And gloomy rooms the master calls his own;
Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthralls
With pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls;
Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled,
Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child—
And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrined
The solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind.
The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors,
And with amazèd eye the gloomy lair explores;
Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cells
With gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells,
From room to room her fairy footsteps glide,
Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.—
With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quail
Beneath his own, she hurries the glad tale,
Then turns to part—but as she turns, still round
She looks—and lingers on the magic ground,
And eyes each antique relic with the wild
Half-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child;
And as a child's the lonely inmate saw,
And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe;
And soften'd into kindness his deep tone,
And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own,
And said, "Nay, pause and task the showman's skill,
What moves thee most?—come, question me at will."
Listening she linger'd, and she knew not why
Time's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly;
Never before unto her gaze reveal'd
The Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd:
Child of the sun, and native of the waste,
Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced,
His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar,
As leaps the lion from the captive bar;
And, as each token flash'd upon the mind,
Back the bold deeds that life had left behind,
The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along,
Vivid as light, and eloquent as song;
At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream,
And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream.
"So," with sad voice he said, "my youth went by,
Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky;
What is my manhood?—curl'd and congeal'd,
A stagnant water in a barren field:
Gall'd with strange customs—in the crowd alone;
And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own.
In the far lands, where first I breathed the air—
Smile if thou wilt—this rugged form was fair,
For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give grace
To man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place—
Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now,
Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow;
My boyhood tamed the panther in his den,
The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men.
Like with its like, they say, will intertwine—
I have not tamed one human heart to mine!"—
He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener sought
To shape consoling speech from soothing thought,
But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour came
And went, as tenderness was check'd by shame!
At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised,
And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed;
Moved by her childlike pity, but too dark
In hopeless thought than pity more to mark;
"Infant," he murmur'd, "not for others flow
The tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know;
As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast,
Opes a frank home to every angel guest;
Soft Eve, look round!—The world in which thou art
Distrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart—
Thy time will come!"—
He spoke, and from her side
Was gone—the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!
PART THE SECOND.
I.
London, I take thee to a Poet's heart!
For those who seek, a Helicon thou art.
Let schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields,
Each street of thine a loftier Idyl yields;
Fed by all life, and fann'd by every wind,
There burns the quenchless Poetry—Mankind! Yet not for me the Olympiad of the gay, The reeking Season's dusty holiday:— Soon as its summer pomp the mead assumes, And Flora wanders through her world of blooms, Vain the hot field-days of the vex'd debate, When Sirius reigns—let Tapeworm rule the state! Vain Devon's cards, and Lansdowne's social feast, Wit but fatigues, and Beauty's reign hath ceased. His mission done, the monk regains his cell; Nor even Douro's matchless face can spell. Far from Man's works, escaped to God's, I fly, And breathe the luxury of a smokeless sky. Me, the still "London," not the restless "Town" (The light plume fluttering o'er the helmèd crown), Delights;—for there the grave Romance hath shed Its hues; and air grows solemn with the Dead. If, where the Lord of Rivers parts the throng, And eastward glides by buried halls along, My steps are led, I linger, and restore To the changed wave the poet-shapes of yore; See the gilt barge, and hear the fated king Prompt the first mavis of our Minstrel spring;[J] Or mark, with mitred Nevile,[K] the array } Of arms and craft alarm "the Silent way," } The Boar of Gloucester, hungering, scents his prey! } Or, landward, trace where thieves their festive hall Hold by the dens of Law,[L] (worst thief of all!) The antique Temple of the armèd Zeal That wore the cross a mantle to the steel; Time's dreary void the kindling dream supplies, The walls expand, the shadowy towers arise, And forth, as when by Richard's lion side, For Christ and Fame, the Warrior-Phantoms ride! Or if, less grave with thought, less rich with lore, The later scenes, the lighter steps explore, If through the haunts of living splendour led— Has the quick Muse no empire but the Dead? In each keen face, by Care or Pleasure worn, Grief claims her sigh, or Vice invites her scorn; And every human brow that veils a thought Conceals the Castaly which Shakespeare sought.
II.
Amidst the crowd (what time the glowing Hours
Strew, as they glide, the summer world with flowers),
Who fly the solitude of sweets to drown