Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/326

 The word was "Jubal!" … "Jubal" filled the air

And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there,

Creator of the quire, the full-fraught strain

That grateful rolled itself to him again.

The aged man adust upon the bank—

Whom no eye saw—at first with rapture drank

The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart,

Felt, this was his own being's greater part,

The universal joy once born in him.

But when the train, with living face and limb

And vocal breath, came nearer and more near,

The longing grew that they should hold him dear;

Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew,

The breathing Jubal—him, to whom their love was due.

All was forgotten but the burning need

To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed

That lived away from him, and grew apart,

While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart,

Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed,

Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed.

What though his song should spread from man's small race

Out through the myriad worlds that people space.

And make the heavens one joy-diffusing quire?—

Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire

Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide,

This twilight soon in darkness to subside,

This little pulse of self that, having glowed

Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strowed

The light of music through the vague of sound,

Ached with its smallness still in good that had no bound.

For no eye saw him, while with loving pride

Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied.