The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘This also we humbly beg,—that Human things may not prejudice such as are Divine, neither that from the unlocking of the Gates of Sense, and the kindling of a greater Natural Light, anything of incredulity or intellectual night may arise in our minds towards Divine Mysteries.’— Student's Prayer, Bacon.

‘To vindicate the ways of God to man.’—
Milton.

‘God's Mystery will I vindicate, the Mystery of the Veil and of the Shadow; yea, also Death and Sorrow, God's divine Angels on all earths; and I will vindicate the Soul, that the Soul may vindicate the Flesh; and all these things shall vindicate Evil, proving God's mercy to His creatures, great and small.’—A Rune found in the Starlight.

INSCRIPTION. To F. W. C.

Flowers pluckt upon a grave by moonlight, pale
And suffering, from the spiritual light
They grew in: these, with all the love and blessing
That prayers can gain of God, I send to thee!

PROEM.

(TO BOOK OF ORM AND POLITICAL MYSTICS.)

When in these songs I name the Name of God,
I mean not Him who ruled with brazen rod
The rulers of the Jew; nor Him who calm
Sat reigning on Olympus; nay, nor Brahm,
Osiris, Allah, Odin, Balder, Thor,
(Though these I honour, with a hundred more);
Menu I mean not, nor the Man Divine,
The pallid Rainbow lighting Palestine;
Nor any lesser of the gods which Man
Hath conjured out of Night since Time began.
I mean the primal Mystery and Light,
The most Unfathomable, Infinite,
The Higher Law, Impersonal, Supreme,
The Life in Life, the Dream within the Dream,
The Fountain which in silent melody
Feeds the dumb waters of Eternity,
The Source whence every god hath flown and flows,
And whither each departs to find repose.

THE BOOK OF THE VISIONS SEEN BY ORM THE CELT.

There is a mortal, and his name is Orm,
Born in the evening of the world, and looking
Back from the sunset to the gates of morning.

And he is aged early, in a time
When all are aged early,—he was born
In twilight times, and in his soul is twilight.

O brother, hold me by the hand, and hearken,
For these things I shall phrase are thine and mine,
And all men's,—all are seeking for a sign.

Thou wert born yesterday, but thou art old,
Weary to-day, to-morrow thou wilt sleep—
Take these for kisses on thy closing eyelids.

258

I. FIRST SONG OF THE VEIL.

How God in the beginning drew
Over his face the Veil of blue,
Wherefore no soul of mortal race
Hath ever look'd upon the Face;
Children of earth whose spirits fail
Heark to the First Song of the Veil.

I. The Veil Woven.

In the beginning,
Ere Man grew,
The Veil was woven
Bright and blue;
Soft mists and vapours
Gather'd and mingled
Over the black world
Stretched below,
While winds of heaven
Blew from all places,
Shining luminous,
A starry snow.
Blindly, dumbly,
Darken'd under
Ocean and river,
Mountain and dale,
While over his features,
Wondrous, terrible,
The beautiful Master
Drew the Veil:
Then starry, luminous,
Rolled the Veil of azure
O'er the first dwellings
Of mortal race;
—And since the beginning
No mortal vision,
Pure or sinning,
Hath seen the Face

Yet mark me closely!
Strongly I swear,
Seen or seen not,
The Face is there!
When the Veil is clearest
And sunniest,
Closest and nearest
The Face is prest;
But when, grown weary
With long downlooking,
The Face withrawing
For a time is gone,
The great Veil darkens,
And ye see full clearly
Glittering numberless
The gems thereon.
For the lamp of his features
Divinely burning,
Shines, and suffuses
The Veil with light,
And the Face, drawn backward
With that deep sighing
Ye hear in the gloaming,
Leaveth the Night.

Thus it befell to men
Graveward they journeyed,
From waking to sleeping,
In doubt and in fear,
Evermore hoping,
Evermore seeking,
Nevermore guessing
The Master so near:
Making strange idols,
Rearing fair Temples,
Crying, denying,
Questioning, dreaming,
Nevermore certain
Of God and His grace,—
Evermore craving,
To look on a token,
To gaze on a Face.

Now an Evangel,
Whom God loved deep,
Said, ‘See! the mortals,
How they weep!
They grope in darkness,
They blunder onward
From race to race,
Were it not better,
Once and for ever,
To unveil the Face?’
God smiled.

He said—‘Not yet?
Much is to remember,
Much to forget;
Be thou of comfort!
How should the token
Silence their wail?’

And, with eyes tear-clouded,
He gazed through the luminous,
Star-inwrought, beautiful,
Folds of the Veil.

259

II. Earth the Mother.

Beautiful, beautiful, she lay below,
The mighty Mother of humanity,
Turning her sightless eyeballs to the glow
Of light she could not see,
Feeling the happy warmth, and breathing slow
As if her thoughts were shining tranquilly.
Beautiful, beautiful the Mother lay,
Crownëd with silver spray,
The greenness gathering hushfully around
The peace of her great heart, while on her breast
The wayward Waters, with a weeping sound,
Were sobbing into rest.
For all day long her face shone merrily,
And at its smile the waves leapt mad and free:
But at the darkening of the Veil, she drew
The wild things to herself, and husht their cries.
Then, stiller, dumber, search'd the deepening Blue
With passionate blind eyes;
And went the old life over in her thought,
Dreamily praying as her memory wrought
The dimly guessed at, never utter'd tale,
While, over her dreaming,
Deepen'd the luminous,
Star-inwrought, beautiful,
Folds of the wondrous Veil.

For more than any of her children of clay
The beautiful Mother knows—
She is so old!
Ye would go wild to hearken, if this day
Her dumb lips should unclose,
And the tale be told:
Such unfathomable things,
Such mystic vanishings,
She knoweth about God—she is so old.

For oft, in the beginning, long ago,
Without a Veil looked down the Face ye know,
And Earth, an infant happy-eyed and bright,
Look'd smiling up, and gladden'd in its sight.
But later, when the Man-Flower from her womb
Burst into brightening bloom,
In her glad eyes a golden dust was blown
Out of the Void, and she was blind as stone.

And since that day
She hath not seen, nor spoken,—lest her say
Should be a sorrow and fear to mortal race,
And doth not know the Lord hath hid away,
But turneth up blind orbs—to feel the Face.

III. Children of Earth.

So dumbly, blindly,
So cheerly, sweetly,
The beautiful Mother
Of mortals smiled;
Her children marvell'd
And looked upon her—
Her patient features
Were bright and mild;
And on her eyeballs
Night and day,
A sweet light glimmer'd
From far away.
Her children gather'd
With sobs and cries,
To see the sweetness
Of sightless eyes;
But though she held them
So dear, so dear,
She could not answer,
She could not hear.
She felt them flutter
Around her knee,
She felt their weeping,
Yet knew not wherefore—
She could not see.
‘O Mother! Mother
Of mortal race!
Is there a Father?
Is there a Face?’
She felt their sorrow
Against her cheek,—
She could not hearken,
She could not speak;
With thin lips fluttering,

260

With blind eyes tearful,
And features pale,
She clasp'd her children,
And looked in silence
Upon the Veil.

Her hair grew silvern,
The swift days fled,
Her lap was heavy
With children dead;
To her heart she held them,
But could not warm them—
The life within them
Was gone like dew.
Whiter, stiller,
The Mother grew.

The World grew hoary,
The World was weary,
The children cried at
The empty air:
‘Father of mortals!’
The children murmured,
‘Father! Father!
Art Thou there?’
Then the Master answer'd
From the thunder-cloud:
‘I am God the Maker!
I am God the Master!
I am God the Father!’
He cried aloud.
Further, the Master
Made sign on sign—
Footprints of his spirits,
Voices divine;
His breath was a water,
His cry was a wind.

But the people heard not,
The people saw not,—
Earth and her children
Were deaf and blind.

IV. The Wise Men.

‘Call the great philosophers!
Call them all hither,—
The good, the wise!’
Their robes were snowy,
Their hearts were holy,
They had cold still eyes.
To the mountain-summits
Wearily they wander'd,
Reaching the desolate
Regions of snow,
Looming there lonely,
They searched the Veil wonderful
With tubes fire-fashion'd
In caverns below . . .
God withdrew backward,
And darker, dimmer,
Deepen'd the day:
O'er the philosophers
Looming there lonely
Night gather'd gray.
Then the wise men gazing
Saw the lights above them
Thicken and thicken,
And all went pale—
Ah! the lamps numberless,
The mystical jewels of God,
The luminous, wonderful,
Beautiful lights of the Veil!

Alas for the Wise Men!
The snows of the mountain
Drifted about them,
And the wind cried round them,
As the lights of wonder
Multiplied!
The breath of the mountain
Froze them into stillness,—
They sighed and died.
Still in the desolate
Heights overhead,
Stand their shapes frozen,
Frozen and dead.
But a weary few,
Weary and dull and cold,
Crept faintly down again,
Looking very old;
And when the people
Gather'd around them,
The heart went sickly
At their dull blank stare—
‘O Wise Men answer!
Is there a Father?
Is there a beautiful
Face up there?’
The Wise Men answer'd and said:
‘Bury us deep when dead—
We have travelled a weary road,
We have seen no more than ye.
'Twere better not to be—
There is no God!’

261

And the people, hearkening,
Saw the Veil above them,
And the darkness deepen'd,
And the Lights gleamed pale.
Ah! the lamps numberless,
The mystical jewels of God,
The luminous, wonderful,
Beautiful Lights of the Veil!

II. THE MAN AND THE SHADOW.

On the high path where few men fare,
Orm meeteth one with hoary hair,
And speaketh, solemn and afraid,
Of that which haunteth him—a Shade.
Slowly, with weary feet and weak,
They wander to a mountain peak;
And to the man with hoary hair
A Bridge of Spirits riseth fair,
Whereon his Soul with gentle moan
Passeth unto the Land Unknown.

I. The Shadow.

O aged Man who, clad in pilgrim's garb,
With staff of thorn and wallet lying near,
Sittest among the weeds of the wayside,
Gazing with hollow eyeballs, in a dream,
On that which sleeps—a Shadow—at thy feet!
Hearest thou?

By the fluttering of thy lips,
I know thou hearest; yet, with downcast eyes,
Thou broodest moveless, letting yonder sun
Make thee a Dial, worn and venerable,
To show the passing hour. All things around
Share stillness with thee; for behold they keep
The gloaming of the year. To russet brown
The heather fadeth; on the treeless hills,
O'er rusted with the slow-decaying bracken,
The sheep crawl slow with damp and red-stain'd wool;
Keen cutting winds from the Cold Clime begin
To frost the edges of the cloud—the Sun
Upriseth slow and silvern—many Rainbows
People the desolate air with flowers that fade
Through pallor unto tears;—and though these flash
Ever around thee, here thou sittest alone,—
Best Dial of them all, old, moveless, dumb,
Ineffably serene with aged eyes,
Still as a stone,—yet with some secret spell
Pertaining to the human, some faint touch
Of mystery in that worn face, to show
Thy wither'd flesh is scented with a Soul.

Nay, then, with how serene and sad a light
Thy face, strange gleams of spiritual pain
Fading there, turneth up to mine! Yea, smile!
Tender as sunlight on the autumn hills,
Cometh that kindly lustre! Aye, thy hand—
Something mysterious streameth from thy palm—
Spirit greets spirit—scent is mixed with scent—
Sweet is the touch of hands. Behold me,— Orm,
Thy brother!

Brother, we are surely bound
On the same journey,—and our eyes alike
Turn up and onward: wherefore, now thou risest,
Lean on mine arm, and let us for a space
Pursue the path together. Ah, 'tis much,
In this so weary pilgrimage, to meet
A royal face like thine; to touch the hand
Of such a soul-fellow; to feel the want,
The upward-crying hunger, the desire,
The common hope and pathos, justified
By knowledge and gray hairs. Come on! come on!
Up yonder! Slowly, lcaning on my strength,
And I will surely pick my steps with thine,—
While at our backs the secret Shadows creep,
And imitate our motions with no sound.

Dost thou remember more than I? My Soul
Remembereth no beginning.

One still day,
I saw the Hills around me, and beheld
The Hills had shadows,—for beyond their rim

262

The fiery Sun was setting;—then I saw
My Ghost upon the gr und, and as I ran
Eastward, the melancholy semblance ran
Before my footsteps; and I felt afraid.

Could I have shaken off this grievous thing,
Much had been spared me. Since that day I ran,
And saw it run before me in the sun,
It hath been with me in the day and night,
The sunlight and the starlight—at the board
Hath joined me, darkening the festal cup—
Hath risen black against the whitening wall
On lonely midnights, when by the wind's shriek
Startled from terrible visions seen in dream,
Rising upon my couch, and with quick breath
Lighting the lamp,I hearkened—it hath track'd
My footsteps into pastoral churchyards,
And suddenly, when I was very calm,
Look'd darkly up out of the gentle graves,
So that I clench'd my teeth, or should have scream'd;
And still behind me—see!—it creeps and creeps,
Dim in the dimness of this autumn day.

Higher! yet higher! Though the path is steep,
And all around the withering bracken rusts,
Up yonder on the crag, a mossy spring,
Frosted with silver, glistens, and around
Grasses as green as hedgerows in the May
Cushion the lichen'd stones.

Here let us pause:
Here, where the grass gleams emerald, and the spring
Upbubbling faintly seemeth as a sound,
A drowsy hum, heard in the mind itself—
Here, in this stillness, let us pause and mark
The many-colour'd Picture. Far beneath
Sleepeth the glassy Ocean like a sheet
Of liquid mother-o'-pearl, and on its rim
A Ship sleeps, and the shadow of the ship;
Astern the reef juts darkly, edged with foam,
Through the smooth brine: oh, hark, how loudly sings
A wild, weird ditty to a watery tune,
The fisher among his nets upon the shore;
And yonder, far away, his shouting bairns
Are running, dwarf'd by distance small as mice,
Along the yellow sands. Behind us, see
The immeasurable Mountains, rising silent
Against the fields of dreamy blue, wherein
The rayless crescent of the mid-day Moon
Lies like a reaper's sickle; and before us
The immeasurable Mountains, rising silent
From bourne to bourne, from knolls of thyme and heather,
To leafless slopes of granite, from the slopes
Of granite to the dim and dusky heights,
Where, with a silver glimmer, silently
Pausing, the white cloud sheds miraculous Snow
On the heights untravell'd, whither we are bound.

O perishable Brother, what a World!
How wondrous and how fair! Look! look! and think!
What magic mixed the tints of yonder west,
Wherein, upon a cushion soft as moss,
A heaven pink-tinted like a maiden's flesh,
The dim Star of the Ocean lieth cool
In palpitating silver, while beneath
Her image, putting luminous feelers forth,
Bathes liquid, like a living thing o' the Sea.
What magic? What Magician? O my Brother,
What strange Magician, mixing up those tints,
Pouring the water down, and sending forth
The crystal air like breath, snowing the heavens
With luminous jewels of the day and night,
Look'd down, and saw thee lie a lifeless clod,
And lifted thee, and moulded thee to shape,
Colour'd thee with the sunlight till thy blood
Ran ruby, poured the chemic tints o' the air
Through eyes that kindled into azure, stole
The flesh-tints of the lily and the rose
To make thee wondrous fair unto thyself,
Knitted thy limbs with ruby bands, and blew
Into thy hollow heart until it stirr'd,—
Then to the inner chamber of his Heaven
Withdrawing, left in midst of such a world

263

The living apparition of a Man,—
A mystery amid the mysteries,—
A lonely Semblance, with a wild appeal
To which no form that lives, however dear,
Hath given a tearless answer,—a Shape, a Soul,
Projecting ever as it ageth on
A shade which is a silence and a sleep.

Yet not companionless, within this waste
Of splendour, dwellest thou—here by thy side
I linger, girdled for the road like thee,
With pilgrim's staff and scrip; and through the vales,
Below, a Storm of people like to thee
Drifts with thee westward darkly, cloud on cloud,
Uttering a common moan, and to our eyes
Casting one common shadow; yet each Soul
Therein now seeketh, with a want like thine,
The inevitable bourne. Nor those alone,
Thy perishable brethren, share thy want,
And wander haunted through the world; but Beasts,
With that dumb hunger in their eyes, project
Their darkness—by the yeanling Lambkin's side
Its shade plays, and the basking Lizard hath
Its image on the flat stone in the sun,—
And these, the greater and the less, like thee
Shall perish in their season: in the mere
The slender Water-Lily sees her shape,
And sheddeth softly on the summer air
Her last chill breathing; and the forest Tree
That, standing glorious for a hundred years,
Lengthens its shadow daily from the sun,
Fulfilleth its own prophecy at last,
And falleth, falleth. Art thou comforted?
Nay, then,—behold the Shadows of the Hills,
Attesting these are perishable too,
And cry no more thou art companionless.

How, like a melancholy bell, thy voice
Echoes the word! ‘Companionless!’ Thine eyes
Suffer with light and tears, and wearily
Thou searchest all the picture beautiful
For vanished faces. Still, ‘companionless!’
O Brother, let me hold thy hand again—
Spirit greets spirit—scent is mixed with scent—
Sweet is the touch of hands. Look on me! Orm!
Thy Brother!

And no nearer? O 'tis sad
That here, like dumb Beasts, yearning with blank eyes,
Wringing each other's hands, pale, passionate,
Full of immortal likeness, wild with thirst
To mingle, yet we here must stand asunder,
Two human Shapes, two Mansions built apart,
Two pale Men,—and two Ghosts upon the ground!

Tread back my footsteps with me in thy mind:
I have wander'd long and far, and O I have seen
Strange visions; for my Soul resembles not
The miserable souls of common men—
Mere Lamps to guide the Body to the board
And lustful bed—say, rather, 'tis a Wind
Prison'd in flesh, and shrieking to be free
To blow on the high places of the Lord!
Hither and hither hath its pent-up struggle
Compelled my footsteps—o'er the snowy Steeps,
Through the green Valleys—into huts of hinds
And palaces of princes. It hath raved
Loud as the wind among the pines for rest,
Answered by all the winds of all the world
Gather'd like howling wolves beneath the Moon;
And it hath lain still as the air that broods
On meres Coruisken on dead days of frost,
In supreme moments of unearthly bliss,
Feeling the pathos and exceeding peace
Of thoughts as delicate and far removed
As starlight. But in stormy times and calm,
In pain or pleasure, came the Shadow too,
Meeting the Soul in its superbest hour,
And making it afraid.

These twain have dwelt
Together, haunting one another's bliss,—

264

The Wind, that would be on the extremest peaks,
And the strange Shadow of the prisonhouse,
Wherein 'tis pent so very cunningly.
Nay, how they mock each other! ‘Shade accursed,’
The Wind moans, ‘yet a little while, and thou
Shalt perish with the poor and mean abode
That casts thee—follow and admonish that,—
To me thine admonition promiseth
The crumbling of the ruin chain'd wherein
I cry for perfect freedom.’ Then methinks
The wild Shade waves its arms grotesque and says,
In dumb show, ‘Peace, thou unsubstantial Wind!
Bred of the peevish humour of the flesh,
Born in the body and the cells o' the brain;
With these things shalt thou perish,—foul as gas
Thou senseless shalt dissolve upon the air,
And none shall know that thou hast ever been.’
Thus have they mock'd each other morn and mirk
In speech not human. When I lay at night,
Drunk with the ichor of the form I clasp'd,
How hath the sad Soul, mocking the brute bliss,
The radiant glistening play o' the sense, withdrawn
Unto the innermost chamber of the brain,
And moan'd in shame; while in the taper light,
The Shades, with clasping arms and waving hair,
Seem'd saying, ‘Gather roses while thou mayst,
O royal purple Body doom'd to die!
And hush, O Wind, for thou shalt perish too!’

I saw a Hind at sunrise—dumb he stood,
And saw the Dawn press with her rosy feet
The dewy sweetness from the fields of hay,
Felt the World brighten—leaves and flowers and grass
Grow luminous—yet beside the pool he stood,
Wherein, in the gray vapour of the marsh,
His mottled oxen stood with large blank eyes
And steaming nostrils: and his eyes like theirs
Were empty, and he humm'd a surly song
Out of a hollow heart akin to beast's:
Yea, sun nor star had little joy for him,
Nor tree nor flower,—to him the world was all
Mere matter for a ploughshare. On the hill
Above him, with loose jerkin backward blown
By winds of morning, and his white brow bare
Like marble, stood a Singer—one of those
Who write in heart's-blood what is blotted out
With ox-gall; and his Soul was in his eyes
To see the coming of the beautiful Day,
His lips hung heavy with beauty, and he looked
Down on the surly clod among the kine,
And sent his Soul unto him through his eyes,
Transfiguring him with beauty and with praise
Into the common pathos. Of such stuffs
Is mankind shapen, both, like thee and me,
Wear westward, to the melancholy Realm
Where all the gather'd Shades of all the world
Lie as a cloud around the feet of God.

This darkens all my seeking. O my friend!
If the whole world had royal eyes like thine,
I were much holpen; but to look upon
Eyes like the ox-herd's, blank as very beast's,
Shoots sorrow to the very roots of life.
Aye! there were hope indeed if each Man seemed
A Spirit's habitation,—but the world
Is curst with these blank faces, still as stone,
And darkening inward. Have these dumb things Souls?
If they be tenantless, dare thou and I
Christen by so sublime a name the Wind
Bred in the wasting body?

265

Yestermorn,
In yonder city that afar away
Staineth the peaceful blue with its foul breath,
I passed into a dimly-lighted hall,
And heard a lanthorn-jaw'd Philosopher,
Clawing his straw-like bunch of yellow hair,
With skeletonian periods and a voice
Shrill as the grating of two bones. ‘O Soul,’
Quoth he, ‘O beauteousness we name the Soul,
Thou art the Flower of all the life o' the World,
And not in every clod of flesh shoots forth
The perfect apparition of thy tints
Immortal! Flower and scented bloom of things
Thou growest on no dunghill in the sun!’
A flower, a flower immortal? How I laugh'd!
Clip me the lily from its secret roots,
And farewell all the wonder of the flower!

That self-same day, in that same city of souls,
I saw the King, a man of flesh and blood,
In gorgeous raiment. O the little eyes
Glimmering underneath the golden crown,
While sitting on a throne in open court,
Fountains of perfume sprinkling him with spray,
He heard the gray men of his kingdom speak
Of mighty public matters solemnly,
And nodding grave approval, all the while
Crack'd filberts like a Monkey; yet at times
His shadow, and the shadow of his throne,
Falling against a grand sarcophagus
That filled one corner of the fountain'd court,
Awoke a nameless trouble, and the more
The sun shone, deeper on the tomb close by
The double shadow linger'd. Then methought
I was transported to a marvellous land,
A mighty forest of primæval growth
Brooding in its own darkness—underwood
Breast-deep, and swarming thick with monstrous shapes;
And from a bough above me, by his tail
A Man-beast swung and glimmer'd down at me
With little eyes and shining ivory teeth.
Laugh with me! Brute-beast and the small-eyed King
Seem'd brethren—face, eyes, mouth, and lips the same—
Only the brute-beast was the happier,
Since never nameless trouble filled his eyes,
Because his ghost upon the glimmering grass
Beneath him quivered, while he poised above
With philosophic swing by claws and tail.
‘O Soul the Flower of all the life o' the World,
O perfect Flower and scented bloom of things!’
O birth betoken'd in that windy hour,
When, sloughing off the brute, we stand and groan,
First frighten'd by the Shadow that has chased
Our changes up through all the grooves of Time!

Lift up thine eyes, old man, and look on me:
Like thee, a dark point in the scheme of things,
Where the dumb Spirit that pervadeth all—
Grass, trees, beasts, man—and lives and grows in all—
Pauses upon itself, and awe-struck feels
The shadow of the next and imminent
Transfiguration. So, a living Man!
That entity within whose brooding brain
Knowledge begins and ends—that point in time
When Time becomes the Shadow of a Dial,—
That dreadful living and corporeal Hour,
Who, wafted by an unseen Hand apart
From the wild rush of temporal things that pass,
Pauses and listens,—listening sees his face
Glassed in still waters of Eternity,—
Gazes in awe at his own loveliness,
And fears it,—glanceth with affrighted eyes
Backward and forward, and beholds all dark,
Alike the place whence he unconscious came,

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And that to which he conscious drifteth on,—
Yet seeth before him, wheresoe'er he turn,
The Shadow of himself, presaging doom.

II. The Rainbow.

THE OLD MAN SPEAKS.
Mine eyes are dim. Where am I? Is this Snow
Falling in the cold air? All darkeneth,—
As if between me and the light there stood
Some shape that lived. My God, is this the end?

ORM.
Not yet! not yet! Look up! Thou livest yet!
'Tis but a little faintness, and will pass.

OLD MAN.
Pass? All things pass. The light, the morning dew,
The power that plotted and the foot that clomb;
And delicate bloom of life upon the flesh
Fading like peach-bloom 'neath a finger-press.
O God, to blossom like a flower in a day,
Then wear a winter in slow withering. . . .
Why not with sun-flash, Lord, or bolt of fire? . . .
Where am I?

ORM.
On the lonely heights of Earth;
Beneath thee lies the Ocean, and above thee
The Hills stand silent in the setting Sun.

OLD MAN.
What forms are these that come and change and go?

ORM.
Desolate Shadows of the gathering Rain.

OLD MAN.
What sound is that I hear?

ORM.
The homeless Wind
Shivering behind the Shadows as they glide,
And moaning.

OLD MAN.
Ah!

ORM.
Some phantom of the brain
Appalleth thee! Cling to me! Courage!

OLD MAN.
Hark!
Dost thou not hear?

ORM.
What?

OLD MAN.
Voices of the shapes
That yonder, with their silvern robes windblown,
All faint and shadowless against the light,
Beckon me. Hush! They sing a lullaby!
They are the spirits that so long ago
Sung round my cradle,—and they sing the same,—
Though I am grown the ghosts of that fair time.
No! faces! These are faces I remember!
A fair face that, sweet in its golden hair—
And lower, see! a little pale-faced child's,
Sad as a star. ‘Father!’ A voice cried ‘Father!’
Lift me up! Look! How they are gathering!
All sing! All beckon!

ORM.
. . . 'Tis the end indeed.
Within his breast the life-blood of the heart
Swells like a breaking wave, as, clinging round me,
He yearneth, fascinated yet afraid,
With wild dim eyes that look on vacancy!

OLD MAN.
What gleameth yonder in the brightening air?

ORM.
The Spirit of the Rainbow hovering faint
Amid the wind-blown shadows of the Rain.

OLD MAN.
Shadows! I see them—all the Shadows— see!
Uprising from the wild green sea of graves

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That beats forlorn about the shores of earth.
Shadows—behold them!—how they gather and gather,
More and yet more, darker and darker yet;
Drifting with a low moan of mystery
Upward, still upward, till they almost touch
The bright dim edge of the Bow, but there they pause,
Struggling in vain against a breath from heaven,
And blacken. Hark! their sound is like a Sea!
Above them, with how dim a light divine,
Burneth the Bow,—and lo! it is a Bridge,
Dim, many-colour'd, strangely brightening,
Whereon, all faint and fair and shadowless,
Spirits like those, with faces I remember,
With a low sound like the soft rain in spring,
With a faint echo of the cradle song,
Coming and going, beckon me! I come!
Who holds me? Touch me not. O help! I am called!
Ah!

[Dies.
ORM.

Gone! Dead! Something very cold past by
And touched my cheek like breath; even then, O God,
My comrade heard Thy summons, and behold!
Here lieth, void and cold and tenantless,
His feeble habitation. Poor gray hairs,
Thin with long blowing in the windy cold,
At last ye sadden ruin! poor sweet lips,
Ye are dewless, ye are silent! poor worn heart,
No more shalt thou, like to a worn-out watch,
Tick feebly out the time!

O Shadow sad,
Monitor, haunter, waiter till the end,
Brother of that which darkeneth at my feet,
Hast thou too fled, and dost thou follow still
The Spirit's quest divine? Nay, thou dark Ghost!
Thy work is done for ever—thou art doom'd—
A breath from heaven holds thee to the ground;
And here unto the ruin thou art chained,
Moveless, and dark, no more the ghost of life,
But dead, the Shadow of a thing of stone.

Thus far, no further, Shadow!—but, O brother,
O Spirit, where art thou? From what far height
Up yonder, pausing for a moment's space,
Lookest thou back thy blessing? Art thou free?
Dost thou still hunger upward seeking rest,
Because some new horizon, strange as ours,
Shuts out the prospect of the place of peace?
Art thou a wave that, having broken once,
Gatherest up a glorious crest once more,
And glimmerest onward,—but to break again;
Or dost thou smooth thyself to perfect peace
In tranquil sight of some Eternal Shore?

From the still region whither thou hast fled,
No answer cometh; but with dewy wings
Brightening before it dieth, how divine
Burneth the Rainbow, at its earthliest edge
Now fading like a flower! Is it indeed
A Bridge whereon fair Spirits come and go?
O Brother, didst thou glide to peace that way?
Silent—all silent—dimmer, dimmer yet,
Hue by hue dying, creeping back to heaven—
O let me too pass by it up to God!
Too late—it fadeth, faint and far away!

The Shadows gather round me—from the ground
My dark familiar looketh silently.
O Shadows, be at peace, for ye shall rest,
Yea, surely ye shall cease; for now, as ever,
Out of your cloudy being springs serene
The Bow of Mystery that spans the globe!

The beautiful Bow of thoughts ineffable,
Last consequence of this fair cloud of flesh!
The dim miraculous Iris of sweet Dream!
Rainbow of promise! Colour, Light, and Soul!

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That comes, dies, comes again, and ever draws
Its strangest source from tears—that lives, that dies—
That is, is not—now here, now faded wholly—
Ever assuring, ever blessing us,
Ever eluding, ever beckoning;
Born of our essence, yet more strange than we,
As human, yet more beautiful tenfold,—
Rising in earth out of our cloudy being,
Touching forlornest places with its tints,
Strewing the Sea with opal, scattering roses
Across the hollow pathways of the Wind,
Fringing the clouds with flowers of crimson fire,
And melting, melting (whither our wild eyes
Follow imploring, whither our weak feet
Totter for ever), melting far away,
Yonder! upon the dimmest peak of Heaven!

III. SONGS OF CORRUPTION.

Songs of Corruption, woven thus,
With tender thoughts and tremulous,
Sitting with a solemn face
In an island burying-place,
While weary waves broke sad and slow
O'er weedy wastes of sand below,
And stretch'd on every side of me
The rainy grief of the gray Sea.

I. Phantasy.

If thou art an Angel,
Who hath seen thee,
O Phantasy, brooding
Over my pale wife's sleeping?
In the darkness
I am listening
For the rustle of thy robe;
Would I might feel thee breathing,
Would I might hear thee speaking,
Would I might only touch thee
By the hand!

She is very cold,
My wife is very cold,
Her eyes are withered,
Her breath is dried like dew;—
The sound of my weeping
Disturbeth her not;
Thy shadow, O Phantasy,
Lieth like moonlight
Upon her features,
And the lines of her mouth
Are very sweet.

In the night
I heard my pale wife moaning,
Yet did not know
What made her afraid.
My pale wife said,
‘I am very cold,’
And shrank away from thee,
Though I saw thee not;
And she kissed me and went to sleep,
And gave a little start upon my arm
When on her living lips
Thy freezing finger was laid.

What art thou—
Art thou God's Angel?
Or art thou only
The chilly night-wind,
Stealing downward
From the regions where the sun
Dwelleth alone with his shadow
On a waste of snow?
Art thou the water or earth?
Or art thou the fatal air?
Or art thou only
An apparition
Made by the mist
Of mine own eyes weeping?

She is very cold,
My wife is very cold!
I will kiss her,
And the silver-haired mother will kiss her,
And the little children will kiss her;
And then we will wrap her warm,
And hide her in a hollow space;
And the house will be empty
Of thee, O Phantasy,
Cast on the unhappy household
By the strange white clay.

Much I marvel, O Phantasy,
That one so gentle.

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So sweet, when living,
Should cast a Shadow as vast as thine;
For, lo! thou loomest
Upward and heavenward,
Hiding the sunlight
Blackening the snow,
And the pointing of thy finger
Fadeth far away
On the sunset-tinged edges,
Where Man's company ends,
And God's loneliness begins.

II. The Dream of the World without Death.

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, ‘The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,
Saying, ‘Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’

And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer.

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen
Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barred their doors with bars of iron,
In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise
Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far;
I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.

One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.
And many made a weeping among mountains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,
Crying, ‘I am grievous for my children.’

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,
Crying, ‘Burial in the breast of me were better,
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.’

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, ‘The thing ye cursed hath been abolished—
Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!’

And the world shrieked, and the summertime was bitter,
And men and women feared the air behind them;
And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a seagull.

Saying, ‘O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

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‘I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!

‘I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

‘I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

‘And green, green were their quiet sleeping-places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

‘The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

‘And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.

‘But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.

‘There is no space for grieving or for weeping;
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!’

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut
Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,
And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes,

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;
Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow
Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.

And all around the voiceless hills were hoary,
But red light scorched their edges; and above her
There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.

‘Whither, and O whither,’ said the woman,
‘O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,
My little ones, my little son and daughter?

‘For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,
And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths
Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes

‘Looked violets at the violets, and their hair
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;

‘And suddenly my little son looked upward,
And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going
Was like a blow of fire upon my face.

‘And my little son was gone. My little daughter
Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it

‘By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,
Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.

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‘And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,
And I sank among my hair, and all my palm
Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.

‘Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—
Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly
By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.

‘I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,
I sought him in great forests, and in waters
Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.

‘And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,
Though her voice was like a wild-bird's far behind me,
Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.

‘And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward
To the forest where I missed him; and no voices
Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,

‘And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,
And no mark of little footsteps any farther,
And knew my little daughter had gone also.’

But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,
And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.

And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sungate,
The swan upon the waters, and the farmfowl,
And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.

And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,
The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,
The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.

The dog in lonely places cried not over
The body of his master; but it missed him,
And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.

The traveller's horse lay swollen in the pathway,
And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller
Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.

The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind
Gave a rustle, and the lamp burnt blue and faint,
And the father's bed was empty in the morning.

The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,
Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,
And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty.

I saw a two-years' child, and he was playing;
And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,
And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother.

