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 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
186
DIS-CROWNED NOT DIS-KINGED.
The day followed day, and the night
Came in turn;
And the waters went brawling and bright,
From their emerald urn;
While the moonlight was wavy and white,
On the breast of the beautiful fern.
Came in turn;
And the waters went brawling and bright,
From their emerald urn;
While the moonlight was wavy and white,
On the breast of the beautiful fern.
The night followed night, and the day
Was not slack;
And the sunrise with moonrise had sway,
O'er the wanderer's track;
And the restless and fingering ray,
Led him on with the world at his back.
Was not slack;
And the sunrise with moonrise had sway,
O'er the wanderer's track;
And the restless and fingering ray,
Led him on with the world at his back.
Still he travelled away with the sun,
To the west;
As a man who is mighty, and one
With the brave and the best;
As a torrent, whose passion is done,
To its home in the infinite Rest.
To the west;
As a man who is mighty, and one
With the brave and the best;
As a torrent, whose passion is done,
To its home in the infinite Rest.
Still he journeyed in haste, with the moon
And the stars;
As a soul that will waver not soon,
Before perilous bars;
And he treasured the time as a boon,
With the light on his face and his scars.
And the stars;
As a soul that will waver not soon,
Before perilous bars;
And he treasured the time as a boon,
With the light on his face and his scars.
He had sorrowed and suffered, as all
Who have fame;
He had made of his people a thrall,
And magnificent shame;
And their life beyond reach of recall,
Was the history writ in his name.
Who have fame;
He had made of his people a thrall,
And magnificent shame;
And their life beyond reach of recall,
Was the history writ in his name.
In a penitent's garb, he had gone
On his road;
And his forehead was weary and wan,
As oppressed by a load;
But the river was smiling, and shone—
Yea, it laughed as it frolicked and flowed.
On his road;
And his forehead was weary and wan,
As oppressed by a load;
But the river was smiling, and shone—
Yea, it laughed as it frolicked and flowed.
In his hand was a cross, on his heart
Was a weight;
Not a trace of his empire and art,
Not a rag of his state;
And the thought of his greatness, was part
Of the innermost pangs of his fate.
Was a weight;
Not a trace of his empire and art,
Not a rag of his state;
And the thought of his greatness, was part
Of the innermost pangs of his fate.
187
Though his path was beset, with the thorn
And the stone;
Yet he hailed them as crowns to be worn,
Or as steps to a throne;
On the wave of repentance upborne,
In his sin and his sorrow alone.
And the stone;
Yet he hailed them as crowns to be worn,
Or as steps to a throne;
On the wave of repentance upborne,
In his sin and his sorrow alone.
And his footstep was firm, and his brow
Did not fret;
On his lips lay a sacrament's vow,
As a seal was it set;
But the worst of the trouble came now,
That his people could never forget.
Did not fret;
On his lips lay a sacrament's vow,
As a seal was it set;
But the worst of the trouble came now,
That his people could never forget.
Though his God should forgive him, his pride
And his power;
Though the folly within him had died,
As a shade or a shower;
Yet he could not undo, if he tried,
All the evil that flourished in flower.
And his power;
Though the folly within him had died,
As a shade or a shower;
Yet he could not undo, if he tried,
All the evil that flourished in flower.
Could the lashes of scorn, or the scourge,
Give him peace?
If he trod on the sepulchre's verge,
Would his sufferings cease?
Could his prayers and his penances purge,
And extort for his spirit release?
Give him peace?
If he trod on the sepulchre's verge,
Would his sufferings cease?
Could his prayers and his penances purge,
And extort for his spirit release?
Should he ever attain, to the goal
And the shrine?
Might he wring from his agonized soul,
But a hope or a sign?
Did he think to atone for the whole,
As with refuse and rinsings of wine?
And the shrine?
Might he wring from his agonized soul,
But a hope or a sign?
Did he think to atone for the whole,
As with refuse and rinsings of wine?
Did he lay on the altar a gift,
That was nought?
Was his pilgrimage else than a shift,
And too tardily sought?
Was the heaven to come down and uplift,
Or with leavings of life to be bought?
That was nought?
Was his pilgrimage else than a shift,
And too tardily sought?
Was the heaven to come down and uplift,
Or with leavings of life to be bought?
Lo, before him a cloud seemed to swim,
In his eyes;
And a shape that was shapeless and dim,
Seemed to threaten and rise;
And no glimpse of their glory to him,
Stole in mercy from earth or the skies.
In his eyes;
And a shape that was shapeless and dim,
Seemed to threaten and rise;
And no glimpse of their glory to him,
Stole in mercy from earth or the skies.
With the wayfare his feet were all sores,
And all blood;
While the sweat of his toil from the pores,
Trickled down in a flood;
Yet he sighed not to taste of the stores,
He had brought to the fruit from the bud.
And all blood;
While the sweat of his toil from the pores,
188
Yet he sighed not to taste of the stores,
He had brought to the fruit from the bud.
The sharp horrors of shadows arose,
In the way;
And yet keener within were the throes,
That no fasting could stay;
And forebodings of measureless woes,
Were more dark and more dreadful than they.
In the way;
And yet keener within were the throes,
That no fasting could stay;
And forebodings of measureless woes,
Were more dark and more dreadful than they.
But he loitered not once on his course,
Nor waxed faint;
And he looked beyond time to its source,
As to Sion its saint;
And he plunged in the deeps of remorse,
To be cleansed of his terrible taint.
Nor waxed faint;
And he looked beyond time to its source,
As to Sion its saint;
And he plunged in the deeps of remorse,
To be cleansed of his terrible taint.
Though dis-crowned and dis-throned by his will,
Yet he reigned;
He was king in his purpose, to kill
All the passions that pained;
And he ruled with more majesty still,
As he stooped to the trial ordained.
Yet he reigned;
He was king in his purpose, to kill
All the passions that pained;
And he ruled with more majesty still,
As he stooped to the trial ordained.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |