Читать книгу The Epic of Paul - William Cleaver Wilkinson - Страница 13

Clanging their armor and their arms alight

In doubtful glimmer from the torches blown,

Forward into the silence and the dark,

Through the strait street, out from the city gate,

Along the ringing highway stretched in stone

To Cæsarea from Jerusalem,

Rode vanguard in that order of array

The turm of horse—in count three score and ten,

But many fold to seeming multiplied

Under the shadowy light that showed them half,

Half hid them, and amid the numerous noise

And movement of their massive martial tread.

The centuries of foot the rear composed,

While midst, between the horse and infantry,

And double-guarded so from every fear—

Before, behind, commodious interval—

Those Hebrew kinsmen, Paul and Stephen, rode.

A league now measured under the still heaven—

Quiet, they twain, as the beholding stars—

And Stephen heard the silence at his side

Softly become the sound of a low voice.

As when the ground parts and a buried seed—

Quickened already in that genial womb,

But viewless—steals from darkness into light,

So, with such unperceived transition, now,

Melodious meditation in Paul's heart

Grew out of secret silence into song.

Stephen, who, from his very cradle taught,

The holy lore of Scripture had by heart,

Knew the subdued preamble that he heard

For echo from the music of a psalm.

'Mine uncle of Gamaliel muses!' he

Felt from the moment that thus Paul began:

"Yea, so He giveth His belovéd sleep!

Blesséd be God, who such a gift gave him!

Blesséd be God, who yet such gift from me

Withholds, gift longed for, but awaited still

With patience—till His pleasure to bestow!

Blesséd be God! He doeth all things well!

It may be I shall wake until He come!

But if I sleep, I still shall sleep in Him,

For so He giveth His belovéd sleep!

Sweet gift, and sure the way of giving sweet,

Since it will be in Him, in Him, in Him—

However long hence, and however harsh,

The lullaby may be that brings the sleep,

At last, at last, the sleep will be in Him!

To wake to Jesus, or in Him to sleep,

Whichever lot for me He choose, I choose.

His choice I do not know, but He knows mine;

My will, he knows, is His, for Him in me

To choose with, or His will is mine, for me

In Him to choose with, now and evermore."

"Amen!" Paul murmured, with such voice as if

The prayer he uttered turned to sacrament.

Stephen a little lingered, and then said:

"Thou and thy voice, O honored kinsman mine,

Commend to me whatever thou mayst say

Or sing; that inner-sounding melody,

Most sweet, which never other makes save thee,

But oft thou makest as to thyself alone

When thou alone art, or, as now, with whom

Thou lovest, and so trustest, utterly,

It seems—this I have heard my mother say,

Who loves it, as I love it, taught by her—

It seems to pass the hearing sense unheard;

The deeper, if I hear it not, I feel;

My heart feeds on it with her inner ear.

Yet, and however so commended, yet

Thy choice awakens no desire in me.

Sleep, to thy nephew, uncle, seems not sweet,

Or less sweet seems than waking is to him.

To lie, like reverend dear Gamaliel there,

Still, stirless still; cold, marble cold; deaf, dumb;

Calm, yea, too calm, for ever, ever calm;

No pain, no fret, but joy, but pleasure none;

Nor action, nor endeavor, nor attempt,

Nor strife, nor aspiration, nor desire;

No glorious exultation in emprise,

Or rally of reaction from defeat;

Fear none indeed, but never, never hope;

No change, no chance of any change, the same,

The same, continuance without end prolonged;

Of life—nothing, but only dull, dull death

And apathy—O uncle, such a state,

And though thou call it sleep in Jesus, yet—

Shall I confess it, uncle, to my shame?—

It has no charm for me, I wish to live;

I love life, motion, and the sense of power.

Hebrew I am, in spirit as in blood,

Yet Greek withal enough, if Greek it be,

To dread the drear, dark, sunless underworld,

Hades or Sheol, and to choose instead

This cheerful upper air and joyousness,

The brightness of this sun-enlightened earth.

And I should like to see what I with life

Can do; something, I trust, besides to live,

Some worthy, noble, arduous end to serve,

To wrestle with the world and overthrow!"

Paul thought within himself: 'Along this road,

This very road, some score of years ago,

Saul, in the early dawn of that spring day,

Rode for Damascus from Jerusalem,

Nursing such thoughts—fair thoughts they seemed to him!

