Or, prostrate, in the Temple-halls, When Spirits wake, and mortals sleep, She hears what mighty Voices sweep Like winds along the columned walls. A Princess then beneath the palms Which wave o'er Afric's burning plains, The blood of Afric in thy veins, A golden circlet on thine arms. By sacred Ganges' sultry tide, With dreamy gaze and clasped hands Thou walkst a Seeress in the lands Where holy Buddha lived and died. Anon, a sea-bleached mountain cave Makes shelter for thee, grave and wan, Thou solemn, solitary Man, Who, nightly, by the star-lit wave Invokest with illumined eyes The steadfast Lords who rule and wait Beyond the heavens and Time and fate, Until the perfect Dawn shall rise, And oracles, through ages dumb, Shall wake, and holy forms shall shine On mountain peaks in light divine, When mortals bid God's kingdom come So turns the wheel of thy [keen] soul; From birth to birth her ruling stars, Swift Mercury and fiery Mars, In ever changing orbits roll! --Paris, May, 1880 Fragment A jarring note, a chord amiss-- The music's sweeter after, Like wrangling ended with a kiss, Or tears, with silver laughter. The high gods have no joys like these, So sweet in human story; No tempest rends their tranquil seas Beyond the sunset glory. The whirling wheels of Time and Fate Fragment* I thank Thee, Lord, who hast through devious ways Led me to know Thy Praise, And to this Wildernesse Hast brought me out, Thine Israel to blesse. If I should faint with Thirst, or weary, sink, To these my Soule is Drink, To these the Majick Rod Is Life, and mine is hid with Christ in God. ---------- * These are not properly dream-verses, having been suddenly presented to the waking vision one day in Paris while gazing at the bright sky. (Ed.) Signs of the Times Eyes of the dawning in heaven? Sparks from the opening of hell? Gleams from the altar-lamps seven? Can you tell? Is it the glare of a fire? Is it the breaking of day? Birth lights, or funeral pyre? Who shall say? --April 19, 1886. With the Gods Sweet lengths of shore with sea between, Sweet gleams of tender blue and green, Sweet wind caressive and unseen, Soft breathing from the deep; What joy have I in all sweet things; How clear and bright my spirit sings; Rising aloft on mystic wings; While sense and body sleep. In some such dream of grace and light, My soul shall pass into the sight Of the dear Gods who in the height Of inward being dwell; And joyful at Her perfect feet Whom most of all I long to greet, My soul shall lie in meadow sweet All white with asphodel. --August 31, 1887. Part II. Dream-Stories I. A Village of Seers-- A Christmas Story A day or two before Christmas, a few years since, I found myself compelled by business to leave England for the Continent.