Festus · Scene 20 (2/2) (2/5)

| Festus | ’Tis like enough; We slip away like shadows into shade; We end, and make no mark we had begun; We come to nothing, like a pure intent. When we have hoped, sought, striven, and lost our aim, Then the truth fronts us, beaming out of darkness, Like a white brow, through its overshadowing hair⁠— As though the day were overcast, my Helen! But I was speaking of my friend. He was Quick, generous, simple, obstinate in end, High-hearted from his youth; his spirit rose In many a glittering fold and gleamy crest, Hydra-like to its hindrance; mastering all, Save one thing⁠—love, and that out-hearted him. Nor did he think enough, till it was over, How bright a thing he was breaking, or he would Surely have shunned it, nor have let his life Be pulled to pieces like a rose by a child; And his heart’s passions made him oft do that Which made him writhe to think on what he had done, And thin his blood by weeping at a night. If madness wrought the sin, the sin wrought madness, And made a round of ruin. It is sad To see the light of beauty wane away, Know eyes are dimming, bosom shrivelling, feet Losing their spring, and limbs their lily roundness; But it is worse to feel our heart-spring gone, To lose hope, care not for the coming thing, And feel all things go to decay with us, As ’twere our life’s eleventh month: and yet All this he went through young. | | Helen | Poor soul! I should Have loved him for his sorrows. | | Festus | It is not love Brings sorrow, but love’s objects. | | Student | Then he loved. | | Festus | I said so. I have seen him when he hath had A letter from his lady dear, he blessed The paper that her hand had travelled over, And her eye looked on, and would think he saw Gleams of that light she lavished from her eyes Wandering amid the words of love there traced Like glow-worms among beds of flowers. He seemed To bear with being but because she loved him, She was the sheath wherein his soul had rest, As hath a sword from war: and he at night Would solemnly and singularly curse Each minute that he had not thought of her. | | Helen | Now that was like a lover! and she loved Him, and him only. | | Festus | Well, perhaps it was so. But he could not restrain his heart, but loved In that voluptuous purity of taste Which dwells on beauty coldly, and yet kindly, As night-dew, whensoe’er he met with beauty. | | Helen | It was a pity, that inconstancy⁠— If she he loved were but as good and fair As he was worthy of. | | Student | It was his way. | | Festus | There is a dark and bright to every thing; To every thing but beauty such as thine, And that is all bright. If a fault in him, ’Twas one which made him do the sweetest wrongs Man ever did. And yet a whisper went That he did wrong: and if that whisper had Echo in him or not, it mattered little; Or right or wrong, he were alike unhappy. Ah me! ah me! that there should be so much To call up love, so little to delight! The best enjoyment is half disappointment To that we mean or would have in this world. And there were many strange and sudden lights Beckoned him towards them; they were wreckers’ lights: But he shunned these, and righted when she rose, Moon of his life, that ebbed and flowed with her. A sea of sorrow struck him, but he held On; dashed all sorrow from him as a bark Spray from her bow bounding; he lifted up His head, and the deep ate his shadow merely. | | Helen | A poet not in love is out at sea; He must have a lay-flgure. | | Festus | I meant not To screen, but to describe this friend of mine. | | Helen | Describe the lady, too; of course she was Above all praise and all comparison. | | Festus | Why, true. Her heart was all humanity, Her soul all God’s; in spirit and in form, Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink Of seashells, the world’s sweetest tint, as though She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped In silver dew; she spake as with the voice Of spheral harmony which greets the soul When at the hour of death the saved one knows His sister angels near; her eye was as The golden pane the setting sun doth just Imblaze; which shows, till Heaven comes down again, All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark, Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave Might search for gold, and searching find. | | Helen | Enough!