Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/324

 The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare

Of beauteous token, as the outworn might

Of oaks slow dying, gaunt in summer's light.

His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran:

He was the rune-writ story of a man.

And so at last he neared the well-known land,

Could see the hills in ancient order stand

With friendly faces whose familiar gaze

Looked through the sunshine of his childish days;

Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods,

And seemed to see the selfsame insect broods

Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers—to hear

The selfsame cuckoo making distance near.

Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy,

Met and embraced him, and said, "Thou art he!

This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine,

Where feeding, thou didst all thy life entwine

With my sky-wedded life in heritage divine."

But wending ever through the watered plain,

Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain,

He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold

That never kept a welcome for the old,

Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise

Saying, "This home is mine." He thought his eyes

Mocked all deep memories, as things new made,

Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade

And seem ashamed to meet the staring day.

His memory saw a small foot-trodden way,

His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road

Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode;

The little city that once nestled low

As buzzing groups about some central glow,

Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep,

Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep.