Did he not say LXVIII. "Farewell?"-Alas! no breath Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throng Told that the mysteries in the face of death. Had from their eager sight been veil'd too long. Those that would die together, true of heart. LXIX. Away-away I rush'd ;-but swift and high Yet stopp'd in spell-bound fear to catch the victims' cries. LXX. What heard I then ?-a ringing shriek of pain, Man's voice was there-a clarion voice to cheer LXXI. It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing, To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe! On the hot air and lurid skies increased Faint grew the sounds-more faint-I listen'd-they had ceased! LXXII. And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend! I might form other ties-but thou alone Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown! Others might aid me onward :-Thou and I Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, Once flowering-never more!-And thou wert gone! Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me? LXXIII. And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave! I would have set, against all earth's decree, LXXIV. There are swift hours in life-strong, rushing hours, They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ;— They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight, They touch with fire thought's graven page, the roll Stamp'd with past years-and lo! it shrivels as a scroll! LXXV. And this was of such hours!-the sudden flow Of my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glare Well with me then, in some vast desert scene, pour my voice out, for the winds to bear On with them, wildly questioning the sky, Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. LXXVI. I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud; To the most ancient heavens I would have said 66 Speak to me! show me truth!"—through night aloud I would have cried to him, the newly dead, "Come back! and show me truth!"-My spirit seem'd Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'd With such pent storms of thought!—again I fled— Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely fane. LXXVII. A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men, And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine glen. |