# The Legend of Jubal (Lovell, 1881)

The Legend Of Jubal (1869) by George Eliot (1869) is in the public domain, and this contribution is being offered as entirely public domain material. The formatting and text of this particular rendition conforms primarily to that found within an edition of Eliot's Poems (or The Legend of Jubal and Other Poems, Old and New with The Spanish Gypsy) published by John W. Lovell Company of New York at some time between 1879 and 1881. The poem deals with a mythic discoverer of the art of making music, and his ironic fate among those who celebrate his name and legacies far more than they can recognize or appreciate his actual identity.
    When Cain was driven from Jehovah's land
    He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand
    Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings
    Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things,
    To feed the subtler sense of frames divine
    That lived on fragrance for their food and wine:
    Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly,
    And could be pitiful and melancholy.
    He never had a doubt that such gods were;
    He looked within, and saw them mirrored there.
    Some think he came at last to Tartary,
    And some to Ind; but, howsoe'er it be,
    His staff he planted where sweet waters ran,
    And in that home of Cain the Arts began.
    Man's life was spacious in the early world:
    It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled
    Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled;
    Beheld the slow star-paces of the skies,
    And grew from strength to strength through centuries;
    Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs,
    And heard a thousand times the sweet birds' marriage hymns.
    In Cain's young city none had heard of Death
    Save him, the founder; and it was his faith
    That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law,
    Man was immortal, since no halt or flaw
    In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years,
    But dark as pines that autumn never sears
    His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame
    Rose like the orbed sun each morn the same,
    Lake-mirrored to his gaze; and that red brand,
    The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand,
    Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye,
    Its secret firm in time-fraught memory.
    He said, "My happy offspring shall not know
    That the red life from out a man may flow
    When smitten by his brother." True, his race
    Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face
    A copy of the brand no whit less clear;
    But every mother held that little copy dear.
    Thus generations in glad idlesse throve,
    Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove;
    For clearest springs were plenteous in the land,
    And gourds for cups; the ripe fruits sought the hand,
    Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold;
    And for their roofs and garments wealth untold
    Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves:
    They labored gently, as a maid who weaves
    Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft
    And strokes across her hand the tresses soft,
    Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly,
    Or little burthened ants that homeward hie.
    Time was but leisure to their lingering thought,
    There was no' need for haste to finish aught;
    But sweet beginnings were repeated still
    Like infant babblings that no task fulfil;
    For love, that loved not change, constrained the simple will.
    Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy,
    Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy,
    And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries,
    And fetched and held before the glazed eyes
    The things they best had loved to look upon;
    But never glance or smile or sigh he won.
    The generations stood around those twain
    Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain
    Parted the press, and said, " He will not wake;
    This is the endless sleep, and we must make
    A bed deep down for him beneath the sod;
    For know, my sons, there is a mighty God
    Angry with all man's race, but most with me.
    I fled from out His land in vain! —'tis He
    Who came and slew the lad; for He has found
    This home of ours, and we shall all be bound
    By the harsh bands of His most cruel will,
    Which any moment may some dear one kill.
    Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last
    We and all ours shall die like summers past.
    This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong;
    I thought the way I travelled was too long
    For Him to follow me: my thought was vain!
    He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain,
    Pale Death His footprint is, and He will come again!"
    And a new spirit from that hour came o'er
    The race of Cain: soft idlesse was no more,
    But even the sunshine had a heart of care,
    Smiling with hidden dread- a mother fair
    Who folding to her breast a dying child
    Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild.
    Death was now lord of Life, and at his word
    Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred,
    With measured wing now audibly arose
    Throbbing through all things to some unknown close.
    Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn,
    And Work grew eager, and Device was born.
    It seemed the light was never loved before,
    Now each man said, "Twill go and come no more."
    No budding branch, no pebble from the brook,
    No form, no shadow, but new dearness took
    From the one thought that life must have an end;
    And the last parting now began to send
    Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss,
    Thrilling them into finer tenderness.
    Then Memory disclosed her face divine,
    That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine
    Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves,
    And shows the presence that no sunlight craves,
    No space, no warmth, but moves among them all;
    Gone and yet here, and coming at each call,
    With ready voice and eyes that understand,
    And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand.
    Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed
    Of various life and action-shaping need.
    But chief 'the sons of Lamech felt the stings
    Of new ambition, and the force that springs
    In passion beating on the shores of fate.
    They said, " There comes a night when all too late
    The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand,
    The eager thought behind closed portals stand,
    And the last wishes to the mute lips press
    Buried ere death in silent helplessness.
    Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave,
    And while the arm is strong to strike and heave,
    Let soul and arm give shape that will abide
    And rule above our graves, and power divide
    With that great god of day, whose rays must bend
    As we shall make the moving shadows tend.
    Come, let us. fashion acts that are to be,
    When we shall lie in darkness silently,
    As our young brother doth, whom yet we see
    Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will
    By that one image of him pale and still."
    For Lamech's sons were heroes of their race:
    Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face
    The look of that calm river-god, the Nile,
    Mildly secure in power that needs not guile.
    But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire
    That glows and spreads and leaps from high to higher
    Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue;
    Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew,
    His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew,
    Such granite as the plunging torrent wears  [variant: His urgent limbs like granite bowlders grew, Such bowlders as...]
    And roaring rolls around through countless years.
    But strength that still on movement must be fed,
    Inspiring thought of change, devices bred,
    And urged his mind through earth and air to rove
    For force that he could conquer if he strove,
    For lurking forms that might new tasks fulfil
    And yield unwilling to his stronger-will.
    Such Tubal-Cain. But Jubal had a frame
    Fashioned to finer senses, which became
    A yearning for some hidden soul of things,
    Some outward touch complete on inner springs
    That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain,
    A want that did but stronger grow with gain
    Of all good else, as spirits might be sad
    For lack of speech to tell us they are glad.
    Now Jabal learned to tame the lowing kine,
    And from their udders drew the snow-white wine
    That stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream
    Of elemental life with fulness teem;
    The star-browed calves he nursed With feeding hand,
    And sheltered them, till all the little band
    Stood mustered gazing at the sunset way
    Whence he would come with store at close of day.
    He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone,
    And reared their staggering lambs, that, older grown,
    Followed his steps with sense-taught memory;
    Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be,
    And guide them through the pastures as he would,
    With sway that grew from ministry of good.
    He spread his tents upon the grassy plain
    Which, eastward widening like the open main,
    Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning star;
    Near him his sister, deft, as women are,
    Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought
    Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught
    Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals white,
    The golden pollen, virgin to the light.
    Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent,
    He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent,
    And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young
    Till the small race with hope and terror clung
    About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood,
    Remoter from the memories of the wood,
    More glad discerned their common home with man.
    This was the work of Jabal: he began
    The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be,
    Spread the sweet ties that bind the family
    O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress,
    And shared his pain with patient helpfulness.
    But Tubal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire,
    Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire
    And made it roar in prisoned servitude
    Within the furnace, till with force subdued
    It changed all forms he willed to work upon,
    Till hard from soft,-and soft from hard, he won.
    The pliant clay he moulded as he would,
    And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood
    Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass
    That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass,
    He drew all glowing from the busy heat,
    All breathing as with life that he could beat
    With thundering hammer, making it obey
    His will creative, like the pale soft clay.
    Each day he wrought and better than he planned,
    Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand.
    (The soul without still helps the soul within,
    And its deft magic ends what we begin.)
    Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield
    And seem to see a myriad types revealed,
    Then spring with wondering triumphant cry,
    And, lest the inspiring vision should go by,
    Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal
    Which all the passion of our life can steal
    For force to work with. Each day saw the birth
    Of various forms, which, flung upon the earth,
    Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour,
    But were as seeds instinct with hidden power.
    The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain,
    Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain;
    And near them latent lay in share and spade,
    In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade,
    Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home,
    The social good, and all earth's joy to come.
    Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal; and they say,
    Some things he made have lasted to this day;
    As, thirty silver pieces that were found
    By Noah's children buried in the ground.
    He made them from mere hunger of device,
    Those small white' discs; but they became the price
    The traitor Judas sold his Master for;
    And men still handling them in peace and war
    Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite,
    And lurks and clings as withering, damning blight.
    But Tubal-Cain wot not of treachery,
    Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be,
    Save the one ill of sinking into nought,
    Banished from action and act-shaping thought.
    He was the sire of swift-transforming skill,
    Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will;
    And round him gladly, as his hammer rung,
    Gathered the elders and the growing young:
    These handled vaguely, and those plied the tools,
    Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules,
    The home of Cain with industry was rife,
    And glimpses of a strong persistent life,
    Panting through generations as one breath,
    And filling with its soul the blank of death.
    Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes,
    No longer following its fall or rise,
    Seemed glad with something that they could not see,
    But only listened to - some melody,
    Wherein dumb longings inward speech had found,
    Won from the common store of struggling sound.
