DUST are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound; Like that long-buried body of the king, Found lying with his urns and ornaments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, Slipt into ashes and was found no more.
Little about it stirring save a brook! A sleepy land where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year; Where almost all the village had one name;
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, Crying with a loud voice, "A sail! a sail!
I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more.
So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
DUST are our frames; and, gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound; Like that long-buried body of the king, Found lying with his urns and ornaments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, Slipt into ashes and was found no more.
Here is a story which in rougher shape Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw Sunning himself in a waste field alone Old, and a mine of memories Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, And been himself a part of what he told.
SIR AYLMER AYLMER that almighty man, The county God — in whose capacious hall, Hung with a hundred shields, the family-tree Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire, Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates And swang besides on many a windy sign Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head Saw from his windows nothing save his own- What lovelier of his own had he than her, His only child, his Edith, whom he loved As heiress and not heir regretfully?
But, "he that marries her marries her name," This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, Insipid as the Queen upon a card; Her all of thought and bearing hardly more Than his own shadow in a sickly sun.
A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, Little about it stirring save a brook! A sleepy land where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year; Where almost all the village had one name;
Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the Hall And Averill Averill at the Rectory
Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, Bound in an immemorial intimacy,
Were open to each other; tho' to dream
That Love could bind them closer well had made
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up
With horror, worse than had he heard his priest
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men Daughters of God; so sleepy was the land.
And might not Averill, had he will'd it so, Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs, Have also set his many-shielded tree?
There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once, When the red rose was redder than itself,
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's,
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death. "Not proven" Averill said, or laughingly
"Some other race of Averills," - prov'n or no, What cared he? what, if other or the same?
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself.
But Leolin, his brother, living oft
With Averill, and a year or two before Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim A distant kinship to the gracious blood That shook the heart of Edith hearing him.
Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hue Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom Flamed in his cheek; and eager eyes, that still Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold,
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, But subject to the season or the mood, Shone like a mystic star between the less And greater glory varying to and fro, We know not wherefore; bounteously made, And yet so finely, that a troublous touch Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. And these had been together from the first.
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers: So much the boy foreran; but when his date Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he (Since Averill was a decade and a half His elder, and their parents underground) Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green In living letters, told her fairy-tales, Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, The petty mare's-tail forest, fairy pines Or from the tiny pitted target blew What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes For Edith and himself: or else he forged, But that was later, boyish histories Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love Crown'd after trial; sketches rude and faint, But where a passion yet unborn perhaps Lay hidden as the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. And thus together, save for college-times Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair
As ever painter painted, poet sang,
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, He wasted hours with Averill; there, when first The tented winter-field was broken up Into that phalanx of the summer spears
That soon should wear the garland; there again When burr and bine were gather'd; lastly there At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid No bar between them: dull and self-involved, Tall and erect, but bending from his height With half-allowing smiles for all the world, And mighty courteous in the main his pride Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism,
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