 | Preludes and Romances |  |
PRELUDE: ON FIRLE BEACON
Fair are the hills of Sussex, low and long,
And softly rounded as a mother's arm
About a cradle, dimpled, naked, strong;
A fence against the fear of some dim harm,
Earthquake, or tide, or terror from the sea,
Darkly foretold, none knoweth when to be.
And softly rounded as a mother's arm
About a cradle, dimpled, naked, strong;
A fence against the fear of some dim harm,
Earthquake, or tide, or terror from the sea,
Darkly foretold, none knoweth when to be.
They are a border-land, a several realm,
A refuge yet of outlawed deities,
Old simple gods, haunters of beech and elm,
Yew-shaded hollows, hidden cavities
Where the horse treads not; heathen gods forlorn,
Houseless, unfeared, unworshipped, all men's scorn.
A refuge yet of outlawed deities,
Old simple gods, haunters of beech and elm,
Yew-shaded hollows, hidden cavities
Where the horse treads not; heathen gods forlorn,
Houseless, unfeared, unworshipped, all men's scorn.
84
They are a wonderland, where shapes well-known,
Hayrick or homestead, bush or tree-top, seen
Far off, take forms of faerie not their own;
Where viewless things, half-human, lurk between
The beechwood stems, or on some lonely spur
Hide in the sparse low-growing juniper.
Hayrick or homestead, bush or tree-top, seen
Far off, take forms of faerie not their own;
Where viewless things, half-human, lurk between
The beechwood stems, or on some lonely spur
Hide in the sparse low-growing juniper.
Abiding peace is on them. Like the calm
Cold monument in a cathedral aisle
That keeps some great one's likeness; and the psalm
Rolls daily o'er the head, and like a smile
The sunlight falls upon the carven brow,
And peace for ever is his portion now;
Cold monument in a cathedral aisle
That keeps some great one's likeness; and the psalm
Rolls daily o'er the head, and like a smile
The sunlight falls upon the carven brow,
And peace for ever is his portion now;
So a memorial of diviner mould
Are these to Time himself, that ancient Time
That died or ever this, that we call old,
Rose fresh and young in his forgotten prime;
The lark-song is their anthem, and the drone
Of unseen insect-wings an organ-tone.
Are these to Time himself, that ancient Time
That died or ever this, that we call old,
Rose fresh and young in his forgotten prime;
The lark-song is their anthem, and the drone
Of unseen insect-wings an organ-tone.
85
Many a grassy path lies o'er the down
To lead the rare-seen wayfarer from farm
To lonely farm, from town to little town,
By stony hollows where in quick alarm
The coneys rush to refuge, and o'er crests
Green, gentle-rising, where the lapwing nests.
To lead the rare-seen wayfarer from farm
To lonely farm, from town to little town,
By stony hollows where in quick alarm
The coneys rush to refuge, and o'er crests
Green, gentle-rising, where the lapwing nests.
'Twas August, hot and cloudless; a light haze
Dreamed over land and sea; when forth they set,
That little company, by chalk-white ways
To gain that high, long-fronted parapet
Whose dominance looks down on Firle, and frowns
Across to Caburn and the Lewes Downs.
Dreamed over land and sea; when forth they set,
That little company, by chalk-white ways
To gain that high, long-fronted parapet
Whose dominance looks down on Firle, and frowns
Across to Caburn and the Lewes Downs.
They wandered long in that high-lifted world,
The far-off sea to left-hand, and to right
The wide weald far beneath, a map unfurled,
Dark woods, and golden fields, and emerald light
A jewel-gleam on tree or hill or mead,
The prick of revelation dull eyes need.
The far-off sea to left-hand, and to right
The wide weald far beneath, a map unfurled,
Dark woods, and golden fields, and emerald light
A jewel-gleam on tree or hill or mead,
The prick of revelation dull eyes need.
86
Till, coming to the Beacon-top, they stayed,
And on the sun-warmed turf at ease reclining
Gazed in long silence on the landscape laid
(As if just for their joy was its designing)
In lavish feast before them, all their own,
As a boy's vision of an offered throne.
And on the sun-warmed turf at ease reclining
Gazed in long silence on the landscape laid
(As if just for their joy was its designing)
In lavish feast before them, all their own,
As a boy's vision of an offered throne.
Till presently: “Lo, there Newhaven lies,”
One said, “and Lewes there!”—“Nay, break not so
The spell!” came soft reproof from one more wise.
“In such an hour 'tis richer not to know,
But to let Fancy like a falcon soar,
And for herself the wonder-world explore.
One said, “and Lewes there!”—“Nay, break not so
The spell!” came soft reproof from one more wise.
“In such an hour 'tis richer not to know,
But to let Fancy like a falcon soar,
And for herself the wonder-world explore.
“The golden-streeted port, the castled steep,
The haunted hollows and far hills forlorn,
Let us in dreamland for one hour keep!
Let Now be Then, Here Yonder, Joy unworn!
We blind our eyes by seeking overmuch
Content of poorer senses, taste or touch.”
The haunted hollows and far hills forlorn,
Let us in dreamland for one hour keep!
Let Now be Then, Here Yonder, Joy unworn!
