The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
VII. Father and Son.
Now hark, one crieth!
‘My servant Death,
Kneeling there with hushëd breath,
Listen, ere I bid thee go!’
Death makes answer out of the snow,
‘I hear!’
Kneeling there with hushëd breath,
Listen, ere I bid thee go!’
Death makes answer out of the snow,
‘I hear!’
The Christ hath risen his height,
Large and strange in a lonely light,
And he lifts his hand and makes the sign
Of the blessed cross on his breast divine,
And the thrones of the white gods flash like fire,
And sink in earthquake around the Sire,
Shaken and rent asunder!
Then he lifts his hand and he makes the sign
Once again on his breast divine,
And the mountains of ice around the throne
Are troubled like breakers rolling on
To the sound of their own thunder!
Large and strange in a lonely light,
And he lifts his hand and makes the sign
Of the blessed cross on his breast divine,
And the thrones of the white gods flash like fire,
And sink in earthquake around the Sire,
Shaken and rent asunder!
Then he lifts his hand and he makes the sign
Once again on his breast divine,
And the mountains of ice around the throne
Are troubled like breakers rolling on
To the sound of their own thunder!
‘Father! Father!’ Balder cries,
With arms outstretch'd and weeping eyes,
‘Father!’—but lo! the white Christ stands,
Raising yet his holy hands,
And cries, ‘O Death, speed on! speed on!
Conquer now and take thy throne—
Now all the gods have taken flight,
Reign thou there one starless night
In the room of him, the Father!’
With arms outstretch'd and weeping eyes,
‘Father!’—but lo! the white Christ stands,
Raising yet his holy hands,
And cries, ‘O Death, speed on! speed on!
Conquer now and take thy throne—
Now all the gods have taken flight,
Reign thou there one starless night
In the room of him, the Father!’
Slowly over the icy ground,
Slow and low like a lean sleuth-hound,
Without a breath, without a sound,
The phantom form is crawling.
He makes no shadow, he leaves no trace,
Snow on snow he creepeth apace,
Nearer, nearer, the fixëd Face
Veil'd with the flakes still falling.
‘Father! Father!’ Balder cries . . .
Silent, terrible, under the skies,
Sits the God on his throne, with eyes on his Son
Whose gentle voice is calling!
As the cuckoo calls in the heart of the May
Singing the flowers together,
As the fountain calls thro' its flashing spray,
As a lamb calls low 'mid a mountain-cloud,
As a spirit calls to a corpse in its shroud,
The Son cries on the Father!
Slow and low like a lean sleuth-hound,
Without a breath, without a sound,
The phantom form is crawling.
He makes no shadow, he leaves no trace,
Snow on snow he creepeth apace,
Nearer, nearer, the fixëd Face
Veil'd with the flakes still falling.
‘Father! Father!’ Balder cries . . .
Silent, terrible, under the skies,
Sits the God on his throne, with eyes on his Son
Whose gentle voice is calling!
As the cuckoo calls in the heart of the May
Singing the flowers together,
489
As a lamb calls low 'mid a mountain-cloud,
As a spirit calls to a corpse in its shroud,
The Son cries on the Father!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |