A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 23

_Translated from Uhland._]

Hanging his head, behind each came a hound, With slow and noiseless paws upon the road.

What is that shining on the weedy ground?

Nought but the bright eyes of the dingy toad.

The silent pines range every way around; A deep stream on the left side hardly flowed.

Their path is towards the moon, dying alone-- It touches the horizon, dips, is gone.

Its last gleam fell upon dim glazed eyes; An old man tottered feebly in her hold, Stooping with bended knees that could not rise; Nor longer could his arm her waist infold.

The maiden trembled; but through this disguise Her love beheld what never could grow old; And so the aged man, she, young and warm, Clasped closer yet with her supporting arm.

Till with short, dragging steps, he turned aside Into a closer thicket of tall firs, Whose bare, straight, slender stems behind them hide A smooth grey rock. Not a pine-needle stirs Till they go in. Then a low wind blows wide O'er their cone-tops. It swells until it whirrs Through the long stems, as if aeolian chords For moulding mystic sounds in lack of words.

But as they entered by a narrow cleft Into the rock's heart, suddenly it ceased; And the tall pines stood still as if bereft Of a strong pa.s.sion, or from pain released; Once more they wove their strange, dark, moveless weft O'er the dull midnight sky; and in the East A mist arose and clomb the skyey stairs; And like sad thoughts the bats came unawares.

'Tis a dark chamber for the bridal night, O poor, pale, saviour bride! A faint rush-lamp He kindled with his shaking hands; its light Painted a tiny halo on the damp That filled the cavern to its unseen height, Like a death-candle on the midnight swamp.

Within, each side the entrance, lies a hound, With liquid light his green eyes gleaming round.

A couch just raised above the rocky floor, Of withered oak and beech-leaves, that the wind Had tossed about till weary, covered o'er With skins of bears which feathery mosses lined, And last of lambs, with wool long, soft, and h.o.a.r, Received the old man's bended limbs reclined.

Gently the maiden did herself unclothe, And lay beside him, trusting, and not loath.

Again the storm among the trees o'erhead; The hounds p.r.i.c.ked up their ears, their eyes flashed fire; Seemed to the trembling maiden that a tread Light, and yet clear, amid the wind's loud ire, As dripping feet o'er smooth slabs. .h.i.ther sped, Came often up, as with a fierce desire, To enter, but as oft made quick retreat; And looking forth the hounds stood on their feet.

Then came, half querulous, a whisper old, Feeble and hollow as from out a chest: "Take my face on your bosom, I am cold."

Straightway she bared her bosom's white soft nest; And then his head, her gentle hands, love-bold, With its grey withered face against her pressed.

Ah, maiden! it was very old and chill, But thy warm heart beneath it grew not still.

Again the wind falls, and the rain-clouds pour, Rushing to earth; and soon she heard the sound Of a fierce torrent through the thick night roar; The lamp went out as by the darkness drowned; No more the morn will dawn, oh, never more!

Like centuries the feeble hours went round; Dead night lay o'er her, clasping, as she lay, Within her holy place, unburied clay.

The hours stood still; her life sunk down so low, That, but for wretchedness, no life she knew.

A charnel wind sung on a moaning--_No;_ Earth's centre was the grave from which it blew; Earth's loves and beauties all pa.s.sed sighing slow, Roses and lilies, children, friends, the few; But so transparent blanched in every part, She saw the pale worm lying in each heart.

And worst of all, O death of gladsome life!

A voice within awoke and cried: In sooth, There is no need of sorrow, care, and strife; For all that women beauty call, and truth, Is but a glow from hearts with fancy rife, Pa.s.sing away with slowly fading youth.

Gaze on them narrowly, they waver, blot; Look at them fixedly, and they are not.

And all the answer the poor child could make Lay in the tightened grasp of her two hands; She felt as if she lay mouldering awake Within the sepulchre's fast stony bands, And cared not though she died, but for his sake.

And the dark horror grew like drifting sands, Till nought seemed beautiful, not G.o.d, nor light; And yet she braved the false, denying night.

But after hope was dead, a faint, light streak Crept through a crevice in the rocky wall; It fell upon her bosom and his cheek.

From G.o.d's own eye that light-glance seemed to fall.

Backward he drew his head, and did not speak, But gazed with large deep eyes angelical Upon her face. Old age had fled away-- Youth everlasting in her bosom lay.

With a low cry of joy closer she crept, And on his bosom hid a face that glowed, Seeking amends for terror while he slept.

She had been faithful: the beloved owed Love, youth, and gladness unto her who wept Gushingly on his heart. Her warm tears flowed A baptism for the life that would not cease; And when the sun arose, they slept in peace.

A PRAYER FOR THE PAST.

All sights and sounds of every year, All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, Are thine, O G.o.d, nor need I fear To speak to Thee of them.

Too great thy heart is to despise; Thy day girds centuries about; From things which we count small, thine eyes See great things looking out.

Therefore this prayerful song I sing May come to Thee in ordered words; Therefore its sweet sounds need not cling In terror to their chords.

I know that nothing made is lost; That not a moon hath ever shone, That not a cloud my eyes hath crost, But to my soul hath gone.

That all the dead years garnered lie In this gem-casket, my dim soul; And that thy hand may, once, apply The key that opes the whole.

But what lies dead in me, yet lives In Thee, whose Parable is--Time, And Worlds, and Forms, and Sound that gives Words and the music-chime.

And after my next coming birth, The new child's prayer will rise to Thee: To hear again the sounds of Earth, Its sights again to see.

With child's glad eyes to see once more The visioned glories of the gloom, With climbing suns, and starry store, Ceiling my little room.

O call again the moons that glide Behind old vapours sailing slow; Lost sights of solemn skies that slide O'er eyelids sunken low.

Show me the tides of dawning swell, And lift the world's dim eastern eye, And the dark tears that all night fell With radiance glorify.

First I would see, oh, sore bereft!

My father's house, my childhood's home; Where the wild snow-storms raved, and left White mounds of frozen foam.

Till, going out one dewy morn, A man was turning up the mould; And in our hearts the spring was born, Crept hither through the cold.

And with the glad year I would go, The troops of daisies round my feet; Flying the kite, or, in the glow Of arching summer heat,

Outstretched in fear upon the bank, Lest gazing up on awful s.p.a.ce, I should fall down into the blank From off the round world's face.

And let my brothers be with me To play our old games yet again; And all should go as lovingly As now that we are men.

If over Earth the shade of Death Pa.s.sed like a cloud's wide noiseless wing, We'd tell a secret, in low breath: "Mind, 'tis a _dream_ of Spring.

"And in this dream, our brother's gone Upstairs; he heard our father call; For one by one we go alone, Till he has gathered all."

Father, in joy our knees we bow; This earth is not a place of tombs: We are but in the nursery now; They in the upper rooms.

For are we not at home in Thee, And all this world a visioned show; That, knowing what _Abroad_ is, we What _Home_ is, too, may know?

And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, As years ago, in moonlight pale, I sat and heard my father's word Reading a lofty tale.

So in this vision I would go Still onward through the gliding years, Reaping great Noontide's joyous glow, Still Eve's refreshing tears.

One afternoon sit pondering In that old chair, in that old room, Where pa.s.sing pigeon's sudden wing Flashed lightning through the gloom.