The Princess; a medley/Conclusion
CONCLUSION.
Here closed our compound story which at firstHad only meant to banter little maidsWith mock-heroics and with parody:But slipt in some strange way, crost with burlesque,From mock to earnest, even into tonesOf tragic, and with less and less of jestTo such a serious end that Lilia fixtA showery glance upon her Aunt and said'You—tell us what we are;' who there beganA treatise, growing with it, and might have flow'dIn axiom worthier to be grav'n on rock,Than all that lasts of old-world hieroglyph,Or lichen-fretted Rune and arrowhead; But that there rose a shout; the gates were closedAt sundown, and the crowd were swarming now,To take their leave, about the garden rails.And I and some went out, and mingled with them.And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood,Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks,Among six boys, head under head, and look'dNo little lily-handed Baronet he,A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman,A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep,A raiser of huge melons and of pine,A patron of some thirty charities,A pamphleteer on guano and on grain,A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none;Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn;Now shaking hands with him, now him, of thoseThat stood the nearest—now address'd to speech—Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closedWelcome, farewell, and welcome for the yearTo follow: a shout arose again, and made The long line of the approaching rookery swerveFrom the elms, and shook the branches of the deerFrom slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rangBeyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shoutMore joyful than the city-roar that hailsPremier or king! Why don't these acred SirsThrow up their parks some dozen times a yearAnd let the people breathe? So thrice they cried,I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.
But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on,So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we satSaying little, rapt in nameless reverie,Perchance upon the future man: the wallsBlacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,And gradually the powers of the night,That range above the region of the wind,Deepening the courts of twilight broke them upThro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. Last little Lilia, rising without sound,Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir RalphFrom those rich silks, and home well-pleased we went.
The End.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.