The Two Keys

There was a Boy, long years ago,     Who hour by hour awake would lie,     And watch the white moon gliding slow     Along her pathway in the sky.     And every night as thus he lay     Entranced in lonely fantasy,     Borne swiftly on a bright moon-ray     There came to him a Golden Key.     And with that Golden Key the Boy     Oped every night a magic door     That to a melody of Joy     Turned on its hinges evermore.     Then, trembling with delight and awe,     When he the charmd threshold crossed,     A radiant corridor he saw,     Its end in dazzling distance lost.     Great windows shining in a row     Lit up the wondrous corridor,     And each its own rich light did throw     In stream resplendent on the floor.     One window showed the Boy a scene     Within a forest old and dim,     Where fairies danced upon the green     And kissed their little hands to him.     Sweet strains of elfin harp and horn     He heard so clearly sounding there,     And he to Wonderland was borne     And breathed its soft enchanted air.     Then, passing onward with the years,     He turned his back on Elf and Fay,     And sadly sweet, as if in tears,     The fairy music died away.     The second window held him long:     It looked upon a field of fight     Whereon the countless hordes of Wrong     Fought fiercely with the friends of Right.     And, lo! upon that fateful field,     Where cannon thundered, banners streamed,     And rushing squadrons rocked and reeled,     His sword a star of battle gleamed.     And when the hordes of Wrong lay still,     And that great fight was fought and won,     He stood, bright-eyed, upon a hill,     His white plume shining in the sun.     A glorious vision! yet behind     He left it with its scarlet glow,     And faint and far upon the wind     He heard the martial trumpets blow.     For to his listening ear was borne     A music more entrancing far     Than strains of elfin harp or horn,     More thrilling than the trump of war.     No longer as a dreamy boy     He trod the radiant corridor:     His young mans heart presaged a joy     More dear than all the joys of yore.     To that third window, half in awe,     He moved, and slowly raised his eyes,     And was it earth grown young he saw?     Or was it mans lost Paradise?     For all the flowers that ever bloomed     Upon the earth, and all the rare     Sweet Loveliness by Time entombed,     Seemed blushing, blooming, glowing there.     And every mellow-throated bird     That ever sang the trees among     Seemed singing there, with one sweet word,     Love! Love! on every little tongue.     Then he by turns grew rosy-red,     And he by turns grew passion-pale.     Sweet Love! the lark sang overhead,     Sweet Love! sang Loves own nightingale.     In mid-heart of the hawthorn-tree     The thrush sang all its buds to bloom;     Love! Love! Love! Love! Sweet Love, sang he     Amidst the soft green sun-flecked gloom.     .     .     .     .     .     She stood upon a lilied lawn,     With dreamful eyes that gazed afar:     A maiden tender as the Dawn     And lovely as the Morning Star.     She stooped and kissed him on the brow,     And in a low, sweet voice said she:     I am this countrys queen, and thou?     I am thy vassal, murmured he.     She hid him with her hair gold-red,     That flowed like sunshine to her knee;     She kissed him on the lips, and said:     Dear heart! Ive waited long for thee.     And, oh, she was so fair, so fair,     So gracious was her beauty bright,     Around her the enamoured air     Pulsed tremulously with delight.     In passionate melody did melt     Bird-voices, scent of flower and tree,     And he within his bosom felt     The piercing thorn of ecstasy.     .     .     .     .     .     The years passed by in dark and light,     In storm and shine; the man grew old,     Yet never more by day or night     There came to him the Key of Gold.     But ever, ere the great sun flowers     In gold above the skys blue rim,     All in the dark and lonely hours     There comes an Iron Key to him.     And with that key he opes a wide     And gloomy door, the Door of Fate,     That makes, wheneer it swings aside,     A music sad and desolate,     A music sad from saddest source:     He sees beside the doorway set     The chill, gray figure of Remorse,     The pale, cold image of Regret.     For all the glory and the glow     Of Life are passed, and dead, and gone:     The Light and Life of Long Ago     Are memories only, moonlight wan.     .     .     .     .     .     There is no man of woman born     So brave, so good, so wise but he     Must sometimes in a night forlorn     Take up and use the Iron Key.