University of Virginia Library

BOOK III. EGLANTINE.

STRANGER.
A mighty company! and each one there
Bearing his own dumb hunger in his heart.
God grant they find the loving cheer they seek
In yonder City; but, in sooth, I fear
It is too small to feed so many mouths.

THE PILGRIM.
O tell me—for I hunger to know all—.
And thou of that same City art, methinks,
A happy and a blest inhabitant;
See I God's City?—Name its name to me,
For I have dream'd it over many years.

STRANGER.
Thou seest the City of Christopolis.

THE PILGRIM.
Rejoice!—the sweet name echoes in my heart!—
It is indeed the City of my dream!

STRANGER.
Be not so sure. All those who journey thither
Conceive the same until they enter in,
But, having enter'd, many exchange their mirth
For lamentation, even as I have done.

THE PILGRIM.
Thou dwell'st there? Thou dost know it? 'Tis thy home?

STRANGER.
Home have I none—even as the field-mouse makes
Her brittle dwelling in the fallow-field,
Alone, unfriended, houseless I abide—
There's not a door in yonder shining place
Would open to receive me; not a space
In the necropolis that stands hard by
Wherein my weary bones might find a grave.
I went there, and I sought a refuge, friend;
The glimmer of the gold-heaps dazzled me,
And I crept out upon the open earth.

THE PILGRIM.
What curse is on thee, then?—what blight of sin?—
Thou art not tainted? Even if thou art,
Repent, and be forgiven, and enter in.