And I was then nigh double my Stephen's age—

Ah, and not half his bright young innocence!'

"It is thy youth," to Stephen Paul replied,

"Thy youth and health, the fountain fresh of life

Unwasted, springing up for flow in thee;

Life is the secret of the love of life.

My song of sleep I did not sing for thee,

But for a weary older man than thou,

Who has already lived, already seen

What he could do with life! Weary am I—

With living weary, though of living not—

And, God so willing, I should gladly rest."

The sweetness of the pensiveness of this,

From such an one as Paul the aged, smote

On Stephen with a stroke as of reproof—

Unmeant, to him the less resistible—

And touched to recollection and remorse.

He said: "O uncle, be my fault forgiven,

That I so lightly thought but of myself!

This ride to thee is added weariness,

Which to me were exhilaration pure,

Could I forget again, as I cannot,

The need my uncle has of rest instead.

I slept, while thou wert waking, through that long

Farewell talk with thy friend, and I am fresh

From slumber, as thou art with waking worn—

Besides that I am young and thou art old."

"Nay, thou wert right, my lad," said Paul to him;

"'Rejoice thou,' so that ancient preacher cried,

And so cries God Himself within the blood,

'Rejoice thou, O young man, in thy fair youth,

And let thy heart in thy young days cheer thee.'

I were myself the egotist thou blamest,

Were I to hang my heavy age on thee

And with it weigh thy blithesome spirits down;

Besides that I should suffer loss deserved,

Who, in the midmost of my spirit, spring

With answering pulse to pulse of youth from thee.

Go on, my Stephen, for Paul's sake be glad,

Thou canst not be more glad than gladdens me.

Now glad we both are surely in one thing,

That thou hast saved thine uncle from that death.

Let us together sing a gladsome psalm."

Then softly they in unison began,

Softly, with yet their accent jubilant:

"'Had it not been Jehovah on our side,

Let Israel now'—let us as Israel—'say,

Had it not been Jehovah on our side,

When men, together sworn, against us rose,

Then had they truly swallowed us alive,

When sore their wrath against us kindled was;

The waters then had overwhelmed us quite,

Over our soul the rushing stream had gone,

Over our soul the proud exulting waters.

Forever blesséd be Jehovah Lord,

Who did not give us to their teeth a prey!

Escaped our soul is, like unto a bird

That is escaped from out the fowler's snare;

The snare is broken, and escaped are we.

Our help is in the Lord Jehovah's name,

In His name is, who fashioned heaven and earth.'"

They ceased, but presently Paul's voice alone:

"How those great words, which God the Holy Ghost

Spake by the mouth of men of old, elect

To be His earthly oracles—how they

Fill yet the mouth of him that utters them,

And fill the ear of him that hears them uttered,

And the heart fill of him that makes them his—

Fill, and, enlarging ever, ever fill!

They satisfy the soul, not as with food

That sates the hunger, to cry out, 'Enough!'

But as with hunger's self, and appetite

That never ceases crying, 'More! And more!'

Forever greater growing, and sweeter far

Than could be any stay to such desire!

According as the Lord Himself once spake

Pronouncing blesséd those whose hunger is

For righteousness, and promising to them

Fulness. Fulness without satiety

Their blesséd state! State blesséd, sure—to be

If only with that heavenly hunger filled!"

To Stephen half, but half in ecstasy

Of pure abandonment to worshiping

High passion and communion rapt above,

Paul so his heart disburdened of its praise.

"Yea," Stephen said, "it is a noble psalm,

Triumphal in its gladness at escape

Like thine from evil and from evil men.

With all my heart I sang it thankfully—

At least, if joyfully be thankfully;

Yet have I thoughts not uttered through that psalm."

The elder and the wiser well divined,

From something in the manner of the speech

Of Stephen, as too from the words themselves

He spoke, what was the spirit of those thoughts

Within him, which the chanted psalm left dumb.

Paul safer judged it for his nephew's health

Of heart and conscience, that the heat and stir

Of natural thought untoward in him find

Issue in utterance, than sealed shut to be.

"And what, then, nephew, were those thoughts of thine?"

In gentle serious question he inquired.

