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Alfred Austin - The Door Of Humility
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ENGLAND 
 We lead the blind by voice and hand,
   And not by light they cannot see;
 We are not framed to understand
   The How and Why of such as He;

 But natured only to rejoice
   At every sound or sign of hope,
 And, guided by the still small voice,
   In patience through the darkness grope;

 Until our finer sense expands,
   And we exchange for holier sight
 The earthly help of voice and hands,
   And in His light behold the Light.
 
I

 Let there be Light! The self-same Power
   That out of formless dark and void
 Endued with life`s mysterious dower
   Planet, and star, and asteroid;

 That moved upon the waters` face,
   And, breathing on them His intent,
 Divided, and assigned their place
   To, ocean, air, and firmament;

 That bade the land appear, and bring
   Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower,
 Cattle that graze, and birds that sing,
   Ordained the sunshine and the shower;

 That, moulding man and woman, breathed
   In them an active soul at birth
 In His own image, and bequeathed
   To them dominion over Earth;

 That, by whatever is, decreed
   His Will and Word shall be obeyed,
 From loftiest star to lowliest seed;-
   The worm and me He also made.

 And when, for nuptials of the Spring
   With Summer, on the vestal thorn
 The bridal veil hung flowering,
   A cry was heard, and I was born.

II

 To be by blood and long descent
   A member of a mighty State,
 Whose greatness, sea-girt, but unpent
   By ocean, makes the world more great;

 That, ranging limitless, hath won
   A Rule more wide than that of Rome,
 And, journeying onward with the sun,
   In every zone hath found a home;

 That, keeping old traditions fast,
   Still hails the things that are to be,
 And, firmly rooted in the Past,
   On Law hath grafted Liberty;-

 That is a birthright nobler far
   Than princely claim or Right Divine
 From far-off rapine, wanton war,
   And I could feel this birthright mine.

 And not the lowliest hand that drives
   Or share or loom, if so it be
 Of British strain, but thence derives
   A patent of nobility.

III

 The guiding of the infant years
   Onward to good, away from guile,
 A mother`s humanising tears,
   A father`s philosophic smile;

 Refining beauty, gentle ways,
   The admonitions of the wise,
 The love that watches, helps, and prays,
   And pities, but doth ne`er despise;

 An ancient Faith, abiding hope,
   The charity that suffers long,
 But flames with sacred zeal to cope
   With man`s injustice, nature`s wrong;

 Melodious leisure, learnëd shelf,
   Discourse of earnest, temperate mind,
 The playful wit that of itself
   Flashes, but leaves no wound behind;

 The knowledge gleaned from Greece and Rome,
   From studious Teuton, sprightly Gaul,
 The lettered page, the mellow tome,
   And poets` wisdom more than all;-

 These, when no lips severe upbraid,
   But counsel rather than control,
 In budding boyhood lend their aid
   To sensibility of soul.

IV

 But, more than mentor, mother, sire,
   Can lend to shape the future man
 With help of learning or of lyre,
   Of ancient rule, or modern plan,

 Is that which with our breath we bring
   Into the world, we know not whence,
 That needs nor care nor fostering,
   Because an instinct and a sense.

 And days and years are all forgot
   When Nature`s aspect, growth, and grace,
 And veering moods, to me were not
   The features of the Loved One`s face.

 The cloud whose shadow skims the lake,
   The shimmering haze of summer noon,
 The voice of April in the brake,
   The silence of the mounting moon,

 Swaying of bracken on the hill,
   The murmur of the vagrant stream,
 These motions of some unseen Will,
   These babblings of some heavenly dream,

 Seemed tokens of divine desire
   To hold discourse with me, and so
 To touch my lips with hallowed fire,
   And tell me things I ought to know.

 I gazed and listened, all intent,
   As to the face and voice of Fate,
 But what they said, or what they meant,
   I could surmise not, nor translate.

 They did but lure me to unrest,
   Unanswered questioning, longings vain,
 As when one scans some palimpsest
   No erudition can explain;

 But left me with a deep distaste
   For common speech, that still did seem
 More meaningless than mountain waste,
   Less human than the far-off stream.

