LETTER VIII.

Yes, I will tell thee what, a week ago,

I dreamt of thee, and all the joy therein

Which I conceiv'd, and all the holy din

Of throbbing music, which appear'd to flow

From room to room, as if to make me know

The power thereof to lead me out of sin.

Methought I saw thee in a ray of light,

This side a grove — a dream within a dream —

With eyes of tender pleading, and the gleam

Of far-off summers in thy tresses bright;

And I did tremble at the gracious sight,

As one who sees a naiad in a stream.

I follow'd thee. I knew that, in the wood,

Where thus we met, there was a trysting-place.

I follow'd thee, as mortals in a chase

Follow the deer. I knew that it was good

To track thy step, and promptly understood

The fitful blush that flutter'd to thy face.

I followed thee to where a brook did run

Close to a grot; and there I knelt to thee.

And then a score of birds flew over me,—

Birds which arrived because the day was done,

To sing the Sanctus of the setting sun;

And then I heard thy voice upon the lea.

“Follow!” it cried. I rose and follow'd fast;

And, in my dream, I felt the dream was true,

And that, full soon, Titania, with her crew

Of imps and fays, would meet me on the blast.

But this was hindered; and I quickly passed

Into the valley where the cedars grew.

And what a scene, O God! and what repose,

And what sad splendour in the burning west:

A languid sun low-dropping to his rest,

And incense rising, as of old it rose,

To do him honour at the daylight's close,—

The birds entranced, and all the winds repress'd.

I followed thee. I came to where a shrine

Stood in the trees, and where an oaken gate

Swung in the air, so turbulent of late.

I touch'd thy hand; it quiver'd into mine;

And then I look'd into thy face benign,

And saw the smile for which the angels wait.

And lo! the moon had sailed into the main

Of that blue sky, as if therein did poise

A silver boat; and then a tuneful noise

Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain;

And nightingales, in ecstasy of pain,

Did break their hearts with singing the old joys.

“Is this the spot?” I cried, “is this the spot

Where I must tell thee all my heart's desire?

Is this the time when I must drink the fire,

And eat the snow, and find it fever-hot?

I freeze with heat, and yet I fear it not;

And all my pulses thrill me like a lyre.”

A wondrous light was thrown upon thy face;

It was the light within; it was the ray

Of thine own soul. And then a voice did say,

“Glory to God the King, and Jesu's grace

Here and hereafter!” and about the place

A radiance shone surpassing that of day.

It was thy voice. It was the voice I prize

More than the sound of April in the dales,

More than the songs of larks and nightingales,

And more than the teachings of the worldly-wise.

“Glory to God,” it said, “for in the skies,

And here on earth,‘ tis He alone prevails.”

And then I asked thee: “Shall I tell thee now

All that I think of, when, by land and sea,

The days and nights illume the world for me?

And how I muse on marriage, as I bow

In God's own places, with a throbbing brow?

And how, at night, I dream of kissing thee?”

But thou did'st answer: “First behold this man!

He is thy lord, for love's and lady's sake;

He is thy master, or I much mistake.”

And I perceiv'd, hard by, a phantom wan

And wild and kingly, who did, walking, span

The open space that lay beside the brake.

It was Beethoven. It was he who came

From monstrous shades, to journey yet awhile

In pleasant nooks, and vainly seek the smile

Of one lov'd woman — she to whom his fame

Had been a glory had she sought the same,

And lov'd a soul so grand, so free from guile.

It was the Kaiser of the land of song,

The giant-singer who did storm the gates

Of Heaven and Hell, a man to whom the Fates

Were fierce as furies, and who suffer'd wrong

And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong,

But gaunt as ocean when its rage abates.

I knew his tread. I knew him by his look

Of pent-up sorrow — by his hair unkempt

And torn attire — and by his smile exempt

From all but pleading. Yet his body shook

With some great joy; and onward he betook

His echoing steps the way that I had dreamt.

I bow'd my head. The lordly being pass'd.

He was my king, and I did bow to him.

And when I rais'd mine eyes they were as dim

As tears could make them. And the moon, aghast,

Glared in the sky; and westward came a blast

Which shook the earth like shouts of cherubim.

I held my breath. I could have fled the place,

As men have fled before the wrath of God.

But I beheld my Lady where she trod

The darken'd path; and I did cry apace:

“Help me, my Lady!” and thy lustrous face

Gladden'd the air, and quicken'd all the sod.

Then did I hear again that voice of cheer.

“Lovest thou me,” it said, “or music best?”

I seized thy hand, I drew thee to my breast,

“Thee, only thee!” I cried. “From year to year,

Thee, only thee — not fame!” And silver-clear,

Thy voice responded: “God will grant the rest.”

I kiss'd thine eyes. I kiss'd them where the blue

Peep'd smiling forth; and proudly as before

I heard the tones that thrill'd me to the core.

“If thou love me,” they said, “if thou be true,

Thou shalt have fame, and love, and music too!”

Entranced I kiss'd the lips that I adore.