That hand in his--that heart his own entwining 85 With its life's tendrils,--youth his pardon be, If in his heaven no loftier star were shining-- If round the haven boom'd unheard the sea-- If in the wreath forgot the thorny crown, And the harsh duties of severe renown. Blame we as well the idlesse of a dream, 86 As that entranced oblivion from the reign Of the Great Curse, which glares in every beam Of labouring suns to the stern race of Cain; So life from earth did Nature here withdraw, That the strange peace seem'd but earth's common law. Yet some excuse all stronger spirits take 87 For all repose from toil (to strength the doom) How sweet in that fair heathen soil to wake The living palm God planted on the tomb! And so, and long, did Passion's subtle art Mask with the soul the impulse of the heart. Wonderous and lovely in that last retreat 88 Of the old Gods,--the simple speech to hear Tell of the Messenger whose beauteous feet Had gilt the mountain-tops with tidings clear Of veilless Heaven, while AEgle, thoughtful said, "_This_, love makes plain--yes, love can ne'er be dead!" Now, as Night gently deepens round them, while 89 Oft to the moon upturn their happy eyes-- Still, hand in hand, they range the lulled isle. Air knows no breeze, scarce sighing to their sighs; No bird of night shrieks bode from drowsy trees, Nought lives between them and the Pleiades; Save where the moth strains to the moon its wing, 90 Deeming the Reachless near;--the prophet race Of the cold stars forewarn'd them not; the Ring Of great Orion, who for the embrace Of Morn's sweet Maid had died,[16] look'd calm above The last unconscious hours of human love. Each astral influence unrevealing shone 91 O'er the dark web its solemn thread enwove; Mars shot no anger from his fatal throne, No beam spoke trouble in the House of Love; Their closing path the treacherous smile illumed; And the stern Star-kings kiss'd the brows they doom'd.-- 'Tis morn once more; upon the shelving green 92 Of the small isle, alone the Cymrian stood With his full heart,--when, suddenly, between Him and the sun, the azure solitude Was broken by a dark and rapid wing, And a dusk bird swoop'd downward to the King. And the King's cheek grew pale, for well to him 93 (As now the raven, settling, touch'd his feet), Was known the mystic messenger:--where, grim O'er the Black Valley,[17] demon shadows fleet Glass'd on the lake whose horror scares away Each harmless wing that skims the golden day.