mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give;
My longing is thy promise, O my God!
If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim,
Why doth the longing yet remain with me,
And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?"
Methought I heard for answer: "Question on.
Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds
Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee,
A hungering and a fainting and a pain,
Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead
While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it.
Better to live in pain than die that death."
So I will live, and nourish this my pain;
For oft it giveth birth unto a hope
That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too.
Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his,
Not mine to revel in. Content I wait.
A still small voice I cannot but believe,
Says on within: God will reveal himself.
I must go from this place. I cannot rest.
It boots not staying. A desire like thirst
Awakes within me, or a new child-heart,
To be abroad on the mysterious earth,
Out with the moon in all the blowing winds.
'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again.
For many months I had not seen her form,
Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past,
Until I laid me down an hour ago;
When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes,
The memory passed, reclothed in verity:
Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze
Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon;
The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind,
"Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep,
All save the poplar: it was full of joy,
So that it could not sleep, but trembled on.
Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea,
She issued radiant from the pearly night.
It took me half with fear—the glimmer and gleam
Of her white festal garments, haloed round
With denser moonbeams. On she came—and there
I am bewildered. Something I remember
Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound,
Hurrying forth without their pilot-words;
Of agony, as when a spirit seeks
In vain to hold communion with a man;
A hand that would and would not stay in mine;
A gleaming of white garments far away;
And then I know not what. The moon was low,
When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet,
Dripping with dew—
Enter ROBERT cautiously.
Why, how now, Robert?
[Rising on his elbow.] Robert (glancing at the chest). I see; that's well. Are you nearly ready?
Julian.
Why? What's the matter?
Robert.
You must go this night,
If you would go at all.
Julian.
Why must I go?
[Rises.]
Robert (turning over the things in the chest).
Here, put
this coat on. Ah! take that thing too.
No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,
[Going to the chest again.]
Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub
Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow.
Julian.
Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all.
Robert.
No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you.
Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar
The outer doors; and then—good-bye, poor Julian!
[JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes.]
Julian.
Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend.
Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again.
Robert.
Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this.
[Goes.]
[JULIAN follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, and closes the door behind him.]
SCENE IV.—Night. The court of a country-inn. The Abbot, while his horse is brought out
