Puslapio vaizdai
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And silenced by that silence lay the wife,
Remembering her dear Lord who died for all,
And musing on the little lives of men,
And how they mar this little by their feuds.

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell

In vast sea-cataracts-ever and anon

Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs
At this the babe,

Heard thro' the living roar.
Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke
The mother, and the father suddenly cried,

'A wreck, a wreck!' then turn'd, and groaning said,

'Forgive! How many will say, "forgive," and find

A sort of absolution in the sound

To hate a little longer! No; the sin
That neither God nor man can well forgive,
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once.

Is it so true that second thoughts are best?
Not first, and third, which are a riper first?
Too ripe, too late! they come too late for use.
Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast
Something divine to warn them of their foes:

And such a sense, when first I fronted him,
Said, "Trust him not ;" but after, when I came
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less;
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity;
Sat at his table; drank his costly wines;
Made more and more allowance for his talk
;
Went further, fool! and trusted him with all,
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years
Of dust and deskwork: there is no such mine,
None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold,
Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roars
Ruin a fearful night!'

'Not fearful; fair,'

Said the good wife, 'if every star in heaven
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide.
Had you ill dreams?"

'O yes,' he said, 'I dream'd

Of such a tide swelling toward the land,
And I from out the boundless outer deep
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs.
I thought the motion of the boundless deep
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved upon it
In darkness: then I saw one lovely star
Larger and larger. "What a world," I thought,

"To live in !" but in moving on I found

Only the landward exit of the cave,

Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond:
And near the light a giant woman sat,

All over earthy, like a piece of earth,

A pickaxe in her hand: then out I slipt
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees

As high as heaven, and every bird that sings:
And here the night-light flickering in my eyes
Awoke me.'

'That was then your dream,' she said,

'Not sad, but sweet.'

'So sweet, I lay,' said he,

'And mused upon it, drifting up the stream
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced
The broken vision; for I dream'd that still
The motion of the great deep bore me on,
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink:
I wonder❜d at her strength, and ask'd her of it :
"It came," she said, "by working in the mines:"
O then to ask her of my shares, I thought;
And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head.
And then the motion of the current ceased,
And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd
A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns;

But she with her strong feet up the steep hill
Trod out a path: I follow'd; and at top
She pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass,
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me,
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud
That not one moment ceased to thunder, past
In sunshine: right across its track there lay,
Down in the water, a long reef of gold,
Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at first
To think that in our often-ransack'd world
Still so much gold was left; and then I fear'd
Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it,
And fearing waved my arm to warn them off;
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet

(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I

woke,

I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see

My dream was Life; the woman honest Work;

And my poor venture but a fleet of glass
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.'

'Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him, 'You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream: A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.'

'No trifle,' groan'd the husband; 'yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. Like her, he shook his head. "Show me the books!" He dodged me with a long and loose account. "The books, the books!" but he, he could not wait, Bound on a matter he of life and death:

When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten)
Were open'd, I should find he meant me well;
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze
All over with the fat affectionate smile

That makes the widow lean. "My dearest friend,
Have faith, have faith! We live by faith," said he;
"And all things work together for the good
Of those "—it makes me sick to quote him-last
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went.
I stood like one that had received a blow:
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts,
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand,
A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyes
Pursued him down the street, and far away,
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd,
Read rascal in the motions of his back,

And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.'

'Was he so bound, poor soul?' said the good wife;

'So are we all but do not call him, love,

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