"How is it, uncle," swerving, asked the youth—

For a fine tact to feel what other felt,

Unspoken, unbetokened, though it were,

Was Stephen's, and this power of sympathy

Now gave him sobering sense of check from Paul—

"How is it, so thou deemest me meet to know,

I never hear thee speak of Shimei?"

"Ah, Stephen," Paul replied, "we lack not themes

To speak of, promising more food to thee

For sweet and gracious thought and feeling. Yet

I think of Shimei, and to God I speak

Of him in prayer, often, not without hope.

I never will abandon him to be

Himself, the self that now is he. Too well,

Too bitterly, I remember what I was,

I myself, once, as rancorous as he!

If guileful less, that was the grace of God,

Who made us differ from each other there.

Hateful to him I needs was, from the first,

But I was hateful more than needed be;

I helped him hate me by my scornful pride.

Would from his hate I could that strand untwine!

Hating Paul less, he less might Jesus hate;

Only to pity Shimei am I clear."

"Thy patience and thy meekness make me fierce

With anger, with ungovernable wrath

Most righteous," Stephen cried, "against those men

Who, hating, hunt mine uncle to the death!

I hate them, and I wish them—what themselves

Wish thee; dogs of the devil that they are!

I know a psalm that I should like to sing—

But I should need to roughen hoarse my voice,

And a tune frame well jangled out of tune,

To sing it as I would, and as were meet.

Thy pardon, but my rage surpasses bound;

To think of what thou art and what they are!

Some spirit in me, right or wrong, too hot

For any counsel, even thine own, to cool,

Forces unto my lips those wholesome words

Of hearty human hatred, God-inspired,

Most needful vent and ease to wish like mine;

I lift to God the prayer Himself inbreathed:

'Hold not thy peace, thou Lord God of my praise!

Who hath rewarded evil still for good,

And hatred still for only love returned,

Set thou a wicked one lord over him,

And Satan ever keep at his right hand.

When he is judged, then let him guilty prove,

And let his very prayer turn into sin.

Few let his days be, and his office let

Another take. His children fatherless,

His wife a widow, be. Nay, vagabonds

His children, let them beg from door to door.

All that he hath, let the extortioner

Catch, and let strangers make his labor spoil.

Let his posterity be utterly

Cut off, and in the time to come their name

Be blotted out. Let the iniquity

Of his forefathers still remembered be

In the Lord's presence, and his mother's sin

Not blotted out: because he persecuted

The poor and needy man, and those that were

Already broken-hearted sought to slay.

Cursing he loved, and cursing came to him;

In blessing he delighted not, and far

From him was blessing. He with cursing clothed

Himself as with his garment, and it sank

Soaking into his inward parts like water

And penetrating to his bones like oil.

Amen! Let cursing be forevermore

As if the raiment wherewith he himself

Covers, and for the girdle of his loins

About them belted fast forevermore!'"

Stephen felt blindly that the eager ire

With which he entered, flaming, on that strain

Of awful imprecation from the psalm,

Faltered within his heart as he went on—

Insensibly but insupportably

Dispirited toward sinking by the lack

Of buoying and sustaining sympathy

Supplied it from without; as if the lark,

Upspringing, on exultant pinion borne,

Should, midway in his soaring for the sun,

Meet a great gulf of space wherein the air

Was spun out thinner than could bear his weight.

He ended, halting; and there followed pause,

Which ponderable seemed to Stephen, so

Did his heart feel the pressure of that pause.

At length Paul said, with sweetest irony,

That almost earnest seemed, it was so sweet:

"Yea, nephew, hast thou, then, already grown

Perfect in love, that thou darest hate like that?"

It was not asked for answer, Stephen knew,

And answer had he none he could have given,

No answer, save of silence, much-ashamed.

Paul let the searching of himself, begun

And busy in the spirit of the youth,

Go on in silence for a while; and then

In gravest sweet sincerity he spoke:

"Hating is sweet and wholesome, for the heart

That can hate purely, out of utter love.

But who for these things is sufficient—save

God only? God is love, and He can hate.

But for me, Stephen, mine own proper self,

I dare not hate until I better love.

When, as I hope, hereafter I shall be

Perfect in love, then I may safely hate;

Till then, I task myself to love alone."

There was such reverence in Paul's gravity,

Reverence implied toward him as toward a peer,

Not peer in age, but peer in human worth—

Toward him, so young, so heady, and so fond—

That Stephen, in the sting of the rebuke

Itself, shaming him, though so gracious, felt

A tonic touch that made him more a man.

