  ... ??? d? t?? ?ss' ?? ??e??? fa????ta?.— BEFORE they left their mirth's warm scene And slept, I heard my children say That moonlight, like a duck's egg, green, Outside the enfolding curtains lay. But hearth-bound by maternal choice, The fire-side's eremite, I know The nightfall less by sight than voice— How wake the huffing winds, and how More full the flooded stream descends, In unarrested race of sound, The lasher where the river bends To circle in our garden ground. Within I harbour, hap what hap Without, and o'er my baby brood: Who, newly slumbering on my lap, Stirs in resentful quietude. Her little shawl-swathed fists enfold One cherished forefinger of mine; Her callow hair with Tuscan gold Is pencilled in the candle-shine; Her cheeks' sweet heraldry, exprest Each evening since her happy birth, Is argent to her mother's breast And gules to the emblazoning hearth; Only the lashes of her eyes Some ancient discontent impairs, Which, for their abdicated skies, Are pointed with forgotten tears. And so, as simple as a bird, She nestles—there is no child else To rouse her with a reckless word Or clink her rattle's fallen bells: All, long dismissed with wonted prayers, Such apostolic vigils keep, No sound descends the darkened stairs To question the allure of sleep. Only their fringÈd towels veil The fender's interwoven wire, And, parted in the midst, exhale Domestic incense towards the fire. Betwixt the hobs (their lease of light, But not of heat, devolved to dark) The elm-logs simmer, hoary white Or ruddy-scaled with saurian bark. 'Twas the third George whose lieges planned That grate, and all its iron caprice Of classic garlands, nobly spanned By that triumphant mantelpiece— A very altar for the bright Tame element its pomp installs 'Twixt flat pilasters, fluted, white, And lion-bedizened capitals. Here portly topers met of old To serve their comfortable god And praise the heroes wigged and jowled, Of that pugnacious period. Now in their outworn husk of state Our frugal comfort oddly dwells— (As recluse crabs accommodate Their contours to discarded shells) A dozen childish perquisites Await my liberated hands And lovelier usurpation sits Enthroned above the fading brands, Two lonely tapers criss-cross rays Cancel the dusky wall and shine To halo with effulgent haze The Genius of this Georgian shrine. Mary, who through the centuries holds Her crown'd Son in her hand, amid Her mantle's black Byzantine folds More tenderly displayed than hid, O'er this tramontane hearth presides Oracular of Heaven and Rome— Where Peter is the Church abides, Where Mary and Her Son, the home. All day she blesses my employ Where surge and eddy round my knee, Swayed by a comfit or a toy, The battles of eternity. And that regard of Hers and His, Hallowing the truce of night, endows The weariest vigilant head with bliss; And sanctifies such sleeping brows As hers I carry from the haunt Of waning warmth, the empty bars, Up the great staircase, 'neath the gaunt North window with its quarrelled stars, To the quiet cradle. Slumber on, Small heiress of celestial peace, The glitter of the world is gone, Et lucet lux in tenebris. |
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