Hath flung eternal questionings in vain—
Yet hath he read a little in thy pages;
And him we miss, learned well from thee to mold,—
As by the hand of Fate, in time's dark womb,—
That mystic form, a thousand centuries old;
That mournless mourner near a tragic tomb.
XIII
Ye stars eternal! in your motions wide
I feel the march of time; audibly pours
To faithful ears the immemorial tide
Of starry seas that beat on infinite shores;
And, in that music magical, cold death,—
And grief its shadow,—melt and are undone;
And that which brings the miracle of breath,
And that which takes,—ay, that which takes,—are one.
XIV
O star of war! beyond thy troublous beams
His freed soul wings to a great calm at last;
The deep night, with its tremulous, starry streams
Of light celestial, pours repose so vast
Naught can escape that flood; and now the faces,
Angelical, he molded with pure art,
In majesty look forth from heavenly spaces.
Enter thy peace, O high, tempestuous heart!