 So that a stranger in the land
   Wherein I moved, where`er I went,
 I dwelt, whom none could understand,
   Or exorcise my discontent.

 And I to them, and they to me
   Seemed from two different planets come,
 And, save to flower and wild-bird`s glee,
   My heart was deaf, my soul was dumb.

V

 But slowly dawned a happier time
   When I began to apprehend,
 And catch, as in some poet`s rhyme,
   The intimations of a friend;

 When Nature spake no unknown tongue,
   But language kindred to my thought,
 Till everything She said, I sung,
   In notes unforced, in words unsought.

 And I to Her so closely drew,
   The seasons round, in mind and mood,
 I felt at length as if we knew
   Self-same affection, self-same feud:

 That both alike scorned worldly aim,
   Profit, applause, parade, and pride,
 Whereby the love of generous fame
   And worthy deeds grows petrified.

 I did as yet not understand
   Nature is far more vast than I,
 Deep as the ocean, wide as land,
   And overarching as the sky;

 And but responded to my call,
   And only felt and fed my need,
 Because She doth the same for all
   Who to her pity turn and plead.

VI

 Shall man have mind, and Nature none,
   Shall I, not she, have soul and heart?
 Nay, rather, if we be not one,
   Each is of each the counterpart.

 She too may have within her breast
   A conscience, if not like to yours,
 A sense of rightness ill at rest,
   Long as her waywardness endures.

 And hence her thunder, earthquakes, hail,
   Her levin bolts, her clouds` discharge:
 She sins upon a larger scale,
   Because She is herself more large.

 Hence, too, when She hath pierced with pain
   The heart of man, and wrecked his years,
 The pity of the April rain,
   And late repentance of her tears.

 She is no better, worse, than we;
   We can but say she seems more great,
 That half her will, like ours, is free,
   And half of it is locked in Fate.

 Nor need we fear that we should err
   Beyond our scope in reasoning thus,-
 That there must be a God for Her,
   If that there be a God for us.

VII

 The chiming of the Sabbath bell,
   The silence of the Sabbath fields,
 Over the hamlet cast a spell
   To which the gracious spirit yields.

 Sound is there none of wheel or wain,
   Husht stands the anvil, husht the forge,
 No shout is heard in rustic lane,
   No axe resounds in timbered gorge.

 No flail beats time on granary floor,
   The windmill`s rushing wings are stayed,
 And children`s glee rings out no more
   From hedgerow bank or primrose glade.

 The big-boned team that firm and slow
   Draw yoked, are free to couch or stray;
 The basking covey seem to know
   None will invade their peace to-day.

 And speckless swains, and maidens neat,
   Through rustic porch, down cottage stair,
 Demurely up the village street
   Stream onward to the House of Prayer.

 They kneel as they were taught to kneel
   In childhood, and demand not why,
 But, as they chant or answer, feel
   A vague communion with the sky.

VIII

 But when the impetuous mind is spurred
   To range through epochs great but gone,
 And, heedless of dogmatic word,
   With fearless ardour presses on,

 Confronting pulpit, sceptre, shrine,
   With point by Logic beaten out,
 And, questioning tenets deemed divine
   With human challenge, human doubt,

 Hoists Reason`s sail, and for the haze
   Of ocean quits Tradition`s shore,
 Awhile he comes, and kneels, and prays,
   Then comes and kneels, but prays no more;

 And only for the love he bears
   To those who love him, and who reared
 His frame to genuflexion, shares
   In ritual, vain, if still revered.

 His Gods are many or are none,
   Saturn and Mithra, Christ and Jove,
 Consorting, as the Ages run,
   With Vestal choir or Pagan drove.

 Abiding still by Northern shores,
   He sees far off on Grecian coast
 Veiled Aphrodite, but adores
   Minerva and Apollo most.

 Beauty of vision, voice, and mind,
   Enthrall him so, that unto him
 All Creeds seem true, if he but find
   Siren, or saint, or seraphim.