⁠— I have her picture perfect;⁠—quite enough. | | Student | What were his griefs? | | Festus | He who hath most of heart Knows most of sorrow; not a thing he saw Nor did, but was to him, at times, a woe; At times indifferent, at times a joy. Folly and sin and memory make a curse Wherewith the future fires may vie in vain. The sorrows of the soul are graver still. | | Student | Where and when did he study? Did he mix Much with the world, or was he a recluse? | | Festus | He had no times of study, and no place; All places and all times to him were one. His soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved, And sounded only when the spirit blew. Sometime in feasts and follies, for he went Life-like through all things; and his thoughts then rose Like sparkles in the bright wine, brighter still. Sometimes in dreams, and then the shining words Would wake him in the dark before his face. All things talked thoughts to him. The sea went mad, And the wind whined as ’twere in pain, to show Each one his meaning; and the awful sun Thundered his thoughts into him; and at night The stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigh hers. The spirit speaks all tongues and understands; Both God’s and angel’s, man’s and all dumb things, Down to an insect’s inarticulate hum And an inaudible organ. And it was The spirit spake to him of everything; And with the moony eyes like those we see, Thousands on thousands, crowding air in dreams, Looked into him its mighty meanings, till He felt the power fulfil him, as a cloud In every fibre feels the forming wind. He spake the world’s one tongue; in earth and Heaven There is but one, it is the word of truth. To him the eye let out its hidden meaning; And young and old made their hearts over to him; And thoughts were told to him as unto none Save one who heareth said and unsaid, all. And his heart held these as a grate its gleeds, Where others warm them. | | Student | I would I had known him. | | Festus | All things were inspiration unto him; Wood, wold, hill, field, sea, city, solitude, And crowds and streets, and man where’er he was; And the blue eye of God which is above us; Brook-bounded pine spinnies where spirits flit: And haunted pits the rustic hurries by, Where cold wet ghosts sit ringing jingling bells; Old orchards’ leaf-roofed aisles, and red cheeked load; And the blood-coloured tears which yew trees weep O’er churchyard graves, like murderers remorseful. The dark green rings where fairies sit and sup, Crushing the violet dew in the acorn cup: Where by his new-made bride the bride-groom sips, The white moon shimmering on their longing lips; The large o’erloaded wealthy-looking wains Quietly swaggering home through leafy lanes, Leaving on all low branches as they come, Straws for the birds, ears of the harvest home. Summer’s warm soil or winter’s cruel sky, Clear, cold and icy-blue like a sea-eagle’s eye; All things to Him bare thoughts of minstrelsy, He drew his light from that he was amidst, As doth a lamp from air which hath itself Matter of light although it show it not. His Was but the power to light what might be lit. He met a muse in every lovely maid; And learned a song from every lip he loved. But his heart ripened most ’neath southern eyes, Which sunned their sweets into him all day long: For fortune called him southwards, towards the sun. | | Helen | Did he love music? | | Festus | The only music he Or learned or listened to was from the lips Of her he loved, and that he learned by heart. Albeit, she would try to teach him tunes, And put his fingers on the keys; but he Could only see her eyes, and hear her voice, And feel her touch. | | Helen | Why, he was much like thee. | | Festus | We had some points in common. | | Student | Was he proud? | | Festus | Lowliness is the base of every virtue: And he who goes the lowest, builds the safest. My God keeps all his pity for the proud. | | Student | Was he world-wise? | | Festus | The only wonder is He knew so much, leading the life he did. | | Student | Yet it may seem less strange when we think back, That we, in the dark chamber of the heart, Sitting alone, see the world tabled to us; And the world wonders how recluses know So much, and most of all, how we know them. It is they who paint themselves upon our hearts In their own lights and darknesses, not we. One stream of light is to us from above, And that is that we see by, light of God. | | Festus | We do not make our thoughts; they grow in us Like grain in wood: the growth is of the skies, Which are of nature, nature is of God. The world is full of glorious liknesses. The poet’s power is to sort these out, And to make music from the common strings With which the world is strung; to make the dumb Earth utter heavenly harmony, and draw Life clear and sweet and harmless as spring water, Welling its way through flowers. Without faith, Illimitable faith, strong as a state’s In its own might, in God, no bard can be. All things are signs of other and of nature. It is at night we see heaven moveth, and A darkness thick with suns. The thoughts we think Subsist, the same in God as stars in Heaven. And as these specks of light will prove great worlds When we approach them sometime free from flesh, So too our thoughts will become magnified To mind-like