By the absolute equalization of this
      movement—or of such as this—had the cycles of the firmamental
      orbs themselves, been adjusted. By its aid I measured the
      irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches
      of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The
      slightest deviations from the true proportion—and these
      deviations were omni-prevalent—affected me just as violations of
      abstract truth were wont, on earth, to affect the moral sense. Although no two of the time-pieces in the chamber struck the
      individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty
      in holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective
      momentary errors of each. And this—this keen, perfect,
      self-existing sentiment of duration—this sentiment existing (as
      man could not possibly have conceived it to exist) independently
      of any succession of events—this idea—this sixth sense,
      upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first obvious and
      certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of the
      temporal Eternity. It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had
      departed from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the
      coffin. The lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the
      tremulousness of the monotonous strains. But, suddenly these
      strains diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they
      ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my
      vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself
      from my bosom. A dull shock like that of electricity pervaded my
      frame, and was followed by total loss of the idea of contact. All
      of what man has termed sense was merged in the sole consciousness
      of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of duration. The
      mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of the
      deadly Decay. Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and
      the sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a
      lethargic intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in
      operation upon the flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware
      of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una,
      I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the
      noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those
      movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me
      within the coffin, which deposited me within the hearse, which
      bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which heaped
      heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
      and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm. And here, in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose,
      there rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched
      narrowly each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record
      of its flight—without effort and without object. A year passed. The consciousness of being had grown hourly more
      indistinct, and that of mere locality had, in great measure,
      usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in
      that of place. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had
      been the body, was now growing to be the body itself. At length,
      as often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is
      Death imaged)—at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the
      deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into
      awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams—so to me, in the
      strict embrace of the Shadow came that light which alone might
      have had power to startle—the light of enduring Love. Men toiled
      at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp
      earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of
      Una. And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been
      extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into
      quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had returned to
      dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length
      utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead—instead of all
      things—dominant and perpetual—the autocrats Place and Time. For
      that which was not—for that which had no form—for that which had
      no thought—for that which had no sentience—for that which was
      soulless, yet of which matter formed no portion—for all this
      nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the grave was still a
      home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates. THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION


Πυρ σοι προσοισω. I will bring fire to thee. —EURIPIDES—_Androm._

      EIROS. Why do you call me Eiros? CHARMION. So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget too,
      my earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion. EIROS. This is indeed no dream! CHARMION. Dreams are with us no more; but of these mysteries anon. I
      rejoice to see you looking life-like and rational. The film of
      the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart and
      fear nothing. Your allotted days of stupor have expired and,
      to-morrow, I will myself induct you into the full joys and
      wonders of your novel existence. EIROS. True—I feel no stupor—none at all. The wild sickness and the
      terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
      rushing, horrible sound, like the “voice of many waters.” Yet my
      senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their
      perception of the new. CHARMION. A few days will remove all this;—but I fully understand you, and
      feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what
      you undergo—yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have
      now suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in
      Aidenn. EIROS. In Aidenn? CHARMION. In Aidenn. EIROS. Oh God!—pity me, Charmion!—I am overburthened with the majesty of
      all things—of the unknown now known—of the speculative Future
      merged in the august and certain Present. CHARMION. Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of
      this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the
      exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward—but
      back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that
      stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us
      converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the
      world which has so fearfully perished. EIROS. Most fearfully, fearfully!—this is indeed no dream. CHARMION. Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros? EIROS. Mourned, Charmion?—oh deeply. To that last hour of all, there
      hung a cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your
      household. CHARMION. And that last hour—speak of it.