The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
So I thought, and through my spirit a wild sense of godship ran,
But a godship fierce, nefarious, not a godship good for man.
I had grown in strength of being, but my faith in God was gone:
I was standing silent, self-poised—loving truth and that alone.
But a godship fierce, nefarious, not a godship good for man.
I had grown in strength of being, but my faith in God was gone:
I was standing silent, self-poised—loving truth and that alone.
246
As I watched the crowded pavement and the sad lost faces there
All my soul was rent and tortured by a measureless despair;
Yet a living force within me seemed to meet the sense of wrong,
Living, holy, deathless, godlike, inextinguishably strong.
All my soul was rent and tortured by a measureless despair;
Yet a living force within me seemed to meet the sense of wrong,
Living, holy, deathless, godlike, inextinguishably strong.
“Death is peace and life is anguish; death's the end, the perfect goal;”
This I'll preach in tones of triumph to each listening suffering soul:
I shall win, maybe, more hearers—talk of joy, you seem to jest!—
But all mortal souls have suffered, and all sufferers long for rest.
This I'll preach in tones of triumph to each listening suffering soul:
I shall win, maybe, more hearers—talk of joy, you seem to jest!—
But all mortal souls have suffered, and all sufferers long for rest.
“Other souls have loved before you, they have suffered, they have passed:
Now they call you from the sea-waves, now they summon from the blast.
Through a thousand storms they wrestled, through all stormy days but one—
That day bore them, wild with rapture, down to darkness from the sun.
Now they call you from the sea-waves, now they summon from the blast.
Through a thousand storms they wrestled, through all stormy days but one—
That day bore them, wild with rapture, down to darkness from the sun.
247
“And our hope is just to join them, those old ancestors of ours,
Stalwart ghosts of brave old Vikings in the deep sea's crystal bowers;
There they wait, the staunch old Norsemen—we shall join them, we shall be
Welcomed with a shout of triumph through the gateways of the sea.
Stalwart ghosts of brave old Vikings in the deep sea's crystal bowers;
There they wait, the staunch old Norsemen—we shall join them, we shall be
Welcomed with a shout of triumph through the gateways of the sea.
“Though a million ships have safely sailed along the ocean way
Little heeded by the waters, not caressed of wind or spray,
Yet a chance is left for each one, for the ocean's heart is large;
‘Still it loves you’ the wind whispers, as it sings along its marge.
Little heeded by the waters, not caressed of wind or spray,
Yet a chance is left for each one, for the ocean's heart is large;
‘Still it loves you’ the wind whispers, as it sings along its marge.
“Still the mighty ocean loves you—yes, the ocean's heart is grand.
Has life failed to apprehend you? Still the sea can understand.
Are you weary of the pleasures and the loves of every day?
There's a kiss fatigueless waiting on the white lips of the spray!
Has life failed to apprehend you? Still the sea can understand.
Are you weary of the pleasures and the loves of every day?
There's a kiss fatigueless waiting on the white lips of the spray!
248
“Not in quiet gardens lighted by the soft light of the sun,
Nor in heavenly golden palace, shall your final bliss be won;
Nay, beneath a stormier moonlight than the light that filled the sky
When the sea to the Armada spake one sweet wild hoarse word: ‘Die!’
Nor in heavenly golden palace, shall your final bliss be won;
Nay, beneath a stormier moonlight than the light that filled the sky
When the sea to the Armada spake one sweet wild hoarse word: ‘Die!’
“Sweet and wild and hoarse and loving—life was waiting them in Spain,
Life with all its feeble pleasures, its vast loss, its little gain;
Then the infinite sea had mercy—while it baulked the Spaniards' plan,
To its bosom's cold pure sweetness it clasped every vessel and man.”
Life with all its feeble pleasures, its vast loss, its little gain;
Then the infinite sea had mercy—while it baulked the Spaniards' plan,
To its bosom's cold pure sweetness it clasped every vessel and man.”
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |