It was the park in which he, Harold Dartmouth, had played as
a child during his annual visits to his parents; the park surrounding
the castle in which he had been born, and which had belonged to his
father's line for centuries. For the first time in his life he did
not reason. It seemed to him that there was no corner or loophole
for argument, nothing but a cold array of facts which must be
unconditionally accepted or rejected.
He spread out the poem. It was in blank verse, and very long. He was
struck at once with its beauty and power. Although his soul responded
to the words as to the tone of a dear but long unheard voice, still he
was spared the mental exaltation which would have clouded his judgment
and destroyed his pleasure. He leaned his elbows on the desk, and,
taking his head between his hands, read on and on, scarcely drawing
breath. Poets past and present had been his familiar friends, but in
them he had found no such beauty as this. The grand sweep of the poem,
the depth of its philosophy, the sublimity of its thought, the melody
of its verse, the color, the radiant richness of its imagery,
the sonorous swell of its lines, the classic purity of its
style--Dartmouth felt as if an organ were pealing within his soul,
lifting the song on its notes to the celestial choir which had sent it
forth.
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