 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
61
AKROTIRI OF CRETE
There is a rocky half isle in the deep
With jagged peaks, with sea-walls bare and steep;
With scanty pasture for the goats that climb
From ledge to ledge, and bruise the mountain thyme;
Only dwarf holly and low lentisk clings
In hollows sheltered from the north wind's wings,
Dark gullies where the mountain vultures sway
On poising pinions, watching for their prey,
For hunted beasts will find their way to die
In such a solitude 'twixt earth and sky.
A stony desert parts that land unkind
From green Cydonia's summer world behind,
Where ancient olives silver the rich plain,
Ringed in their fence of aloes, till again
The vine-slopes climb to Ida's mountain chain.
With jagged peaks, with sea-walls bare and steep;
With scanty pasture for the goats that climb
From ledge to ledge, and bruise the mountain thyme;
Only dwarf holly and low lentisk clings
In hollows sheltered from the north wind's wings,
Dark gullies where the mountain vultures sway
On poising pinions, watching for their prey,
For hunted beasts will find their way to die
In such a solitude 'twixt earth and sky.
A stony desert parts that land unkind
From green Cydonia's summer world behind,
Where ancient olives silver the rich plain,
Ringed in their fence of aloes, till again
The vine-slopes climb to Ida's mountain chain.
And yet there is a green spot in this waste,
A garden in the desert, man has placed
An altar in the solitude, come here to dwell
With contemplation in a hermit's cell.
Long years ago men counted this their good,
Fled from the world's way, chose the solitude,
Went out into the deserts, barefoot trod
The rocks that bruised them, agonised to God,
Welcomed the lash, the torture and the chain,
And dreamed of heaven in the pause of pain.
But now, dear God, has love not cast out fear?
These lonely eremites, what do they here?
A garden in the desert, man has placed
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With contemplation in a hermit's cell.
Long years ago men counted this their good,
Fled from the world's way, chose the solitude,
Went out into the deserts, barefoot trod
The rocks that bruised them, agonised to God,
Welcomed the lash, the torture and the chain,
And dreamed of heaven in the pause of pain.
But now, dear God, has love not cast out fear?
These lonely eremites, what do they here?
Enter thou in between the cypress rows,
Mount up the stair;—four terraced walls enclose
A court, the church, a citron by the well;—
Is it a fortress or a cloister cell?
Speak with those hermits,—have they thoughts to think
Worthy this deep seclusion? Do they drink
A deeper well of knowledge? Bearded cheek,
Locks like the Nazarite, do they bespeak
Mystics, who commune oft with God below,
The priests of contemplation? Surely,—No!
Ask, you will find them ignorant and poor,
A few rude peasants in a cowl, no more!
Mount up the stair;—four terraced walls enclose
A court, the church, a citron by the well;—
Is it a fortress or a cloister cell?
Speak with those hermits,—have they thoughts to think
Worthy this deep seclusion? Do they drink
A deeper well of knowledge? Bearded cheek,
Locks like the Nazarite, do they bespeak
Mystics, who commune oft with God below,
The priests of contemplation? Surely,—No!
Ask, you will find them ignorant and poor,
A few rude peasants in a cowl, no more!
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What do they here, walled sullenly within,
Secure at ease while others toil and spin?
What do they here, men stout and strong of limb,
Between the matin and the vesper hymn?
Fasting or feasting, letting real life go,
While other men must dig and reap and sow,
Smiling their welcome to who comes their way
With half-remembered empty forms to pray!
Is this man's portion, between earth and sky,
To crawl in indolence, to live and die?
Secure at ease while others toil and spin?
What do they here, men stout and strong of limb,
Between the matin and the vesper hymn?
Fasting or feasting, letting real life go,
While other men must dig and reap and sow,
Smiling their welcome to who comes their way
With half-remembered empty forms to pray!
Is this man's portion, between earth and sky,
To crawl in indolence, to live and die?
And yet not so! Be patient, being wise,
Nay, proud, not patient; learn to recognise
The dawnings of endeavour, the good seed
Sown in a land that knows its hunger's need.
Here, where the passions of her sons are rude,
And fierce as nature's in her wildest mood,
Where hate is painted with the blood she spills,
And murder harbours in the savage hills,
It was well thought to build this home of peace,
To watch the olives and the vines increase,
Where, unmolested in a world of strife,
Unlettered hermits lead the quiet life.
So slowly men mount upwards. Be their praise
This garden island in the stony ways,
Where flocks feed quietly, birds build and sing,
Men sleep unscared beneath the shadow of God's wing.
Nay, proud, not patient; learn to recognise
The dawnings of endeavour, the good seed
Sown in a land that knows its hunger's need.
Here, where the passions of her sons are rude,
And fierce as nature's in her wildest mood,
Where hate is painted with the blood she spills,
And murder harbours in the savage hills,
It was well thought to build this home of peace,
To watch the olives and the vines increase,
Where, unmolested in a world of strife,
Unlettered hermits lead the quiet life.
64
This garden island in the stony ways,
Where flocks feed quietly, birds build and sing,
Men sleep unscared beneath the shadow of God's wing.
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |