 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
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TO MAZZINI TRIUMPHANT.
1
At last, our brother, thou hast left the landOf trouble and of sorrow and dismay,
And joined thy harp to the ecstatic band,
Whose voices and whose glad lyres sing alway
In regions where God's presence is as day;
The countenance so dear to every soul
Who fought for hope, for freedom, and the grey
City by which the waves of Tiber roll,
Now vanishes from earth—now shines at heaven's high goal.
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Would that I had the harp from Shelley's hand,The solemn voice of Milton—and his sight
Nurtured on heavenly visions sweet and grand,
The more so for the absence of the light
Common, in which the common earth is dight;
Would that I had the voices of all singers,
And all their palms, and robes of lustrous white,
That I might fit the chant that in me lingers
To words less weak and frail, with more auspicious fingers!
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Would that I had the reed whose swift point sangOf paradise, and heaven's heights, and of hell,
From which the immortal soul of the era rang:
For, truly, things as great are ours to tell,
With whom in these last ages it is well;
Yea, things as vast to sing with a sonorous
And wide-mouthed trump, or softly-cadenced shell—
The beauty of the mother-age that bore us,
And many a flaming star borne perilously o'er us.
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For inspiration is not dead; it seeksThe worthy presence of a worthy bard,
Then with a glorious rose inflames his cheeks!
He cometh; but the slow time doth retard
His labour, and surrounding ice is hard
For any, even a trumpet-blast, to melt,
And dark-plumed foes fame's golden turrets guard,
And in the mid way iron blows are dealt,
And many iron shocks that singer shall have felt.
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The singer whom we see not, but who standsMost surely at the gateway of the time,
With might and risen power within his hands,
And all a sun's fresh brilliance in his rhyme;
Loud as the thunder in its organ-chime,
Yet soft as the sweet speaking of a girl
Fed upon fairy tales and lore sublime,
Who laughs, sweet-shaking many a golden curl,
At dexterous fairy-tales of palaces of pearl.
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So sweet and yet so strong shall be the dictionOf the great singer soon about to be;
He shall disdain the haunts of ancient fiction,
And ancient iron-armoured revelry,
And tales of knights who struggled knee to knee,
For he shall mark before him in the fighting
Of the wide peoples, and the foaming sea
Of present thought, a subject grand, delighting
His fiery spirit—all the paler epochs blighting.
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Casting himself with faith and sweet persuasionInto the yeasty channel of our days,
And seizing each fair opportune occasion,
He shall achieve as bright a crown of bays,
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As any who in previous epochs drew
The people with the fervour of their lays;
Laurels were theirs, rose-clusters not a few—
But round his brow shall flame the stars within the blue.
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And thou, Mazzini sweet, hast paved the way!Saint John thou art to this fair coming bard,
Singing with blameless heart thy prose-clad lay.
Him all the icy seasons do retard,
The spring breathes feebly, and earth's frost is hard;
Our glad inwreathed redeemer comes not yet,
Not yet the face shines, wonderful tho' marred,
By no green hill-side may his steps be met,
His footprint presses not the wandering mignonette.
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But, our Mazzini, thou hast made the pathEasier, for where thy lonely soul hath bled,
Pierced either by false friends' or prelates' wrath,
Soft flowers, impurpled with that living red,
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Where thou hast groaned, birds have caught up the note
And hurl it transformed round about the head
Of each who, following with swift soul, both float
Along the self-same way as in pursuing boat.
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Easier it is for Christ, O great Saint John,When comes the approaching healer of our age,
To put his healing store of garments on,
And open out a less tempestuous page
Of Being;—thou, interpreter and sage,
Hast gone before, and all the path is ready,
And the fierce elements less madly rage,
And less oppressive is the devious eddy
Of priestcraft, and the true stand stronger and more steady.
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Therefore we worship with religious awe,Mazzini, thy fair spirit, that has past
The wood-side beyond which man never saw.