    Then, as the metal shapes more various grew,
    And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew,
    Each gave new tones, the revelations dim
    Of some external soul that spoke for him:
    The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom,
    Like light that makes wide spiritual room
    And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought,
    To Jubal such enlarged passion brought,
    That love, hope, rage, and all experience,
    Were fused in vaster being, fetching thence
    Concords and discords, cadences and cries
    That seemed from some world-shrouded soul to rise,
    Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage,
    Some living sea that burst the bounds of man's brief age.
    Then with such blissful trouble and glad care
    For growth. within unborn as mothers bear,
    To the far woods he wandered, listening,
    And heard the birds their little stories sing
    In notes whose rise and fall seem melted speech—
    Melted with tears, smiles, glances —that can reach
    More quickly through our frame's deep-winding night,
    And without thought raise thought's best fruit, delight.
    Pondering, he sought his home again and heard
    The fluctuant changes of the spoken word:
    The deep remonstrance and the argued want,
    Insistent first in close monotonous chant,
    Next leaping upward to defiant stand
    Or downward beating like the resolute hand;
    The mother's call, the children's answering cry,
    The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high;
    The suasive repetitions Jabal taught,
    That timid browsing cattle homeward brought:
    The clear-winged fugue of echoes vanishing;
    And through them all the hammer's rhythmic ring.
    Jubal sat lonely, all around was dim,
    Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him:
    For as the delicate stream of odor wakes
    The thought-wed sentience, and some image makes
    From out the mingled fragments of the past,
    Finely compact in wholeness that will last,
    So streamed as from the body of each sound
    Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found
    All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound,
    Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory,
    And in creative vision wandered free.
    Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised,
    And on the dark with eager eyes he gazed,
    As had some manifested god been there.
    It was his thought he saw: the presence fair
    Of unachieved achievement, the high task,
    The mighty unborn spirit that doth ask
    With irresistible cry for blood and breath,
    Till feeding its great life we sink in death.
    He said, "Were now those mighty tones and cries
    That from the giant soul of earth arise,
    Those groans of some great travail heard from far,
    Some power at wrestle with the things that are,
    Those sounds which vary with the varying form
    Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm
    Fill the wide space with tremors: were these wed
    To human voices with such passion fed
    As does but glimmer in our common speech,
    But might flame out in tones whose changing reach
    Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense
    With fuller union, finer difference—
    Were this great vision, now obscurely bright
    As morning hills that melt in new-poured light,
    Wrought into solid form and living sound,
    Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound,
    Then——Nay, I Jubal will that work begin!
    The generations of our race shall win
    New life, that grows from out the heart of this,
    As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss
    From out the dull unknown of unwaked energies."
    Thus he resolved, and in the soul-fed light
    Of coming ages waited through the night,
    Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray
    Showed but the unchanged world of yesterday;
    Where all the order of his dream divine
    Lay like Olympian forms within the mine;
    Where fervor that could fill the earthly round
    With thronged joys of form-begotten sound
    Must shrink intense within the patient power
    That lonely labors through the niggard hour.
    Such patience have the heroes who begin,
    Sailing the first toward lands which others win.
    Jubal must dare as great beginners dare,
    Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare,
    And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous choir
    Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre.
    He made it, and from out its measured frame
    Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came
    With guidance sweet and lessons of delight
    Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right,
    Where strictest law is gladness to-the sense,
    And all desire bends toward obedience.
    Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song—
    The rapturous word that rapturous notes prolong
    As radiance streams from smallest things that burn,
    Or thought of loving into love doth turn.
    And still his lyre gave companionship
    In sense-taught concert as of lip with lip.
    Alone amid the hills at first he tried
    His winged song; then with adoring pride
    And bridegroom's joy at leading forth his bride,
    He said, "This wonder which my soul hath found,
    This heart of music in the might of sound,
    Shall forthwith be the share of all our race,
    And like the morning gladden common space:
    The song shall spread and swell as rivers do,
    And I will teach our youth with skill to woo
    This living lyre, to know its secret will;
    Its fine division of the good and ill..
    So shall men call me sire of harmony,
    And where great Song is, there my life shall be."
    Thus glorying as a god beneficent,
    Forth from his solitary joy he went
    To bless mankind. It was at evening,
    When shadows lengthen from each westward thing,
    When imminence of change makes sense more fine,
    And light seems holier in its grand decline.
    The fruit-trees wore their studded coronal,
    Earth and her children were at festival,
    Glowing as with one heart and one consent—
    Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radiance blent.
