II.

Sad, weary, listless, and alone—
For nought companionship had cheered—
"Twas Ranolf's habit through the day
To take his solitary way,
Letting Te Manu choose his own.
Before him now the Port appeared:
There—with dim spire of masts and shrouds,
And yards across like streaky clouds,—
The Ship he sought at anchor lay.
Crowning a cliff that overslooped
The sea—whence trees o'erhanging drooped,
The village stood the Wanderer neared.
With rows of posts, unequal, high,—
That level crest against the sky
Was bristling; and within them grouped,
Thick thatch-roofs nestled peacefully.

Woeworn and weary, then he went
Thoughtfully up the steep ascent;
And passed the log, rough-hewn and laid
For bridge across the empty fosse;
And paused before the opening made
For entrance in the palisade.
He looked around; upon the spot
He saw no living being stirred:
Fast-closed was every silent cot;
The sun was shining, high and hot—
page 458 A lingering summer afternoon;
Faint insects hummed a drowsy tune
At times—no other sound was heard.

In doubt what course he should pursue,
On sad and gloomy thoughts intent,
With folded arms and head downbent,
Against an entrance-post he leant.
Not far below, there hung in view
That immemorial red-blue gleam
Of world-embracing Ocean-fame—
The flag that long shall float supreme,
Let all of English blood and name
Be to each other staunch and true!
Ah, with what sense of proud delight,
So long unseen, a short time back
That flag had flashed upon his sight!
But now it bade his memory track
The train of evils that had come
Out of that longing for his home.
Well might his heart so busied, feed
On bitter anguish; well might bleed
Remembering why he shunned to share
That home with her! He could not bear
Nor blink the truth, the cause, to-day—
Contemptible and coward care
Of what 'the World' might think or say-
That blatant—brainless—soul-less World!
Ah with what scorn he would have hurled
Such pitiful respect away,
Had one more chance been given to prove
How much he prized that priceless love!
page 459 O but one chance—giv'n then and there
The 'World' and all its slaves to dare!
With measureless defiance brave
Its worthless worst rebukes, and save
A heart, so simply grand, beside
Its poor conventions, paltry pride;
Refined frivolities—and cant,
The natural course, or worse, the want
Of real emotions, framed to hide!—
Aye! but too late that wisdom came;
The shame, too late, of that mean shame;
Remorse, and withering self-disdain,
Too late and impotent and vain!
There was nought left him hut to rave
With voiceless, useless, inward pain.
His trust in higher things was gone—
His 'Power Divine'—his 'God of good,'
What faith in Him could he retain!
It seemed to his despairing mood,
Faith could not, should not, live alone
When Hope and happiness had flown.

On such distressful thoughts intent,
Against that entrance-post he leant.
Forlorn alike to eye and ear
Seemed time and place and atmosphere!
With wearying, bright unchanging glow,
The calm, regardless sunbeams shone;
With wearying faintly-changeful flow
The insects' tune went murmuring on;
No sign of living thing beside;
Not even a dog's out-wearied howl;—
Yes—once his listless eye espied
page 460 Scarce noting it, a sleepy fowl
Ruffling its feathers in the dust;
Companionless—the moping bird,
Stalking and pecking leisurely
Beneath a cottage wall, went by;
No longer were its mutterings heard.
Yes—once a rat, in open day
Stole forth, and crossed at easy pace
The silent solitary place;
Stopped often, shewing no distrust
Nor any haste to slink away.
It too had vanished. Still fast-shut,
In sunshine stood each silent hut:
And dark, distinct, beside it lay
Its shadow still—no cloudlet slow
Passing, to make it come or go—
Unfading—seeming changeless too
As if it neither moved nor grew,
That lingering, loitering afternoon.
Then even the murmuring, dreamy tune,
That now would swell and now subside,
Awhile in utter silence died.

Fair Reader! have you ever been
Sauntering in meditative mood,
In some sequestered sunny scene,
Some perfect solitude serene,
Where tenantless a building stood—
Old ruined Castle, if you will—
Neglected Hall of recent days,
page 461 Though fit for habitation still,
Long empty;—any place almost
Where human beings once have dwelt
And ceased to dwell;—but if your gaze,
On such deserted Mansion lone
Were fixed awhile, will you not own
How strong a fancy you have felt,
That some still human visage—ghost
Or not—through one blank window, less
Observed—or loophole's high recess—
With eyes in vague abstraction lost,
Not marking, minding you at all—
Was looking out?—Did you not feel
As if you saw or soon would see,
A lonely Figure, silently,
With features, haply, undiscerned
Because its back towards you was turned,
Across some empty courtyard steal—
Or glide bcneath some ruined wall?—

As Ranolf leant there so distrest.
Once, with a writhe of ill-represt
Impatient anguish, at the tide
Of keen regrets which o'er his breast—
Remorseful, merciless, upheld
By that full moon of memory, swelled—
As wearily his head he raised,
His glance unconscious chanced to rest
Upon a distant cot—whose side
Of close-packed wisps of bulrush dried,
page 462 Stood half in brightness—half in gloom;
The sunbeam's glow still bright below—
Its upper part, in clear deep shade,
Beneath some palm-trees' tufts of bloom,
With a square opening in it, made
For light—a window though unglazed;
And suddenly he seemed aware
A wan pale face—how wan and fair,
Was in the square of blackness there,
With eyes unmoving—eyes all light—
So preternaturally bright—
Haggardly beautiful!—Amazed,
His very heart turned sick and faint;
Almost he could have fallen with fear—
That Spirit from the Dead—so near!
He rallied quickly; for he knew
How fancy can send back again,
Some image from the heated brain,
And on the retina repaint
Such apparitions, till they seem
External, actual, and no dream.
He passed his hand, across his eyes;
Sprang forward; shook himself to free
His fancy from such phantasies,
His brain from this delusion. There,
Framed in the blackness of that square,
Still shewed the visage, haggard, fair,
And would not vanish into air!—
And then it changed before his sight;
A sudden gleam of wild delight
Illumed it; the next moment checked,
As from the Vision seemed to come
A shriek that died off in a moan—
page 463 Painful, unnatural—as the lone
Wrung from the wretched deaf and dumb
Whom sudden pangs of passion stir.
Then to the hut—for nought lie recked—
"What could it be?" he thought, "but her!"
He would have rushed; but yet once more
Those earnest gestures—looks—deter;
So vehemently they implore,
So unmistakably entreat
Silence—and that he should not greet—
Heed—recognise the vision then.
For the same moment might be seen
Behind him, close upon the fence,
What stifled as it ruse, that keen
Great cry of joy or pain intense;—
The inmates of the village—men
And women and a merry crowd
Of children; all with laughter loud
Returning from the plot where they
Within the woods not far away
Had been at pleasant work all day.