 And thus once more he dwells apart,
   His inward self enswathed in mist,
 Blending with poet`s pious heart
   The dreams of pagan Hedonist.

IX

 If Beauty be the Spirit`s quest,
   Its adoration, creed, and shrine,
 Wherein its restlessness finds rest,
   And earthly type of the Divine,

 Must there for such not somewhere be
   A blending of all beauteous things
 In some one form wherein we see
   The sum of our imaginings?

 The smile on mountain`s musing brow,
   Sunrise and sunset, moon and star,
 Wavelets around the cygnet`s prow,
   Glamour anear and charm afar;

 The silence of the silvery pool,
   Autumn`s reserve and Summer`s fire,
 Slow vanishings of Winter`s rule
   To free full voice of April`s choir;-

 The worshippers of Beauty find
   In maiden form, and face, and tress;
 Faint intimations of her mind
   And undulating loveliness.

X

 Bound, runnels, bound, bound on, and flow!
   Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing!
 Gone is the Winter, fled the snow,
   And all that lives is flushed with Spring.

 Harry the woods, young truant folk,
   For flowers to deck your cottage sills,
 And, underneath my orchard oak,
   Cluster, ye golden daffodils!

 Unfettered by domestic vow,
   Cuckoo, proclaim your vagrant loves,
 And coo upon the self-same bough,
   Inseparable turtle-doves.

 Soar, laverock, soar on song to sky,
   And with the choir of Heaven rejoice!
 You cannot be more glad than I,
   Who feel Her gaze, and hear Her voice:

 Who see Her cheek more crimson glow,
   And through Her veins love`s current stream,
 And feel a fear She doth but know
   Is kin to joy and dawning dream.

 Bound, rivulets, bound, bound on, and flow!
   Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing!
 Gone from the world are want and woe,
   And I myself am one with Spring.

XI

 They err who say that Love is blind,
   Or, if it be, `tis but in part,
 And that, if for fair face it find
   No counterpart in mind and heart,

 It dwells on that which it beholds,
   Fair fleshly vision void of soul,
 Deeming, illusioned, this enfolds,
   Longing`s fulfilment, end, and whole.

 Were such my hapless carnal lot,
   I too might evanescent bliss
 Embrace, fierce-fancied, fast forgot,
   Then leave for some fresh loveliness.

 But April gaze, and Summer tress,
   With something of Autumnal thought,
 In Her seem blent to crown and bless
   A bond I long in dreams have sought.

 She looks as though She came to grace
   The earth, from world less soiled than this,
 Around her head and virgin face
   Halo of heavenly holiness.

XII

 He who hath roamed through various lands,
   And, wheresoe`er his steps are set,
 The kindred meaning understands
   Of spire, and dome, and minaret;

 By Roman river, Stamboul`s sea,
   In Peter`s or Sophia`s shrine,
 Acknowledges with reverent knee
   The presence of the One Divine;

 Who, to the land he loves so well
   Returning, towards the sunset hour
 Wends homeward, feels yet stronger spell
   In lichened roof and grey church-tower;

 Round whose foundations, side by side,
   Sleep hamlet wit and village sage,
 While loud the blackbird cheers his bride
   Deep in umbrageous Vicarage.

XIII

 Was it that sense which some aver
   Foreshadows Fate it doth not see,
 That gave unwittingly to Her
   The name, for ever dear to me,

 Borne by that tearful Mother whom,
   Nigh unto Ostia`s shelving sand,
 Augustine laid in lonely tomb,
   Ere sailing for his Afric land?

 But I at least should have foreseen,
   When Monica to me had grown
 Familiar word, that names may mean
   More than by word and name is shown;

 That nought can keep two lives apart
   More than divorce `twixt mind and mind,
 Even though heart be one with heart;-
   Alas! Alas! Yes, Love is blind.

