Rampolli. George MacDonald

himself tabernacles—tabernacles of peace; there longs and loves and gazes across, until the welcomest of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring. Afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms; but what became holy by the touch of Love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like odours, it mingles with love asleep. Still wakest thou, cheerful Light, the weary man to his labour, and into me pourest gladsome life; but thou wilest me not away from Memory’s mossgrown monument. Gladly will I bestir the deedy hands, everywhere behold where thou hast need of me; bepraise the rich pomp of thy splendour; pursue unwearied the lovely harmonies of thy skilled handicraft; gladly contemplate the thoughtful pace of thy mighty, radiant clock; explore the balance of the forces and the laws of the wondrous play of countless worlds and their seasons; but true to the Night remains my secret heart, and to creative Love, her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart eternally true? Has thy sun friendly eyes that know me? Do thy stars lay hold of my longing hand? Do they return me the tender pressure and the caressing word? Was it thou didst bedeck them with colours and a flickering outline? Or was it she who gave to thy jewels a higher, a dearer significance? What delight, what pleasure offers thy life, to outweigh the transports of Death? Wears not everything that inspirits us the livery of the Night? Thy mother, it is she who brings thee forth, and to her thou owest all thy glory. Thou wouldst vanish into thyself, thou wouldst dissipate in boundless space, if she did not hold thee fast, if she swaddled thee not, so that thou grewest warm, and, flaming, gavest birth to the universe. Verily I was before thou wast; the mother sent me with my sisters to inhabit thy world, to sanctify it with love that it might be an ever present memorial, to plant it with flowers unfading. As yet they have not ripened, these thoughts divine; as yet is there small trace of our coming apocalypse. One day thy clock will point to the end of Time, and then thou shalt be as one of us, and shalt, full of ardent longing, be extinguished and die. I feel in me the close of thy activity, I taste heavenly freedom, and happy restoration. With wild pangs I recognize thy distance from our home, thy feud with the ancient lordly Heaven. Thy rage and thy raving are in vain. Inconsumable stands the cross, victory-flag of our race.

           Over I pilgrim

           Where every pain

           Zest only of pleasure

           Shall one day remain.

           Yet a few moments

           Then free am I,

           And intoxicated

           In Love’s lap lie.

           Life everlasting

           Lifts, wave-like, at me:

           I gaze from its summit

           Down after thee.

           Oh Sun, thou must vanish

           Yon hillock beneath;

           A shadow will bring thee

           Thy cooling wreath.

           Oh draw at my heart, love,

           Draw till I’m gone;

           That, fallen asleep, I

           Still may love on!

           I feel the flow of

           Death’s youth-giving flood;

           To balsam and aether, it

           Changes my blood!

           I live all the daytime

           In faith and in might:

           In holy rapture

           I die every night.

      V

      In ancient times an iron Fate lorded it, with dumb force, over the widespread families of men. A gloomy oppression swathed their anxious souls: the Earth was boundless, the abode of the gods and their home. From eternal ages stood its mysterious structure. Beyond the red hills of the morning, in the sacred bosom of the sea, dwelt the sun, the all-enkindling, live luminary. An aged giant upbore the happy world. Prisoned beneath mountains lay the first-born sons of mother Earth, helpless in their destroying fury against the new, glorious race of gods, and their kindred, glad-hearted men. Ocean’s dusky, green abyss was the lap of a goddess. In the crystal grottoes revelled a wanton folk. Rivers, trees, flowers, and beasts had human wits. Sweeter tasted the wine, poured out by youth impersonated; a god was in the grape-clusters; a loving, motherly goddess upgrew in the full golden sheaves; love’s sacred carousal was a sweet worship of the fairest of the goddesses. Life revelled through the centuries like one spring-time, an ever-variegated festival of the children of heaven and the dwellers on the earth. All races childlike adored the ethereal, thousandfold flame, as the one sublimest thing in the world.

      It was but a fancy, a horrible dream-shape—

           That fearsome to the merry tables strode,

           And wrapt the spirit in wild consternation.

           The gods themselves here counsel knew nor showed

           To fill the stifling heart with consolation.

           Mysterious was the monster’s pathless road,

           Whoose rage would heed no prayer and no oblation;

           Twas Death who broke the banquet up with fears,

           With anguish, with dire pain, and bitter tears.

           Eternally from all things here disparted

           That sway the heart with pleasure’s joyous flow,

           Divided from the loved, whom, broken-hearted,

           Vain longing tosses and unceasing woe—

           In a dull dream to struggle, faint and thwarted,

           Smeemed all was granted to the dead below!

           Broke lay the merry wave of human glory

           On Death’s inevitable promontory.

           With daring flight, aloft Thought’s pinions sweep;

           The horrid thing with beauty’s robe men cover:

           A gentle youth puts out his torch, to sleep;

           Sweet comes the end, like moaning lute of lover.

           Cool shadow-floods o’er melting memory creep:

           So sang the song, for Misery was the mover.

           Still undeciphered lay the endless Night—

           The solemn symbol of a far-off Might.

      The old world began to decline. The pleasure-garden of the young race withered away; up into opener regions and desolate, forsaking his childhood, struggled the growing man. The gods vanished with their retinue. Nature stood alone and lifeless. Dry Number and rigid Measure bound her with iron chains. As into dust and air the priceless blossoms of life fell away in words obscure. Gone was wonder-working Faith, and the all-transforming, all-uniting angel-comrade, the Imagination. A cold north wind blew unkindly over the torpid plain, and the wonderland first froze, then evaporated into aether. The far depths of heaven filled with flashing worlds. Into the deeper sanctuary, into the more exalted region of the mind, the soul of the world retired with all her powers, there to rule until the dawn should break of the glory universal. No longer was the Light the abode of the gods, and the heavenly token of their presence: they cast over them the veil of the Night. The Night became the mighty womb of revelations; into it the gods went back, and fell asleep, to go abroad in new and more glorious shapes over the transfigured world. Among the people which, untimely ripe, was become of all the most scornful and insolently hostile to the blessed innocence of youth, appeared the New World, in guise never seen before, in the song-favouring hut of poverty, a son of the first