Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

XXVII.

And just as far as ever from the end,

Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap-perchance the guide I sought.

XXVIII.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

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All round to mountains-with such name to grace 165 Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,-solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case.

XXIX.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick

Of mischief happened to me, God knows whenIn a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way.

When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

As when a trap shuts—you 're inside the den.

XXX.

Burningly it came on me all at once,

This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight, While, to the left, a tall scalped mountain-Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,

After a life spent training for the sight!

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XXXI.

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

XXXII.

Not see? because of night perhaps?-why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft;
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—
'Now stab and end the creature-to the heft!'

XXXIII.

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV.

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

And blew. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.'

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THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

MORNING, evening, noon, and night,
'Praise God!' sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.
Hard he laboured, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell:
But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, ' Praise God!'
Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

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Said Blaise, the listening monk, 'Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son ;

As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God the Pope's great way.

This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome

Praises God from Peter's dome.'

Said Theocrite, 'Would God that I

Might praise Him that great way, and die !'

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, 'Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight.'

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Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon, and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy to youth he grew ;
The man put off the stripling's hue;
The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay;

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, 'A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear :

So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.
Clearer loves sound other ways:

I miss my little human praise.'

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.
In the tiring-room close by
'The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,

Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

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Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed ;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:
And, rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

'I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-
Creation's chorus stopped!

Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation's pausing strain.
Back to the cell and poor employ;
Resume the craftsman and the boy!'
Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.
One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.