children morning-bright,

With faces grave yet soft to sight,

Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach,

And others leapt up high to catch

The upper boughs and shake from each

A rain of dew till, wetted so,

The child who held the branch let go

And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew

The children laughed; but the laugh flew

From its own chirrup as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child

Who seemed the chief said very mild,

“Hush! keep this morning undefiled.”

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres,

His soul upon his brow appears

In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said,

“What are your palms for?” “To be spread,”

He answered, “on a poet dead.

“The poet died last month, and now

The world which had been somewhat slow

In honouring his living brow,

“Commands the palms; they must be strown

On his new marble very soon,

In a procession of the town.”

I sighed and said, “Did he foresee

Any such honour?” “Verily

I cannot tell you,” answered he.

“But this I know, I fain would lay

My own head down, another day,

As he did,— with the fame away.

“A lily, a friend's hand had plucked,

Lay by his death-bed, which he looked

As deep down as a bee had sucked,

“Then, turning to the lattice, gazed

O'er hill and river and upraised

His eyes illumined and amazed

“With the world's beauty, up to God,

Re-offering on their iris broad

The images of things bestowed

“By the chief Poet.‘ God!’ he cried,

‘ Be praised for anguish which has tried,

For beauty which has satisfied:

“‘ For this world's presence half within

And half without me — thought and scene —

This sense of Being and Having Been.

“‘ I thank Thee that my soul hath room

For Thy grand world: both guests may come —

Beauty, to soul — Body, to tomb.

“‘ I am content to be so weak:

Put strength into the words I speak,

And I am strong in what I seek.

“‘ I am content to be so bare

Before the archers, everywhere

My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

“‘ I laid my soul before Thy feet

That images of fair and sweet

Should walk to other men on it.

“‘ I am content to feel the step

Of each pure image: let those keep

To mandragore who care to sleep.

“‘ I am content to touch the brink

Of the other goblet and I think

My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

“‘ Because my portion was assigned

Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind,

And I am blessed to my mind.

“‘ Gifted for giving, I receive

The maythorn and its scent outgive:

I grieve not that I once did grieve.

“‘ In my large joy of sight and touch

Beyond what others count for such,

I am content to suffer much.

“‘ I know — is all the mourner saith,

Knowledge by suffering entereth,

And Life is perfected by Death.’”

The child spake nobly: strange to hear,

His infantine soft accents clear

Charged with high meanings, did appear;

And fair to see, his form and face

Winged out with whiteness and pure grace

From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew;

An orient beam which pierced it through

Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown

Traced on its brightness up and down

In fine fair lines,— a shadow-crown:

Guido might paint his angels so —

A little angel, taught to go

With holy words to saints below —

Such innocence of action yet

Significance of object met

In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

And all the children, the whole band,

Did round in rosy reverence stand,

Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

“And so he died,” I whispered. “Nay,

Not so,” the childish voice did say,

“That poet turned him first to pray

“In silence, and God heard the rest

‘ Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west.

Then he called one who loved him best,

“Yea, he called softly through the room

( His voice was weak yet tender ) —‘ Come,’

He said,‘ come nearer! Let the bloom

“‘ Of Life grow over, undenied,

This bridge of Death, which is not wide —

I shall be soon at the other side.

“‘ Come, kiss me!’ So the one in truth

Who loved him best,— in love, not ruth,

Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth:

“And in that kiss of love was won

Life's manumission. All was done:

The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone.

“But in the former, confluent kiss,

The same was sealed, I think, by His,

To words of truth and uprightness.”

The child's voice trembled, his lips shook

Like a rose leaning o'er a brook,

Which vibrates though it is not struck.

“And who,” I asked, a little moved

Yet curious-eyed, “was this that loved

And kissed him last, as it behoved?”

“I,” softly said the child; and then

“I,” said he louder, once again:

“His son, my rank is among men:

“And now that men exalt his name

I come to gather palms with them,

That holy love may hallow fame.

“He did not die alone, nor should

His memory live so,‘ mid these rude

World-praisers — a worse solitude.

“Me, a voice calleth to that tomb

Where these are strewing branch and bloom

Saying,‘ Come nearer:’ and I come.

“Glory to God!” resumed he,

And his eyes smiled for victory

O'er their own tears which I could see

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin —

“That poet now has entered in

The place of rest which is not sin.

“And while he rests, his songs in troops

Walk up and down our earthly slopes,

Companioned by diviner hopes.”

“But thou,” I murmured to engage

The child's speech farther — “hast an age

Too tender for this orphanage.”