By slow approaches, than by single act Of immolation, any phase of death, We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, Or down the fiery galf as talk of it, To compass our dear sister's liberties.' She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear; The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'd 'As these rude bones to us, are we to her That will be.' 'Dare we dream of that,' I ask'd, 'Which wrought us, as the workman and his work, That practice betters?' 'How,' she cried, you love The metaphysics! read and earn our prize, A golden broach: beneath an emerald plane Sits Diotima, teaching him that died Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life; She rapt upon her subject, he on her: L A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. Then she Let some one sing to us: lightlier move The minutes fledged with music:' and a maid, Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 66 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, "Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes M The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. "Dear as remember'd kisses after death, She ended with such passion that the tear, She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain Answer'd the Princess 'If indeed there haunt About the moulder'd lodges of the Past So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatch'd In silken-folded idleness; nor is it Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, While down the streams that float us each and all To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, Throne after throne, and molten on the waste Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end Found golden let the past be past; let be Their cancell'd Babels: tho' the rough kex break The starr'd mosaic, and the wild goat hang Upon the shaft, and the wild figtree split Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear A trumpet in the distance pealing news Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns Above the unrisen morrow: then to me; 'Know you no song of your own land,' she said, 'Not such as moans about the retrospect, But deals with the other distance and the hues Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine.' Then I remember'd one myself had made, What time I watch'd the swallow winging south From mine own land, part made long since, and part Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far As I could ape their treble, did I sing. |