The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,
And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;
And another white bird flitted round and round it,

And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,
Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.

So far, so far to seek for were the limits

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Of affliction; and men's terror grew a homeless
Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction,
There was no visible presence of bereavement,
Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
Nor gentle shutting of belovëd eyes,
Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.

There were no kisses on familiar faces,
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering
Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows,
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking
How near the well-beloved ones are lying.
There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation,
The shadow of the passing of an angel,
And slepping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

But I awoke, and, lo! the burthen was uplifted,
And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,
And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eased my heart three days by watching near her,
And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,
And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,
And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth
Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.

And I cried, ‘O unseen Sender of Corrup tion,
I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,
Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.

‘I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,
The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—
For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.’

III. Soul and Flesh.

My Soul, thou art wed
To a perishable thing,
But death from thy strange mate
Shall sever thee full soon,
If thou wilt reap wings
Take all the Flesh can give:

The touch of the smelling dead,
The kiss of the maiden's mouth,
The sorrow, the hope, the fear,
That floweth along the veins:
Take all, nor be afraid;
Cling close to thy mortal Mate!

So shalt thou duly wring
Out of thy long embrace
The hunger and thirst whereof
The Master maketh thee wings,—
The beautiful, wondrous yearning,
The mighty thirst to endure.

Be not afraid, my Soul,
To leave thy Mate at last,
Thou ye shall learn in time
To love each other well;
But put her gently down
In the earth beneath thy feet.

And dry thine eyes and hasten
To the imperishable springs;
And it shall be well for thee
In the beautiful Master's sight,
If it be found in the end
Thou hast used her tenderly.

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IV. THE SOUL AND THE DWELLING.

A House miraculous of breath
The royal Soul inhabiteth.
Alone therein for evermore,
It seeks in vain to pass the door;
But through the windows of the eyne
Signalleth to its kin divine. ...
This is a song Orm sang of old
To Oona with the locks of gold.

Come to me! clasp me!
Spirit to spirit!
Bosom to bosom!
Tenderly, clingingly,
Mingle to one! . . .

Now, from my kisses
Withdrawing, and blushing,
Why dost thou gaze on me?
Why dost thou weep?
Why dost thou cling to me,
Imploring, adoring?
What are those meanings
That flash from thine eyes?

Pitiful! pitiful!
Now I conceive thee!—
Yea, it were easier
Striking two swords,
To weld them together,
Than spirit with spirit
To mingle, though rapture
Be perfect as this.
Shut in a tremulous
Prison, each spirit
Hungers and yearns—
Never, ah never,
Belovëd, belovëd,
Have these eyes look'd on
The face of thy Soul.

Ours are two dwellings,
Wondrously beautiful,
Made in the darkness
Of soft-tinted flesh:
In the one dwelling,
Prison'd I dwell,
And lo! from the other
Thou beckonest me!
I am a Soul!
Thou art a Soul!
These are our dwellings!
O to be free!

Beauteous, belovëd,
Is thy dear dwelling;
All o'er it blowing
The roses of dawn—
Bright is the portal,
The dwelling is scented
Within and without;
Strange are the windows,
So clouded with azure,
The faces are hidden
That look from within.

Now I approach thee,
Sweetness and odour
Tremble upon me—
Wild is the rapture!
Thick is the perfume!
Sweet bursts of music
Thrill from within!
Closer, yet closer!
Bosom to bosom!
Tenderly, clingingly,
Mingle to one. ...
Ah! but what faces
Are those that look forth! ...

Faces? What faces? As I speak they die
And all my gaze is empty as of old.
O love! the world was fair, and everywhere
Rose wondrous human dwellings like mine own,
And many of these were foul and dark with dust,
Haunted by things obscene, not beautiful,
But most were very royal, meet to serve
Angels for habitation. All alone
Brooded my Soul by a mysterious fire
Dim-burning, never-dying, from the first
Lit in the place by God; the winds and rains
Struck on the abode and spared it; day and night
Above it came and went; and in the night
My Soul gazed from the threshold silently,
And saw the congregated lamps that swung
Above it in the dark and dreamy blue;
And in the day my Soul gazed on the earth,
And sought the dwellings there for signs, and lo!

274

None answer'd; for the Souls inhabitant
Drew coldly back and darken'd; and I said,
‘In all the habitations I behold,
Some old, some young, some fair, and some not fair,
There dwells no Soul I know.’ But as I spake,
I saw beside me in a dreamy light
Thy habitation, so serene and fair,
So stately in a rosy dawn of day,
That all my Soul look'd forth and cried, ‘Behold,
The sweetest dwelling in the whole wide world!’
And thought not of the inmate, but gazed on,
Lingeringly, hushfully; for as I gazed
Something came glistening up into thine eyes,
And beckon'd, and a murmur from the portal,
A murmur and a perfume, floated hither,
Thrill'd through my dwelling, making every chamber
Tremble with mystical,
Dazzling desire!

... Come to me! close to me!
Bosom to bosom!
Tenderly, clingingly,
Mingle to one!
Wildly within me
Some eager inmate
Rushes and trembles,
Peers from the eyes
And calls in the ears,
Yearns to thee, cries to thee!
Claiming old kinship
In lives far removed! . .
Vainly, ah vainly!
Pent in its prison
Must each miraculous
Spirit remain,—
Yet inarticulate,
Striving to language
Music and memory,
Rapture and dream!

Rapture and dream! Belovëd one, in vain
My spirit seeks for utterance. Alas,
Not yet shall there be speech. Not yet, not yet,
One dweller in a mortal tenement
Can know what secret faces hide away
Within the neighbouring dwelling. Ah beloved,
The mystery, the mystery! We cry
For God's face, who have never looked upon
The poorest Soul's face in the wonderful
Soul-haunted world. A spirit once there dwelt
Beside me, close as thou—two wedded souls,
We mingled—flesh was mixed with flesh—we knew
All joys, all unreserves of mingled life—
Yea, not a sunbeam filled the house of one
But touched the other's threshold. Hear me swear
I never knew that Soul! All touch, all sound,
All light was insufficient. The Soul, pent
In its strange chambers, cried to mine in vain—
We saw each other not: but oftentimes
When I was glad, the windows of my neighbour
Were dark and drawn, as for a funeral;
And sometimes, when, most weary of the world,
My Soul was looking forth at dead of night,
I saw the neighbouring dwelling brightly lit,
The happy windows flooded full of light,
As if a feast were being held within.
Yet were there passing flashes, random gleams,
Low sounds, from the inhabitant divine
I knew not; and I shrunk from some of these
In a mysterious pain. At last, Belovëd,
The frail fair mansion where that spirit dwelt
Totter'd and trembled, through the wondrous flesh
A dim sick glimmer from the fire within
Grew fainter, fainter. ‘I am going away,’
The Spirit seemed to cry; and as it cried,
Stood still and dim and very beautiful
Up in the windows of the eyes—there linger'd,
First seen, last seen, a moment, silently
So different, more beautiful tenfold
Than all that I had dreamed—I sobbed aloud

275

‘Stay! stay!’ but at the one despairing word
The spirit faded, from the hearth within
The dim fire died with one last quivering gleam—
The house became a ruin; and I moaned
‘God help me! 'twas herself that look'd at me!
First seen! I never knew her face before! ..
Too late! too late! too late!’

... Yea, from my forehead
Kiss the dark fantasy!
Tenderly, clingingly,
Mingle to one!
Is not this language?
Music and memory,
Rapture and dream?—
O in the dewy-bright
Day-dawn of love,
Is it not wondrous,
Blush-red with roses,
The beautiful, mystical
House of the Soul!
Lo in my innermost
Chambers is floating
Soft perfume and music
That tremble from thee. ...
Ah, but what faces
Are these, that look forth?

Sit, still, Belovëd, while I search thy looks
For memories. O thou art beautiful!
Crownëd with silken gold,—soft amber tints
Coming and going on thy peach-hued flesh,—
Thy breath a perfume,—thy blue eyes twain stars—
Thy lips like dewy rosebuds to the eye,
Though living to the touch. O royal abode,
Flooded with music, light, and precious scent,
Curtainëd soft with subtle mystery!
Nay, stir not, but gaze on, still and serene,
Possessing me with thy superb still sweep
Of eyes ineffable—sit still, my queen,
And let me, clinging on thee, court the ways
Wherein I know thee. Nay, even now, Belovëd,
When all the world like some vast tidal wave
Withdraws and leaves us on a golden shore
Alone together—when thou most art mine—
When the winds blow for us, and the soft stars
Are shining for us, where we dream apart,—
Now our two dwellings in a dizzy hour
Have mingled their foundations—clinging thus
And hungering round me in mine ecstasy,—
Belovëd, do I know thee? Hath my Soul
Spoken to thine the imperial speech of Souls,
Perfect in meaning and in melody?
Tell me, Belovëd, while thou sittest so,
Mine own, my queen, my palace of delights,
What lights are these that pass and come again
Within thee? Is the Spirit looking forth,
Or is it but the glittering gleams of time
Playing on vacant windows? Can I swear
Thou thinkest of me now at all? Behold
Now all thy beauty is suffused with brightness—
Thou blushest and thou smilest. Tell me true,
Thou then wast far within, and with that cry
I woke thee out of dream. O speak to me!—
Soul's speech, Belovëd! Do not smile that way—
A flood of brightness issues from thy door,
But mine is scarcely bright. Lovest thou me,
Belovëd, my belovëd? Soul belovëd,
Do I possess thee? Sight and scent and touch
Are insufficient. Open! let me in
To the strange chambers I have never seen!
Heart of the rose, unopen! or I die!

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V. SONGS OF SEEKING.

Songs of Seeking, day by day
Sung while wearying on the way,—
Feeble cries of one who knows
Nor whence he comes, nor whither goes.
Yet of his own free will doth wear
The bloody Cross of those who fare
Upward and on in sad accord,—
The footsore Seekers of the Lord.

I.

O thou whose ears incline unto my singing,
Woman or man, thou surely bearest thy burden,
And I who sing, and all men, bear their burdens.

Even as a meteor-stone from suns afar,
I fell unto the ways of life and breathed,
Wherefore to much on earth I feel a stranger.

I found myself in a green norland valley,
A place of gleaming waters and gray heavens,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.

A basin round whose margin rose the mountains
Green-based, snow-crown'd, and windy saeters midway,
And the thin line of a spire against the mountains.

Around were homes of peasants rude and holy,
Who look'd upon the mountains and the forests,
On the waters, on the vapours, without wonder;

Who, happy in their labours six days weekly,
Were happy on their knees upon the seventh.
But I wonder'd, being strange, and was not happy.

For I cried: ‘O Thou Unseen, how shall I praise Thee—
How shall I name Thee glorious whom I know not—
If Thou art as these say, I scarce conceive Thee.

‘Unfold to me the image of Thy features,
Come down upon my heart, that I may know Thee;’—
And I made a song of seeking, on a mountain.

II. Quest.

As in the snowy stillness,
Where the stars shine greenly
In a mirror of ice,
The Reindeer abideth alone,
And speedeth swiftly
From her following shadow
In the moon,—
I speed for ever
From the mystic shape
That my life projects,
And my Soul perceives;
And I loom for ever
Through desolate regions
Of wondrous thought,
And I fear the thing
That follows me,
And cannot escape it
Night or day.

Doth Thy wingëd lightning
Strike, O Master!
The timid Reindeer
Flying her shade?
Will Thy wrath pursue me,
Because I cannot
Escape the shadow
Of the thing I am?

I have pried and pondered,
I have agonised,
I have sought to find Thee,
Yet still must roam,
Affrighted, fleeing Thee,
Chased by the shadow
Of the thing I am,
Through desolate regions
Of wondrous thought!

III. The Happy Earth.

Sweet, sweet it was to sit in leafy Forests,
In a green darkness, and to hear the stirring
Of strange breaths hither and thither in the branches;

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And sweet it was to sail on crystal Waters,
Between the dome above and the dome under,
The Hills above me and the Hills beneath me;

And sweet it was to watch the wondrous Lightning
Spring flashing at the earth, and slowly perish
Under the falling of the summer Rain.

I loved all grand and gentle and strange things,—
The wind-flower at the tree-root, and the white cloud,
The strength of Mountains, and the power of Waters.

And unto me all seasons utter'd pleasure:
Spring, standing startled, listening to the skylark,
The wild flowers from her lap unheeded falling;

And Summer, in her gorgeous loose apparel,
And Autumn, with her dreamy drooping lashes;
And Winter, with his white hair blown about him.

Yea, everywhere there stirred a deathless beauty,
A gleaming and a flashing into change,
An under-stream of sober consecration.

Yet nought endured, but all the glory faded,
And power and joy and sorrow were interwoven;
There was no single presence of the Spirit.

IV. O Unseen One!

Because Thou art beautiful,
Because Thou art mysterious,
Because Thou art strong,
Or because Thou art pitiless,
Shall my Soul worship Thee,
O Thou Unseen One?
As men bow to monarchs,
As slaves to their owners,
Shall I bow to Thee?
As one that is fearful,
As one that is slavish,
Shall I pray to Thee?

Wert Thou a demigod,
Wert Thou an angel,
Lip-worship might serve;
To Thee, most beautiful,
Wondrous, mysterious,
How shall it avail?

Thou art not a demigod,
Thou art not a monarch,—
Why should I bow to Thee?
I am not fearful,
I am not slavish,—
Why should I pray to Thee?

O Spirit of Mountains!
Strong Master of Waters!
Strange Shaper of Clouds!
When these things worship Thee
I too will worship Thee,
O Maker of Men!

V. World's Mystery.

The World was wondrous round me— God's green World—
A World of gleaming waters and green places,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.

Yet evermore a trouble did pursue me—
A hunger for the wherefore of my being,
A wonder from what regions I had fallen.

I gladdened in the glad things of the World,
Yet crying always, ‘Wherefore, and oh, wherefore?
What am I? Wherefore doth the World seem happy?’

I saddened in the sad things of the World,
Yet crying, ‘Wherefore are men bruised and beaten?
Whence do I grieve and gladden to no end?’

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VI. The Cities.

I took my staff and wandered o'er the mountains,
And came among the heaps of gold and silver,
The gorgeous desolation of the Cities.

My trouble grew tenfold when I beheld
The agony and burden of my fellows,
The pains of sick men and the groans of hungry.

I saw the good man tear his hair and weep;
I saw the bad man tread on human necks
Prospering and blaspheming: and I wondered.

The silken-natured woman was a bondslave;
The gross man foul'd her likeness in high places;
The innocent were heart-wrung: and I wondered.

The gifts of earth are given to the base;
The monster of the Cities spurned the martyr;
The martyr died, denying: and I wondered.

VII. The Priests.

Three Priests in divers vestments passed and whispered:
‘Worship the one God, stranger, or thou diest;
Yea, worship, or thy tortures shall be endless.’

I cried, ‘Which God, O wise ones, must I worship?’
And neither answer'd, but one showed a Picture,
A fair Man dying on a Cross of wood.

And this one said, ‘The others err, O stranger!
Repent, and love thy brother,—'tis enough!
The Doom of Dooms is only for the wicked.’

I turned and cried unto him, ‘Who is wicked?’
He vanish'd, and within a house beside me
I heard a hard man bless his little children.

My heart was full of comfort for the wicked,
Mine eyes were cleared with love, and everywhere
The wicked wore a piteousness like starlight.

I felt my spirit foul with misconceivings,
I thought of old transgressions and was humble;
I cried, ‘O God, whose doom is on the wicked!

‘Thou art not He for whom my being hungers!
The Spirit of the grand things and the gentle,
The strength of mountains and the power of waters!’

And lo! that very night I had a Vision.

VIII. The Lamb of God.

1

I saw in a vision of the night
The Lamb of God, and it was white;
White as snow it wander'd through
Silent fields of harebell-blue,
Still it wandering fed, and sweet
Flower'd the stars around its feet.

2

I heard in vision a strange voice
Cry aloud, ‘Rejoice! rejoice!
Dead men rise and come away,
Now it is the Judgment Day!’
And I heard the host intone
Round the footstool of the Throne.

3

Then the vision pained my sight,
All I saw became so bright—
All the Souls of men were there,
All the Angels of the air;
God was smiling on His seat,
And the Lamb was at His feet.

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4

Then I heard a voice—‘'Tis done!
Blest be those whom God hath won!’
And the loud hosannah grew,
And the golden trumpets blew,
And around the place of rest
Rose the bright mist of the Blest.

5

Then suddenly I saw again,
Bleating like a thing in pain,
The Lamb of God;— and all in fear
Gazed and cried as it came near,
For on its robe of holy white
Crimson blood-stains glimmer'd bright.

6

O the vision of the night;
The Lamb of God! the blood-stains bright!
In quiet waters of the skies
It bathed itself with piteous eyes—
Vainly on its raiment fell
Cleansing dews ineffable!

7

All the while it cried for pain,
It could not wash away the stain—
All the gentle blissful sky
Felt the trouble of its cry—
All the streams of silver sheen
Sought in vain to make it clean.

8

Where'er it went along the skies
The Happy turned away their eyes;
Where'er it past from shore to shore
All wept for those whose blood it bore—
Its piteous cry filled all the air,
Till the Dream was more than I could bear.

9

And in the darkness of my bed
Weeping I awakenëd—
In the silence of the night,
Dying softly from my sight,
Melted that pale Dream of pain
Like a snow-flake from thy brain.

IX. Doom.

Master, if there be Doom,
All men are bereaven!
If, in the universe,
One Spirit receive the curse,
Alas for Heaven!
If there be Doom for one,
Thou, Master, art undone.

Were I a Soul in heaven,
Afar from pain,
Yea, on Thy breast of snow,
At the scream of one below
I should scream again.
Art Thou less piteous than
The conception of a Man?

X. God's Dream.

I hear a voice, ‘How should God pardon sin?
How should He save the sinner with the sinless?
That would be ill: the Lord my God is just.’

Further I hear, ‘How should God pardon lust?
How should He comfort the adulteress?
That would be foul: the Lord my God is pure.’

Further I hear, ‘How should God pardon blood?
How should the murtherer have a place in heaven
Beside the innocent life he took away?’

And God is on His throne; and in a dream
Sees mortals making figures out of clay,
Shapen like men, and calling them God's angels.

And sees the shapes look up into His eyes,
Exclaiming, ‘Thou didst ill to save this man;
Damn Thou this woman, and curse this cut-throat, Lord!’

God dreams this, and His dreaming is the world;
And thou and I are dreams within His dream;
And nothing dieth God hath dreamt or thought.

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XI. Flower of the World.

Wherever men sinned and wept,
I wandered in my quest;
At last in a Garden of God
I saw the Flower of the World.

This Flower had human eyes,
Its breath was the breath of the mouth;
Sunlight and starlight came,
And the Flower drank bliss from both.

Whatever was base and unclean,
Whatever was sad and strange,
Was piled around its roots;
It drew its strength from the same.

Whatever was formless and base
Pass'd into fineness and form;
Whatever was lifeless and mean
Grew into beautiful bloom.

Then I thought, ‘O Flower of the World,
Miraculous Blossom of things,
Light as a faint wreath of snow
Thou tremblest to fall in the wind.

‘O beautiful Flower of the World,
Fall not nor wither away;
He is coming—He cannot be far—
The Lord of the Flow'rs and the Stars.

And I cried, ‘O Spirit divine!
That walkest the Garden unseen,
Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,
The beautiful Flower of the World.’

XII. O Spirit!

Weary with seeking, weary with long waiting,
I fell upon my knees, and wept, exclaiming,
‘O Spirit of the grand things and the gentle!

‘Thou hidest from our seeking—Thou art crafty—
Thou wilt not let our hearts admit Thee wholly—
Believing hath a core of unbelieving—

‘A coward dare not look upon Thy features,
But museth in a cloud of misconceiving;
The bravest man's conception is a coward's.

‘Wherefore, O wherefore, art Thou veil'd and hidden?
The world were well, and wickedness were over,
If Thou upon Thy throne were one thing certain.’

And lo! that very night I had a Vision.

VI. THE LIFTING OF THE VEIL.

Thou who the Face Divine wouldst see,
Think,—couldst thou bear the sight, and be?
O waves of life and thought and dream,
Darkening in one mysterious Stream,
Flow on, flow loudly; nor become
A glassy Mirror sad and dumb,
Whereon for evermore might shine
The dread peace of the Face Divine!—
Children of earth whose spirits fail,
Beware the Lifting of the Veil!

I. Orm's Vision.

My Soul had a vision,
And in my Soul's vision
The Veil was lifted,
And the Face was there!

There was no portent
Of fire or thunder,
The wind was sleeping,
Above and under
All things lookt fair.
And the change came softly
Unaware:
On a golden morrow
The Veil was lifted,
And yea! the ineffable Face was there.

My Soul saw the vision
From a silent spot—
Nay, of its likeness
Ask me not—
How should my Soul fathom
The formless features?
Gaze at the Master
How should it dare?
Only I flutter'd
To my knees and mutter'd
A moan, a prayer—

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Silent, ineffable,
Gazing downward,
The Face was there!

This let me whisper:
It stirred not, changed not,
Though the world stood still, amazed;
But the Eyes within it,
Like the eyes of a painted picture,
Met and followed
The eyes of each that gazed.

II. The Face and the World.

Then my Soul heard a voice
Crying—‘Wander forth
O'er hill and valley,
O'er the earth—
Behold the mortals
How they fare—
Now the great Father
Grants their prayer;
Now every spirit
Of mortal race,
Since the Veil is lifted,
Beholds the Face!

I awoke my body,
And up the mountains,
With the sweet sun shining
I wander'd free—
And the hills were pleasant,
Knee-deep in heather,
And the yellow eagle
Wheel'd over me—
And the streams were flowing,
And the lambs were leaping
Merrily!

But on the hill-tops
The shepherds gather'd,
Up-gazing dreamily
Into the silent air,
And close beside them
The eagle butcher'd
The crying lambkin,
But they did not see, nor care.
I saw the white flocks of the shepherds,
Like snow wind-lifted and driven,
Blow by, blow by!
And the terrible wolves behind them,
As wild as the winds, pursuing
With a rush and a tramp and a cry!

I passed the places
Of ice and snow,
And I saw a Hunter
Lying frozen,—
His eyes were sealëd—
He did not know;
Drinking his heart's-blood,
Not looking upward,
Sat the soot-black raven
And the corby crow.

Then I knew they linger'd,
Though the Veil was lifted,
Death and Decay,
And my Spirit was heavy
As I turned away;
But my Spirit was brighter
As I saw below me
The glassy Ocean
Glimmering,
With a white sail dipping
Against the azure
Like a sea-bird's wing—
And all look'd pleasant,
On sea and land,
The white cloud brooding,
And the white sail dipping,
And the village sitting
On the yellow sand.

