Pale in the dawn, ere he marched on his adventure, Starving for a crust, did he kneel a-while again, Then, upon the fourth night, he cried, O, like a wounded bird "Let me die, if die I must, in _Red Rose Lane_." Like a little wounded bird he trailed through the darkness, Laid him on a door-step, and then--O, like a breath Pitifully blowing out his life's little rushlight, Came a gush of blackness, a swoon deep as death. Then he heard a rough voice! Then he saw a lanthorn! Then he saw a bearded face, and blindly wondered whose: Then--a marchaunt's portly legs, with great Rose-Windows, Bigger than St. Paul's, he thought, embroidered on his shoes. "Alice!" roared the voice, and then, O like a lilied angel, Leaning from the lighted door a fair face afraid, Leaning over _Red Rose Lane_, O, leaning out of Paradise, Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid! * * * * "O, mellow be thy malmsey," grunted Ben, Filling the Clerk another cup. "The peal," Quoth Clopton, "is not ended; but the pause In ringing, chimes to a deep inward ear And tells its own deep tale. Silence and sound, Darkness and light, mourning and mirth,--no tale, No painting, and no music, nay, no world, If God should cut their fruitful marriage-knot. A shallow sort to-day would fain deny A hell, sirs, to this boundless universe. To such I say 'no hell, no Paradise!' Others would fain deny the topless towers Of heaven, and make this earth a hell indeed. To such I say, 'the unplumbed gulfs of grief Are only theirs for whom the blissful chimes Ring from those unseen heights.' This earth, mid-way, Hangs like a belfry where the ringers grasp Their ropes in darkness, each in his own place, Each knowing, by the tune in his own heart, Never by sight, when he must toss through heaven The tone of his own bell. Those bounded souls Have never heard our chimes! Why, sirs, myself Simply by running up and down the scale Descend to hell or soar to heaven. My bells Height above height, deep below deep, respond! Their scale is infinite. Dare I, for one breath, Dream that one note hath crowned and ended all, Sudden I hear, far, far above those clouds, Like laughing angels, peal on golden peal, Innumerable as drops of April rain, Yet every note distinct, round as a pearl, And perfect in its place, a chime of law, Whose pure and boundless mere arithmetic Climbs with my soul to God." Ben looked at him, Gently. "Resume, old moralist," he said. "On to thy marriage-bells!" "The fairy-tales Are wiser than they know, sirs. All our woes Lead on to those celestial marriage-bells. The world's a-wooing; and the pure City of God