BOOK V.
WITHIN THE GATE.
Breathless, a space I paused, breathless and blind,
Then slowly as a wight that wakes from sleep
Gazed round me; and behold I found myself
Within a great quadrangle dark and still,
Uplooking on the other side o' the Gate
Whereon was written in a fiery scroll:
‘No path—beware the many-headed Beast!’
And gather'd round me as I shuddering stood
I saw a group of silent men in black,
Sad-featured, holding each an open book.
‘Where am I now?’ I murmur'd vacantly,
One of those strangers with a pensive smile
Answer'd, ‘In safety, friend! within this Gate
They cannot harm thee. Welcome, weary one,
To the blest shelter of Christopolis.’
Whereat I cried: ‘Accursèd be the name,
Which lured me from blue heaven and the sweet fields!
For he was wise who warn'd me ere I came,
And now I know the City as it is,
Not holy like the City of my dream,
But evil, cruel, dreary, and defiled.’
‘Blaspheme not,’ said that other; ‘yet in sooth
We pardon thee thy rash and ribald speech,
For thou hast seen the City's evil side.
Beyond that Gate there reigneth Antichrist
In likeness of the foul and loathsome Beast,
But here, in verity, thy storm-toss'd heart
May rest in peace.’
And now, within my dream,
Methought I wander'd on with those grave men,
And listen'd, hoping, yet in half despair,
To their soft speech. Less golden and less bright
The City seem'd upon its hither side,
For everywhere upon the sunless streets
Dark temples and black-arch'd cathedrals cast
A solemn shadow, and the light within
Was sadder-temper'd and more soul-subduing,
And solemner the mighty music seem'd
That sigh'd through every crevice like a sea.
Yet overhead the same bright fingers shot
Their flames at heaven, and the white doves flew,
And patient look'd the azure light of heaven
Fretted by domes and arches numberless
Yet brooding most serene.
But now my sou
Did scent for evil with a keener sense,
And that fair-seeming show of sight and sound
O'ercame me not, but ever I look'd abroad
In sorrow and mistrust; and soon indeed
My search was answer'd; for I saw again,
Low-lying near the black cathedral doors,
Forms of the wretched writhing in their rags,
And peering in through the wide-open doors
I saw the shapes of Kings bright-raimented
Who knelt at prayer. Then turning unto those
Who led me, bitterly I smiled and said:
‘Meseems ye have kept your carrion and your Kings,
As they have yonder—Plainly I perceive
That still I walk within Christopolis!’
One answer'd: ‘God forbid that we should miss
Their company who are divinely crown'd;
And for the poor, hath not the King of Kings
Enjoin'd upon His servants to have these
For ever with them?’
‘Tell me roundly then,
What must he do who would within this Gate
Be deem'd a good and lawful citizen?
Must he bow down to Idols such as those
They carry yonder? Must he quake at Priests?
And, if he must be judged, who judgeth him?’
‘Good man, thou knowest little of this place
If thou dost dream that we who dwell herein
Will kneel to any Idol or accept
The will of perishable Priests or Kings.
Upon that score we parted first with those
Our neighbours, choosing here to dwell apart.
Be one of us, and surely thou shalt bow
Neither to Idol nor to mortal man,
Nor shalt thou quake at any mortal judge;
Nay, shouldst thou need a judge that judge shall be
Thine own good conscience and the City's law.’
Then did I brighten, somewhat comforted,
Yet nothing now could waken in my soul
That old first faith wherewith I saw from far
The flashing of the City's thousand spires—
And to myself I said: ‘A bootless dream,
A dreary City and a bootless dream,
If this be all!’ So with a heavy heart
I look'd upon the temples and the shrines,
And heard the solemn music welling forth,
And saw the quiet folk that came and went,
Silent and quick, like bees that throng i' the hive.
Now, as I wander'd musing, I beheld
One who sat singing at a temple door,
His face illumined, turning soft with tears
Upward and sunward; and the song he sang
Was low and hush'd as is the nightingale's
Just as the dusky curtain of a cloud
Is drawn across the bright brow of the moon;
And, lo! I listen'd, for it seem'd the song
Came from the deep heart of mine own despair,
And tears were in mine eyes before it ceased.
Come again, come back to me,
White-wing'd throng of childish Hours,
Lead me on from lea to lea,
Ankle-deep in meadow flowers;
Set a lily in my hand,
Weave wild pansies in my hair,
Through a green and golden land
Lead me on with fancies fair.
White-wing'd Spirits, come again,—
Heal my pain!
Through the shadows of the rain
Come again!
Come again, and by me sit
As you sat that summer day,
Seeing through the mists of heat
This great City far awav.
Golden glow'd its magic fires
Far across the valleys green,
Heavenward flash'd its thousand spires,
Silent, trembling, faintly seen.
Show thy visions once again,
White-wing'd train!
With the dream I dream'd in vain,
Come again!