And beside the waters
My Soul saw the fishers
Staring upward,
With dumb desire,
Though a mile to seaward,
With the gulls pursuing,
Shot past the herring
With a trail like fire;
Though the mighty Sea-snake
With her young was stranded
In the fatal shallows
Of the shingly bay—
Though their bellies hunger'd—
What cared they?

Hard by I noted
Little children,
Toddling and playing
In a field o' hay—
The Face was looking,
But they were gazing
At one another,
And what cared they?

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But one I noted,
A little Maiden,
Look'd up o' sudden
And ceased her play,
And she dropt her garland
And stood upgazing,
With hair like sunlight,
And face like clay.

All was most quiet
In the air,
Save the children's voices
And the cry of dumb beasts,—
'Twas a weary Sabbath
Everywhere—
Each soul an eyeball,
Each face a stare;—
And I left the place,
And I wander'd free,
And the Eyes of the Face
Still followed me!

At the good Priest's cottage
The gray-hair'd grandsire
Lay stiff in the garden—
For his Soul had fled—
And I cried in passing,
‘Oh ye within there,
Come forth in sorrow
And bury your dead.’
With his flock around him
Praying bareheaded,
The pale Priest, kneeling
All gaunt and gray,
Answer'd, ‘Look upward!
Leave the dead to heaven!
God is yonder!
Behold, and pray!’

I was sick at heart
To hear and see,
And to feel the Face
Still following me,
And all seemed darkening,
And my heart sank down,—
As I saw afar off
A mighty Town—
When with no warning,
Slowly and softly
The beautiful Face withdrew,
And the whole world darken'd,
And the silence deepen'd,
And the Veil fell downward
With a silver glimmer of dew.
And I was calmer
As, slowly and sweetly,
Gather'd above me
Mysterious Light on Light,—
And weary with watching
I lay and slumber'd
In the mellow stillness
Of the blessëd night.

.. When my Soul awaken'd
In the lonely place,
The Veil was lifted,
And, behold! the Face—
And sick, heart-weary,
Onward I ran,
Through fields of harvest
Where the wheat hung wither'd.
Unreapt by man;
And a ragged Idiot
Went gibbering gaily
Among the wheat,
In moist palms rubbing
The ears together;
And he laugh'd, and beckon'd
That I should eat.

At the city gateway
The Sentinels gather'd,
Fearful and drunken
With eyes like glass—
Look up they dared not,
Lest, to their terror,
Some luminous Angel
Of awe should pass;
And my Soul passed swiftly
With a prayer,
And entered the City:—
Still and awful
Were street and square.
'Twas a piteous Sabbath
Everywhere—
Each soul an eyeball,
Each face a stare.

In pale groups gather'd
The Citizens,
The rich and poor men,
The lords, the lepers
From their loathsome dens.
There was no traffic,
The heart of the City
Stood silently;
How could they barter,

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How could they traffic,
With the terrible Eyes to see.
Nay! each man brooded
On the Face alone:
Each Soul was an eyeball,
Each Shape was a stone;
And I saw the faces,
And some were glad,
And some were pensive,
And some were mad;
But in all places,
Hall, street, and lane,—
'Twas a frozen pleasure,
A frozen pain.

I passed the bearers
Of a sable bier,
They had dropped their burthen
To gaze in fear;
From under the trappings
Of the death-cloth grand,
With a ring on the finger,
Glimmer'd the corpse's
Decaying hand.
I passed the bridal,
Clad bright and gay,
Frozen to marble
Upon its way.

Freely I wandered
Everywhere—
No mortal heeded
The passing footstep,
Palace and hovel
Were free as the mountain air.
Aye! softly I entered
The carven court of stone,
And the fountains were splashing,
And the pale King sitting
Upon his jewell'd throne—
And before him gather'd
The Frail and Sickly,
The Poor and Old;
And he open'd great coffers,
And gave thence freely
Fine gear and gold,—
Saying, ‘'Tis written,
Who giveth freely
Shall in sooth be blessëd
Twenty-fold!’
But he look'd not upward,
And seem'd unconscious
Of the strange Eyes watching
O'er sea and land;
Yet his eyelids quiver'd,
And his eyes look'd sidelong,
And he hid in his bosom
A blood-stained hand;
But the beggar people
Let the gold and raiment
Lie all unheeded;
While with no speech.
Upward they lifted
Their wild pale features,
For the Face was mirror'd
In the eyes of each.

With the Face pursuing
I wandered onward,
Heart-sick, heart-sore,
And entered the fretted
Cathedral door;
And I found the people
Huddled together,
Hiding their faces
In shame and sin,
For through the painted
Cathedral windows
The Eyes of Wonder
Were looking in!
And on the Altar,
The wild Priest, startled,
Was gazing round him
With sickly stare,
And his limbs were palsied,
And he moaned for mercy,
More wonder-stricken
Than any there.

Then I fell at the Altar,
And wept, and murmur'd,
‘My Soul, how fares it,
This day, with thee?
Art thou contented
To live and see,
Or were it better
Not to be?’
And my pale Soul whisper'd
‘Like a band that holdest
And keepeth from growing
A goodly tree,—
A terror hath me—
I feel not, stir not—
'Twere surely better
Not to be!’

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Then a rush of visions
Went wildly by!
My Soul beheld the marble World,
And the luminous Face on high.
And methought, affrighted,
That the mortal race
Built cover'd cities
To hide the Face;
And gather'd their treasures
Of silver and gold,
And sat amid them
In caverns cold;
And ever nightly,
When the Face of Wonder
Withdrew from man,
Many started,
And hideous revel
Of the dark began.
And men no longer
Knew the common sorrow,
The common yearning,
The common love,
But each man's features
Were turn'd to marble,
Changelessly watching
The Face above—
A nameless trouble
Was in the air—
The heart of the World
Had no pulsation—
'Twas a piteous Sabbath
Everywhere!

III. Orm's Awakening.

I awoke. And rising,
My Soul look'd forth—
'Twas the dewy darkness,
And the Veil was glittering
Over the earth;
But afar off eastward
The Dawn was glimmering,
All silver pale,
And slowly fading
With a mystic tremor,
The Lights gleam'd beautiful
In the wondrous Veil
Yea, Dawn came cheerily,
And the hill-tops brighten'd,
And the shepherds shouted,
And a trumped blew,
And the misty Ocean
Caught silver tremors,
With the brown-sail'd fish-boats
Glimmering through—
And the City murmur'd
As I ran unto it,
And my heart was merry,
And my fears were few;
And singing gaily
The lark rose upward,
Its brown wings gleaming
With the morning dew!

VII. THE DEVIL'S MYSTICS.

A scroll antique, with weeds behung,
Writ in a mystic pagan tongue,
Wash'd to Orm's feet by the wan Main
After long nights of wind and rain:
Translating this at dead of night,
The Celt beholds with dazzled sight
Strange gods stalk past, and in their train,
Supreme, the King of Sin and Pain.

I. The Inscription Without.

The Moral Law: all Evil is Defect;
The limb deform'd for common use of life
Defect,—but haply in the line of growth.

II. The Tree of Life.

The Master said:
‘I have planted the Seed of a Tree,
It shall be strangely fed
With white dew and with red,
And the Gardeners shall be three—
Regret, Hope, Memory!’

The Master smiled:
For the Seed that He had set
Broke presently through the mould,
With a glimmer of green and gold,
And the Angels' eyes were wet—
Hope, Memory, Regret.

The Master cried:
‘It liveth—breatheth—see!
Its soft lips open wide—
It looks from side to side—

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How strange they gleam on me,
The little dim eyes of the Tree!’

The Master said:
‘After a million years,
The Seed I set and fed
To itself hath gatherëd
All the world's smiles and tears—
How mighty it appears!’

The Master said:
‘At last, at last, I see
A Blossom, a Blossom o' red
From the heart of the Tree is shed.
Fairer it seems to be
Than the Tree, or the leaves o' the Tree.’

The Master cried:
‘O Angels, that guard the Tree,
A Blossom, a Blossom divine
Grows on this greenwood of mine:
What may this Blossom be?
Name this Blossom to me!’

The Master smiled;
For the Angels answered thus:
‘Our tears have nourish'd the same,
We have given it a name
That seemeth fit to us—
We have called it Spiritus.’

The Master said:
‘This Flower no Seed shall bear
But hither on a day
My beautiful Child shall stray,
And shall snatch it unaware,
And wreath it in his hair.’

The Master smiled:
‘The Tree shall never bear—
Seedless shall perish the Tree,
But the Flower my Child's shall be;
He will pluck the Flower and wear,
Till it withers in his hair!’

III. The Seeds.

When all that puzzles sense was planned,
When the first seeds of being fell,
In reverence bent, I stood at hand,
And heard a part of the spell:
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen into power and pain!’

Shoots of the seed, I saw them grow,
Green blades of vegetable sheen,
They darken'd as with wind, and so
The Earth's black ball grew green—
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

Then starry-bright out of the ground
The firstling flowers sprang dewy-wet;
I pluckt one, and it felt no wound—
There was no pain as yet.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

Next in His Hand He lifted thus
Bright bubbling water from the spring—
And in that crystal tremulous
Quicken'd a living thing.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

And suddenly! ere I was 'ware,
(So fast the dreadful spell was tried),
O'er Earth's green bosom everywhere
Crawl'd living things, and cried.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

On every grass-blade glittering bright
A shining Insect leapt and played,
By every sea, on every height,
A Monster cast its shade—
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

The most was lingering in the least,
The least became the most anon;
From plant to fish, from fish to beast,
The Essence deepen'd on.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

And deeper still in subtle worth
The Essence grew, from gain to gain,
And subtler grew, with each new birth,
The creature's power of pain.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

Paler I saw the Master grow,
Faint and more faint His breathing fell,
And strangely, lower and more low,
He mutter'd o'er the spell:

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‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

Now the deep murmur of the Earth
Was mingled with a painful cry,
The yeanling young leapt up in mirth,
But the old lay down to die.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

When standing in the perfect light
I saw the first-born Mortal rise—
The flower of things he stood his height
With melancholy eyes.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

From all the rest he drew apart,
And stood erect on the green sod,
Holding his hand upon his heart,
And looking up at God!
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

He stood so terrible, so dread,
With right hand lifted pale and proud,
God feared the thing He fashionëd,
And fled into a cloud.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

And since that day He hid away
Man hath not seen the Face that fled,
And the wild question of that day
Hath not been answerëd.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

And since that day, with cloudy face,
Of His own handiwork afraid,
God from His heavenly hiding-place
Peers on the thing He made.
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

O Crown of things, O good and wise,
O mortal Soul that would'st be free,
I weep to look into thine eyes—
Thou art so like to me!
‘Grow, Seed! blossom, Brain!
Deepen, deepen, into pain!’

IV. Fire and Water; or, a Voice of the Flesh.

‘Two white arms, a moss pillow,
A curtain o' green;
Come love me, love me,
Come clasp me unseen!’

As red as a rose is,
I saw her arise,
Fresh waked from reposes,
With wild dreamy eyes.

I sprang to her, clasp'd her
I trembled, I prest,
I drank her warm kisses,
I kiss'd her white breast.

With a ripple of laughter,
A dazzle of spray,
She melted, she melted,
And glimmer'd away!

Down my breast runs the water,
In my heart burns the fire,
My face is like crimson
With shame and desire!

V. Sanitas.

Dreamily, on her milk-white Ass,
Rideth the maiden Sanitas—
With zone of gold her waist is bound,
Her brows are with immortelles crown'd;
Dews are falling, song-birds sing,
It is a Christian evening—
Lower, lower, sinks the sun,
The white stars glimmer, one by one!

