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Buffeted by the world's unequal strife,
And harassed by the clinging cares that spread
Their hovering wings about our little life
Till resolution dies and faithless dread
Like a slant shadow meets the days that come--
Apart I drew, entranced in thought, and sighed,
"Peace dwells not here, but verily there are some
Like-burdened, who have found it, ere they died,
In scenes remote, by calm and silence sanctified."

 

And straight on eager wings my troubled soul
Took flight, and rising as the dove will rise
That marks from airy height its distant goal,
So I espied, far under happier skies,
The golden sickle of a sun-lit bay,
On whose bright edge the white flowers of the foam
Perpetual fell; hard by, a hamlet grey
Slept in the light. "Behold," said I, "the home
And sanctuary of Peace,--why should I further roam?"

 

Day droop'd, and frightened stars flash'd out; the deep
Moaned on its moving stones, and I could see
Dim clouds, with fitful lights between them, creep
From out the west; then did the silence flee:
Hoarse thunders rolled, and soon the stinging hail
Smote suddenly the waters; o'er the ships
Black darkness fell, and rousing at the gale,
With the old Viking passion at the lips,
Up leaped the giant waves, amid the wild eclipse.

 

So passed the night, and with the streaks of Dawn
The sea was quiet; but along its rim,
'Mid yellow froth of tempest and forlorn
Brown lines of wrack, lay drifted, gaunt and grim,
A fisher's boat, upturned; and seated by
Two children clung together weeping sore.
Above them wailed the gulls with plaintive cry:
Behind them open stood a cottage door,
Where one familiar step would enter nevermore.

 

Then said I, In the desert there is Peace,
And when I looked, I found me in a world
Of ruin and wide sand; the rainless fleece
Of shredded clouds in highest azure curled
By no winds troubled; towering shafts of stone
Parried the burning arrows of the sun;
And sculptured gods, amid the wrecks o'erthrown,
Calm, as if waiting till frail Man had run
His fierce and fevered course, sat silent every one.

 

Red obelisks around me to their feet
Drew the cool shadows, and the lizards slept
In cleft and crevice; in the quiet heat
Far off between its palms the river crept
Lazily seaward, and with crimson plumes
The ibis waded by the temple stairs.
"Silence," quoth I, "in this hoar land assumes
The mask of Peace: the stony smile she wears
Brings to the living heart no freedom from its cares."

 

The scene was changed: a far Cathayan vale,
Ringed round with hills that thrust their sun-lit peaks
Above the sea of maples, whom the gale
Stirred lovingly; a rain-cloud's sombre streaks
Dash'd on the scarlet canvas of the Dawn;
Below, a reedy lake with shallows grey;
And, where the forest left a slope of lawn,
A Temple, on whose gables crouched alway
The gilded dragons watching for their sinful prey.

 

A holy calm on all things; through the courts
The fumes of fragrant incense curling high
Stole from the early altar; here the thoughts
Of pious souls, ascending thus, might fly
To Paradise: such perfect peace was there.
And throned before me, with the massive hands
Folded, and knees aslant, and every care
Smoothed from the brow, he sat, whose great commands
Compass the sallow millions of the Orient lands.

 

Not long I lingered ere into my heart
Crept a great yearning, like the throb of pain
That comes to those condemned to dwell apart
From loved ones taken; and I turned again
For peace and comfort to that Face serene,
Craving for share in its calm restfulness.
But all was mute: no love-light played between
Those sightless orbs, my broken prayer to bless,
Nor moved the downcast lids to look on my distress.

 

God of the sinless! who dost bid the soul
Reach to perfection, and unaided climb
Those heights of Contemplation, while their roll
Black storms about the path, thy rest sublime
Who can attain? from thy superior seat
Set high among the snows of Purity,
Thou wilt not stoop to guide the pilgrim's feet
Nor hearken to the lost one if he cry.
O silent God, what peace hast thou for such as I?

 

The temple faded; and the scene was new.
A palace; in voluptuous ease reclined
A turbaned monarch; musical and few
The sounds that floated on the amorous wind--
Women's soft voices, where the fountain spray
Rained on white feet and lotus cups of red.
Doves fluttered, and between the awnings gay
That drooped from porphyry pillars overhead,
Out of the shimmering blue the Noon her brightness shed.

 

What peace in this hushed dwelling was disclosed!
Here, where the flower of Asian beauty lay,
Or sported, or in dreamy warmth reposed,
While henna'd fingers languidly would stray
To salvers crowned with fruit and dainties fine,
Spices, and spoils from many an island fair,
Meet for such lips; while some would rise and twine
With golden champac buds their raven hair,
Till Camadeva's self might scarce elude the snare.

 

But hark! the pavements tremble--from afar,
With roll of drums approaching, and the tread
Of hurrying feet, pours in the tide of War;
The brazen gates go down--the guards have fled--
The courts are filled with shrieking and the hiss
Of flashing scimitars; the doves are flown;
The lotus--ah! what broken dream is this?--
Floats in a crimson deeper than its own.
And slain the monarch lies before his prostrate throne.

 

A red mist swam before my thrinking eyes;
And when it lifted, lo! with tender light
An English eventide; to west, the skies
Transfigured, and to east, the coming night.
A cottage garden with its wealth of flowers,
Low fringe of bushes and grey elder tree;
Behind, rich moorlands, whence the Autumn showers
Not yet had swept the beauty, far and free
With breadths of purple bloom stretched northward to the sea.

 

And in the doorway, with the sunset glow
Warm on his wasted cheek, a feeble child
Gazed from his pillows at the woods below
And sighed, and then at Day's bright death, and smiled.
The mother bent beside him; one thin palm
Nestled in hers, the while Love's panting fire
Flickered into its last long quiet calm.
And as the fevered lids began to tire,
They saw the world's great light 'mid golden clouds expire.

 

A breeze crept up and died upon the moor,
And left the sun-flowers nodding; odours sweet
Stole from the jasmine trails above the door;
And where he might his broken song repeat
One thrush yet fluted in the lonely lane,
Singing goodnight to the departing Day.
And on the dead child's lips no trace of pain
Lingered, and on the mother's face there lay
The perfect peace of God, which passeth not away.