What of the end? since end must be. She knows a skilled artificer, And he shall set in a dagger’s haft The thing that is like the soul of her. When first she thought thereon, she laughed, And then she shuddered fearfully. Ah, what if Heaven no end will grant, Resolved in any heats of wrath, To that which for its symbol hath The unsubduable adamant? Ah, what if like a falling jewel The soul whose light was mocking-cruel, Through gulfs of loss unplummeted Should fall, and fall, forevermore, Fire of torment at its core? Oh, horrible and leaden dread! The grace of God blot out our sins! --The women knock at the chamber door, The queen starts up, the day begins. DEATH-TRYST (_Shelley, 1822: Tennyson, 1892._) I One sailed an azure sea in fateful hour: A Youth, yet age had touched him, and he seemed Lovely and piteous, like a frosted flower. A Book was in his hand, a page that teemed With joy of beauty. (He who made it, slept Where o’er his heart the Roman violets dreamed.) Sailing, he smiled; a tryst his spirit kept; Thoughts lucent-pinioned did as psyches flit Across his summer dream; till on him swept The swift black storm, and Fate and Death did sit Betwixt its cloudy wings as down it bore; And he who read was rapt to him who writ. Twin stars they shine, one fame forevermore. A fire of funeral blazed, beside the sobbing shore. II One slept a sacred sleep, while golden lay Autumnal moonlight glorious on his bed,-- Sleep ebbing deathward like a sea-drawn bay. A Book was in his hand, whence late he read Majestic words of that great Spirit that still Doth haunt by Avon April-garlanded. So sleeping, held he fast with fixéd will His Master’s Book; and all the night was peace, Bright peace on lawn and terrace, dale and hill. Calm consummation, and most sweet surcease! That tryst of sovereign powers Death would not wrong, Shattering the bars with all-too-rough release, But softly dealt.--They rule in splendor long, Large lights, a moon and sun in England’s heaven of song. THE IRIS-BRIDGE