things immortal. And as space Is but a property of God, wherein Is laid all matter, other attributes May be the infinite homes of mind and soul. And thoughts rise from our souls, as from the sea The clouds sublimed in Heaven. The cloud is cold, Although ablaze with lightning⁠—though it shine At all points like a constellation; so We live not to ourselves, our work is life; In bright end ceaseless labor as a star Which shineth unto all worlds, but itself. | | Helen | And were this friend and bard of whom thou speakest, And she whom he did love, happy together? | | Festus | True love is ever tragic, grievous, grave. Bards and their beauties are like double stars, One in their bright effect. | | Helen | Whose light is love. | | Student | Or is it poesie thou meanest? | | Festus | Both: For love is poesie⁠—it doth create; From fading features, dim soul, doubtful heart, And this world’s wretched happiness, a life Which is as near to Heaven as are the stars. They parted; and she named Heaven’s judgment-seat As their next place of meeting: and ’twas kept By her, at least, so far that no where else Could it be made until the day of doom. | | Helen | So soon men’s passion passes! yea, it sinks Like foam into the troubled wave which bore it. Merciful God! let me entreat Thy mercy! I have seen all the woes of men⁠—pain, death, Remorse, and worldy ruin; they are little Weighed with the woe of woman when forsaken By him she loved and trusted. Hear, too, thou! Lady of Heaven, Mother of God and man, Who made the world His brother, one with God⁠— Maid-mother! mould of God, who wrought in thee By model as He doth in the world’s womb, So that the universe is great with God⁠— Thou in whom God did deify Himself, Betaking him into mortality, As in Thy Son He took it into Him, And from the temporal and eternal made Of the soul-world one same and ever God! Oh, for the sake of thine own womanhood, Pray away aught of evil from her soul, And take her out of anguish unto thee, Always, as thou didst this one! | | Festus | Who doth not Believe that lat he loveth cannot die? There is no mote of death in thine eye’s beams To hint of dust, or darkness, or decay; Eclipse upon eclipse, and death on death; No! immortality sits mirrored there Like a fair face long looking on itself; Yet thou shalt lie in death’s angelic garb As in a dream of dress, my beautiful! The worm shall trail across thine unsunned sweets, And fatten him on that men pined to death for; Yea, have a further knowledge of thy beauties Than ever did thy best-loved lover dream of. | | Helen | It is unkind to think of me in this wise. Surely the stars must feel that they are bright, In beauty, number, nature infinite; And the strong sense we have of God in us Makes me believe my soul can never cease. The temples perish, but the God still lives. | | Festus | It is therefore that I love thee; for that when The fiery perfection of the world, The sun, shall be a shadow and burnt out, There is an impulse to eternity Raised by this moment’s love. | | Student | I pray it may! Time is the crescent shape to bounded eye Of what is ever perfect unto God. The bosom heaves to Heaven and to the stars; Our very hearts throb upwards, our eyes look; Our aspirations always are divine: Yet is it in the gloom of soul we see Most of the God about us, as at night. For then the soul, like the mother-maid of Christ, Is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit; And in Creative darkness doth conceive Its humanized Divinity of life. | | Festus | Think then God shows his face to us no less In spiritual darkness than in light. | | Helen | But of thy friend? I would hear more of him. Perhaps much happiness in friendship made Amends for his love’s sorrows. | | Festus | Ask me not. | | Helen | But loved he never after? Came there none To roll the stone from his sepulchral heart, And sit in it an angel? | | Festus | Ah, my life! My more than life, my immortality! Both man and kind belie their nature When they are not kind: and thy words are kind, And beautiful, and loving like thyself; Thine eye and thy tongue’s tone, and all that speak Thy soul, are like it. There’s a something in The shape of harps as though they had been made By music: beauty’s the effect of soul, And he of whom thou askest loved again. Could’st thou have loved one who was unlike men? Whose heart was wrinkled long before his brow? Who would have cursed himself if he had dared Tempt God to ratify his curse in fire: And yet with whom to look on beauty was A need, a thirst, a passion? | | Helen | Yes, I think I could have loved him: but, no⁠—not unless He was like thee; unless he had been thee. Tell me, what was it rendered him so wretched At heart? | | Festus | I will not tell thee. | | Student | But tell me How and on what he wrote, this friend of thine? |