Uplifted, while abashed, he dared to say:

"Perhaps I trespassed in my vehemence;

But, uncle, did not God inspire the psalm?"

"Doubtless, my Stephen," Paul replied; "but not,

Not therefore, thee inspire to use the psalm.

Sound thine own heart now, nephew, and tell me,

Which was it in thy heart that prayed the prayer—

True vehemence in sympathy with God,

Or vehemence against thy brother man?

A sentiment of sympathy with me

Thou canst not say, for I have no such wish

As that thou breathedst, touching any man."

"Though not in sympathy with thee, at least

For thy sake," Stephen said, "mine anger burned."

"For my sake, yea, but not acceptably

Even so," said Paul; "since neither did it serve

My cause, nor please me, if I speak the truth.

I know thy love for me and hold it dear;

All the world's gold were no exchange for it.

So, doubt not, Stephen, that to what degree

Love for thine uncle prompted that thy prayer,

Thine uncle thanks thee for it from his heart.

But let us, thou and I together both,

To our own selves severely faithful be.

Shall we not say that that love faulty is,

Which less desires to please the one beloved,

Than to indulge itself, have its own way?

And knowest thou not it would have pleased me better—

Since, for the present, question is of me—

To see my nephew altogether such

As I myself am, lover of all men,

Hater of none, not even mine enemy?

Thou didst not love me well enough for that!

"Thy love though precious and though well-refined

Had yet alloy in it of selfishness—

Of specious, almost lovely, selfishness,

I grant thee; yea, according to the world,

That loves its own illusions, lovely quite—

Of such a selfishness alloy enough

To take its counsel of itself, not me,

Blindly abandoned to its own excess."

"The art of love thou makest difficult!"

Stephen, with chastened deprecation, said.

"Not 'difficult,' impossible," said Paul,

"Save to whom Jesus makes it possible.

I wish that I could bring thee to perceive

How, severed from Him, thou canst not love at all,

Right love, I mean, the one safe sense of love,

Love with the gift of immortality,

Since pure and perfectly-proportioned love!

Left to ourselves, we love capriciously;

Ever some form of fond self-love it is,

Which in disguise of love to other masks.

If thou in Jesus truly hadst loved me

Then hadst thou loved me as I would be loved,

To absolute effacement of thyself

Through whole replacement of thyself with me.

Enormous claim seems this of selfishness

In me? But I describe ideally

The love that I myself to Jesus bear.

In Him I lose, and find again, my self,

And the new self I find again, is—He!

It is but as united thus with Him—

My wish, my will, become the same as His—

That I dare make exaction for myself

Of love that seems to blot another out,

Or merge him in a new and different self.

I ask thee—not my will, but Christ's, made thine—

To love me with the love that pleases Him."

"All this," said Stephen, "must be true, I feel—

I feel it better than I understand."

"I also," Paul said, "in this mystery

Am wiser with my heart than with my mind,

I feel it better than I understand;

Although I understand it better too

Than I can make it plain in any words."

Whereon in silence for a space they rode,

While their thoughts ranged diverse in worlds apart.

Then Stephen: "That distempering heat in me,

O uncle, is clean gone from out mine heart,

Slaked by the overshadowing of thy spirit,

Like the earth cooled with overshadowing night.

I am calm enough, I think, to learn, if not

Thy difficult high doctrine touching love,

Something at least about those psalms of hate.

Hate is the spirit of the psalm I said,

Is it not, uncle?"

"As thou saidst it, yea,

Or I mistook the meaning of thy voice,"

Said Paul; "whatever meant the holy words,

The tones, I felt, meant that and nothing else."

"Could then those words themselves mean something else?"

Asked Stephen.

"Yea," said Paul, "for words are naught

But empty vessels that the utterer fills

With his own spirit when he utters them;

The spirit is the lord of utterance."

"What was the spirit with which the Spirit of God

Breathed these into the soul of him elect

Among the sons of men to give them voice?

Did not God hate whom He so heavily cursed?"

Stephen inquired; and Paul at large replied:

"God hates not any, as wicked men count hate—

And men not wicked may, in wicked mood—

Nor wills that of the souls whom He has made

Any should perish; rather wills that all

Come to the knowledge of the truth and live.

