Vera II

What rapture of new lifeMust come to one for whom a silent worldIs suddenly made vocal, and whose heartBy the same magic is awaked at once,Without the learner's toil and long delay,Out of a night of dumbly moving dreams,Into a day that overflows with music!This joy was Vera's; and to her it seemedAs if a new creative morn had risenUpon the earth, and after the full weekWhen living things unfolded silently,And after the long, quiet Sabbath day,When all was still, another day had dawned,And through the calm expectancy of heavenA secret voice had said, "Let all things speak."The world responded with an instant joy;And all the unseen avenues of soundWere thronged with varying forms of viewless life.

To every living thing a voice was givenDistinct and personal. The forest treesWere not more varied in their shades of greenThan in their tones of speech; and every birdThat nested in their branches had a songUnknown to other birds and all his own.The waters spoke a hundred dialectsOf one great language; now with pattering fallOf raindrops on the glistening leaves, and nowWith steady roar of rivers rushing downTo meet the sea, and now with rhythmic throbAnd measured tumult of tempestuous waves,And now with lingering lisp of creeping tides,--The manifold discourse of many waters.But most of all the human voice was fullOf infinite variety, and rangedAlong the scale of life's experienceWith changing tones, and notes both sweet and sad,All fitted to express some unseen thought,Some vital motion of the hidden heart.So Vera listened with her new-born senseTo all the messengers that passed the gates,In measureless delight and utter trust,Believing that they brought a true reportFrom every living thing of its true life,And hoping that at last they would make clearThe mystery and the meaning of the world.

But soon there came a trouble in her joy,A note discordant that dissolved the chordAnd broke the bliss of hearing into pain.Not from the harsher sounds and voices wildOf anger and of anguish, that revealThe secret strife in nature, and confessThe touch of sorrow on the heart of life,--From these her trouble came not. For in these,However sad, she felt the note of truth,And truth, though sad, is always musical.The raging of the tempest-ridden sea,The crash of thunder, and the hollow moanOf winds complaining round the mountain-crags,The shrill and quavering cry of birds of prey,The fiercer roar of conflict-loving beasts,--All these wild sounds are potent in their placeWithin life's mighty symphony; the charmOf truth attunes them, and the hearing earFinds pleasure in their rude sincerity.Even the broken and tumultuous noiseThat rises from great cities, where the heartOf human toil is beating heavilyWith ceaseless murmurs of the labouring pulse,Is not a discord; for it speaks to lifeOf life unfeigned, and full of hopes and fears,And touched through all the trouble of its notesWith something real and therefore glorious.

One voice alone of all that sound on earth,Is hateful to the soul, and full of pain,--The voice of falsehood. So when Vera heardThis mocking voice, and knew that it was false;When first she learned that human lips can speakThe thing that is not, and betray the earOf simple trust with treachery of words;The joy of hearing withered in her heart.For now she felt that faithless messengersCould pass the open and unguarded gatesOf sound, and bring a message all untrue,Or half a truth that makes the deadliest lie,Or idle babble, neither false nor true,But hollow to the heart, and meaningless.She heard the flattering voices of deceit,That mask the hidden purposes of menWith fair attire of favourable words,And hide the evil in the guise of good:The voices vain and decorous and smooth,That fill the world with empty-hearted talk;The foolish voices, wandering and confused,That never clearly speak the thing they would,But ramble blindly round their true intentAnd tangle sense in hopeless coils of sound,--All these she heard, and with a deep mistrustBegan to doubt the value of her gift.It seemed as if the world, the living world,Sincere, and vast, and real, were still concealed,And she, within the prison of her soul,Still waiting silently to hear the voiceOf perfect knowledge and of perfect peace.

So with the burden of her discontentShe turned to seek the Master once again,And found him sitting in the market-place,Half-hidden in the shadow of a porch,Alone among the careless crowd.She spoke:"Thy gift was great, dear Master, and my heartHas thanked thee many times because I hearBut I have learned that hearing is not all;For underneath the speech of men, there flowsAnother current of their hidden thoughts;Behind the mask of language I perceiveThe eyes of things unsaid.Touch me again,O Master, with thy liberating hand,And free me from the bondage of deceit.Open another gate, and let me hearThe secret thoughts and purposes of men;For only thus my heart will be at rest,And only thus, at last, I shall perceiveThe mystery and the meaning of the world."

The Master's face was turned aside from her;His eyes looked far away, as if he sawSomething beyond her sight; and yet she knewThat he was listening; for her pleading voiceNo sooner ceased than he put forth his handTo touch her brow, and very gently spoke:"Thou seekest for thyself a wondrous gift,--The opening of the second gate, a giftThat many wise men have desired in vain:But some have found it,--whether well or illFor their own peace, they have attained the powerTo hear unspoken thoughts of other men.And thou hast begged this gift? Thou shalt receive,--Not knowing what thou seekest,--it is thine:The second gate is open! Thou shalt hearAll that men think and feel within their hearts:Thy prayer is granted, daughter, go thy way!But if thou findest sorrow on this path,Come back again,--there is a path to peace."