The stranger smiled, and somewhat bitterly,
With petulant ring in his low voice, replied:—
‘I have repented; but 'tis not my sin
That makes me exile from Christopolis.
Long years ago, a melancholy Man,
Who went abroad and wrought in love for men,
Was crucified upon the very spot
Where stands the midmost Church and inmost shrine.
This place a desert was in those old days,
But of that martyr's seed hath sprung like wheat
This golden harvest of a thousand spires;
And by his name the City is called, and now
The hosts within it hail the martyr'd “King,”
Yea, “King of Kings, Almighty, Very God,”
And drag to death and direful punishment
All heretics who kneel not at his tomb.
Now mark me, though I love his memory,
Because of his abundant charities,
And still the more because they martyr'd him,
I will not give to any man of earth
The worship I reserve for very God.’
Whereat I cried, ‘Blaspheme not! Thou dost speak
Of Christ the King! Wilt thou not worship Him?
Oh, look on yonder glittering domes and spires,
Those shining temples of a thousand shrines,
He built them all!—He made this blessed home
For pilgrims, yea, He built it with His blood!
Yet in thy folly thou denyest Him!’
So saying, with mine ever-hungry eyes
Fix'd on the far-off flame, I hurried on,
Moving in haste along the quict knolls.
The other follow'd, keeping pace with me.
And still the wonder of the City grew,
While all my soul in rapture drank it in,
Till pausing, dizzy with mine own delight,
Panting, with hand held hard upon my heart,
I cried aloud,
‘Oh, yea! It is indeed
The City of my quest! So great, so fair,
I pictured it, a miracle of light.
Dost thou not bless the hand that fashion'd thus
A haven where all weary souls may rest?
Aye, call Him God, or King, or what thou wilt,
Dost thou not bless Him for this wondrous work
Which in itself betokens Him divine?’
I ceased; but with a sudden wail of pain
The other threw his arms into the air,
Crying, ‘Though golden in the light of day,
And all enwrought it be with earthly gems,
Thy sepulchre, O murdered Nazarene,
Is still thy sepulchre!’ and, suddenly
Turning upon me with a fever'd face,
He added, ‘Even as wondrous faery gold,
Gather'd in secret by a maiden's hand,
Turneth to ashes and to wither'd leaves,
So shall that City soon become to thee.
Christ's City, sayest thou? Christ's? Christopolis?
If that be Christ's I call my curse on Christ
Who built it to profane humanity!’
Then shrank I from his side, as one that shrinks
From tongues of fire, and, horror in mine eyes,
Gazed at that other, greatly wondering;
And as I stood, a pilgrim hastening by
Cried out, ‘Avoid that man! It is a snake!
He speaks for thy perdition!’
Suddenly
The stranger's face grew calm, the wind of wrath
Pass'd from it, leaving it as sweet and bright
As still seas after storm. Upon his heart
He press'd his hand, saying, ‘Forgive me, friend,
How should my curse avail?’ and, lo! I thought,
‘I will not leave him for a little yet—
Perchance my faith (for, ah! my faith is great,
Beholding now the very City's walls)
May lead him from the dolour of his ways.’
And soon, methought, we twain together moved
By secret paths across the open fields
To the fair City; and the paths we took
Were almost solitary, for the throng
Of pilgrims kept the great and dusty road.
Green were the fields with grass, and sweet with thyme,
And there were silver runlets everywhere
O'er which the willow hung her tassell'd locks,
And song-birds sang, for it was summer time,
And o'er the grass, in green and golden mail,
The grasshoppers were leaping, and o'er head
A lark, pulsating in the warm still air,
Scatter'd sweet song like dewdrops from her wings.
And now, albeit we had not turn'd a step,
But held our eyes still on the golden Gates,
The City seem'd more faint and far away,
Lost in the golden tremor of the heat.
For as we went, from flowery field to field,
I seem'd to hear the stranger's gentle voice
Singing unto me in no human tones
A sweet song that the soul alone might hear:—
At last we rested under a green tree,
Close to the gentle bubbling of a brook
Wherein a lamb, with shadow in the pool
Wool-white and soft, was drinking quietly—
And smiling down, I said, ‘A heavenly place!
The very air beyond Christopolis
Is sweeten'd with the holy City's breath.’
Then, turning to the stranger, I exclaim'd—
‘Unhappy one! fain would I know thy name,
Thy nurture, and thy history more at length.
Tell me—perchance I may persuade thee then
To pass unto the blessèd Gate with me,
And ask forgiveness of its Lord and King.
I ceased in wonder; for the other lay
Smiling like one in a deep trance, his face
Looking to heaven through the tremulous boughs,
His eyes grown soft with dew of deepest joy,
The light of Nature flowing on his frame
Bright and baptismal. ‘Friend,’ the musical voice
Answer'd, now thrilling like the skylark's song,
‘The law which made me and the law I keep
Absolve me, and my sins are all forgiven.
I take them not to market in the town,
I put no price upon them, vaunt them not;
I bring them hither, under a green tree,
And the sun drinks them, and my soul is shriven.
Oh, blest were men if to the quiet heart
Of their great Mother they crept oftener:
Her arms are ever open, her great hope
As inexhaustible as the sweet milk
With which she feeds innumerable young;
And pillow'd here, upon her own bright breast,
Safe through all issues I can pity those
Who waste their substance in Christopolis.’
Amazed I cried, ‘If I conceive thee right,
Wiser is he who lieth in a dream,
Idly revolting, drowsy, indolent,
Than he who like his fellows fareth on?
These fields are sweet—'tis bright and golden weather—
But when the cold rain cometh, and the snow,
Where wilt thou house?’
Smiling, he answer'd me:
‘Where do the raven and the wood-dove house,
And all things through all seasons? He who made
Will evermore preserve me. Knowest thou
Whose feet trod o'er these fields to make them fair,
Whose soft hand hung those boughs with orient gold,
Whose finger mark'd the curves of yonder brook,
Setting it loose and teaching it to flow
Like a thing living, singing on for ever?—
The King of Kings!’
‘Dost thou believe on Him?—
Come, then, where He awaits thee, in the walls
His chosen have uprear'd.’
‘I tell thee, friend,’
Answer'd the gentle dreamer darkening,
‘I know that City to the topmost spire,
And though a thousand kings keep wassail there
He dwelleth not among them. Men uprear'd
That City, calling it Christopolis,
And marvellously it hath grown and thriven.
But, long ere that or any City arose,
These and a million greener fields and woods
Were fashion'd; how, I know not, but 'twas done;
And in the dead of night, miraculously,
Before man was, the golden wonder grew.
Then Man was made—a bright and naked thing
That in the sunshine like an antelope
Leapt in the swiftness of his liberty;
And as the small birds choose their mates, he chose
A creature bright and naked like himself,
And in the greenwood boughs they made their nest
And rear'd their callow young, singing for joy.
This was man's golden age; his race increased,
Drank the free sunshine, hunger'd, and were fed,
And knew not superstition or disease.
With the first building of a human house
Against the innocent air and the sweet rain,
The age of fire began, which hath indeed
Not yet fulfill'd its fierce and fatal course.
For on the hearth they kindled cruel flame,
And out of flame have sprung by slow degrees,
Self-multiplying, self-engendering,
The fiery scorpions of unholy arts
Innumerable that afflict mankind.
And priests at last arose, and out of fire
They fashion'd the Creator and Avenger
Who with a thousand names pollutes the earth;
Who built up yonder City; who usurps
The name and privilege of deity;
Who slew the Adam in humanity
And crucified the Christ: whose thousand spires
Shoot yonder up like forks of primal flame
Staining the blue sky and the snow-white cloud;
Who makes that evil which was fashion'd good,
And blurs the crystal of Eternity.’
Then did I think, ‘He raves!’ but gently said,
‘These things thou say'st are hard to understand.’
‘Tread through the mazes of Christopolis,
And thou shalt understand them, marvelling
What brought thee hither on so fond a quest;’
And rising, with his eyes in anger fix'd
On the great dazzle of the far-off domes,
Across the gentle fields he wander'd on.
But, following him, I whisper'd in his ear:
‘Much hast thou told me, but thou hast not told
That which I ask'd—thy name and history?’
‘My name is Eglantine,’ the man replied;
He added, ‘Brief is my soul's history:
A crying out for light that hath not shone,
A sowing of sweet seeds that will not spring,
A prayer, a tumult, and an ecstasy.
But come! I see thy foolish soul is bent
Still to fare onward to Christopolis?
Come, then, and see, as I have seen, the Tomb
Paven with pain and crownèd with a Cross.’
Through fields with orchids sprinkled, under banks
Trellis'd with honeysuckle and sweet-briar,
By sweetly flowing runlets, now we pass'd,
And with mine eager eyes fix'd still like stars
Upon the far-off Gate, I noted not
That as we went the fields and the green ways
Grew wanner and the waving grass less green,
Until we came upon that open waste
Which lieth all around the mighty City,
And through the heart of which the highway winds
Up to the western walls.
Upon a tract
Of lonely stone doth stand Christopolis,
And all around for leagues the rocks and sands
Stretch bleak and bare; and not a bird thereon
Flieth, save kite and crow; and here and there,
At intervals, black Crosses point the path,
And whitely strewn at every Cross's feet
There bleach the bones of pilgrims who have died.
But if the waste was bare around about
What did I heed, since now at every step
I saw the City growing fairer far;
The spires and arches all innumerable
Flashing their flame at heaven; a million roofs
Of gold and silver mirroring the skies;
Windows of pearl in sunlight glistening
Prismatic; temples and cathedrals blent
In one large lustre of delight and dream;
And presently there came a solemn sound
Of many organs playing, of deep voices
Uplifted in a strange celestial hymn,
So that the City stirr'd like one great heart
In solemn throbs of happiness and praise.