 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
VI. The Brethren.
‘Father, Father, why hatest thou me,
Whom the green Earth loves, and the circling sea,
And the pure blue air, and the light of the sun,
And the birds of the air, and the flowers each one?
Hatest thou me thro' my love for these?
For the swift deep rivers, the fronded trees,
The golden meres and the mountains white,
The cataracts leaping from height to height,
And the deer that feed on the snowy steeps
Where the rainbow hangs and the white mist creeps?
Hatest thou me the most of all
For my care of mortals whom thou hast made,
My blessing on lovers whose soft footfall
Soundeth still in the flowery shade?
Father, Father, hatest thou me,
Because of my light on humanity?
Because with a holy anointing balm
I have heal'd their hearts and kept them calm;
Because I have sown in forest and grove
The roses of beauty, the lilies of love,
That men might gather, and sweeten away
The taint of the perishable clay?
Father, Father, listen to me—
I will not call upon bird or tree,
I will not call upon lamb or dove,
On the flowers below or the stars above;
I will call aloud, and thine ears shall know,
I will call aloud in the midst of the snow,
On a mortal thing of mortal breath
Who has gazed and smiled in the eyes of Death,
Who has loosen'd his shround and his feet made free
To follow and find me over the sea.
. . . . My brother Jesus, hearest thou me!’
Whom the green Earth loves, and the circling sea,
And the pure blue air, and the light of the sun,
And the birds of the air, and the flowers each one?
Hatest thou me thro' my love for these?
For the swift deep rivers, the fronded trees,
The golden meres and the mountains white,
The cataracts leaping from height to height,
And the deer that feed on the snowy steeps
Where the rainbow hangs and the white mist creeps?
Hatest thou me the most of all
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My blessing on lovers whose soft footfall
Soundeth still in the flowery shade?
Father, Father, hatest thou me,
Because of my light on humanity?
Because with a holy anointing balm
I have heal'd their hearts and kept them calm;
Because I have sown in forest and grove
The roses of beauty, the lilies of love,
That men might gather, and sweeten away
The taint of the perishable clay?
Father, Father, listen to me—
I will not call upon bird or tree,
I will not call upon lamb or dove,
On the flowers below or the stars above;
I will call aloud, and thine ears shall know,
I will call aloud in the midst of the snow,
On a mortal thing of mortal breath
Who has gazed and smiled in the eyes of Death,
Who has loosen'd his shround and his feet made free
To follow and find me over the sea.
. . . . My brother Jesus, hearest thou me!’
Sweet as a star that opens its lids of silver and amber,
Soft as a lily that rises out of a water still,
Pure as a lamp that burns in a virgin's vestal chamber
When winds with folded wings sleep on the scented sill,
Pale as the moving snow, yet calmer, clearer, and whiter,
Holding the light in his hand, and flashing a ray blood-red,
Robed in a silvern robe that ever grew stranger and brighter,
Robed in a robe of the snow, with a glory around his head,
Christ now arose! and upstanding held the cold hand of his Brother,
Turning his face to the storm like the wrath of some beautiful star,—
And the sound of the storm was hush'd, and pale grew the face of that Other,
He, Alfadur supreme, most direful of all gods that are!
Soft as a lily that rises out of a water still,
Pure as a lamp that burns in a virgin's vestal chamber
When winds with folded wings sleep on the scented sill,
Pale as the moving snow, yet calmer, clearer, and whiter,
Holding the light in his hand, and flashing a ray blood-red,
Robed in a silvern robe that ever grew stranger and brighter,
Robed in a robe of the snow, with a glory around his head,
Christ now arose! and upstanding held the cold hand of his Brother,
Turning his face to the storm like the wrath of some beautiful star,—
And the sound of the storm was hush'd, and pale grew the face of that Other,
He, Alfadur supreme, most direful of all gods that are!
‘Balder! Balder!’
‘O Father, I listen!’
‘What shape is this whose sad eyes glisten
Bright as the lamp he is uplifting?
Round and o'er him snows are drifting,
Yet as a still star shineth he,
Pale and beautiful like thee.
Who is this that standeth there
Even as a mortal man,
Thin and weary and wan,
A lanthorn in his hold,
His feet bloody and bare,
And a ring of brightest gold
Round his hair?’
Bright as the lamp he is uplifting?
Round and o'er him snows are drifting,
Yet as a still star shineth he,
Pale and beautiful like thee.
Who is this that standeth there
Even as a mortal man,
Thin and weary and wan,
A lanthorn in his hold,
His feet bloody and bare,
And a ring of brightest gold
Round his hair?’
‘O Father, 'tis he and none other
Who woke me from my tomb;
The Christ it is, my Brother,
Tho' born of a woman's womb.
He has conquer'd the grave, for lo!
He died and he rose again!
He comes to the silence of snow,
From the beautiful regions of rain;
And his hair is bright with a peaceful light
As the yellow moon's on a summer night,
And the flesh on his heart is heapen white
To cool an immortal pain!’
Who woke me from my tomb;
The Christ it is, my Brother,
Tho' born of a woman's womb.
He has conquer'd the grave, for lo!
He died and he rose again!
He comes to the silence of snow,
From the beautiful regions of rain;
And his hair is bright with a peaceful light
As the yellow moon's on a summer night,
And the flesh on his heart is heapen white
To cool an immortal pain!’
