And generous was the applause and loud, But less for him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days, And filled the room with light, and made The fire of logs a painted shade.
A sudden wind from out the west Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill;The windows rattled with the blast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the valley fled amain The rear of the retreating rain.
Only far up in the blue sky A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial aqueduct, But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and flung Aside in his triumphal march.
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare, Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room, And rushed into the open air;And no more tales were told that day.
PART THIRD
PRELUDE
The evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light;While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night.
But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed;And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.
Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago.
The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall;A ghostly and appealing call, A sound of days that are no more!
And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of the airy hosts, The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable flight;And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and weird, "Who are ye, children of the Night?"Beholding his mysterious face, "Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, "Why was it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing, paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?"The Jew replied, with solemn air, "I said the Manichaean's prayer.
It was his faith,--perhaps is mine,--
That life in all its forms is one, And that its secret conduits run Unseen, but in unbroken line, From the great fountain-head divine Through man and beast, through grain and grass.
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, From death there can be no escape, And no escape from life, alas Because we cannot die, but pass From one into another shape:
It is but into life we die.
"Therefore the Manichaean said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in things that we call dead:
'I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, Nor did I in the oven bake thee!
It was not I, it was another Did these things unto thee, O brother;I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'""That birds have souls I can concede,"
The poet cried, with glowing cheeks;
"The flocks that from their beds of reed Uprising north or southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai;All birds that sing or chirp or cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover, peep, and sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren sands,--All these have souls akin to ours;
So hath the lovely race of flowers:
Thus much I grant, but nothing more.
The rusty hinges of a door Are not alive because they creak;This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!""To me they speak," the Jew replied;
"And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a tide That breaks upon an unknown shore!"Here the Sicilian interfered:
"That was your dream, then, as you dozed A moment since, with eyes half-closed, And murmured something in your beard."The Hebrew smiled, and answered, "Nay;
Not that, but something very near;
Like, and yet not the same, may seem The vision of my waking dream;Before it wholly dies away, Listen to me, and you shall hear."THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE
AZRAEL
King Solomon, before his palace gate At evening, on the pavement tessellate Was walking with a stranger from the East, Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man, And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan.
And as they walked the guest became aware Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize;And in a whisper to the king he said:
"What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?"The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;It is the Angel men call Azrael, 'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near, And speak to me, and take away my breath!
Save me from Azrael, save me from death!
O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky, Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high, And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze With hidden fire, and rushing from the west There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest And lifted him from earth, and on they passed, His shining garments streaming in the blast, A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.
