XXI.
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he tame hawk in the castle yard,How it screams to the lightning, with itswetJagged plumes overhanging the parapet !And at the lady’s door the houndScratches with a crying sound ! XXII.‘But, O my babe, thy lids are laidClose, fast upon thy cheek !And not a dream of power and sheenCan make a passage up between :‘Thy heart is of thy mother’s made,Thy looks are very meek !And it will be their chosen placeTo rest on some beloved face,As these on thine—and let the noiseOf the whole world go on, nor drownThe tender silence of thy joys;Or when that silence shall have grownToo tender for itself, the sameYearning for sound,—to look aboveAnd utter its one meaning, LOVE,That Ye may hear His name!’ “XXIII. No wind—no rain—no thunder!The waters had trickled not slowly,The thunder was not spent, -Nor the wind near finishing.Who would have said that the storm wasdiminishing ?No wind—no rain—no thunder!Their noises dropped asunderFrom the earth and the firmament,From the towers and the lattices,Abrupt and echolessAs ripe fruits on the ground unshakenwholly—As life in death ;And sudden and solemn the silence fell,Startling the heart of IsobelAs the tempest could not!Against the door went panting the breathOf the lady’s hound whose cry was still—And she, constrained howe’er she wouldnot,Did lift her eyes, and saw the moonLooking out of heaven aloneUpon the poplared hill,—A calm of God, made visibleThat men might bless it at their will.
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