Blacker, blacker the night is growing,
Deeper, deeper the snow is snowing. . . .
As the rigid wave of the ocean-storm
Towereth the gigantic Form,
And he lifts his hand with a cold command,
And the shrill winds answer blowing!
Deeper, deeper the snow is snowing. . . .
As the rigid wave of the ocean-storm
Towereth the gigantic Form,
And he lifts his hand with a cold command,
And the shrill winds answer blowing!
A ghastly gleam is on his cheeks, his white robes roll asunder,
He raises up his arms and shrieks in his old voice of thunder,
‘The rune was writ, the rune is read—Son, thou hast slain thy Father,
The frames are quick that late were dead, and from the grave they gather,
The pale One cometh heavenly eyed, as in thy dreams, O Mother!
He wakes, he stands by Balder's side as brother smiles by brother.
O gods, these live, and must we die? these bloom, and must we wither?
Cry with a loud exceeding cry on Death and send him hither!
Come, come, O Death! I call on thee—come hither, fleeter, faster!
Thou hunter of humanity, thou hound of me thy Master!
Slay thou these twain, that we may live, who feed thy throat with slaughter,
And blood to quench thee gods will give, shed free as torrent water!
Come thou this night, O Death divine, come quickly or come never,
And the great Earth shall all be thine for ever and for ever!’
He raises up his arms and shrieks in his old voice of thunder,
‘The rune was writ, the rune is read—Son, thou hast slain thy Father,
The frames are quick that late were dead, and from the grave they gather,
The pale One cometh heavenly eyed, as in thy dreams, O Mother!
He wakes, he stands by Balder's side as brother smiles by brother.
O gods, these live, and must we die? these bloom, and must we wither?
Cry with a loud exceeding cry on Death and send him hither!
Come, come, O Death! I call on thee—come hither, fleeter, faster!
Thou hunter of humanity, thou hound of me thy Master!
488
And blood to quench thee gods will give, shed free as torrent water!
Come thou this night, O Death divine, come quickly or come never,
And the great Earth shall all be thine for ever and for ever!’
snows are blowing, the Earth is crying,
The eagles of storm are shrieking and flying;
Thunder-cloud upon thunder-cloud
Piled, and flashing and roaring aloud,
Roll from the north, and the winds rush forth,
And the billows of heaven are breaking.
Hand in hand the Brethren stand,
Fair and bright in the midst of the night,
Fair and bright and marble white,
Quiet as babes awaking. . . .
But who is he that stirring slow,
Wrapt in winding-sheet of snow,
Riseth up from the Christ's feet?
His golden hair all white with sleet,
His eyes all dim, his face snow-pale,
He stands erect in the drifting gale!
Tall and terrible loometh he,
Facing the blast like a frozen tree!
The eagles of storm are shrieking and flying;
Thunder-cloud upon thunder-cloud
Piled, and flashing and roaring aloud,
Roll from the north, and the winds rush forth,
And the billows of heaven are breaking.
Hand in hand the Brethren stand,
Fair and bright in the midst of the night,
Fair and bright and marble white,
Quiet as babes awaking. . . .
But who is he that stirring slow,
Wrapt in winding-sheet of snow,
Riseth up from the Christ's feet?
His golden hair all white with sleet,
His eyes all dim, his face snow-pale,
He stands erect in the drifting gale!
Tall and terrible loometh he,
Facing the blast like a frozen tree!
‘Death, Death!’ the god shrieks now—
Death, Death, is it surely thou?
Death, Death!’ and the god laughs loud,
Answer'd by every thunder-cloud,
While the snows are falling faster,—
‘Death, Death, there is thy prey!—
Take them and tear them and rend them away,
As flakes of snow, as drops of spray,
In the name of Me thy Master!’ . . .
Death, Death, is it surely thou?
Death, Death!’ and the god laughs loud,
Answer'd by every thunder-cloud,
While the snows are falling faster,—
‘Death, Death, there is thy prey!—
Take them and tear them and rend them away,
As flakes of snow, as drops of spray,
In the name of Me thy Master!’ . . .
Like two lilies crown'd with gold,
Very beauteous to behold,
Blown in summer weather,
Like two lambs with silvern feet,
Very beauteous and sweet,
Held together with a chain
In some sacrificial fane,
The Brethren cling together.
Ever fairer still they grow
While the noise of storm sinks low,
And the Father's snow-white hand
Pointeth at them as they stand,
And the silent shape of Death
Creepeth close and shuddereth!
See, O see, the light they wear,
On their heads and o'er their hair,
Falleth on the Phantom now,
Lying softly on his brow. . . .
Death, O Death, can this be thou?
Very beauteous to behold,
Blown in summer weather,
Like two lambs with silvern feet,
Very beauteous and sweet,
Held together with a chain
In some sacrificial fane,
The Brethren cling together.
Ever fairer still they grow
While the noise of storm sinks low,
And the Father's snow-white hand
Pointeth at them as they stand,
And the silent shape of Death
Creepeth close and shuddereth!
See, O see, the light they wear,
On their heads and o'er their hair,
Falleth on the Phantom now,
Lying softly on his brow. . . .
Death, O Death, can this be thou?
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |