 | Carmina crucis |  |
OH, AMIABLE, LOVELY DEATH!
The Spring was cold and tardyThe Spring was cold and tardy; with the Summer came a lingering blight; now it is Autumn the flowers bloom.
“From the garden rises a heavy odour, the scent of flowers or of wine; is it of the rose?” “No she is long ago faded.”
“It is of the clove, that says, ‘Love was given me for a treasure; I guarded it well, and lo, it has broken my heart.’”
“Are these the trailing wreaths of the wood-bine, the wood-bine warm and dusk as a night of summer that crept through and through the blossomed hedge-rows, wooing the sweet-brier to her clasp?”
“These are the tendrils of the passion-flower, dim of hue and scentless, the passion-flower that loves but does not woo; she carries in her heart the tokens of an eternal torture.”
“What is this fair blossom that floats downward so lightly? did it fall from the almond-scented hawthorn that the children loitered in the lanes to gather? they brought it home in boughs and garlands.”
“It fell from the death-struck jessamine, loosened from its dark foliage; wouldst thou carry its spray in thy hand, or wear it awhile on thy bosom? the flowers drop to earth like falling stars.
“Yet thou art fair, my garden; bloom, bloom out thy little hour, soon the Winter comes.
“Let the sworded lilies, blood-red, death-pale, flash in the broad light of noon, and let the sunflower droop upon its golden stalk.”
I heard a sound as of a parting that was all but eternal, of sobs and of farewell kisses, and through them all went a sigh so deep that no other sigh could follow it.
I saw a tear gather slowly beneath a darkening
The spirit hung for a moment above the clay it was deserting; it was free, it was happy, yet love and pity enchained it still.
How close, how kind were the kisses it left upon that ashen cheek and lip and forehead. They spoke of things that it is not possible for life to utter.
They murmured, Oh, how much have we endured together! each suffering we have made each other suffer; our existence was but a mutual wrong.
Close, close as was the bond that joined us there was one that ever came between; there was one with us that was nearer than sleep, than love, than prayer.
It was pain that watched beside us while we slept unsleeping, that made haste to wake before our waking, withering up delight and love.
Pain, that wove itself between us in fiery links and meshes; our ring, our chain, our troth-plight of union; often but for pain, we knew not that we indeed lived.
A mighty one hath broken its fetters; the king hath sent and delivered us; the prince of the people hath bid us be free;
We are free, yet we are still united, oh, my companion, thinkest thou that I do not love thee still?
Once again shall I behold thee; fair shalt thou be and young, beloved and desired of all; but unto none wilt thou be so fair as unto me.
Then pure and swift shall I rush to greet thee, I shall dwell within thee for ever, as the flame shut within the glancing opal, as the perfume within the bell of the hyacinth; we shall be one in beauty and in joy.
Slowly in the still air of eternity shall we unfold together. Ages upon ages are too short to sum up our perfect bliss.
But now I go to rest within the smile of God, sunshine shall be given me for a garment.
Yea, in me there is now no darkness, gaze down within me, I am pure, a well springing up unto everlasting life.
Give thou thyself meanwhile to the earth's dark bosom, scatter thyself upon the winds of heaven, melt in the beaded bubble and glitter in the fiery spark.
Whirl and scream with the white sea-fowl, and mount with them upon the eddying wave; speak in the dark thunder of waters roaring to their mighty fall.
Dance with the motes in the slanting sunbeam, star thyself in the glittering crystal, live awhile in the seed, in the flower, in the fading leaf, in the countless blossoms of the apple-tree, in the meadow-sweets' foam-white plume.
Hide thyself among the thick-springing blades of grass, amid the hot drifting desert sands, so shalt thou escape Pain that hath hunted and tracked thee still.
But come to me sometimes in the evening; sing thy clear song of victory and undying love.
Sing to me when the shadows lenghten, a little brown bird that bears upon its breast a ruddy stain.
And I will lean out of Heaven and hearken, I will hear thee from among the harps of gold.
The summer is over and the harvest ended, the songs of the vintage cease;
Yet before I die will I chant my solemn death-stave; let the woods be silent while I sing.
Royally they stand up round me, they gleam in gold and in scarlet, robed in the purple to which they were not born.
But the baptism of death is on them, they have been signed with a fiery sign.
Yet another day and their boughs will be stark and leafless; sing through them, thou wild rejoicing wind.
I have asked little of earth, and that little has been still denied me; now that I must leave her she gives me all.
A robe hast thou fashioned for me, oh, my mother! smooth and green and fine is it as satin, it is woven without seam throughout.
Fair is it and richly broidered, from my head even to my feet it shall enfold me closely as the clasp of a loving hand.
So that pain shall not glide within it, though it be lithe and searching as the cold fanged snake, desire, nor weariness, nor vain regret; this garment is unfretted by the moth.
And when my mother puts this fair robe upon me, she will press me to her bosom, oh, so closely!
That there will be no space left between us any more for anguish, no room for the dull unceasing pang.
No chiding word will pass between us, she will take me to the chambers where all her children sleep; quiet are they, deep and full of slumber.
None watch over those sleepers, yet is their rest unbroken; no wail is there, no echo of song or of laughter, but a silence that is sweeter than all.
I shall not dream there, neither shall I lie wakeful, listening for a footfall to break the stillness, or for a voice that might repeat my name.
If the bird sing above me I shall not hear it, nor heed if the dews fall sweetly and the early flowers spring.
For the heavens shall be clear above me, clear to their very depths, without cloud or stain;
Terrible in their clearness even as the burning sapphire, I shall look up through them to the throne of God.
Light shall be spread round me like a garment, but from the heavens a tear will fall,
A tear will fall upon my bosom, one tear from His eye that wept over the grave of Lazarus.
Very excellent things are spoken of thee, thou city of God! far, far across the desert have I seen thy fringe of lofty palms, and above them thy glittering domes and spires.
And my soul hath desired thee exceedingly; yea, I have longed to enter within thy courts, but not because of the scent of thine ivory palaces, raftered with the fragrant cedar;
Nor yet for the murmur of thy clear fountains, nor the shadow of thy pleasant trees, yielding fruits of healing and desire;
Nor to listen to the songs of the angels, or to the sweeter voice that I once loved so well on earth;
Not to look upon the face of lover or of friend departed, nor upon Thine, Jesus, beloved of God and of men!
Yea, let me hear thy voice, for it is sweet, and let me look upon thy countenance, for it is comely: yet is there One unfound, desired above all!
Him, whom I have sought unceasingly, my Father, whom I have sought and have not found.
Pleasure hath not held me back from Thee, oh my Father; but pain, disquietude, and restless doubt.
Like a child bewildered in an untracked forest, because I heard not Thy voice, I ws afraid.
What though my feet sank deep in brown, golden mosses, and from the boughs above me hung ropes of gorgeous flowers?
What availed the dusk splendours of the moth that flitted across my solitary path, or the glory of the crested bird that lighted up the wood's dim heart with flame?
When it was my Father's voice I needed, His kind re-assuring eye I sought. My Father's hand laid upon my head to bless me, His hand that took my own within its guiding clasp.
These things that He hath fashioned are fair and wondrous, but strength is a pitiless giant, and skill is a dumb artificer, and beauty hath but a cold, alluring smile.
There is one that is more great than these, the Father, whose Name is Love.
Strong is He, yet patient and pitiful, a Creator to whom nothing lives in vain.
In my heart hath He traced His image, in my bosom is there a mirror hid.
To glass back His likeness in perfection, I held it up to the earth and sky.
But it flashed and shivered into a thousand fragments, how should it give back my Father's smile?
In the world which He had made was beauty; anguish also, and discord, irony, haste, and bitter incompletion.
The dove moaned softly in the woodland, and through the thicket gleamed the rustling snake; the leopard was as lovely as the fawn.
In the Word which He had spoken was terror; the sword and the mountain that burned with fire, clouds and hailstones and thick darkness, the light of the arrow, and the shining of the glittering spear.
The Lord is a man of war, the Lord of Battles is His Name.
Yet hath He sent us His beloved Son, to show us plainly of the Father. Jesus, Thy deeds were
Thou hast told us of utter separation, Thou hast shown us a place where the tear falls in vain.
And yet Thou didst teach us to say, Our Father, Our Father which art in Heaven.
Therefore have I sought a city; a city that needeth not the sun to lighten it, for its light is the light of God.
Yea, though that light were sevenfold, I shall feel through it all a searching ray;
And I shall know that my Father's smile has reached me; I shall hear a voice, that says to me, “My child.”
On my heart hath a thought fallen, making all the waters of earth bitter.
I saw Youth stand up, strong and lovely, and on its lips was a word of promise,
A word that should overcome all things; but to what child of Adam hath the promise of that word been kept?
And if in life there is decay and harsh illusion,
Why should God's faithfulness be made known in the grave, or his loving-kindness shown in the land where all things are forgotten?
On earth is hate and discord, and we say these things are but for a day, but if for a day why not for ever?
If light reigned would it endure the darkness even for a moment? and if love is vanquished now, why should we deem that it shall triumph hereafter?
Humanity stands up in strength and anguish; a blind giant wrapt in an envenomed mantle.
It struggles, but it is not freed; it strides on hastily, age after age, yet it comes not nearer its goal.
In the universe, there is care and love abroad, the traces of a fashioning and guiding hand.
The pink sea-shell is flushed with beauty, warm, rose-tinted, myriad-hued, a chamber for exquisite delight.
The flower of the field is happy, it needs neither shelter nor love,
For it is at peace with all around it, with the dews, the sunshine, with the earth's dark kindly breast.
Things unbeloved are safe and cared for; the limpet fastens upon the storm-beaten rock, the moss and the lichen seek out the grey desolate wall.
But the life that was formed for love and joy is blighted, and the heart of man wanders and hath not found its home.
| Carmina crucis | |