Well, if the painter hath
not dissembled in it--the _painter_?--no. The spirit of those eyes was
of no painter's making. From the _Eidos_ of the Heavenly Mind sprung
that.
I shall see her to-morrow.--Nay, I must meet her in the outskirts of the
camp,--so went my promise,--if Maitland be not here ere then.
[_Exit_.
THOUGHTS.
SCENE. _The Hill. The Student's Night-watch_.
How beautiful the night, through all these hours
Of nothingness, with ceaseless music wakes
Among the hills, trying the melodies
Of myriad chords on the lone, darkened air,
With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring nought
That there is none to hear. How beautiful!
That men should live upon a world like this,
Uncovered all, left open every night
To the broad universe, with vision free
To roam the long bright galleries of creation,
Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake.
Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest,
That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now,
In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems
That on the watchers of old Babylon
Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls
Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me.
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