XIV

 How could I think of jarring Creeds,
   And riddles that unread remain,
 Or ask if Heaven`s indulgence heeds
   Broils born of man`s polemic brain,

 And pause because my venturous mind
   Had roamed through tracks of polar thought,
 Whence mightiest spirits turn back blind,
   Since finding not the thing they sought,

 When Love, with luring gifts in hand,
   Beauty, refinement, smile, caress,
 Heart to surmise and understand,
   And crowning grace of holiness,

 Stood there before me, and, with gaze
   I had been purblind not to see,
 Said, ``I to you will, all my days,
   Give what you yearn to give to me``?

 Must both then sorrow, while we live,
   Because, rejoicing, I forgot
 Something there was I could not give,
   Because, alas! I had it not.

XV

 She comes from Vicarage Garden, see!
   Radiant as morning, lithe and tall,
 Fresh lilies in her hand, but She
   The loveliest lily of them all.

 The thrushes in their fluting pause,
   The bees float humming round her head,
 Earth, air, and heaven shine out because
   They hear her voice, and feel her tread.

 Up in the fretted grey church-tower,
   That rustic gaze for miles can see,
 The belfry strikes the silvery hour,
   Announcing her propinquity.

 And I who, fearful to be late,
   Passed long since through the deerpark pale,
 And loitered by the churchyard gate,
   Once more exclaim, ``Hail! loved one! hail!``

 We pass within, and up the nave,
   Husht, because Heaven seems always there,
 Wend choirward, where, devoutly grave,
   She kneels, to breathe a silent prayer.

 She takes the flowers I too have brought,
   Blending them deftly with her own,
 And ranges them, as quick as thought,
   Around the white-draped altar-throne.

 How could she know my gaze was not
   On things unseen, but fixed on Her,
 That, as She prayed, I all forgot
   The worship in the worshipper?-

 While She beheld, as in a glass,
   The Light Divine, that I but sought
 Sight of her soul?-Alas! Alas!
   Love is yet blinder than I thought.

XVI

 Who hath not seen a little cloud
   Up from the clear horizon steal,
 And, mounting lurid, mutter loud
   Premonitory thunder-peal?

 Husht grows the grove, the summer leaf
   Trembles and writhes, as if in pain,
 And then the sky, o`ercharged with grief,
   Bursts into drenching tears of rain.

 I through the years had sought to hide
   My darkening doubts from simple sight.
 `Tis sacrilegious to deride
   Faith of unquestioning neophyte.

 And what, methought, is Doubt at best?
   A sterile wind through seeded sedge
 Blowing for nought, an empty nest
   That lingers in a leafless hedge.

 Pain, too, there is we should not share
   With others lest it mar their joy;
 There is a quiet bliss in prayer
   None but the heartless would destroy.

 But just as Love is quick divined
   From heightened glow or visage pale,
 The meditations of the Mind
   Disclose themselves through densest veil.

 And `tis the unloving and least wise
   Who through life`s inmost precincts press,
 And with unsympathetic eyes
   Outrage our sacred loneliness.

 Then, when their sacrilegious gaze
   The mournful void hath half surmised,
 To some more tender soul they raise
   The veil of ignorance it prized.

XVII

 `What though I write farewell I could
   Not utter, lest your gaze should chide,
 `Twill by your love be understood
   My love is still, dear, at your side.

 ``Nor must we meet to speak goodbye,
   Lest that my Will should lose its choice,
 And conscience waver, for then I
   Should see your face and hear your voice.

 ``But, when you find yourself once more,
   Come back, come back and look for me,
 Beside the little lowly door,
   The Doorway of Humility.``

XVIII

 There! Peace at last! The far-off roar
   Of human passion dies away.
 ``Welcome to our broad shade once more,``
   The waning woodlands seem to say:

 The music of the vagrant wind,
   That wandered aimlessly, is stilled;
 The songless branches all remind
   That Summer`s glory is fulfilled.

 The fluttering of the falling leaves
   Dimples the leaden pool awhile;
 So Age impassively receives
   Youth`s tale of troubles with a smile.

