Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/323

 The former songs seem little, yet no more

Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore

Tell what the earth is saying unto me:

The secret is too great, I hear confusedly.

"No farther will I travel: once again

My brethren I will see, and that fair plain

Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced youth

Will pour my strains with all the early truth

Which now abides not in my voice and hands,

But only in the soul, the will that stands

Helpless to move. My tribe remembering

Will cry ''T is he!' and run to greet me, welcoming."

The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew,

And shook out clustered gold against the blue,

While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres,

Sought the dear home of those first eager years,

When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will

Took living outward shape in pliant skill;

For still he hoped to find the former things,

And the warm gladness recognition brings.

His footsteps erred among the mazy woods

And long illusive sameness of the floods,

Winding and wandering. Through far regions, strange

With Gentile homes and faces, did he range,

And left his music in their memory,

And left at last, when naught besides would free

His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries,

The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes

No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son,

That mortal frame wherein was first begun

The immortal life of song. His withered brow

Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now,

His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air,