There was not much said, but it was an immediate revelation,
and a cherished bit of confidence. Perhaps on that sheet was already
inscribed,
"Ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea,
The cloud may stoop from heaven and lake the shape,
With fold on fold, of mountain or of cape;"
or perhaps the page was waiting for "The Sailor-Boy," or glimpses of
the great "Tyntagel," or "Lyonesse."
I could not know, nor did he, what he was yet to do. I only felt--all
who knew him felt--that he knew his work demanded from him the
sacrifice of what the world calls pleasure. He endeavored to hold his
spirit ready, and his mind trained and responsive.
His constant preoccupation with the business of his life rendered him
often impatient of wasting hours in mere "personal talk." He was
always eager and ready to hear of large matters of church or state
from those who were competent to inform him; but it was his chief joy,
when his friends were gathered about him, to read from other poets or
from his own books.
In this same visit there was much talk of Milton, of whom he spoke as
"the great organist of verse, who always married sound to sense when
he wrote." Surely no one ever gave the lines of that great poet as he
did. It was wonderful to hear. It would be impossible to forget that
grand voice as he repeated:--
"The imperial ensign which full high advanced
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,
Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds.
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