 Thus, as the seasons steal away,
   How much is schemed, how little done,
 What splendid plans at break of day!
   What void regrets at set of sun!

 The world goes round, for you, for me,
   For him who sleeps, for him who strives,
 And the cold Fates indifferent see
   Crowning or failure of our lives.

 Then fall, ye leaves, fade, summer breeze!
   Grow, sedges, sere on every pool!
 Let each old glowing impulse freeze,
   Let each old generous project cool!

 It is not wisdom, wit, nor worth,
   Self-sacrifice nor friendship true,
 Makes venal devotees of earth
   Prostrate themselves and worship you.

 The consciousness of sovran powers,
   The stubborn purpose, steadfast will,
 Have ever, in this world of ours,
   Achieved success, achieve it still.

 Farewell, ye woods! No more I sit;
   Great voices in the distance call.
 If this be peace, enough of it!
   I go. Fall, unseen foliage, fall!

XIX

 Nay, but repress rebellious woe!
   In grief `tis not that febrile fool,
 Passion, that can but overthrow,
   But Resignation, that should rule.

 In patient sadness lurks a gift
   To purify the life it stings,
 And, as the days move onward, lift
   The lonely heart to loftier things;

 Bringing within one`s ripening reach
   The sceptre of majestic Thought,
 Wherefrom one slowly learns to teach
   The Wisdom to oneself it taught.

 And unto what can man aspire,
   On earth, more worth the striving for,
 Than to be Reason`s loftier lyre,
   And reconciling monitor;

 To strike a more resounding string
   And deeper notes of joy and pain,
 Than such as but lamenting sing,
   Or warble but a sensuous strain:

 So, when my days are nearly sped,
   And my last harvest labours done,
 That I may have around my head
   The halo of a setting sun.

 Yet even if be heard above
   Such selfish hope, presumptuous claim,
 Better one hour of perfect love
   Than an eternity of Fame!

XX

 Where then for grief seek out the cure?
   What scenes will bid my smart to cease?
 High peaks should teach one to endure,
   And lakes secluded bring one peace.

 Farewell awhile, then, village bells,
   Autumnal wood and harvest wain!
 And welcome, as it sinks or swells,
   The music of the mighty main,

 That seems to say, now loud, now low,
   Rising or falling, sweet or shrill,
 ``I pace, a sentry, to and fro,
   To guard your Island fortress still.``

 The roses falter on their stalk,
   The late peach reddens on the wall,
 The flowers along the garden walk
   Unheeded fade, unheeded fall.

 My gates unopened drip with rain,
   The wolf-hound wends from floor to floor,
 And, listening for my voice in vain,
   Waileth along the corridor.

 Within the old accustomed place
   Where we so oft were wont to be,
 Kneeling She prays, while down her face
   The fruitless tears fall silently.


SWITZERLAND

XXI

 Rain, wind, and rain. The writhing lake
   Scuds to and fro to scape their stroke:
 The mountains veil their heads, and make
   Of cloud and mist a wintry cloak.

 Through where the arching pinewoods make
   Dusk cloisters down the mountain side,
 The loosened avalanches take
   Valeward their way, with death for guide,

 And toss their shaggy manes and fling
   To air their foam and tawny froth,
 From ledge and precipice bound and spring,
   With hungry roar and deepening wrath;

 Till, hamlet homes and orchards crushed,
   And, rage for further ravin stayed,
 They slumber, satiated, husht,
   Upon the ruins they have made.

 I rise from larch-log hearth, and, lone,
   Gaze on the spears of serried rain,
 That faster, nigher, still are blown,
   Then stream adown the window pane.

 The peasant`s goatskin garments drip,
   As home he wends with lowered head,
 Shakes off the drops from lid and lip,
   Then slinks within his châlet shed.

 The cattle bells sound dull and hoarse,
   The boats rock idly by the shore;
 Only the swollen torrents course
   With faster feet and fuller roar.

 Mournful, I shape a mournful song,
   And ask the heavens, but ask in vain,
 ``How long, how long?`` Ah! not so long
   As, in my heart, rain, wind, and rain.

