English

5

. . .H ARK to those sounds!
They come of tender beings angelical,
Least and most childlike of the sons of God.

FIRST CHOIR OF ANGELICALS

Praise to the Holiest in the height,
And in the depth be praise:
In all His words most wonderful;
Most sure in all His ways!

To us His elder race He gave
To battle and to win,
Without the chastisement of pain,

4

SOUL

But hark! upon my sense
Comes a fierce hubbub, which would make me fear,
Could I be frighted.

ANGEL

We are now arrived
Close on the judgment-court; that sullen howl
Is from the demons who assemble there
It is the middle region, where of old
Satan appeared among the sons of God,
To cast his jibes and scoffs at holy Job.
So now his legions throng the vestibule,
Hungry and wild, to claim their property,

3

SOUL

I WILL address him. Mighty one, my Lord,
My Guardian Spirit, all hail!

ANGEL

All hail, my child!
My child and brother, hail! what wouldest thou?

SOUL

I would have nothing but to speak with thee
For speaking's sake. I wish to hold with thee
Conscious communion; though I fain would know
A maze of things, were it but meet to ask,
And not a curiousness.

ANGEL

2

SOUL OF GERONTIUS

I WENT to sleep; and now I am refresh'd,
A strange refreshment: for I feel in me
An inexpressive lightness, and a sense
Of freedom, as I were at length myself,
And ne'er had been before. How still it is!
I hear no more the busy beat of time,
No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;
Nor does one moment differ from the next.
I had a dream; yes: — some one softly said
" He's gone; " and then a sigh went round the room.

1

GERONTIUS

J ESU, MARIA — I am near to death,
And Thou art calling me; I know it now.
Not by the token of this faltering breath,
This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow, —
(Jesu, have mercy! Mary, pray for me!)
'Tis this new feeling, never felt before,
(Be with me, Lord, in my extremity!)
That I am going, that I am no more.
'Tis this strange innermost abandonment,
(Lover of souls! great God! I look to Thee,)
This emptying out of each constituent

Angrily rose the flood with a mighty murmuring sound:
The King with his guests of honour, the City and people, were drowned.
And the Magic Mere abideth until the Judgment Day . . .
Unless some knightly diver shall bring the pitcher away.

Tripped the beautiful Princess down the stairs of stone,
Bearing a golden pitcher, blushing, dreaming, alone;
Softly she raised the cover: the water arose in its might,
And she fell in its cold embraces upon her bridal night.

There came a great betrothal: a Princess was to wed
A Prince of another nation: and lo the old king said . . .
" Rarer is magical water than wine of high account,
Fetch thou a stoup, my daughter, of the lymph of the Magic Fount."

So the magical Fountain struggled within its prison of stone,
Like the mighty heart of a Poet by scornful men unknown,
In the City the people murmured, ever below their breath —
For the frown of the King was a scourge, and the word of the King was death.

But the King said: " Far more precious than rarest draughts of wine
Is the stream that rises ever from this free fount of mine:
Yet the country lasses drink it, and churls of common clay.
Up with a gateway of granite, and drive the mob away!"