PART THE SEVENTH

But Sleep, who makes a mist about the sense,

Doth ope the eyelids of the soul, and thence

Lifteth a heavier cloud than that whereby

He veils the vision of the fleshly eye.

And not alone by dreams doth Sleep make known

The sealèd things and covert — not alone

In visions of the night do mortals hear

The fatal feet and whispering wings draw near;

But dimly and in darkness doth the soul

Drink of the streams of slumber as they roll,

And win fine secrets from their waters deep:

Yea, of a truth, the spirit doth grow in sleep.

Howbeit I know not whether as he slept

A voice from out the depth of dream upleapt

And whispered in his ear; or whether he

Grew to the knowledge blindly, as a tree

Waxes from bloom to fruitage, knowing not

The manner of its growth: but this I wot,

That rising from that sleep beside the spring

The Prince had knowledge of a certain thing

Whereof he had not wist until that hour —

To wit, that two contending spirits had power

Over his spirit, ruling him with sway

Altern; as‘ twere dominion now of Day

And now of Dark; for one was of the light,

And one was of the blackness of the night.

Now there be certain evil spirits whom

The mother of the darkness in her womb

Conceived ere darkness’ self; and one of these

Did rule that island of the middle seas

Hemmed round with silence and enchantment dim.

Nothing in all the world so pleasured him

As filling human hearts with dolorousness

And banning where another sprite did bless;

But chiefly did his malice take delight

In thwarting lovers’ hopes and breathing blight

Into the blossoms newly-openèd

Of sweet desire, till all of sweet were fled:

And ( for he knew what secret hopes did fill

The minds of men )‘ twas even now his will

To step between the Prince and his desire,

Nor suffer him to fare one furlong nigher

Unto that distant-shining golden goal

That beacon'd through the darkness to his soul.

And so the days, the sultry summer days,

Went by, and wimpled over with fine haze

The noiseless nights stole after them, as steals

The moon-made shadow at some traveller's heels.

And day by day and night by night the Prince

Dwelt in that island of enchantment, since

The hour when Evil Hap, in likeness of

An eagle swooping from the clouds above,

Did bind him body and soul unto that place.

And in due time the summer waxed apace,

And in due time the summer waned: and now

The withered leaf had fallen from the bough,

And now the winter came and now the spring;

Yea, summer's self was toward on the wing

From wandering overseas: and all this while

The Prince abode in that enchanted isle,

Marvelling much at Fortune and her ways.

And by degrees the slowly-sliding days

Gathered themselves together into years,

And oftentimes his spirit welled in tears

From dawn to darkness and from dark to dawn,

By reason of the light of life withdrawn.

And if the night brought sleep, a fitful sleep,

The phantoms of a buried time would creep

Out of their hollow hiding-places vast,

Peopling his Present from the wizard Past.

Sometimes between the whirl of dream and dream,

All in a doubtful middle-world, a gleam

Went shivering past him through the chill grey space,

And lo he knew it for his mother's face,

And wept; and all the silence where he stood

Wept with him. And at times the dreamer would

Dream himself back beneath his father's roof

At eventide, and there would hold aloof

In silence, clothed upon with shadows dim,

To hear if any spake concerning him;

But the hours came and went and went and came,

And no man's mouth did ever name his name.

And year by year he saw the queen and king

Wax older, and beheld a shadowy thing

Lurking behind them, till it came between

His dreamsight and the semblance of the queen,

From which time forth he saw her not: and when

Another year had been it came again,

And after that he saw his sire the king

No more, by reason of the shadowy thing

Stepping between; and all the place became

As darkness, and the echo of a name.

What need to loiter o'er the chronicle

Of days that brought no change? What boots it tell

The tale of hours whereof each moment was

As like its fellow as one blade of grass

Is to another, when the dew doth fall

Without respect of any amongst them all?

Enow that time in that enchanted air

Nor slept nor tarried more than otherwhere,

And so at last the captive lived to see

The fiftieth year of his captivity.

And on a day within that fiftieth year

He wandered down unto the beach, to hear

The breaking of the breakers on the shore,

As he had heard them ofttimes heretofore

In days when he would sit and watch the sea,

If peradventure there some ship might be.

But now his soul no longer yearned as then

To win her way back to the world of men:

For what could now his freedom profit him?

The hope that filled youth's beaker to its brim

The tremulous hand of age had long outspilled,

And whence might now the vessel be refilled?

Moreover, after length of days and years

The soul had ceased to beat her barriers,

And like a freeborn bird that cagèd sings

Had grown at last forgetful of her wings.

And so he took his way toward the sea —

Not, as in former days, if haply he

Might spy some ship upon the nether blue,

And beckon with his hands unto the crew,

But rather with an easeful heart to hear

What things the waves might whisper to his ear

Of counsel wise and comfortable speech.

But while he walked about the yellow beach,

There came upon his limbs an heaviness,

For languor of the sultry time's excess;

And so he lay him down under a tree

Hard by a little cove, and there the sea

Sang him to sleep. And sleeping thus, he dreamed

A dream of very wonderment: himseemed,

The spirit that half an hundred years before

In likeness of an eagle came and bore

His body to that island on a day,

Came yet again and found him where he lay,

And taking him betwixt his talons flew

O'er seas and far-off countries, till they drew

Nigh to a city that was built between

Four mountains in a pleasant land and green;

And there upon the highest mountain's top

The bird that was no bird at all let drop

Its burthen, and was seen of him no more.

Thereat he waked, and issuing from the door

Of dream did marvel in his heart; because

He found he had but dreamed the thing that was:

For there, assuredly, was neither sea

Nor Isle Enchanted; and assuredly

He sat upon the peak of a great hill;

And far below him, looking strangely still,

Uptowered a city exceeding fair to ken,

And murmurous with multitude of men.