Who sitteth musing at his door?
Silas, the Leper, gaunt and hoar;
Though he is curst in every limb,
Full whitely Time hath snowed on him—
Dews are falling, song-birds sing,
It is a Christian evening—
The Leper, drinking in the air,
Sits like a beast, with idiot stare.

How pale! how wondrous! doth she pass,
The heavenly maiden Sanitas;
She looketh, and she shuddereth,
She passeth on with bated breath—

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Dews are falling, song-birds sing,
It is a Christian evening—
His mind is like a stagnant pool,
She passeth o'er it, beautiful!

Brighter, whiter, in the skies,
Open innumerable eyes;
The Leper looketh up and sees,
His aching heart is soothed by these—
Dews are falling, song-birds sing,
It is a Christian evening—
He looketh up with heart astir,
And every Star hath eyes like her!

Onward on her milk-white Ass
Rideth the maiden Sanitas.
The boughs are green, the grain is pearl'd,
But 'tis a miserable world—
Dews are falling, song-birds sing,
It is a Christian evening—
All o'er the blue above her, she
Beholds bright spots of Leprosy.

VI. The Philosophers.

We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
Lo! we sit apart,
Each right hand is uplifted,
Each left hand holds a heart;
At our feet rolls by the tumult,
O'er our heads the still stars gleam—
We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
We drink and dream!

We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
We are worn and old,
Each hath the sad forehead,
Each the cup of gold.
In our eyes the awe-struck Nations
Look, and name us wise, and go—
We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
We drink and know!

We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
Silent, kingly, pure;
Who is wise if we be foolish?
Who, if we die, shall endure?
The Bacchanals with dripping vine-leaves,
Blushing meet our eyes, and haste—
We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
Bitter to taste!

We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
Spirits pure as snow;
White star-frost is on our foreheads—
We are weary, we would go.
Hark! the world fades with its voices,
Fades the tumult and the cry—
We are the Drinkers of Hemlock!
We drink and die!

VII. The Devil's Prayer.

Father which art in Heaven,—not here below;
Be Thy name hallowëd, in that place of worth;
And till Thy Kingdom cometh, and we know,
Be Thy will done more tenderly on Earth;
Since we must live—give us this day our bread;
Forgive our stumblings—since Thou mad'st us blind;
If we offend Thee, Sire, at least forgive
As tenderly as we forgive our kind;—
Spare us temptation,—human or divine;
Deliver us from evil, now and then;
The Kingdom, Power, and Glory all are Thine
For ever and for evermore. Amen.

VIII. Homunculus; or, the Song of Deicides.

1.

Now all the mystic Lamps that shed
Light on the living world are fled;
Now the swart digger rinses gold,
Under a starless heaven and cold;
Now every God, save one, is dead,
Now that last God is almost sped;
Cold falls the dew, chill rise the tides,
To this still Song of Deicides.

2.

Homunculus! Homunculus!
Not ever shalt thou conquer us!
Zeus, Astaroth, Brahm, and Menú,
With all the gods, white, black, and blue,

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Are fallen, and while I murmur thus,
Strong, and more strong, Homunculus
Upon a Teuton Jackass rides,
Singing the Song of Deicides.

3.

It seems but yesterday the dim
And solitary germ of him
Glimmer'd most strangely on my sense,
While, with my microscope intense,
I search'd a Beast's brain-cavern dark:—
A germ—a gleam—a cell—a spark—
Grown to Homunculus, who rides
To my sad Song of Deicides.

4.

Oh had I then so far foreseen,
This day of doom had never been,
For with a drop of fire from Hell
I would have killed the feeble Cell.
Too late! too late! for slow and strange
He has passed the darker sphere of change,
Lo! he emerges—shouts—derides,
Singing the Song of Deicides!

5.

Black is his raiment, top to toe,
His flesh is white and warm below,
All through his silent veins flow flee
Hunger, and Thirst, and Venery;
But in his eye a still small flame,
Like the first Cell from which he came,
Burns round and luminous,—as he rides
To my still Song of Deicides!

6.

With Obic Circle he began,
Swift through the Phallic rites he ran,
He watch'd until his head went round
The Memphian Sphinx's stare profound;
All these by turn he overcast,
And suck'd the Orphic Egg at last;
Now laughing low he westward strides,
Singing the Song of Deicides!

7.

He drives the Gods o' the north to death—
The Sanctus Spiritus is breath—
He plucks down Thammuz from his joy,
And kneads him to a huswife's toy;
He stares to shame the Afric spheres;
He strikes—he overturns—he sneers—
Oven the fallen Titans strides,
And squeaks the Song of Deicides!

8.

Homunculus! Homunculus
Wretched, degenerate, impious!
He will not stay, he will not speak—
Another blow! another shriek!
Lo! where he hacketh suddenly
At the red Cross of Calvary!
All darkens—faintly moan the tides—
Sing low the Song of Deicides!

9.

Gigantic, in a dark mist, see!
Loometh the Cross of Calvary;
With rayless eyes the Skeleton
Quivers through all its bones thereon.
Deep grows the mist, faint falls the wind,
The bloodshot sun setteth behind ...
A crash! a fall—The Cross he strides,
Singing the Song of Deicides!

10.

Now he hath conquered godhead thus,
Whither will turn Homunculus?
I am the only God let be—
All but my fiends believe in me;
(Though all the Angels deem me prince,
My kith and kin I can't convince.)
Christ help me now! Hither he rides,
Singing my song of Deicides!

11.

Silent I wait—(how stand the odds?)
I am the Serpent of the Gods,—
Wait!—draw the forkëd tongue in slow,
Hoard up my venom for the blow.
Crouch in my cave—of all the host
I know he feareth me the most—
Then strike and crush that thing accurst
I should have stifled at the first! ...
All Earth awaits! Hither he rides!
Cold fall the dews, chill rise the tides,
To this still Song of Deicides!

IX. Roses.

‘Sad, and sweet, and wise,
Here a child reposes,
Dust is on his eyes,
Quietly he lies,—
Satan, strew Roses!’

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Weeping low, creeping slow,
Came the Weary-wingëd!
Roses red over the dead
Quietly he flingëd.

‘I am old,’ he thought,
‘And the world's day closes;
Pale and fever-fraught,
Sadly have I brought
These blood-red Roses.’

By his side the mother came
Shudderingly creeping;
The Devil's and the woman's heart
Bitterly were weeping.

‘Swift he came and swift he flew,
Hopeless he reposes;
Waiting on is weary too,—
Wherefore on his grave we strew
Bitter, withering Roses.’

The Devil gripped the woman's heart,
With gall he staunched its bleeding;
Far away, beyond the day,
The Lord heard interceding.

‘Lord God, One in Three!
Sure Thy anger closes;
Yesterday I died, and see
The Weary-wingëd over me
Bitterly streweth Roses.’

The voice cried out, ‘Rejoice! rejoice!
There shall be sleep for evil!’
And all the sweetness of God's voice
Passed strangely through the Devil.

X. Hermaphroditus.

This is a section of a Singer's Brain—
How delicately run the granular lines!
By what strange chemic could I touch this thing,
That it again might quicken and dissolve,
Changing and blooming, into glittering gleams
Of fancy; or what chemic could so quicken
The soft soil backward that it might put forth
Green vegetable shoots,—as long ago?
Upon what headland did it blow of oid
And ripen hitherward! Surely 'twas a place
Flowery and starry!

Cast it back to the grave!
Look down no more, but raise thine eyes and see
Who standeth glorious in the brightening Dawn!

Behold him, on the apex of the cone,
The perfect blossom of miraculous life,
Hermaphroditus. With how subtle shade
Male into female beauty mingleth—thews
Of iron coated o'er with skin of silk;—
There, on the crown he stands, the perfect one,
Witching the world with sterile loveliness,—
Beyond him, darkness and the unknown change,
The next uncurtain'd and still higher scene
That is to follow. Are those pinions,— peeping
Under the delicate-flesh'd white shoulder-blades?

XI. After.

I see, as plain as eyes can see,
From this dark point of mystery,
Death sitting at his narrow Gate,—
While all around, disconsolate,
The wretched weep, the weary wait.
God pity us who weep and wait!

But, better still, if sadder, I
From this dark corner can descry
What is well-veil'd from human view:
Beyond the Gate I can pursue
The flight of those who have passed thro'.
God pity us who have passed thro'!

In at the portal, one by one,
They creep, they crawl, with shivering moan—
Nobles and Beggars, Priests and Kings;
Out at the further gate each springs
A Spirit,—with a pair of wings!
God pity us now we have wings!

All round the starry systems stir,
Each silent as a death-chamber;
There is no sound of melody,
Only deep space and mystery;

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And each hath wings to wander free.
God pity us who wander free!

Some cannot use their wings at all;
Some try a feeble flight and fall;
A few, like larks in earthly skies,
With measured beat of wings uprise,
And make their way to Paradise.
God help us on to Paradise!

If ever in their flight through space
They chance to reach that resting-place,
I do not think these creatures dim
Will find the Lord of Cherubim
Exactly what they picture Him.
May God be what we picture Him!

Out of the fiery Sun is thrown
To other worlds the meteor-stone;
Back to the Sun, in season right,
The meteor-stone doth take its flight.
Lost in that melancholy light.
We fade in melancholy light.

I see, as plain as eyes can see,
From this dark point of mystery,
Those fledgling Spirits everywhere;
They sing, they lessen, up the air;
The go to God—Christ help them there!
We go to God—Christ help us there!

XII. His Prayer.

In the time of transfiguration,
Melt me, Master, like snow;
Melt me, dissolve me, inhale me
Into Thy wool-white cloud;
With a warm wind blow me upward
Over the hills and the seas,
And upon a summer morning
Poise me over the valley
Of Thy mellow, mellow realm;
Then, for a wondrous moment,
Watch me from infinite space
With Thy round red Eyeball of sunlight,
And melt and dissolve me downward
In the beautiful silver Rain
That drippeth musically,
With a glean like Starlight and Moonlight,
On the footstool of Thy Throne.

VIII. THE VISION OF THE MAN ACCURST.

How in the end the Judgment dread
Shall by the Lord thy God be said,—
While brightly in a City of Rest
Shall flash the fountains of the Blest,
And gladdening around the Throne
All mortal men shall smile,—save one. ...
Children of Earth, hear, last and first,
The Vision of the Man Accurst.

Judgment was over; all the world redeem'd
Save one Man,—who had sinned all sins, whose soul
Was blackness and foul odour. Last of all,
When all was lamb-white, through the summer Sea
Of ministering Spirits he was drifted
On to the white sands; there he lay and writhed,
Worm-like, black, venomous, with eyes accurst
Looking defiance, dazzled by the light
That gleam'd upon his clench'd and bloodstain'd hands;
While, with a voice low as a funeral bell,
The Seraph, sickening, read the sable scroll,
And as he read the Spirits ministrant
Darken'd and murmur'd, ‘Cast him forth, O Lord!’
And, from the Shrine where unbeheld He broods,
The Lord said, ‘'Tis the basest mortal born—
Cast him beyond the Gate!’

The wild thing laugh'd
Defiant, as from wave to wave of light
He drifted, till he swept beyond the Gate,
Past the pale Seraph with the silvern eyes;
And there the wild Wind, that for ever beats
About the edge of brightness, caught him up,
And, like a straw, whirl'd round and lifted him,
And on a dark shore in the Underworld
Cast him, alone and shivering; for the Clime

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Was sunless, and the ice was like a sheet
Of glistening tin, and the faint glimmering peaks
Were twisted to fantastic forms of frost,
And everywhere the frozen moonlight steam'd
Foggy and blue, save where the abysses loom'd
Sepulchral shadow. But the Man arose,
With teeth gnash'd beast-like, waved wild feeble hands
At the white Gate (that glimmer'd far away,
Like to the round ball of the Sun beheld
Through interstices in a wood of pine),
Cast a shrill curse at the pale Judge within
Then groaning, beast-like crouch'd.

