PART VII.

Now robed in veils of shadow, twilight stole
Round that dim grot, dews floated on the air;
The breath of rose and jessamine infused
And steeped the senses in their quietude.
Repose reigned o'er the landscape like a god
Whose tabernacle was the central soul.
From the empyrean the brightest star
Looked through that still and leafy vestibule.
And there he stood alone within the grot.
Was it a vision or reality,
The form that had been there, and leaned on him?
Was that light sense of pressure even now
Felt on his arm; the conscious certainty
Of a departed presence? He gazed round,
The trunks of the grey sycamores arose
Like motionless sentinels beside the door;
The crisp and quivering leaves were audible
Sighing to the impalpable breath of night.
He looked on all, nor saw nor heard, himself
As an abstraction passed into the scene.
Then slowly from the impervious shadow-depths
A form arose, obscure, and indistinct
Even as a part of darkness. On his eye
It grew, advancing slowly, until stood
Before him, as a statue motionless,
Auriol of the West.
The moonlight shone
Upon his face, whose pallor drew from it
A spiritual semblance. On his brow
Purpose was couched, yet with a doubt allied,
As one who weighed each step of his advance.
Astrophel gazed on him with grave regard,
As on a problem that should solve itself.
The stranger spake: " I crave your courtesy;
The poets' haunts are sacred, most to priests
Who bow at the same shrine. Few are my words,
Whose import thus is told. The rumour gives
That in the guild you will contest the palm,
I make the first request I ever made,
The hope profound that you will waive your claim."

There was a tone as if of warning felt
Within each accent, through which rose design,
Granite-like, o'er the softer courtesies;
Observant form, upon whose forehead sate
The self-respect imperious. Astrophel,
Responding, felt within as one who looked
Forth from a calmer eminence of thought,
Self-love o'erruling; while he read in him
The last infirmity that clings to bards
Ere reached sublimer vision.
" Shall I not
Respond in courtesy fine as your own?
May Auriol, with all his lyric art,
Strengthened by habit, disciplined by time,
A rival fear, the light growth of the hour?"

The Lyrist quickly answered, slight the smile
Scarce visible on his lip. " You honour me;
I fear no rival of the day; I chain
All comers save yourself behind my car;
But on your entrance in the lists, or I
Victor or vanquished," and that word escaped
Lightly accented, yet with pride of one
Already crowned, " my overthrow is made."
Astrophel gazed upon him silently;
Responding not the enigma, he resumed:

" Even so; then hear the tale I have to tell —
Confession that will lie within a heart
Of honour deep as in my own.

" I love;
A love that in its secrecy must die,
A love untold, to myself unconfessed.
I dare not on it dwell in solitude,
Or wake the hidden flame within its cell,
Disowned, derided, crushed, yet cherished still.
So high my aspiration, I as well
Might look to yonder star; she is ensphered
Beyond my reach, yet, gazing there, I love
The impossibility, still conscious I,
Though loving, am no more enslaved: I feel
That I can rend my chain; ambition lurks
Beneath, and rules the impulse of the hour.
I feel another loves her, it may be,
Shares her young heart; and whether on the morn,
Victor or vanquished, I his rival am,
If entering there. Thus for my honour's sake
I overcome; and thus I sacrifice
My love before a mightier idol: all
Were offered her save that great fame I prize,
Beyond all loves and human sympathies;
The immortality of life I seek
Beyond the grave, apart from nameless men
That live and die, and leave no trace behind.
I would be an existing consciousness
When that ephemeral flower that crowned my path
Becomes a memory.
Thus have I confessed
My heart before a shrine where I devote
My life; yet still I love her and in vain."

With a tone grave alike, and measured words,
Responded Astrophel:

" I claim the form
Of the like courtesy that you have given.
You have not named the lady of your love,
And fame your tongue alone can give to her.
Ambition is the poet's name and soul;
There is nought living upon earth too high,
Or aught so pure but he can magnify
And blazon forth, even to Cornelia's name.
You have avowed a love inferior,
Based on an earthlier pedestal, a shadow
Ministrant on ambition; a flower whose root
And blossoming is human selfishness.
The idol ruling in your heart, and mine,
Has feet of clay, but prostrate falls before
The spirit of love. With a high courtesy,
True as your own, mindful of faith you pledged,
I here withhold the boon you crave; for I
Aspire toward that lady as yourself:
I seek the wreath you challenge with the morn.
I prize it for itself, — a wreath of leaves,
A trifle else unsought, but sacred now
Woven by Cornelia's hands."
He scarce had ceased,
When the form, e'erwhile mute and motionless,
In the pale moonlight slowly strode away,
Receding into depths from whence it rose.
The appearance, and the pledge, sought and withheld,
The cold defiance in departure heard,
Passed from before him, silent as a dream.