But look abroad upon the world of men;

What seest thou? Many souls resist the will,

The blesséd will to save, of God. Of these,

Some will hereafter yield—thou knowest not who,

But some—and let themselves be saved. Again,

Some will to the end resist—thou knowest not who;

But some—and obstinately choose to die;

Choice is the fearful privilege of all.

Now, toward the man incorrigibly bad,

Who evil loves and evil makes his good

Forever, without hope of other change

Than change from worse to worse forevermore—

Toward such a man, what must the aspect be

Of the Supreme Eternal Holiness?

What but of wrath, or as of wrath, and hate?

Canst thou imagine other face of God

Than frown and threat aflame implacable

Against implacable rebellion set,

And sin eternal, to eternal sin

Doomed, for self-doomed through free unchanging choice?

One flame burns love toward love, and hate toward hate—

Toward hate that utmost love cannot subdue,

The hate that, like the stubborn diamond-stone

Amid the fiercest fires rebellious, bides

Still, in love's sevenfold-heated furnace, hate.

That flame is the white flame of holiness—

Which God is, and whose other name is love."

"God is a dreadful thought," said Stephen. "Yea,"

Said Paul; "such Jacob felt it when he cried,

'How dreadful is this place!' and Bethel named

The place where God was and he knew it not.

God is a dreadful thought, dreadful as sweet—

The sweetness and the dreadfulness are one.

But never was the dreadfulness so sweet,

The sweetness never yet so dreadful shown,

As then when Jesus died on Calvary!

Shroud thyself, Stephen, from the dreadfulness,

Felt to be too intolerably bright,

In the cool, shadowing, sheltering thought, so nigh,

Of mercy, mercy, still in judgment sheathed."

"I feel the buoyance of my spirit sink,

Oppressed by the great weight of these thy thoughts,"

Said Stephen; "and my heart is very still.

I wait to hear what God the Lord will speak."

"Hearken," said Paul. "Those fearful words of curse

Which late thou nigh hadst turned to blasphemy,

Daring to lade them with thy personal spite

Against a neighbor man, whom we must love,

Until we know hereafter, which God fend!

That he bides reprobate, self-reprobate—

Those maledictions dire, through David breathed,

Express not human hate, but hate divine,

Revealed in forms of human speech, and, too,

Inspired in whoso can the height attain

To side with God, and passionlessly damn,

As if with highest passion, any found—

Whom, known not yet, even to himself not known,

Much less to thee or me, but known to God,

And to be known, in that great day, to all—

Fixed in his final choice of evil for good.

Henceforward, Stephen, when thou sayest that psalm,

Say it and tremble, lest thyself be he,

The man thou cursest in its awful curse!"

"If it were right," said Stephen, after pause

Prolonged in solemn chiding of himself,

"If it were right and seemly, things profane

To mingle with things sacred so—I think

Perforce now of a certain tragedy

I read once by that Grecian Sophocles,

Wherein a Theban king, one Œdipus,

Denounces on a murderer frightful doom,

Dreaming not he—though every reader knows—

The murderer he so curses is himself.

I shudder when I think, 'Were it to be

That the fierce blasting I invoked to fall

Upon another's head, I drew on mine:

"Cursing he loved, and cursing fell on him!"'

Forefend it God, and Christ with blessing fill

This heart of mine, too hasting prone to hate!"

"Amen!" said Paul, "thou prayest for me and thee!"

Out of the depths of the long hush that then

Followed between those midnight travellers,

Emerging, like a diver of the sea

That brings up dripping pearl from sunken cave

And, gladdened, lifts it flashing to the sun,

So, to his young companion speaking, Paul—

Not turning while he spoke his countenance

Toward him, but fixed right forward keeping it,

Intent, as on an object not of sight,

Before him held with unmaterial hand,

An unmaterial treasure passing price,

Imagined fair by the creating soul—

Said, with such cheerful rally in the voice

As one invites with, some delight to share:

"Wilt thou hear, Stephen? I have been revolving

In form a kind of hymn concerning love,

Which, in a letter, some twelve months ago,

I wrote the church in Corinth. There was need,

For they were sore at strife among themselves,

Vying with one another to outdo

In divers showy gifts miraculous,

Or outward deeds that daze the eyes of men:

Tongues, prophecies, the keys of mysteries,

High knowledges, sublime degrees of faith,

Almsgivings to impoverishment, stout heart

To brave devouring flames in testimony—

All these things, but for lowly love small care!

