We have outtravelled light and sound: The harmonies that pealed around us, as Through yon array of dim and distant worlds We winged our flight, have wholly died away, Or come to us so faintly echoed, that Our ears must watch and wait to catch them. Those stars are now like watch- fires, which though seen Blazing afar, send not their light to make The path of the benighted wanderer More plain and cheerful. Before us stretches one vast field of gloom, So dense as to appear impenetrable:-- Darkness, that has a body and a form, Both palpable to touch and sight, across Our path a barrier rears that seems to bar Our farther progress. If there be, beyond This wall of blackness, aught of mystery, What power shall guide us to it?
Spirit.
Thy mind Which, from the influence of matter, free As it is now and shall be till again Though art returned unto thy native orb, Is its own master, and its will is now Its only needed guide. Strange things are hidden by that ebon veil, To which a single wish of thine may bear us.
Werner.
Then let us on: Since we our search for knowledge have begun, Wherever there is aught that Power has made, Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned, There let us go, that we may look on it, And learn its history. What intense glooms We now are passing through! I feel them part Before, and close behind us, as we fly, As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh, Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice To make a lily tremble!
Spirt.
Though say'st true, This is indeed the realm of Death,--at least It has no more of life than what though hast Brought here with thee,--I speak of mortal life: We now are near the Hades of past worlds, Whose spirits havea life which cannot die. You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. Think you that he who gave to man his mind, The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, Would fashion from the same material Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go Hymning around his everlasting throne! Giving to them a beauty which alone Could be conceived by him, which has great hand Alone could mould into reality, And yet deny them what he gave to thee, Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, And shake her yellow locks from every hill? Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, And murmured by her myriads of streams? Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, Which moan the requiem of the dying year, Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? If not, then why deny to her the life And spirit you possess?
Werner.
I did not laugh In disbelief of what thy words declare, But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind, That, as I will not weep, I can but smile. Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,-- A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in, First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent, And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us. The light increases still, and in the distance, Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes, Since seemingly immovable, and others Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved By magic o'er a tideless,waveless ocean, In calm, majestic silence float along!
Spirit. Let us go nearer, Now what seest though? Werner.
Worlds like to that I live on, save that these Seem made of living shades instead of dust; Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, And fountains, gushing from their very summits; Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,-- With precipices from whose edges soft And silvery cataracts are leaping down; Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep In the embrace of the surrounding hills; The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;-- Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks Studded with towns, and rural villages; Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, With vasty walls and gilded palaces, And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem The guardians of all they overlook. Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! All these are there, but not a sign of life, No living thing that creeps along the ground, Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. It seems as if on all things some strong spell Had in the twinkling of a star came down And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! Spirit! tell me if what I see is more Than a delusion; if it be, whence came These shades?
Spirit.