We blind our eyes by seeking overmuch
Content of poorer senses, taste or touch.”
87
“Oh,” cried another,” for the eyes to see
Earth as she lieth in the lap of Heaven,
All miracle, all Eden! view her free
From Man, from Mind, that worketh as a leaven
To change her nature, so that use and grace
All perish save to make Man's dwelling-place.
Earth as she lieth in the lap of Heaven,
All miracle, all Eden! view her free
From Man, from Mind, that worketh as a leaven
To change her nature, so that use and grace
All perish save to make Man's dwelling-place.
“As some fair church forsaken, where a brood
Of bats have entered, everything defiling,
And made foul nests in altar-cloth or rood,
And marred the rich mosaic and rare tiling;
The carven tomb or jewelled shrine provides
Fit place to feed or breed—what use besides?
Of bats have entered, everything defiling,
And made foul nests in altar-cloth or rood,
And marred the rich mosaic and rare tiling;
The carven tomb or jewelled shrine provides
Fit place to feed or breed—what use besides?
“So taketh Man this temple marvellous,
With splendour decked, enriched by heavenly art,
Where angels and archangels numerous
Have laboured with such love that every part
Doth its due service to the One Divine,
Each stone an altar, every tree a shrine;
With splendour decked, enriched by heavenly art,
Where angels and archangels numerous
Have laboured with such love that every part
Doth its due service to the One Divine,
Each stone an altar, every tree a shrine;
88
“And uses Earth so ignorantly ill
As doth no creature else; her beauty scars,
Her working changes by his woeful skill;
No fairest spot he visits but he mars,
No live thing seeth but he seeks to slay,
No pure thing but defiles; this is his way.
As doth no creature else; her beauty scars,
Her working changes by his woeful skill;
No fairest spot he visits but he mars,
No live thing seeth but he seeks to slay,
No pure thing but defiles; this is his way.
“And we, who would, can see not for the blindness
Of use, and long-sealed eyes, and wonted words;
Save at rare moments when Heav'n's loving-kindness
Shows us the earth of flowers and beasts and birds,
Revealing, for our heart-sick nature's cure,
Beauty the one thing holy, righteous, pure.”
Of use, and long-sealed eyes, and wonted words;
Save at rare moments when Heav'n's loving-kindness
Shows us the earth of flowers and beasts and birds,
Revealing, for our heart-sick nature's cure,
Beauty the one thing holy, righteous, pure.”
Another took in turn the word: “They gain
Much but lose more, who, ever seeking cause,
Pass semblance over, and while they explain
With keen analysis all Nature's laws,
No eyes have for the simple revelation,
The mystic light that streams from all creation.
Much but lose more, who, ever seeking cause,
Pass semblance over, and while they explain
With keen analysis all Nature's laws,
No eyes have for the simple revelation,
The mystic light that streams from all creation.
89
“Therefore no more doth Art steal heavenly fire;
Statue and high-roofed temple take no more
The touch divine; nor gleam nor dream inspire
The painter; while man's spirit, loth to soar,
Prisoner herself, her fellow-prisoner calls
Only to gild her chain and deck her prison-walls.”
Statue and high-roofed temple take no more
The touch divine; nor gleam nor dream inspire
The painter; while man's spirit, loth to soar,
Prisoner herself, her fellow-prisoner calls
Only to gild her chain and deck her prison-walls.”
Answered the gentle voice of youth and joy:
“Despair not thus! For Time is justified,
As Wisdom, of his children. Let Hope buoy
On waiting wings till the returning tide!
Tend we the tree of knowledge, leaf and root!
Who knows how fair our sons shall find the fruit?
“Despair not thus! For Time is justified,
As Wisdom, of his children. Let Hope buoy
On waiting wings till the returning tide!
Tend we the tree of knowledge, leaf and root!
Who knows how fair our sons shall find the fruit?
“We see not; but 'tis something men have seen
Through opened gates a glory not of Man;
We soar not; but we know that there have been
Winged spirits, and we claim us of their clan.
The seed they left us, though it slumber long,
Shall yet break out in statue, picture, song.
Through opened gates a glory not of Man;
We soar not; but we know that there have been
Winged spirits, and we claim us of their clan.
The seed they left us, though it slumber long,
Shall yet break out in statue, picture, song.
90
“Man of himself can nothing make of beauty;
This gift God keepeth at His own award;
With labour man can compass law and duty,
But loveliness is largesse of the Lord;
Though for long years the oracles be dumb,
Know surely there is yet a seer to come!”
This gift God keepeth at His own award;
With labour man can compass law and duty,
But loveliness is largesse of the Lord;
Though for long years the oracles be dumb,
Know surely there is yet a seer to come!”
Awhile was silence. Then the Poet spake:
“Lo, here a story kindred to our theme,
A pleasant tale, which whoso will may take
For parable, how every highest dream
And every perfect work is from above,
And comes to man unearned, the gift of Love.”
“Lo, here a story kindred to our theme,
A pleasant tale, which whoso will may take
For parable, how every highest dream
And every perfect work is from above,
And comes to man unearned, the gift of Love.”
| Preludes and Romances | |