We cannot follow yet; desire is fast,
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Has yet to be endured a little while,
A little longer with faint fluttering mast
Life's vessel through foam-heaps the black winds pile,
Surges and toils—not yet the cliff-top meadows smile!
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But, happy soul, it is not so with thee;Thy strife is ended, and thy banner waves
Beyond that bitter, foam-encircled sea;
Beyond the cold domain of clay and graves
Thou art, and all thy spoken message saves,
Even as the Comforter from Christ was sent
To comfort those who, hidden in deep caves
And lonely forests, by fierce anguish rent,
Held to the blood-stained road by which their Master went.
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That glorious season doth return to us:And, as the first brave Christians did endure
All tortures for truth's sake, and triumphed thus,
With simple hearts that perished for the pure,
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Fresh tortures of the spirit, many and strange,
Some which time softens, some past mortal cure,
Await the unflinching ones whose thought would range,
Impassioned o'er the hills or trackless tides of change.
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But through the sorrow, brother, thou hast journeyed;Harder than we fight hath thy spirit fought;
With actual steel lances thou hast tourneyed,
Into which conflict we have not been brought:
Yet all the horror of lonely tears and thought
Is not a small thing, is it, brother mine?
These present birth-pangs, are they all for nought?
Or shall we, at our own life's ending, twine
Sweet laurels of glad victory, perfect even as thine?
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This, this we know, that one of us emergesWith triumph from the terror and the pangs
Of life, even as a diver from thick surges
Is risen—while his iron armour clangs
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His fellows, telling of the depth profound,
And rocky hollows, and of sharks' keen fangs,
And scarlet flowers whose clusters interwound
Glitter among the stones, in gorgeous masses bound.
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So, from the horrors of the trembling deep,Mazzini rises into heavenly air,
And regions wherein yet we may not peep,
But which, we know, the eternal blossoms bear;
His load of life-long sorrow and of care
Is lifted, and he passes towards the crown
That he alone of patriot hearts can wear:
Peace cometh; he may put the good steel down,
And rest for evermore, secure in his renown.
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Fair risen spirits round him stand; but noneIs greater than the dead man who doth rise
With perfect hands and forehead like the sun,
And all Italia's future in his eyes,
Wherein the vast unspoken passion lies:
The crown he weareth no soul touched before,
Virgin it is, yet dewy from the skies
That break triumphantly above the shore
For which his untold pain he, pain-defying, bore.
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To all the prophets great who have precededHis equal course, he is united now;
To Milton, who gave light that England needed,
Although it wandered from his darkened brow
To illume a wider field; to all who vow
Their lives to freedom; most of all to those
Who guided through the waters the sweet prow
Of fair Italia's vessel as it rose
On the white waves it flung aside like scattered snows.
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To Shelley, and to him whom Shelley mournedIn that sweet song wherethrough all music sighs,
Is our Mazzini's snow-white soul returned,
Even as a lark reseeks the voiceless skies
From which he fell, with fresh soliloquies;
Shelley and Adonais and the great
Italian with the forehead crowned and wise,
And all his country's thorn-wreathed martyrs, wait
To welcome this new king, beside his palace-gate.
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But most of all to Christ, I see him draw,With the same pure God-breathing presence near—
I mark their meeting, but with sacred awe,
And somewhat in me yet of earthly fear,
I do retreat from words I may not hear;
Their faces are too bright for me to see—
But yet their far-off voices ringing clear,
Suffice as in a dream to bring to me
Visions of earth made glad with hours of purity.
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They speak—so much I gather through my dream—Of all that shall be when the earth is white,
And through its plains swift tides of blessing stream;
When as a cloud by day, a fire by night,
In every heart God rests—when man's pure might
At length accomplished is, and man is crowned
With his own soul's unutterable light:
When all the prisoners whom the ages bound
With bitter bands at length in liberty are found.
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They speak of that fair season when the spiritOf man, so shackled through the ages long,
Shall, like themselves, stride forward and inherit
The lands he covets with desire so strong,
But which he cannot reach by sword or song
As yet, not being pure—but he shall find
A pathway at the last from every wrong,
And all earth's blossoms round his brow shall bind,
And stand forth as a king invincible in mind.
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The stars shall be his servants, and the hillsNo tardy lingering tribute then shall pay—
His foot shall be upon the foaming rills,
His forehead shall be bright with ocean-spray;
Along the eddying wind his words shall stray—
The incarnate God in manhood then shall dwell,
All nature shall be subject to his sway,
Earth, heaven, and all the deep of fiery hell—
Plains, rivers, sands and shores—each glade and grassy dell.
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His spirit shall be paramount—imperialHe shall be over all the world of things:
This he shall rule by conquest sure; ethereal
And white shall be the glitter of his wings—
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His heart more steadfast than the fickle hearts
Of gods whose thrones time having raised now flings
Downward, unsheathing pitiless keen darts—
Laughing as each pale god in emptiness departs.
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The lonely night shall be a fitting wreathFor him—the stars shall cluster round his brow—
Victor he shall be o'er the pains of death.
The winds and crested ocean-waves shall vow
Allegiance, and before his sceptre bow;
Upon the mountains when the morn is red,
Strange snowy glittering heights untrodden till now,
The conquering foot of man their lord shall tread:
His spirit shall converse with the unforgotten dead.
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Woman, no more a subject, but a queen,Shall be the fairest rose within his bower,
The sweetest the desirous years have seen:
O, whitest most unfathomable flower,
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At length, at length, thine heart hath victory!
Yea, now at last the immeasurable hour
When thy pure triumph with glad eyes we see,
Rejoicing too with souls that worship utterly.
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Beyond all speech the triumph of the tenderPure woman-heart that then the years shall bring:
All foes who have resisted shall surrender—
All friends she shall reward with snow-white wing:
Thee, sweet, sweet, future goddess I would sing—
Thee and thy crown of fair undying roses
Whose buds thy far more spotless forehead ring
Thee and thine empire that slow time discloses,
As time all other realms, imperious, opposes.
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I see thee, woman, as thou shalt be surelyWhen the great day of thine empire shall come—
I see thee stepping towards thy throne demurely,
With all thy face flushed into happy bloom:
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Man equal partner in thy perfect joys
With thee the boundless empire shall resume:
I hear above the waves' and wild winds' noise
Thy laughter, and the ringing of thy silver voice!
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Oh beautiful thou art—more fair, O lady,In that thou thus hast suffered through time's night,
Threading the obscure dark hills and valleys shady
With patient step that travelled towards the light,
Implacable in unassuming might:
More lovely art thou for the years so long
Wherein thou hadst not grown to woman quite,
Not yet wast moulded perfectly, nor strong—
Sweeter thy now mature illimitable song.
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I see thee and I sing thee—and I seeThe wide-spread glory that shall soft descend
Upon the earth—the wonder that shall be
When folly slain by truth's spear, hath an end—
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Resistlessly along the impassioned road,
Till with the far-off summer skies they blend
Wherein the sunrise of mankind hath glowed,
True to the golden joy that poets' visions showed.
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I see the hope of every patriot finished,The dream of every sorrowing bard complete;
The altar of earth's prayers is undiminished,
But each petition, with exalted feet,
Has sought the inmost chamber-hollows sweet
Wherein God sits to answer; He doth spurn
No single flame of sacrificial heat;
He gathers all desires of souls that yearn,
And presently each hope shall, magnified, return.
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God gathers all our hearts into His bosom;They rise like scentless lilies wan and pale;
He doth return them as the blood-red blossom
Of some superb rose that might proudly sail
Upon a woman's breast; our mingled wail
Is melody if heard from out the sky,
Even from behind the Holy Temple's vail,
Whereto through paths of misery we fly,
Ascending to our homes, God's palaces on high.
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So much I learned; but then the Italian visionOf joy and beauty on my spirit broke;
As the green earth doth bound from winter's prison,
Spurning with laughter every icy yoke,
A liberated universe then spoke;
I marked the re-united shores of nations;
The passion of the re-united folk
Brought incense and immaculate oblations
Of fruitful hearts to God as happy protestations.
