The Year of the World A Philosophical Poem on "Redemption from The Fall". By William B. Scott |
 |
|
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| V. |
| I. | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The Year of the World |  |
95
I.
Thus hath Lyremmos, from the ante-past,
Which words in this degenerated life
Cannot reveal,—descended through the strife
Of consciousness and forces from without,
Of good and evil, disobedient both,—
Descended to the prison-house of sense
To be a laborer. We have traced him far,
Toiling from out the dark; from land to land,
Mythus to mythus, age to age, his steps
Advance upon us, gathering as he goes
Spiritual dominion; as the child
Becomes the man, the green stalk shoots to flower,
The constellated year from iron frost
Melts into white-flowered spring and rosy morn
Of summer, thence to autumn, even now,
Science, the gleaner, brings into our hands
Earnest of harvest.
Which words in this degenerated life
Cannot reveal,—descended through the strife
Of consciousness and forces from without,
Of good and evil, disobedient both,—
Descended to the prison-house of sense
To be a laborer. We have traced him far,
Toiling from out the dark; from land to land,
Mythus to mythus, age to age, his steps
Advance upon us, gathering as he goes
Spiritual dominion; as the child
Becomes the man, the green stalk shoots to flower,
The constellated year from iron frost
Melts into white-flowered spring and rosy morn
Of summer, thence to autumn, even now,
Science, the gleaner, brings into our hands
Earnest of harvest.
96
But the Holy Child—
How fared he? As the laborer overjoyed,
Carried the tidings to Sarmatian wastes,
And through Norwegian forests, where swart dwarves
Forge arms for maniac warriors. Overhead
Odin doth summon to the feast of death.
The chant of the invincible fierce jarls,—
The dying warrior's song as his blood flows,—
Hears the commissioned traveller, hears with joy;
For there too is the fixedness of faith,
The indestructible: no idle game,
Nor indolence with ghastly logic mumbling,
Nor old authority with eyeless fables
Living in lack of better: and his voice
Pierced like a charm, prophetic of the power
In future years to come from this cold north,
Sea-kings of industry and princely men
Ministering between nature and her God.
Here stayed he, and along his fruitful path,
Cast back a glance of triumph. Wo is me!
Peace there was none, force more than ever reigned,
Force strangely standing in defence of Truth,
The naked yet inviolable essence.
And now rejoice we over all those years,
Rational instincts springing constantly
Into the young heart of a world revived,
Rousing a wild impatience time alone
Could recompense. And more beheld he strange,—
That reflex Christ Arabia hath received,
That energy abortive, in a time
Of vital energy.
How fared he? As the laborer overjoyed,
Carried the tidings to Sarmatian wastes,
And through Norwegian forests, where swart dwarves
Forge arms for maniac warriors. Overhead
Odin doth summon to the feast of death.
The chant of the invincible fierce jarls,—
The dying warrior's song as his blood flows,—
Hears the commissioned traveller, hears with joy;
For there too is the fixedness of faith,
The indestructible: no idle game,
Nor indolence with ghastly logic mumbling,
Nor old authority with eyeless fables
Living in lack of better: and his voice
Pierced like a charm, prophetic of the power
In future years to come from this cold north,
Sea-kings of industry and princely men
Ministering between nature and her God.
Here stayed he, and along his fruitful path,
Cast back a glance of triumph. Wo is me!
Peace there was none, force more than ever reigned,
Force strangely standing in defence of Truth,
The naked yet inviolable essence.
And now rejoice we over all those years,
97
Into the young heart of a world revived,
Rousing a wild impatience time alone
Could recompense. And more beheld he strange,—
That reflex Christ Arabia hath received,
That energy abortive, in a time
Of vital energy.
The Holy Child,
Who came with tears to give the blind their sight,
Where now was he? With longing infinite
The brotherhood of men desired the light
Of his dear countenance, and turned with prayer
Unto the triple-crowned, his delegate,
Crying that he might be revealed to them.
But barren save in feudal pride, the priest
Sitting on cloth of gold, that in his pomp
His master might be honored, with rebukes
Answered them, and mere words, anathemas!
Cords, flames of death, more urgent questioners,
Receive in answer, 'till the heaven grows black,
And providence becomes like evil fate.
Sadly unto another world, the eyes
Are turned: the poet, fancy-led no more
Coldly invents, but retributive hate
And sorrow are the muses after whom
He follows to the shades, or into heaven.
Oh, plaintive even in joy, what sacred grief
With the hard-handed arts of those days dwells!
Severe and weary, and yet sanctified
By innocent faith, they stood still in the way
That time continually clears. Anon,
The under-working mind, with knowledge armed,
Answered the question that mankind had asked
Of the thrice-crowned: and doubters with strong lungs
Rise to do battle with the lawgiver,
Each one establishing his positive law,
Half argument, half faith, from age to age
Changing and to be changed: upon the strand
Of future centuries to leave the bones
Of extinct churches, when the Holy Child
Shall be in truth made manifest.
Who came with tears to give the blind their sight,
Where now was he? With longing infinite
The brotherhood of men desired the light
Of his dear countenance, and turned with prayer
Unto the triple-crowned, his delegate,
Crying that he might be revealed to them.
But barren save in feudal pride, the priest
Sitting on cloth of gold, that in his pomp
His master might be honored, with rebukes
Answered them, and mere words, anathemas!