Like golden waves
That break on a green island of the south,
Amid the flash of many plumaged wings,
Passed the fair days in Heaven. By the side
Of quiet waters perfect Spirits walked,
Low singing, in the star-dew, full of joy
In their own thoughts and pictures of those thoughts
Flash'd into eyes that loved them; while beside them,
After exceeding storm, the Waters of Life
With soft sea-sound subsided. Then God said,
‘'Tis finished—all is well!’ But as He spake
A voice, from out the lonely Deep beneath,
Mock'd!

Then to the Seraph at the Gate,
Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes
For ever, God cried, ‘What is he that mocks?’
The Seraph answered, ‘'Tis the Man accurst!’
And, with a voice of most exceeding peace,
God ask'd, ‘What doth the Man?’

The Seraph said:
‘Upon a desolate peak, with hoar-frost hung,
Amid the steaming vapours of the Moon,
He sitteth on a throne, and hideously
Playeth at judgment; at his feet, with eyes
Slimy and luminous, squats a monstrous Toad;
Above his head pale phantoms of the Stars
Fulfil cold ministrations of the Void,
And in their dim and melancholy lustre
His shadow, and the shadow of the Toad
Beneath him, linger. Sceptred, thron'd, and crown'd,
The foul judgeth the foul, and sitting grim,
Laughs!’
With a voice of most exceeding peace
The Lord said, ‘Look no more!’

The Waters of Life
Broke with a gentle sea-sound gladdening—
God turn'd and blest them; as He blest the same,
A voice from out the lonely Void beneath,
Shriek'd!

Then to the Seraph at the Gate,
Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes
For ever, God cried, ‘What is he that shrieks?’
The Seraph answered, ‘'Tis the Man accurst!’
And, with a voice of most exceeding peace,
God ask'd, ‘What doth the Man?’

The Seraph said:
‘Around him the wild phantasms of the fog
Moan in the rheumy hoar-frost and cold steam.
Long time, crown'd, sceptred, on his throne he sits
Playing at judgment; then with shrill voice cries—
“'Tis finished, thou art judged!” and, fiercely laughing,
He thrusteth down an iron heel to crush
The foul Toad, that with dim and luminous eyes
So stareth at his Soul. Thrice doth he lift
His foot up fiercely—lo! he shrinks and cowers—
Then, with a wild glare at the far-off Gate,
Rushes away, and, rushing through the dark,
Shrieks!’

With a voice of most exceeding peace
The Lord said, ‘Look no more!’

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The Waters of Life,
The living, spiritual Waters, broke,
Fountain-like, up against the Master's Breast,
Giving and taking blessing. Overhead
Gather'd the shining legions of the Stars,
Led by the ethereal Moon, with dewy eyes
Of lustre: these have been baptised in fire,
Their raiment is of molten diamond,
And 'tis their office, as they circling move
In their blue orbits, evermore to turn
Their faces heavenward, drinking peace and strength
From that great Flame which, in the core of Heaven,
Like to the white heart of a violet burns,
Diffusing rays and odour. Blessing all,
God sought their beauteous orbits, and behold!
The Eyes innumerably glistening
Were turned away from Heaven, and with sick stare,
Like the blue gleam of salt dissolved in fire,
They searched the Void, as human faces look
On horror.

To the Seraph at the Gate,
Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes,
God cried, ‘What is this thing whereon they gaze?’
The Seraph answered, ‘On the Man accurst.’
And, with a voice of most exceeding peace,
God ask'd, ‘What doth the Man?’

The Seraph said:
‘O Master! send Thou forth a tongue of fire
To wither up this worm! Serene and cold,
Flooded with moon-dew, lies the World, and there
The Man roams; and the image of the Man
In the wan waters of the frosty sphere
Falleth gigantic. Up and down he drifts,
Worm-like, black, venomous, with eyes accursed,
Waving his bloody hands in fierce appeal,
So that the gracious faces of Thy Stars
Are troubled, and the stainless tides of light
Shadow pollution. With wild, ape-like eyes,
The wild thing whining peers through horrent hair,
And rusheth up and down, seeking to find
A face to look upon, a hand to touch,
A heart that beats; but all the World is void
And beauteous. All alone in the Cold Clime,
Alone within the lonely universe,
Crawleth the Man accurst!’

Then said the Lord,
‘Doth he repent?’ And the fair Seraph said,
‘Nay he blasphemeth! Send Thou forth Thy fire!’
But with a voice of most exceeding peace,
Out of the Shrine where unbeheld He broods,
God said, ‘What I have made, a living Soul,
Cannot be unmade, but endures for ever.’
Then added, ‘Call the Man!’

The Seraph heard,
And in a low voice named the lost one's name;
The wild Wind that for ever beats the Gate
Caught up the word, and fled through the cold Void.
'Twas murmur'd on, as a lorn echo fading,
From peak to peak. Swift as a wolf the Man
Was rushing o'er a waste, with shadow streaming
Backward against a frosty gleaming wind,
When like a fearful whisper in his ear
'Twas wafted; then his blanch'd lips shook like leaves
In that chill wind, his hair was lifted up,
He paused, his shadow paused, like stone and shadow,
And shivering, glaring round him, the Man moaned,
‘Who calls?’ and in a moment he was 'ware
Of the white light streaming from the far Gate,
And looming, blotted black against the light,
The Seraph with uplifted forefinger,
Naming his name!

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And ere the Man could fly,
The wild Wind in its circuit swept upon him,
And, like a straw, whirled him and lifted him,
And cast him at the Gate,—a bloody thing—
Mad, moaning, horrible, obscene, unclean;
A body swollen and stainëd like the wool
Of sheep that in the rainy season crawl
About the hills, and sleep on foul damp beds
Of bracken rusting red. There, breathing hard,
Glaring with fiery eyes, panted the Man,
With scorch'd lips drooping, thirsting as he heard
The flowing of the Fountains far within.

Then said the Lord, ‘Is the Man there?’ and ‘Yea,’
Answered the Seraph pale. Then said the Lord,
‘What doth the Man?’ The Seraph, frowning, said:
‘O Master, in the belly of him is fire,
He thirsteth, fiercely thrusting out his hands,
And threateneth, seeking water!’ Then the Lord
Said, ‘Give him water—let him drink!’

The Seraph,
Stooping above him, with forefinger bright
Touched the gold kerbstone of the Gate, and lo!
Water gush'd forth and gleamed; and lying prone
The Man crawl'd thither, dipt his fever'd face,
Drank long and deeply; then, his thirst appeased,
Thrust in his bloody hands unto the wrist,
And let the gleaming Fountain play upon them,
And looking up out of his dripping hair,
Grinned mockery at the giver.

Then the Lord
Said low, ‘How doth the Man?’ The Seraph said:
‘It is a snake! He mocketh all Thy gifts,
And, in a snake's voice half-articulate,
Blasphemeth!’ Then the Lord: ‘Doth the Man crave
To enter in?’ ‘Not so,’ the Seraph said,
‘He saith—’ ‘What saith he?’ ‘That his Soul is filled
With hate of Thee and of Thy ways; he loathes
Pure pathways where the fruitage of the Stars
Hangeth resplendent, and he spitteth hate
On all Thy Children. Send Thou forth Thy fire!
In no wise is he better than the beasts,
The gentle beasts, that come like morning dew
And vanish. Let him die!’ Then said the Lord:
‘What I have made endures; but 'tis not meet
This thing should cross my perfect work for ever.
Let him begone!’ Then cried the Seraph pale:
‘O Master! at the frozen Clime he glares
In awe, shrieking at Thee!’ ‘What doth he crave?
‘Neither Thy Heaven nor by Thy holy ways.
He murmureth out he is content to dwell
In the Cold Clime for ever, so Thou sendest
A face to look upon, a heart that beats,
A hand to touch—albeit like himself,
Black, venomous, unblest, exiled, and base:
Give him this thing, he will be very still,
Nor trouble Thee again.’

The Lord mused.

Still,
Scarce audible trembled the Waters of Life—
Over all Heaven the Snow of the same Thought
Which rose within the Spirit of the Lord
Fell hushedly; the innumerable Eyes
Swam in a lustrous dream.

Then said the Lord:
‘In all the waste of worlds there dwelleth not
Another like himself—behold he is
The basest Mortal born. Yet 'tis not meet
His cruel cry, for ever piteous,
Should trouble my eternal Sabbath-day.
Is there a Spirit here, a human thing,

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Will pass this day from the Gate Beautiful
To share the exile of this Man accurst,—
That he may cease the shrill pain of his cry,
And I have peace?’

Hushedly, hushedly,
Snow'd down the Thought Divine—the living Waters
Murmured and darkened. But like mournful mist
That hovers o'er an autumn pool, two Shapes,
Beautiful, human, glided to the Gate
And waited.

‘What art thou?’ in a stern voice
The Seraph said, with dreadful forefinger
Pointing to one. A gentle voice replied,
‘I will go forth with him whom ye call curst!
He grew within my womb—my milk was white
Upon his lips. I will go forth with him!’
‘And thou?’ the Seraph said. The second Shape
Answered, ‘I also will go forth with him;
I have kist his lips, I have lain upon his breast,
I bare him children, and I closed his eyes;
I will go forth with him!’

Then said the Lord,
‘What Shapes are these who speak?’ The Seraph answered:
‘The woman who bore him and the wife he wed—
The one he slew in anger—the other he stript,
With ravenous claws, of raiment and of food.’
Then said the Lord, ‘Doth the Man hear?’ ‘He hears,’
Answer'd the Seraph; ‘like a wolf he lies,
Venomous, bloody, dark, a thing accurst,
And hearkeneth, with no sign!’ Then said the Lord:
‘Show them the Man,’ and the pale Seraph cried,
‘Behold!’

Hushedly, hushedly, hushedly,
In heaven fell the Snow of Thought Divine,
Gleaming upon the Waters of Life beneath,
And melting,—as with slow and lingering pace,
The Shapes stole forth into the windy cold,
And saw the thing that lay and throbbed and lived,
And stooped above him. Then one reach'd a hand
And touch'd him, and the fierce thing shrank and spat,
Hiding his face.

‘Have they beheld the Man?’
The Lord said; and the Seraph answer'd ‘Yea;’
And the Lord said again, ‘What doth the Man?’

‘He lieth like a log in the wild blast,
And as he lieth, lo! one sitting takes
His head into her lap, and moans his name,
And smoothes his matted hair from off his brow,
And croons in a low voice a cradle song;
And lo! the other kneeleth at his side,
Half-shrinking in the old habit of her fear,
Yet hungering with her eyes, and passionately
Kissing his bloody hands.’

Then said the Lord,
‘Will they go forth with him?’ A voice replied,
‘He grew within my womb—my milk was white
Upon his lips. I will go forth with him!’
And a voice cried, ‘I will go forth with him;
I have kist his lips, I have lain upon his breast,
I bare him children, and I closed his eyes;
I will go forth with him!’

Still hushedly
Snowed down the Thought Divine, the Waters of Life
Flow'd softly, sadly; for an alien sound,
A piteous human cry, a sob forlorn
Thrill'd to the heart of Heaven.

The Man wept.

And in a voice of most exceeding peace
The Lord said (while against the Breast Divine
The Waters of Life leapt, gleaming, gladdening):
‘The Man is saved; let the Man enter in!’