XXII

 I ask the dark, the dawn, the sun,
   The domeward-pointing peaks of snow,
 Lofty and low alike, but none
   Will tell me what I crave to know.

 My mind demands, ``Whence, Whither, Why?``
   From mountain slope and green defile,
 And wait the answer. The reply-
   A far-off irresponsive smile.

 I ask the stars, when mortals sleep,
   The pensive moon, the lonely winds;
 But, haply if they know, they keep
   The secret of secluded minds.

 Shall I in vain, then, strive to find,
   Straining towards merely fancied goal?
 Where in the lily lurks the mind,
   Where in the rose discern the soul?

 More mindless still, stream, pasture, lake,
   The mountains yet more heartless seem,
 And life`s unceasing quest and ache
   Only a dream within a dream.

 We know no more, though racked with thought
   Than he who, in yon châlet born,
 Gives not the riddle, Life, a thought,
   But lays him down and sleeps till morn.

 Sometimes he kneels; I cannot kneel,
   So suffer from a wider curse
 Than Eden`s outcasts, for I feel
   An exile in the universe.

 The rudeness of his birth enures
   His limbs to every season`s stings,
 And, never probing, so endures
   The sadness at the heart of things.

 When lauwine growls, and thunder swells,
   Their far-off clamour sounds to me
 But as the noise of clanging bells
   Above a silent sanctuary.

 It is their silence that appals,
   Their aspect motionless that awes,
 When searching spirit vainly calls
   On the effect to bare the Cause.

 I get no answer, near or far;
   The mountains, though they soar so high,
 And scale the pathless ether, are
   No nearer unto God than I.

 There dwells nor mystery nor veil
   Round the clear peaks no foot hath trod;
 I, gazing on their frontage pale,
   See but the waning ghost of God.

 Is Faith then but a drug for sleep,
   And Hope a fondly soothing friend
 That bids us, when it sees us weep,
   Wait for the End that hath no end?

 Then do I hear voice unforgot
   Wailing across the distance dim,
 ``Think, dear! If God existeth not,
   Why are you always seeking Him?``

XXIII

 Like glowing furnace of the forge,
   How the winds rise and roar, as they
 Up twisting valley, craggy gorge,
   Seek, and still seek, to storm their way;

 Then, baffled, up the open slope
   With quickening pulses scale and pant,
 Indomitably bent to cope
   With bristling fronts of adamant.

 All through the day resounds the strife,
   Then doth at sunset hour subside:
 So the fierce passions of our life
   Slowly expire at eventide.

 By Nature we are ne`er misled;
   We see most truly when we dream.
 A singer wise was he who said,
   ``Follow the gleam! Follow the gleam!``

XXIV

 I dreamed, last night, again I stood,
   Silent, without the village shrine,
 While She in modest maidenhood
   Left, fondly clasped, her hand in mine.

 And, with a face as cerecloth white,
   And tears like those that by the bier
 Of loved one lost make dim the sight,
   She poured her sorrows in mine ear.

 ``I love your voice, I love your gaze,
   But there is something dearer still,
 The faith that kneels, the hope that prays,
   And bows before the Heavenly Will.

 ``Not where hills rise, or torrents roll,
   Seek Him, nor yet alone, apart;
 He dwells within the troubled soul,
   His home is in the human heart.

 ``Withal, the peaceful mountains may
   `Twixt doubt and yearning end the strife:
 So ponder, though you cannot pray,
   And think some meaning into life:

 ``Nor like to those that cross the main
   To wander witless through strange land,
 Hearing unmastered tongues, disdain
   The speech they do not understand.

 ``Firm stands my faith that they who sound
   The depths of doubt Faith yet will save:
 They are like children playing round
   A still remembered mother`s grave;

 ``Not knowing, when they wax more old,
   And somewhat can her vision share,
 She will the winding-sheet unfold,
   And beckon them to evening prayer.``

 Then, with my hand betwixt her hands,
   She laid her lips upon my brow,
 And, as to one who understands,
   Said, ``Take once more my vestal vow.