    The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground,
    The various ages wreathed in one broad round.
    Here lay, while children peeped o'er his huge thighs,
    The sinewy man embrowned by centuries;
    Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong
    Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng
    Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement too—
    Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew,
    And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew.
    For all had feasted well upon the flesh
    Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh,
    And now their wine was health-bred merriment,
    Which through the generations circling went,
    Leaving none sad, for even father Cain
    Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain.
    Jabal sat circled with a playful ring
    Of children, lambs and whelps, whose gambolling,
    With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feet,
    Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub meet.
    But Tubal's hammer rang from far away,
    Tubal alone would keep no holiday,
    His furnace must not slack for any feast,
    For of all hardship, work he counted least;
    He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream
    Made his repose more potent action seem.
    Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was blent,
    The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent,
    The inward shaping toward some unborn power,
    Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower.
    After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes,
    The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs.
    Then from the east, with glory on his head
    Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread,
    Came Jubal with his lyre: there 'mid the throng,
    Where the blank space was, poured a solemn song,
    Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb
    And measured pulse, with cadences that sob,
    Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep
    Where the dark sources of new passion sleep.
    Joy took the air, and took each breathing soul,
    Embracing them in one entranced whole,
    Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends,
    As Spring new-waking through the creature sends
    Or rage or tenderness; more plenteous life
    Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife.
    He who had lived through twice three centuries,
    Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees
    In hoary forests, stretched a backward maze,
    Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days
    Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun
    That warmed him when he was a little one;
    Knew that true heaven, the recovered past,
    The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast,
    And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs
    Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which swims
    In western glory, isles and streams and bays,
    Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze.
    And in all these the rhythmic influence,
    Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense,
    Flowed out in movements, little waves that spread
    Enlarging, till in tidal union led
    The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed,
    By grace-inspiring melody possessed,
    Rose in slow dance, with beauteous floating swerve
    Of limbs and hair, and many a melting curve
    Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm:
    Then Jubal poured, more rapture in his psalm,
    The dance fired music, music fired the dance,
    The glow diffusive lit each countenance,
    Till all the circling tribe arose and stood
    With glad yet awful shock of that mysterious good.
    Even Tubal caught the sound, and wondering came,
    Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame
    Till he could see his brother with the lyre,
    The work for which he lent his furnace-fire
    And diligent hammer, witting nought of this
    This power in metal shape which made strange bliss,
    Entering within him like a dream full-fraught
    With new creations finished in a thought.
    The sun had sunk, but music still was there,
    And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air:
    It seemed the stars were shining with delight
    And that no night was ever like this night.
    All clung with praise to Jubal: some besought
    That he would teach them his new skill; some caught,
    Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet,
    The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat:
    'Twas easy following where invention trod—
    All eyes can see when light flows out from God.
    And thus did Jubal to his race reveal
    Music their larger soul, where woe and weal
    Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance,
    Moved with a wider-winged utterance.
    Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a song
    Raised echoes new, old echoes to prolong,
    Till things of Jubal's making were so rife,
    "Hearing myself," he said, "I hems in my life,
    And I will get me to some far-off land,
    Where higher mountains under heaven stand
    And touch the blue at rising of the stars,
    Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars
    The great clear voices. Such lands there must be,
    Where varying forms make varying symphony
    Where other thunders roll amid the hills,
    Some mightier wind a mightier forest fills
    With other strains through other-shapen boughs;
    Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or browse
    Will teach me songs I know not. Listening there,
    My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair
    That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller fruit each year."
    He took a raft, and travelled with the stream
    Southward for many a league, till he might deem
    He saw at last the pillars of the sky,
    Beholding mountains whose white majesty
    Rushed through him as new awe, and made new song
    That swept with fuller wave the chords along,
    Weighting his voice with deep religious chime,.
    The iteration of slow chant sublime.
    It was the region long inhabited
    By all the race of Seth; and Jubal said,
    "Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire,
    Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire
    Flames through deep waters, I will take my rest,
    And feed anew from my great mother's breast,
    The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me
    As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee."
    He lingered wandering for many an age,
    And, sowing music, made high heritage
    For generations far beyond the Flood
    For the poor late-begotten human brood
    Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good.
    And ever as he travelled he would climb
    The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime,
    The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres
    Beating their pathway, never touched his ears.
    But wheresoe'er he rose, the heavens rose,
    And the far-gazing mountain could disclose
    Nought but a wider earth; until one height
    Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light,
    And he could hear its multitudinous roar,
    Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore:
    Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more.