Cords, flames of death, more urgent questioners,
Receive in answer, 'till the heaven grows black,
And providence becomes like evil fate.
Sadly unto another world, the eyes
98
Coldly invents, but retributive hate
And sorrow are the muses after whom
He follows to the shades, or into heaven.
Oh, plaintive even in joy, what sacred grief
With the hard-handed arts of those days dwells!
Severe and weary, and yet sanctified
By innocent faith, they stood still in the way
That time continually clears. Anon,
The under-working mind, with knowledge armed,
Answered the question that mankind had asked
Of the thrice-crowned: and doubters with strong lungs
Rise to do battle with the lawgiver,
Each one establishing his positive law,
Half argument, half faith, from age to age
Changing and to be changed: upon the strand
Of future centuries to leave the bones
Of extinct churches, when the Holy Child
Shall be in truth made manifest.
But in
Those years of gloom, not less to king than priest,
Did the impatient voice of suffering cry:
Not less but more; for the monarchic arm,
Held up by law and by the right divine,—
How much authoritative words have done,—
Was as it were the representative
Of all possession; and the popular voice,
Even when chivalry with barbed heel
Rode over naked vassals, rose to kings,
And to the privileged phalanx with allegiance,
And lusty admiration.—Let us not
Call up the tyrannies of truncheoned hands,
Nor name them in a song for future years;
For sand they have been sown upon the wind,
And sometimes hath the serf-born energy
Exacted retribution, though but small;
Moreover, through them hath come down to us
What yet there is alive in passive souls,
Looking like Faith, but which shall certainly
Give place and disappear as better comes;
For ever when the fruit is ripe it falls:
And over them hath grown the power of gold,
A mightier convention, that hath sent
Sea-kings around the world; untiring prows,
Leaving no cavern or creek for wonder;
No darkness unexplored, nor soil untilled,
But with her handmaid, Knowledge, levelling,
Weighing, building; with much politic speech
Loquacious, and with science infinite,
Torturing the inanimate to serve;
While all the cycles of the past, dissolved
In vulgar truths, became as thin as dreams!
Those years of gloom, not less to king than priest,
Did the impatient voice of suffering cry:
99
Held up by law and by the right divine,—
How much authoritative words have done,—
Was as it were the representative
Of all possession; and the popular voice,
Even when chivalry with barbed heel
Rode over naked vassals, rose to kings,
And to the privileged phalanx with allegiance,
And lusty admiration.—Let us not
Call up the tyrannies of truncheoned hands,
Nor name them in a song for future years;
For sand they have been sown upon the wind,
And sometimes hath the serf-born energy
Exacted retribution, though but small;
Moreover, through them hath come down to us
What yet there is alive in passive souls,
Looking like Faith, but which shall certainly
Give place and disappear as better comes;
For ever when the fruit is ripe it falls:
And over them hath grown the power of gold,
A mightier convention, that hath sent
Sea-kings around the world; untiring prows,
Leaving no cavern or creek for wonder;
No darkness unexplored, nor soil untilled,
100
Weighing, building; with much politic speech
Loquacious, and with science infinite,
Torturing the inanimate to serve;
While all the cycles of the past, dissolved
In vulgar truths, became as thin as dreams!
Thus breathless on the verge of the abyss,
The nigh to-morrow, stand we in the cold;
Rejoicing in our freedom from the past
Increasing constantly, and in our power
Over the lower world so rapidly
Increasing, very proud: at last, at last,
After much stumbling, and much aspiration,—
Much grasping at the stars amidst the dark,—
Theories of spirit without basis,—
Theories of death and reasonless creeds—
Reasoning where mere knowledge should be guide,—
Seeking knowledge in the sphere of reason,—
Corrosive cogitations manifold—
Which the uncounted multitudes of men
Heard not, pursued in cloistered solitude
By few; a true beginning we approach—
A true earth have we found, whereon to build
The temple of the Real; where to plant
The ladder of ascent, which step by step
Shall guide us from the prison. But as yet
Man's mighty labor lies around him piecemeal:
Much done but more remains, before the tree
Now planted bears; before the marble steps
Now planned shall lead into a worthy home;
Before the capitals now carving rise,
Sustaining walls whose frieze shall represent
The wondrous ways of man the Perfected.
The nigh to-morrow, stand we in the cold;
Rejoicing in our freedom from the past
Increasing constantly, and in our power
Over the lower world so rapidly
Increasing, very proud: at last, at last,
After much stumbling, and much aspiration,—
Much grasping at the stars amidst the dark,—
Theories of spirit without basis,—
Theories of death and reasonless creeds—
Reasoning where mere knowledge should be guide,—
Seeking knowledge in the sphere of reason,—
Corrosive cogitations manifold—
Which the uncounted multitudes of men
Heard not, pursued in cloistered solitude
By few; a true beginning we approach—
101
The temple of the Real; where to plant
The ladder of ascent, which step by step
Shall guide us from the prison. But as yet
Man's mighty labor lies around him piecemeal:
Much done but more remains, before the tree
Now planted bears; before the marble steps
Now planned shall lead into a worthy home;
Before the capitals now carving rise,
Sustaining walls whose frieze shall represent
The wondrous ways of man the Perfected.
| The Year of the World | |