 ``No other gaze makes mine to glow,
   No other footstep stirs my heart,
 To me you only dearer grow,
   Dearer and nearer, more apart.

 ``Whene`er you come with humble mind,
   The little Door stands open wide,
 And, bending low, you still will find
   Me waiting on the other side.``

 Her silence woke me. . . . To your breast
   Fold me, O sleep! and seal mine ears;
 That She may roam through my unrest
   Till all my dreams are drenched with tears!

XXV

 Why linger longer, subject, here,
   Where Nature sits and reigns alone,
 Inspiring love not, only fear,
   Upon her autocratic throne?

 Her edicts are the rigid snow,
   The wayward winds, the swaying branch;
 She hath no pity to bestow,
   Her law the lawless avalanche.

 Though soon cascades will bound and sing,
   That now but drip with tears of ice,
 And upland meadows touched by Spring
   Blue gentian blend with edelweiss,

 Hence to the Land of youthful dreams,
   The Land that taught me all I know.
 Farewell, lone mountain-peaks and streams;
   Yet take my thanks before I go.

 You gave me shelter when I fled,
   But sternly bade me stem my tears,
 Nor aimless roam with rustling tread
   `Mong fallen leaves of fruitless years.

ITALY

XXVI

 Upon the topmost wheel-track steep,
   The parting of two nations` ways,
 Athwart stone cross engraven deep,
   The name ``Italia`` greets the gaze!

 I trembled, when I saw it first,
   With joy, my boyish longings fed,
 The headspring of my constant thirst,
   The altar of my pilgrim tread.

 Now once again the magic word,
   So faintly borne to Northern home,
 Sounds like a silvery trumpet heard
   Beneath some universal dome.

 The forests soften to a smile,
   A smile the very mountains wear,
 Through mossy gorge and grassed defile
   Torrents race glad and debonair.

 From casement, balcony and door,
   Hang golden gourds, droops tear-tipped vine,
 And sun-bronzed faces bask before
   Thin straw-swathed flasks of last year`s wine.

 Unyoked, the patient sleek-skinned steers
   Take, like their lords, no heed of time.
 Hark! now the evening star appears,
   Ave Maria belfries chime.

 The maidens knit, and glance, and sing,
   With glowing gaze `neath ebon tress,
 And, like to copse-buds sunned by Spring,
   Seem burgeoning into tenderness.

 On waveless lake where willows weep,
   The Borromean Islands rest
 As motionless as babe asleep
   Upon a slumbering Mother`s breast.

 O Land of sunshine, song, and Love!
   Whether thy children reap or sow,
 Of Love they chant on hills above,
   Of Love they sing in vale below.

 But what avail the love-linked hands,
   And love-lit eyes, to them that roam
 Passionless through impassioned lands,
   Since they have left their heart at home!

XXVII

 Among my dreams, now known as dreams
   In this my reawakened life,
 I thought that by historic streams,
   Apart from stress, aloof from strife,

 By rugged paths that twist and twine
   Through olive slope and chesnut wood
 Upward to mediaeval shrine,
   Or high conventual brotherhood,

 Along the mountain-curtained track
   Round peaceful lake where wintry bands
 Halt briefly but to bivouac
   Ere blustering on to Northern lands;-

 Through these, through all I first did see,
   With me to share my raptures none,
 That nuptialled Monica would be
   My novice and companion:

 That we should float from mere to mere,
   And sleep within some windless cove,
 With nightingales to lull the ear,
   From ilex wood and orange grove;

 Linger at hamlets lost to fame,
   That still wise-wandering feet beguile,
 To gaze on frescoed wall or frame
   Lit by Luini`s gracious smile.

 Now, but companioned by my pain,
   Among each well-remembered scene
 I can but let my Fancy feign
   The happiness that might have been;

 Imagine that I hear her voice,
   Imagine that I feel her hand,
 And I, enamoured guide, rejoice
   To see her swift to understand.

Source
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