    He thought, "The world is great, but I am weak,
    And where the sky bends is no solid peak
    To give me footing, but instead, this main
    Like myriad maddened horses thundering o'er the plain.
    "New voices come to me where'er I roam,
    My heart too widens with its widening home:
    But song grows weaker, and the heart must break
    For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake
    The lyre's full answer; nay, its chords were all
    Too few to meet the growing spirit's call.
    The former songs seem little, yet no more
    Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore
    Tell what the earth is saying unto me:
    The secret is too great, I hear confusedly.
    "No farther will I travel: once again
    My brethren I will see, and that fair plain
    Where I and song were born. There fresh-voiced youth
    Will pour my strains with all the early truth
    Which now abides not in my voice and hands,
    But only in the soul, the will that stands
    Helpless to move. My tribe remembering Will cry,
    ' 'Tis he!' and run to greet me, welcoming."
    The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew,
    And shook out clustered gold against the blue,
    While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres,
    Sought the dear home of those first eager years,
    When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will
    Took living outward shape in pliant skill;
    For still he hoped to find the former things,
    And the warm gladness recognition brings.
    His footsteps erred among the mazy woods
    And long illusive sameness of the floods,
    Winding and wandering. Through far regions, strange
    With Gentile homes and faces, did he range,
    And left his music in their memory,
    And left at last, when nought besides would free
    His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries,
    The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes
    No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son,
    That mortal frame wherein was first begun
    The immortal life of song. His withered brow
    Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now,
    His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air,
    The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare
    Of beauteous token, as the outworn might
    Of oaks slow dying, gaunt in summer's light.
    His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran:
    He was the rune-writ story of a man.
    And so at last he neared the well-known land,
    Could see the hills in ancient order stand
    With friendly faces whose familiar gaze
    Looked through the sunshine of his childish days;
    Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods,
    And seemed to see the selfsame insect broods
    Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers —to hear
    The selfsame cuckoo making distance near.
    Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy,
    Met and embraced him, and said, "Thou art he!
    This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine,
    Where feeding, thou didst all thy life intwine
    With my skly-wedded life in heritage divine."
    But wending ever through the watered plain,
    Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain,
    He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold
    That never kept a welcome for the old,
    Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise
    Saying, "This home is mine." He thought his eyes
    Mocked all deep memories, as things new made,
    Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade
    And seem ashamed to meet the staring day.
    His memory saw a small foot-trodden way,
    His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road
    Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode;
    The little city that once nestled low
    As buzzing groups about some central glow,
    Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep,
    Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep.
    His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he sank
    Close by the wayside on a weed-grown bank,
    Not far from where a new-raised temple stood,
    Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedar-wood.
    The morning sun was high; his rays fell hot
    On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot,
    On the dry withered grass and withered man:
    That wondrous frame where melody began
    Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan.
    But while he sank far music reached his ear.
    He listened until wonder silenced fear,
    And gladness wonder; for the broadening stream
    Of sound advancing was his early dream,
    Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer;
    As if his soul, breathed out upon the air,
    Had held the invisible seeds of harmony
    Quick with the various strains of life to be.
    He listened: the sweet mingled difference
    With charm alternate took the meeting sense;
    Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red,
    Sudden and near the trumpet's notes out-spread,
    And soon his eyes could see the metal flower,
    Shining upturned, out on the morning pour
    Its incense audible; could see a train
    From out the street slow-winding on the plain
    With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries,
    While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to these
    With various throat, or in succession poured,
    Or in full volume mingled. But one word
    Ruled each recurrent rise and answering fall,
    As when the multitudes adoring call
    On some great name divine, their common soul,
    The common need, love, joy, that knits them in one whole.
    The word was "Jubal!".. "Jubal" filled the air,
    And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there,
    Creator of the choir, the full-fraught strain
    That grateful rolled itself to him again.
    The aged man adust upon the bank—
    Whom no eye saw— at first with rapture drank
    The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart,
    Felt, this was his own being's greater part,
    The universal joy once born in him.
    But when the train, with living face and limb
    And vocal breath, came nearer and more near,
    The longing grew that they should hold him dear;
    Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew,
    The breathing Jubal —him, to whom their love was due.
    All was forgotten but the burning need
    To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed
    That lived away from him, and grew apart,
    While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart,
    Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed,
    Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed.