"My soul was worn and anxious with my pain

At such distractions of the church of Christ;

I found my peace at last in this thought, 'How

Love would heal all, would gently join from schism,

And in one bind the body of the Lord!'

A wish ineffable seized me to make

Love lovely to those loveless ones. I had,

With the wish born, and of the wish perhaps,

A sudden vision that entranced me quite.

I saw love take a body beautiful

And live and act in most angelic wise;

It was as if a heavenly spectacle

Let down before me by a heavenly hand—

Not to be viewed with unanointed eyes;

I touched my eyes with eyesalve and beheld.

Then a Voice said, 'What thou beholdest, write.'

I took my pen and sought to catch the grace

Of being and behavior shown to me,

And fix it, as I could, in form and phrase,

For those Corinthians and all men to see.

A living picture, and a hymn, there grew.

"Hymn I may call my eulogy of love,

Then written, for indeed it seemed to sing

Within me, as I mused it, and the tune

Still to the hearing of my heart is sweet.

I felt, and feel, a kind of awe of it,

Myself that made it, for I did not make

It wholly, I myself, I know quite well;

A breath divine, breathed in me, purified

My will to will it, and my soul to sing.

"My Stephen will not think it strange that thus

Our talking of an hour ago on hate

Set me to dreaming counterwise of love.

I build of love a refuge for myself,

Whither to run for rest and sanctuary

From thoughts of hatred thirsting for my soul.

Love is my house, and there the air is love—

My shelter round about, the breath I draw.

No castle is there like my house of love,

Charmed not to let footstep of evil in;

And what will quench the Wicked's fiery darts

Like love drawn round one for an atmosphere?

Himself gasps breathless with but love to breathe;

Yea, I am safe from him if I can love.

And love I can, through Christ who strengthens me,

Whatever natural force I feel to hate.

I love to love, it is my chief delight;

I triumph by it over all my foes.

The harder these my triumph make to win,

The more, since I must win it still by love,

To love they drive me, and increase my joy.

My triumph is my love, and my love's joy.

But thou my poem hear in praise of love:

With men's tongues speaking, and with angels', yet,

Love lacking, I am sounding brass become,

Or clanging cymbal. Prophecy though mine,

And mysteries all to grasp, and knowledge all,

And mine though be all faith so as to move

Mountains, I yet, love lacking, nothing am.

And though I lavish all I own in alms,

And though I yield my body to be burned,

Yet I, love lacking, am naught profited.

Love suffers long, is kind, love envies not,

Love does not vaunt herself, is not puffed up,

Deports herself in no unseemly wise,

Seeks not her own, is not provoked, imputes

Not evil, at unrighteousness no joy

Feels, but her joy has with the truth, bears up

Against all things, all things believes, all things

Hopes, undergoes all things. Love never fails;

But whether there be prophecies, they will

Be done away, tongues whether, they will cease,

Whether there knowledge be, it will have end.

For we in part know, and we prophesy

In part; but when that which is perfect comes,

Then that which is in part will pass away.

When I a child was, as a child I talked,

I did my thinking as a child, I used

My reason as a child; since I a man

Have grown, the child's part I have put aside.

For now we darkly, through reflection, see,

But face to face then. Now I know in part,

But then shall I know fully, even as I

Also am fully known. And now these three

Bide, faith, hope, love; but of these chief is love.'

"Stephen, how little Shimei guesses," Paul

Said, having thus his hymn of love rehearsed,

"The secret triumph ever over him

I celebrate, in loving him, despite

His hating me, and seeking to destroy!

Who knows but God to love will win him yet?"

A certain gentle humor exquisite

Enlivened and commended this from Paul.

But Stephen answered not; indignant love

Swelled in his heart, and choked within his throat

The way of words, and dimmed his eyes with tears.

Thus at Antipatris arrived, they halt:

Here Stephen, nursing other purpose not

Disclosed, disclosed to Paul a wish he had

To go back with the infantry returning,

And reassure his mother that all was well.

Paul sped his nephew with his benison;

And, after rest had, and refreshment meet,

Himself thence, with the escort cavalry

Safeguarded, on to Cæsarea rode,

Not lonely, though alone, and prisoner.