I ponder, and I cannot ponder; yet I live and love.' The daughter of beauty wiped her pitying tears with her white veil, And said: 'Alas! I knew not this, and therefore did I weep. That God would love a worm I knew, and punish the evil foot That wilful bruised its helpless form; but that He cherished it With milk and oil, I never knew, and therefore did I weep; And I complained in the mild air, because I fade away, And lay me down in thy cold bed, and leave my shining lot.' 'Queen of the vales,' the matron Clay answered, 'I heard thy sighs, And all thy moans flew o'er my roof, but I have called them down. Wilt thou, O queen, enter my house? 'Tis given thee to enter, And to return: fear nothing; enter with thy virgin feet.' IV The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar; Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen. She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listening Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground, Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down, And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit. 'Why cannot the ear be closèd to its own destruction? Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn, Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie, Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coinèd gold? Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy? Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?' The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har. From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION [DEMOCRACY AND PEACE] Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his hand; A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and coverèd his soul with snows eternal. Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from his angry bosom; He indignant departed on horses of Heaven. Then the Abbé de Sieyès raised his feet On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, the Abbé followed The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to his son, Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the people bowèd Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd.