Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/330

 Two rushed upon him: two, the most devout

In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out,

And beat him with their flutes. 'T was little need;

He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed,

As if the scorn and howls were driving wind

That urged his body, serving so the mind

Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen

Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen.

The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky,

While Jubal lonely laid him down to die.

He said within his soul, "This is the end:

O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend

And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul:

I lie here now the remnant of that whole,

The embers of a life, a lonely pain;

As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain,

So of my mighty years naught comes to me again.

"Is the day sinking? Softest coolness springs

From something round me: dewy shadowy wings

Enclose me all around—no, not above—

Is moonlight there? I see a face of love,

Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong:

Yea—art thou come again to me, great Song?"

The face bent over him like silver night

In long-remembered summers; that calm light

Of days which shine in firmaments of thought,

That past unchangeable, from change still wrought.

And gentlest tones were with the vision blent:

He knew not if that gaze the music sent,

Or music that calm gaze: to hear, to see,

Was but one undivided ecstasy:

The raptured senses melted into one,

And parting life a moment's freedom won