IV

TO THE SUB-PRIOR

From Chapter ix.

GOOD evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride,

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide;

But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill,

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. Back, back,

The volume black!

I have a warrant to carry it back.

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here

To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier?

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise,

Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your prize. Back, back,

There's death in the track! In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.

'In the name of my Master,' said the astonished Monk, that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus ?'

The same voice replied,—

That which is neither ill nor well, That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,

'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;

A form that men spy
With the half-shut eye
In the beams of the setting sun, am L

What I am thou couldst not know Something betwixt heaven and hell Something that neither stood nor fell Something that through thy wit or will May work thee good may work thee

ill.

Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirrored glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living twenty times his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show

This is all that thou may'st know.