    What though his song should spread from man's small race
    Out through the myriad worlds that people space,
    And make the heavens one joy-diffusing quire?—  [Note: quire is replaced by choir in some editions]
    Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire
    Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide,
    This twilight soon in darkness to subside,
    This little pulse of self, that, having glowed
    Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strewed
    The light of music through the vague of sound,
    Ached smallness still in good that had no bound.
    For no eye saw him, while with loving pride—
    Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied.
    Must he in conscious trance, dumb, helpless lie
    While all that ardent kindred passed him by?
    His flesh cried out to live with living men,
    And join that soul which to the inward ken
    Of all the hymning train was present there.
    Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare:
    The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent,
    His voice's penury of tones long spent,
    He felt not; all his being leaped in flame
    To meet his kindred as they onward came
    Slackening and wheeling toward the temple's face:
    He rushed before them to the glittering space,
    And, with a strength that was but strong desire,
    Cried, "I am Jubal, I! . . . I made the lyre!"
    The tones amid a lake of silence fell
    Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell
    Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land
    To listening crowds in expectation spanned.
    Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake;
    They spread along the train from front to wake
    In one great storm of merriment, while he
    Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be,
    And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein
    Of passionate music came with that dream-pain,
    Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing,
    And all appearance is mere vanishing.
    But ere the laughter died from out the rear,
    Anger in front saw profanation near;
    Jubal was but a name in each man's faith
    For glorious power untouched by that slow death
    Which creeps with creeping time; this too, the spot,
    And this the day, it must be crime to blot,
    Even with scoffing at a madman's lie:
    Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery.
    Two rushed upon him: two, the most devout
    In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out,
    And beat him with their flutes. 'Twas little need;
    He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed,
    As if the scorn and howls were driving wind
    That urged his body, serving so the mind
    Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen
    Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen.
    The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky,
    While Jubal lonely laid him down to die.
    He said within his soul, "This is the end:
    O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend
    And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul:
    I lie here now the remnant of that whole,
    The embers of a life, a lonely pain;
    As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain,
    So of my mighty years nought comes to me again.
    "Is the day sinking? Softest coolness springs
    From something round me: dewy shadowy wings
    Enclose me all around — no, not above—
    Is moonlight there? I see a face of love,
    Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong:
    Yea— art thou come again to me, great Song?"
    The face bent over him like silver night
    In long-remembered summers; that calm light
    Of days which shine in firmaments of thought,
    That past unchangeable, from change still wrought.
    And there were tones that with the vision blent:
    He knew not if that gaze the music sent,
    Or music that calm gaze: to hear, to see,
    Was but one undivided ecstasy:
    The raptured senses melted into one,
    And parting life a moment's freedom won
    From in and outer, as a little child
    Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild
    Down in the water, and forgets its limbs,
    And knoweth nought save the blue heaven that swims.
    "Jubal," the face said, " I am thy loved Past,
    The soul that makes thee one from first to last.
    I am the angel of thy life and death,
    Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath.
    Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride
    Who blest thy lot above all men's beside?
    Thy bride whom thou wouldst never change, nor take
    Any bride living, for that dead one's sake?
    Was I not all thy yearning and delight,
    Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right,
    Which still had been the hunger of thy frame
    In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same?
    Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god
    Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod
    Or thundered through the skies — aught else for share
    Of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear
    The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest
    Of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast?
    No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain,
    Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain
    Where music's voice was silent; for thy fate
    Was human music's self incorporate:
    Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife
    Were flesh of her flesh and her womb of life.
    And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone
    With hidden raptures were her secrets shown,
    Buried within thee, as the purple light
    Of gems may sleep in solitary night;
    But thy expanding joy was still to give,
    And with the generous air in song to live
    Feeding the wave of ever-widening bliss
    Where fellowship means equal perfectness.
    And on the mountains in thy wandering
    Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring,
    That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home,
    For with thy coming Melody was come.
    This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow,
    And that immeasurable life to know
    From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead,
    A seed primeval that has forests bred.
    It is the glory of the heritage
    Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age:
    Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod,
    Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god,
    Who found and gave new passion and new joy
    That nought but Earth's destruction can destroy.
    Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone:
    'Twas but in giving that thou couldst atone
    For too much wealth amid their poverty."—
    The words seemed melting into symphony,
    The wings upbore him, and the gazing song
    Was floating him the heavenly space along,
    Where mighty harmonies all gently fell
    Through veiling vastness, like the far-off bell,
    Till, ever onward through the choral blue,
    He heard more faintly and more faintly knew,
    Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave,
    The All-creating Presence for his grave.
             1869
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse