Well, there's a lesson when the tablet's buried,
More than its scroll could read us.
This stone is new: there's but one name inscribed,
And a long blank for chronicling the friends
Whose hour comes after. Why not write their names?
Then were the date but wanting. Look again—
"Here lieth" (say rather here once lay)
"The body of Peter Andros, a true spouse
"And tender father-may the dust lie light .
Why look
you
there! the relict of this Peter
(Whom I once knew) and his all-duteous sons
Drave Peter hitherward ere they bore him here;
And here they stood around the low-laid sire,
Echoing the hollow rattle of the mould
Upon his coffin-lid with hollow groans;
And then they wrote his epitaph,—a true one,
Which yet they lied in writing. Could we call up
The rings of mourners that have girt these mounds
And bid them show their faces, 'twere a sight
That to behold the Devil should wax mirthful.
But they have follow'd.—What may be the name
Of yonder church ?
It bears its founder's name, St. Nicolaus Pontifex, my lord.
Comnenus. Ay, is it so? Alexius, this place
I should have known, but that the dusk deceived me.
Once in this ground I saw a friend interr'd,
And I would fain revisit now the spot.
From hence I know my road. I'll follow you.
[Exeunt ALEXIUS and Guide.
This is the very earth that covers her,
And, lo! we trample it like common clay!
Chance shall I call it merely-but blind chance,
That at this fateful, questionable hour,
Brings me to blunder thus upon a spot
Which I have shunn'd for years as haunted ground! The past rejoins me. When I last stood here Disguised to see a lowly girl laid down
Into her early grave, there was such light
As now doth show it, but a bleaker air,
Being it was December. 'Tis most strange;
I can remember now each circumstance
Which then I scarce was conscious of; like words
That leave upon the still susceptive sense
A message undeliver'd till the mind
Awakes to apprehensiveness and takes it.
"Twas o'er-the mutter'd unattended rite,
And the few friends she had beside myself
Had risen and gone; I had not knelt, but stood
With a dull gaze of stupor as the mould
Was shovell'd over and the broken sods
Fitted together: then some idle boys
Who had assisted at the covering in,
Ran off in sport, trailing the shovels with them,
Rattling upon the gravel; and the sexton
Flatten'd the last sods down, and knock'd his spade
Against a neighbouring tomb-stone to shake off
The clinging soil,—with a contented air,
Even as a ditcher who has done his work.
I, at that sound, had started from my trance,
Conscious of its completion, but the keen frost
Had ta'en the power of motion from my limbs.
How I came thence I know not, nor dared ask.
But now I dare recall these things. Oh Christ!
How that which was the life's life of our being
Can pass away and we recall it thus!
Irene! if there's aught of thee that lives,
Thou hast beholden me a suffering man;
Thou'st seen the mind-its native strength how rack'd,
Thou see'st the bodily frame how sorely shaken,
And thou wilt judge me, not as they do who live,
But gently as thou didst judge all the world
When it was thy world.-
On many a battle's eve, in many climes,
By the ice-cavern'd course of black Araxes,
By Ister's stream and Halys and Euphrates,
By Antioch's walls and Palestine's sea-shore,
I have address'd wild prayers unto thy spirit,
And with a mind against its natural bent
Tortured to strong devotion, have besought
That thou wouldst meet me then, or that denied,
That I might seek thy world upon the morrow.
And then it would have seem'd a thing most sweet,
Though awful, to behold thy bodiless spirit.
But now-and whether from the body's toil,
I know not if it be, or fever'd blood,
Or wakefulness, or from the mind's worn weakness-
It were a very terror to the flesh
To look on such a phantom-it is strange
That what we so grieved to lose we fear to find
In any shape,-strange that the form so sweet,
So gentle and beloved, I saw laid here,
Now new-arisen would make my blood run cold!
Up, moon! for I am fearful of the darkness,
And I have heard a voice that cries aloud-
Home, home, Comnenus!
[A voice at a distance, calling COMNENUS.
Where hath he a home?
His home is with the dead-his home is here—
Father of mercies, take him to his home!
Alexius. Isaac, you stay too long.
Alexius. What ails thee? what has happen'd to thee,
Isaac ?
I left thee but just now.
Alexius. And thou wert undisturb'd-what has befallen ?
Comnenus. Ay, it was something that I saw just now. Alexius. Thou speak'st without the concert of thy mind;
Collect thy thoughts; whence is this sudden change?
Comnenus. Be not alarm'd; 'twas but some idle
thought;
We will dismiss it-merely a brain creation;
Think it no more. Alexius, as thou said'st,
I am a much changed man, and phantoms come
Before my sight most palpably like truths,
But going thus show clearly what they are.
We should survey yon villa on the left;
Some fifty men might hold it for an hour,
And cover our advance till Cos be won.
Come, let us onward. Why, thou stand'st amazed.
Alexius. Go on; I will not quit thee.
Time runs out; 'Tis dawn by three o'clock; and ere that hour, Macrinus will be up with half his force
As far as Ithé. I'll send word-but come-
The moon looms large and shows our footing well.
SCENE IV.-The Gardens of the Convent of St. Conon's.-
ISAAC COMNENUS.
Comnenus. Midnight is past; yon western rim of
light
Is sunken and absorb'd: yet darkness comes not.
The brow of night is pale-pale, but how lovely!
Quieter far than life, than death less dark;
A voiceless revelation of the things
Which lost their names when Eden was no more. A Voice (behind). Cherub and Seraph be your blessing here!
Comnenus. But lo! the names are left; oblivion gulf'd
The nature, essence, notion--not the name;
So honour'd be the all that earth lost not.
I, willing that all words should have their use,
Accepted these for watchwords.-Peace, come forth.
The Voice. Cherub and Seraph-
So I may deem that heavenly voice incarnate;
Come forward, for I cannot bring my tongue
To rhyme thy pestilent jargon; come, thou know'st
Enter the MONK MONOMACHUS.
Monk. Deiparous Virgin! Holy Mary Mother! My lord, you're louder than the bell for matins ! You'll rouse the brotherhood.
Monk. To come amongst your enemies alone! It is mere madness, so I bade him tell you; Periling alike yourself and me that screen you.
Comnenus. Thy counsel whether I should come or
not,
Was never ask'd; I sent to bid thee meet me,
And finding thee am satisfied. Alone
I have not come, save for the last half mile;
See'st thou yon upland; in the dell beyond
A hundred horse are browsing.
You do not purpose an attack?
Unless perchance my person were betray'd.
Monk. Surely, my lord, you question not my faith. Comnenus. I cannot doubt that it behoves thee keep it.
Monk. Pardon me there! though plighted faith still binds,
The rashness of the chief might cast in doubt
Not a whit, sir, no;
By whichsoever is espoused, by that
"Tis safest to abide. Be thou aware
It were a fatal error should'st thou dream
That thou couldst secretly espouse my cause
And change thy mind at will as things fall out.
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