The Pilgrims of the Rhine | Page 6

languid lines bespeak; Till
drop by drop, from jaded day to day, The sickly life-streams ooze
themselves away. Yet oft in HOPE a boundless realm was thine, That
vaguest Infinite,--the Dream of Fame; Son of the sword that first made
kings divine, Heir to man's grandest royalty,--a Name! Then didst thou
burst upon the startled world, And keep the glorious promise of thy
birth; Then were the wings that bear the bolt unfurled, A monarch's
voice cried, "Place upon the earth!" A new Philippi gained a second
Rome, And the Son's sword avenged the greater Caesar's doom.

VII.
EXAMPLE OF MEMORY AS LEADING TO THE
IDEAL,--AMIDST LIFE HOWEVER HUMBLE, AND IN A MIND
HOWEVER IGNORANT.--THE VILLAGE WIDOW.
But turn the eye to life's sequestered vale And lowly roofs remote in
hamlets green. Oft in my boyhood where the moss-grown pale Fenced
quiet graves, a female form was seen; Each eve she sought the
melancholy ground, And lingering paused, and wistful looked around.
If yet some footstep rustled through the grass, Timorous she shrunk,
and watched the shadow pass; Then, when the spot lay lone amidst the

gloom, Crept to one grave too humble for a tomb, There silent bowed
her face above the dead, For, if in prayer, the prayer was inly said; Still
as the moonbeam, paused her quiet shade, Still as the moonbeam,
through the yews to fade. Whose dust thus hallowed by so fond a care?
What the grave saith not, let the heart declare. On yonder green two
orphan children played; By yonder rill two plighted lovers strayed; In
yonder shrine two lives were blent in one, And joy-bells chimed
beneath a summer sun. Poor was their lot, their bread in labour found;
No parent blessed them, and no kindred owned; They smiled to hear
the wise their choice condemn; They loved--they loved--and love was
wealth to them! Hark--one short week--again the holy bell! Still shone
the sun; but dirge like boomed the knell,-- The icy hand had severed
breast from breast; Left life to toil, and summoned Death to rest. Full
fifty years since then have passed away, Her cheek is furrowed, and her
hair is gray. Yet, when she speaks of /him/ (the times are rare), Hear in
her voice how youth still trembles there. The very name of that young
life that died Still heaves the bosom, and recalls the bride. Lone o'er the
widow's hearth those years have fled, The daily toil still wins the daily
bread; No books deck sorrow with fantastic dyes; Her fond romance
her woman heart supplies; And, haply in the few still moments given,
(Day's taskwork done), to memory, death, and heaven, To that
unuttered poem may belong Thoughts of such pathos as had beggared
song.

VIII.
HENCE IN HOPE, MEMORY, AND PRAYER, ALL OF US ARE
POETS.
Yes, while thou hopest, music fills the air, While thou rememberest,
life reclothes the clod; While thou canst feel the electric chain of prayer,
Breathe but a thought, and be a soul with God! Let not these forms of
matter bound thine eye. He who the vanishing point of Human things
Lifts from the landscape, lost amidst the sky, Has found the Ideal which
the poet sings, Has pierced the pall around the senses thrown, And is
himself a poet, though unknown.

IX.

APPLICATION OF THE POEM TO THE TALE TO WHICH IT IS
PREFIXED.--THE RHINE,--ITS IDEAL CHARACTER IN ITS
HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY ASSOCIATIONS.
Eno'!--my song is closing, and to thee, Land of the North, I dedicate its
lay; As I have done the simple tale to be The drama of this prelude!
Faraway Rolls the swift Rhine beneath the starry ray; But to my ear its
haunted waters sigh; Its moonlight mountains glimmer on my eye; On
wave, on marge, as on a wizard's glass, Imperial ghosts in dim
procession pass; Lords of the wild, the first great Father-men, Their
fane the hill-top, and their home the glen; Frowning they fade; a bridge
of steel appears With frank-eyed Caesar smiling through the spears;
The march moves onwards, and the mirror brings The Gothic crowns of
Carlovingian kings Vanished alike! The Hermit rears his Cross, And
barbs neigh shrill, and plumes in tumult toss, While (knighthood's sole
sweet conquest from the Moor) Sings to Arabian lutes the Tourbadour.
Not yet, not yet; still glide some lingering shades, Still breathe some
murmurs as the starlight fades, Still from her rock I hear the Siren call,
And see the tender ghost in Roland's mouldering hall!

X.
APPLICATION OF THE POEM CONTINUED.--THE IDEAL
LENDS ITS AID TO THE MOST FAMILIAR AND THE MOST
ACTUAL SORROW OF LIFE.--FICTION COMPARED TO
SLEEP,--IT STRENGTHENS WHILE IT SOOTHES.
Trite were the tale I tell of love and doom, (Whose life hath loved not,
whose