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The sounds of prayer were common; yet no churchesUsurped the grim protection of a creed;
The wings of white prayers fluttered through the birches,
And pure petitions blossomed in each mead;
No longer do our poet-martyrs bleed,
For truth is worshipped, reverenced everywhere.
The spirit of truth doth calmly take the lead,
All hearts are free as freest mountain air,
All souls of men are white, made exquisitely fair.
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And, fairest of all lands, I saw thine own,Mazzini, rising softly from the waste
Of many a scattered church and vanquished throne;
Like some pure island on the waters placed
By hands of a creating God in haste
Thy country gleamed, superb with many towers,
Grand with the endless city that hath graced
The avenues of time, and furnished flowers
Of beauty to adorn the universe's bowers.
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At last, Mazzini, thou art understood!Thy passion, and thy valour, and thy love.
Thou art not veiled with any paltry hood;
Thy spirit, rich with the presence of the dove
Of holiness, is visible above
The Rome that shall be; therein thou art praised
By every poet through whose fancy move
Numbers majestic with delight; high raised
Thou art where once the fires of persecution blazed.
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We pray thee help us; we are puzzled sorely,Hard bound by clanking fetters of the age,—
We struggle, we aspire, succeeding poorly,
Down-stricken by the adamantine rage
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But thou art treading some soft, flowery mead,
Or turning some fresh philosophic page
Of heavenly knowledge;—help our souls in need;
Be present as a god to save and intercede.
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Be present with us; let thy trusty spiritVisit not only Italy, thine own,
But do thou, in sweet sympathy, inherit
Salt shores by alien, fiercer breezes blown,
Inhabited by tribes of hoarser tone;
Our England gave thee refuge; guide us on
Through struggle, sorrow, frailty, many a groan;
Until our great contentment shall have shone,
And we may reach the country whither thou art gone.
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Our England boasts a noble race of singers,Our England in the time that doth draw near,—
The age that shall be present, though it lingers,
Making away with every sword and sneer,
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Shall play a noble part; her bards shall speak
The spring-tide message of the worldly year,
As from some pale prophetic mountain-peak,
Upon the which they wait,—with flame upon each cheek.
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The summer of the planet shall be soundedFrom Italy—thy land, thy love, thine own;
Thy love that soared, exceeded, and abounded,
Shall be re-gathered into richer tone
When Italy's red, liberal rose is blown,
For great Italian poets shall arise
Even sweeter than the flute of Dante flown
Towards flowery hollows of celestial skies;
Great prophets of intense, unfathomable eyes.
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The spirit of Italy shall find a measure,The summer of the future shall pervade
The land God granted as a perfect treasure
Of sunlight to the lands He set in shade;
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The triumphs of Italia shall be counted;
Like some white-breasted, flower-engirdled maid,
Upon the white steed of her freedom mounted,
She shall be seen; the fangs of priestcraft shall be blunted.
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The central God shall speak through many voices,Through women, and through young men, or a child—
When all the fragrant bridal-room rejoices,
Rich with faint perfumes as of roses piled,
Or savours of broad meadows undefiled,
God shall be there; and every bride shall know it,
Revealing God's breast in her bosom mild,
Not needing an inspired high-priest to show it,
Nor any voice of sage, nor love-disclosing poet.
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O grand Mazzini, such a season waits us;I see it dimly, and I strive to sing
The coming pleasurable time that mates us
To this divine soul of a lovely thing;
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To the sweet casement—all the buds are swelling—
The fields are laden with the odorous spring,—
And, in accordance, I would be foretelling
Love's spring in numbers sweet most softly upward welling.
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The hyacinths will soon bedeck the cornersOf many a happy and most fragrant wood;
Why should the sons of men be perjured mourners,
When bridal blossoms, rich for many a rood,
Join happy voices in their solitude?
Self-sacrifice provides to human sorrow
A key, and this was thy perpetual mood,
And therefore do we softly seek to borrow
At thy most sacred tomb gifts fitted for the morrow.
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We do not wait to see thy body rise,As once disciples lingered at a tomb,
With mournful tear-drops in their down-cast eyes,—
We do not look to see the perfect bloom
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As once disciples said that Jesus leapt
From spent hell-fires that struggled to consume
In vain,—as once again the same eyes wept
Before them, or the voice thrilled through them as they slept.
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We do not look to see our hero enter,With visible body, a rent heaven of blue,
Dividing as an arrow swift the centre
Of that stupendous azure dome we view,
Cleaving its sounding hollows through and through
With dazzling wings of passionate desire
And pearly radiance and impurpled hue.
We add no colours to the sun-set fire;
Crowned with the simple light of morning, we aspire.
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The cheeks of death are white; that pale rose hoversSoftly upon the features of the dead,
Softly upon pale women who had lovers,
Whose cheeks were once thrice kissed to roses red,
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Death's white flower covers these with tender petals,
Above the rich departing crimson shed;
And we—we seek not with invention's nettles
To spoil the eternal peace that round the still brow settles.
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God places on the dead His solemn palm,As a white, pure, imperishable rose,
Imperishable in a fragrant calm;
And we—we strive not madly to unclose
The petals that His tender hands dispose
Upon the corpse, august in its new sleep;
But over it God's sacred blossom blows,
And unintelligible tears we weep,
But not for sorrow's sake—for something e'en more deep.
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For death is unto us as something deeper,More holy, than it seemed to men before;
The dead man is a voluntary sleeper
Upon God's breast—we cannot, as of yore,
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But rather, with a love too deep for speech,
The quiet dust to quiet dust restore,
Knowing that the departed soul shall reach
Beyond the waves of death the bright immortal beach.
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Sure that he labours in some sinless mansion,It may be 'mid the measureless white air,
Or in some vast, ecstatic brain-expansion
Of all the slow, yet wondrous, powers that were,—
Tedious to him, yet excellently fair,
With due regard to whence he, perhaps, had risen,
As from a dark and mist-clothed valley-lair
Into a mountain-ether; from a prison
Unto a palace steps each man, from fate to vision!
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But into higher regions steps the dead:—And thither, O our Leader, thou art gone,
With sacred, unpolluted human head;
Beyond death's mountains a new sun has shone,
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As with a light insufferably pure:
O brother, has not some pure-breasted swan
Of soft Italian loveliness been sure
At last to heal the soul that nobly did endure?
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Upon the earth thou wast a lonely man,Thou art not, I am certain, lonely now.
A solitary honour is the van
Of battle, or of thought! a lonely brow
For certain that which doth allegiance vow
To purposes unfathomed by the frail
And fickle herd, who understand not how
One passion, vast, imperishable, pale
With its most intense life, may garb a man in mail.
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Driving him surely from the grassy meadowsOf daisy-flecked, harp-haunted common life,
Towards the mute and scentless mountain-shadows:
Towards some unsearchable, sequestered strife;
So that he severs with religious knife
The bonds that tie him to the common soul,
For his soul with a secret voice is rife,
And o'er his spirit secret whispers roll,
Urging him fiercely on towards many a viewless goal.
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But, brother, I am certain that the passion,Pent-up, misunderstood, imprisoned long,
Has mixed in some celestial, fearless fashion,
With the soft music of a woman's song;
Thine heart of love was tender, yet most strong,
But it was wholly given to Italy—
Or so it seemed to us—but we were wrong!
Some personal passion thou shalt surely see,
Who didst on earth adore, in utter purity.
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The sacred kiss of Italy, most pleasant,Is printed on thy dead, heroic brow,
But with some perfect spirit thou art present,
Some soft embodiment of Italy, now,
Who shall reward thee—ah! we know not how,
Being with remnants of the body blind;
Some woman, the fruition of thy vow,
Thy spotless manhood shall most surely find,
Who through thy thorn-crowned hair love's blossom-wreath shall wind.
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |