IV

  The eternal gates’ terrific porter lifted the northern bar;
  Thel entered in, and saw the secrets of the land unknown. 
  She saw the couches of the dead, and where the fibrous root
  Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists: 
  A land of sorrows and of tears where never smile was seen.

  She wandered in the land of clouds through valleys dark, listening
  Dolours and lamentations; waiting oft beside a dewy grave
  She stood in silence, listening to the voices of the ground,
  Till to her own grave-plot she came, and there she sat down,
  And heard this voice of sorrow breathed from the hollow pit.

  ’Why cannot the ear be closed to its own destruction? 
  Or the glistening eye to the poison of a smile? 
  Why are eyelids stored with arrows ready drawn,
  Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie,
  Or an eye of gifts and graces showering fruits and coined gold?

  Why a tongue impressed with honey from every wind? 
  Why an ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in? 
  Why a nostril wide inhaling terror, trembling, and affright? 
  Why a tender curb upon the youthful, burning boy? 
  Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?’

  The Virgin started from her seat, and with a shriek
  Fled back unhindered till she came into the vales of Har.

  From THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

  [DEMOCRACY AND PEACE]

  Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his
     hand;
  A cold orb of disdain revolved round him, and covered his soul with
     snows eternal. 
  Great Henry’s soul shuddered, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from
     his angry bosom;
  He indignant departed on horses of Heaven.  Then the Abbe de Sieyes
     raised his feet
  On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm,
     the Abbe followed
  The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to
     his son,
  Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of
     the people bowed
  Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewed.

  ’Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from
     valley and hill,
  O’erclouded with power.  Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek
     cities,
  Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village and field is
     a waste. 
  For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of
     trumpets consume
  The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the
     deadly slaughter.