Only the sign of voices, softly saying,
Behold ascending from the misty vale,
Towards the solemn moor, a traveller.
Alone he labours on the lonely way,
And seemeth sadly wearied with his journey.
Lonely and long the way is o'er the hills ;
But on the border of the solemn wild,
By the wayside, behold a lonely inn.
Five minutes' walk beyond are dimly seen
Two or three cottages, but low and old.
There's not a house, save these, for miles and miles;
Nor wall, nor hedge, nor tree. The long lone road
Over the moors leads; and, with turns and twines,
Measures some twenty miles. No, tempt it not.
It is a way of danger in the dark,—
A road where robbers roam at dead of night
To make the traveller lighter by his purse,
And weaker for his wounds. It has been told,
Moreover, how that on the moors at midnight,
The traveller has been lost, and never found.
Enter the inn, and rest thee till the morn.
He enters. 'Tis a rude oldfashioned place,
With more that means resistance to the tempest
Than aught to tell of taste. The clumsy seats
Were made by joiners prodigal of wood,
And are, beyond a doubt, the worse for wear.
The old deal tables have a deal to tell
About the handywork of those who made them.
They seem to tell us plainly, that they were
The work of young apprentices who tried
Only to make them strong, and that since then,
The knives of divers drink-delighted artists
Have made freehand attempts at decoration
In any place upon them, top or side,
By carving letters such as children make
In their first copy-books, when gravely trying
In freewill style to imitate the printer.
The traveller has reached his room in peace, That is to say, no outward visible hand Has ministered objection to his course; Yet there's a voice within him saith-"Beware." Why doth he by the shining of the candle, Examine well the walls, the roof, the floor, And by his look appear to ask the poles, Piled on the boards, to state their business there? Why doth he now, so ready for his rest,
Not take it, but like one with strength renew'd, Commence with mingled care, and haste, and caution,
To prop the door with poles, as London people
Prop up their houses for the sake of safety,
While, underground, the earnest excavators
Construct a passage for the railway train?
Against all comers having closed the course,
Why doth he wait as if to hear them come?
The revelry below has spent its breath,
And midnight is at hand. Still, not undress'd,
He waiteth in the quiet of the gloom.
The while before him, like a spectre dim,
Presentiment of danger seems to stand,
And point towards the door; and sleep holds back,
As if afraid to face the warning phantom.
Yet silence reigns; and, as if taking courage,
Because the ghost appears to be mistaken,
Sleep nearer cometh. Ha! again retires.
Steps of the softest surely mount the stairs.
Whispers are heard, and argument of force,
Gently at first, for entrance useth effort.
Silence again. And now it is a moment
That braceth up the traveller in earnest,
Saying "Be ready." Argument renew'd,
With more of might, is might applied in vain.
The traveller is waiting with a club,
Ready to give the first who gains admission,
A special introduction to the floor.
Suddenly now a shock comes that the walls,
་་ ཐམས་ཀྱི་དགས་ ཡེ་ མས་ང་སུམ་པ་ཤེས་པས་དེ་བ་ལ་མི་ ན་
Strong as they are, appear to feel its force,
But the door seems to say "ye might as well
Seek to shake down a mountain." They retire ;—
How welcome to the traveller, the morn!
Whence the suspicion ? The precaution, why?
And why the sweet sensation of relief
After a night of waking? And, moreover,
Why in such haste to leave the lonely inn?
The overnight had darkly whispered mischief;
A sense of danger had induced precaution;
And it was good to be from men delivered
Who had no fear of God before their eyes.
Again the sun goes down, and once again,
In a strange land, a traveller appears.
From an auriferous region he returns;
Gold from the mine, behold, he homeward bringeth!
His way lies through a wilderness of woodland,
Where clearings are but few. In the wild bush
He looketh round him for a place of rest.
A sense of loneliness ariseth in him,
As silently as mists arise at twilight,
Or the dew falleth in the cool of Even.
Hunger, and thirst, and weariness, these three
Plead hard within him for a satisfaction
Gold cannot in the wilderness procure.
And yet a worshipper of precious metal,—
Of shining gold, without hypocrisy,
A worshipper is he. It was for this
He went on pilgrimage. His god is gold!
But has he never heard of better things?
Of better ways than those of getting wealth?
Of greater good than cometh from the mine?
Not heard of the magnificence of heaven,—
The city of the glory of all nations,
And honour of all time; whose gates are pearls,
Walls jasper, and whose ever firm foundations
Are of all precious stones? Has he not heard
Of the high open way that leadeth thither—
The way of faith in Christ? No doubt he has ;
Yet to the name of infidel he answers,
And walks the hopeless way of unbelief.
Lo, there's a glimmer in the woodland lonely,— A pleasant twinkling out among the trees : Thither he wendeth for relief and rest.
No! he is not mistaken! Far out here,—
From any other habitation far
Here all alone, and in a wood all lonely,
Is found a quiet home of human kind.
Now, traveller, enter.
No-they send him not
|