IV

Now, through some dim white days of ceaseless rain,
They waited till the sky should clear again,
page 234 Roofed by a hut no woodman would demur
To call a palace for a forester.
Amid the trees—where loftiest towering grew
Some spiny-leaved tetáras like the yew,
Root-buttressed, forty yards or so in height,—
They—ere the mist first gathering blanched the blue,
Though many a sign that threatened rain they knew,—
Had built a hasty homestead snug and tight
Some of these trees, notch-circled near the ground,
That for such end their bark might well be dried,
Or trunks be seasoned for canoes, they found;
Their stringy coats were easily off-stripped,
In stripes, long, broad and heavy, upward ripped;
These, fastened on a frame of poles flax-tied,
Slant roof and walls against the windward side-
Made such a pleasant dwelling in three hours
As had withstood a month of drenching showers;
Thick fern and broom were fragrant floor and couch;
And to the sweet clean roof and walls upslung,
Guns, shot-belt, matches, flints and powder-pouch
And change of raiment, dry and safely hung.

In this retreat three quiet days they passed
In perfect shelter; and the time flew fast,
Though to the hut they mostly were confined,
And spite of care that lurked in Amo's mind.
Love wrapped in sunshine that rain-beaten bower
Made prisoned solitude and silence dear;
Her care diverted, half-assuaged her fear;
Surcharged e'en trivial chat with eloquent power
To slight details of daily intercourse
Gave magic sweetness and electric force;
Nay, lent to weeping Nature's gloomier hour
page 235 A gentle charm they ne'er before descried
When bathed in brilliant light her features smiled:
So Ranolf felt when over wood and wild
That quiet sadness first began to creep;
And sheltered safe within their mountain-nook
On his fern-pillow he could lie and look
Past forest tree-tops surging down the steep,
With rocks out-slanting bold, dark-red and grey—
Through the glen's mouth, o'er yellow plains outside,
Mixed with the skies, it seemed, so high and wide—
Melting to misty dimness far away;—
Look—but to feel with more supreme content
That luxury of loneliness profound—
No human soul but theirs for miles around!
Feel how serenely, pensively forlorn
The lender silence of the tearful Morn;
Of those unmoving trees as still as thought,
And leaves imbibing in their happy sleep
Rich greenness ever more refreshed and deep;
Each branch with bright drops hung that would not fall
The faint blue haze upon the grass; while nought
But the slight tremble, shimmering on the shade
So glowing dark about their stems, betrayed
The fine soft rain's inaudible descent.
Then, as the thickening weather with its pall
Of gloom shut out the distant hills and sky,
How pleasant there to lounge secure and mark
Emerging from the mists in forests high
Black jutting trees to shadows turn, and fade,
Where sullen, ragged, smothering vapors weighed
Upon the nearer summits; or when wind
Arose, and hurried up the storm, behind
Their hill-protected hut and roof of bark—
page 236 To mark each sudden, snowy, crooked skein
With fibres opening here and there, appear
Along the sloping hollows—all pure green
But now—inlaid between round knolls, and seen
White through thin clouds of level-driving rain.
And then within their wildwood home, what cheer—
What manifold amusements might be found!
What pleasure in the necessary round
Of primitive provisions for so rude
A life—whose mere privations still endued
The hours that flew so fast, with fleeter wings;
The merry makeshifts, and the thousand things
To tax contrivance, whence ingenious tact
A double comfort from discomfort wrings;
Scant implements still put to novel use;
Forced partnership in many a little act
For which e'en Love had else scarce found excuse.
Then Ranolf had in note-book to record
Brief hints of many an incident or word
That might the vivid memory reproduce
Of these bright scenes far hence when they should be
Forgotten into freshness. Or he made
Upon the inside smoothness of a square
Of that stripped bark, with pistol-barrel ruled,
Draft-chequers—clipping flat for draftsmen rare
Hard violet drupes of the great laurel-tree
And gold karaka-dates—and soon had schooled
His quick companion in the game they played
For kisses like Campaspe! though, he said,
Amo from Cupid had not cared to win
Cheek-bloom—lips bow-curved—tender turn of chin—
Hers sweeter far already! Or he strove
With taste, and skill—but not in like degree—
page 237 Still quickened, still impeded by his love—
Sketchbook on knee, to reproduce, though slight,
Some glimpses of the spirit-winning light
That danced in dazzling depths of Amo's eyes—
Some of her shape's enchanting symmetries;
While she, with wondering bright compliance bore
The frequent interruptions and delay
To the immediate work she had in hand,
As he so oft entreated her to stay
In that position just one moment more—
Just to continue so to kneel or stand—
Reach up—bend over—let him seize the charm
Of some fine posture, planted foot, or arm
Upraised, that any Sculptor's heart might warm.
And truly, every instant she displayed
A look or attitude that would have made
A Phidias turn admiring, though intent
On one fastidious finishing touch, the last—
One pumice-polish, warm wax-stain, that lent
Perfection to some wonder, now complete,
Some marble miracle or famous feat
Chryselephantine, all the world to beat,
And stamp his own surpassing self surpassed—
Though on his ears, already charmed, he felt
Aspasia's clear Milesian accents melt
In critic subtleties of praise that seize
The heart of his conception, and excite
The stoic soul of stately Pericles
Into confest emotions of delight:
For, as the busy Maid would oft look round
With brows and high-upcurling lashes raised,
And such a glance, what Ranolf wished, to ask—
Bright glance of innocent enquiry, sweet
page 238 Alert attention; or would leave her task,
And throw herself beside him on the ground
To see what 'twas that he would sometimes look
Half-pleased with, proud of, in the fast-leaved book
Where he "wrote images"—then with such heat
Would "pish" and "pshaw" at, as on her he gazed,
Abused the work so much—the model praised—
There, as she watched him, toying all the while
With those light locks she loved so, with a smile
Where such a depth of playful fondness shone;
Might not her aspect then almost have fired
Some later living Phidias of our own,
Some Foley, with such fancies as inspired
His Ino, feeding her maternal joy
On purple temptings of her grape-fed boy?
Almost have made his great compeer conceive
An added loveliness for listening Eve?—
And could wise Nature's so conspicuous Art,—
Lavish of might divinest to unfold
The linked glory of mere human limbs
Which all beside of form and hue bedims,—
If ever, fail with this susceptive heart
And fiery Sense, in her design to raise
That fervid admiration, uncontrolled
And uncontrollable, she must intend
Should ne'er he foiled for fairest moral end?—
No! well might that pure form, as he surveys
Its rich proportions cast in such a mould—
The perfect mould of Beauty, that combines
Rare lightness with luxuriance, and displays
What subtle joy can lurk in sinuous lines
That in their delicate winding wavure seem
Self-singing of their fine felicities
page 239 Like musical meanderings of a stream—
Well might its melodies of movement thrill
His soul with rapture—dash his baffled skill
With blank despair—so distanced in the chase,
The fond attempt to seize on and pourtray
Some one perfection from the plastic play
Of flitting statue-pictures that displace
Each other—and successive charms efface
Tn ever new varieties of grace!