Come again, and lead me back
To the fields and meadows sweet,
Softly, by the self-same track
Follow'd by my coming feet;
From the City's gates set free,
Backward to the gates of morn—
Every backward step will be
Brighter, fairer, less forlorn.
Lead me! let me reach again
Wood and lane—
Lead me to your green domain
Once again.
Come again!—but, O sweet Hours!
If ye come not ere I die,
Find me dead, with bands of flowers
Lift me up from where I lie,
Take me to the woodland place
Where I linger'd long ago,
Set soft kisses on my face,
Singing, as ye lay me low—
Let me slumber there again,
Far from pain—
Waking up with weary brain,
Ne'er again!
Methought that as that song of sad despair
Rose like a murmuring fountain, all the place
Darken'd as when the sun is lost in clouds;
And from the temples, from the clustering dwellings,
There rose in answer one great wail of pain,
Which breaking like a wave was spent in tears;
And, lo! mine own tears fell, for I remember'd
The meadows where I wander'd when a child,
The baptism of my love new born in joy
And looking on a sun-illumined world.
Then one of those grave dwellers in the City,
Turning upon me dark and ominous eyes,
Said, ‘'Tis the music which the Snake did weave
To mock the first of man when he had fallen—
Self-pity is the mournful slave of sin;
Do thou beware in time!’ whereon I cried,
‘A light is lost that never will return:
What canst thou give me now to heal the heart
Made desolate as dust?’
‘Pray!’
‘I have pray'd!’
‘Wait!’
‘I have waited!’
‘If thy spirit fail,
Turn to the living wonder of the Word!’
Then I perceived that he with whom I spake
Held in his hand an open Book like that
I bare within my breast; and gazing round
I saw that every shape within those streets
Did hold a Book wide open as he walk'd,
Reading aloud and muttering to himself
Prayer, parable, and psalm. Wherefore I cried,
‘I know that comfort; it was given for bread,
But turn'd to bitterest wormwood long ago!’
Then ere I knew it I was circled round
With faces terrible and white as death,
And one, a hoary wight with eyes of fire,
Shriek'd, ‘Strike him down, O thunderbolt of God!
He doth deny Thine everlasting Word!’
But one, more gentle, interposing, said:
‘Silence, and list unto him. Pilgrim, speak;
Dost thou deny God's message unto men?’
THE PILGRIM.
Nay, I deny it not, but I have heard
That message, and I find no comfort there.
STRANGER.
No comfort in the justice of the Lord?
No succour in the mercy of the Son?
THE PILGRIM.
Sad is that justice, woeful is the mercy,
Most dark the testimony of the Book
But yonder, out beyond the City's wall,
The sun shines golden, and the earth is merry,
And only here the grievous shadow lies.
STRANGER.
The shadow of thy sin, which sin is death.
Answer again: Believest thou the Book?
THE PILGRIM.
As I believe in thunders and in storm.
STRANGER.
Dost thou reject all other testimonies,
Holding this only as the voice of God?
THE PILGRIM.
Nay, for I hear it as the voice of men.
STRANGER.
Dost thou believe these wonders written down?
THE PILGRIM.
Nay, for among them many are most sad,
Some are incredible, and all most strange.
STRANGER.
Rejectest thou the Book's own testimony,
That all these mysteries are truths divine?
THE PILGRIM.
No book can testify unto itself;
Nor is that Book a living voice at all!
STRANGER.
These tokens testify to Word and Book:
The lights of Heaven and Hell; the voice of God
Heard in the beating of the human heart;
Christ's burial; last, His rising from the grave.
Denyest thou these?
THE PILGRIM.
Heaven have I fail'd to find;
Hell have I found on earth, and in thy City;
The voice of mine own soul rejects the voice
I once did hear in my affrighted heart;
I do believe Christ's burial, but, alas!
Why is the gentle promise unfulfill'd?
Why doth the world's pale Martyr rest unrisen?
STRANGER.
In spirit He hath risen—lo, His City,
To testify His prescience and His power.
Ev'n as he spake, there pass'd along the street
A host of armèd men in black array'd,
Led on by one who rode a sable steed
And wore a helmet shapen like a crown;
These to Jehovah as they march'd did raise
A sullen hymn of praise for victory,
And some were to the ankles shod in blood,
But many as they march'd did gravely read
The open pages of the Holy Book.
‘What men are these?’ I adk'd, and one replied:
‘Warriors of Christ, who walk about the world
Slaying and smiting in the blessèd Name!’
Then, laughing low in bitterness of heart,
I saw the doors and casements opening wide,
And faces thronging with a wicked joy
To welcome back the warriors of the Lord.
Moreover, as I gazed, mine eyes could mark
Dark chambers full of grave and silent men
Who sat at ebon tables counting gold,
And 'mid the golden heaps that each did pile
The open Scripture lay; and down the streets
Came men who waved their hands, and cried, ‘Repent!’
And here and there, in lonely darken'd places,
The Tree of man's invention rose and swung
With human fruitage dead and horrible;
And 'neath that Tree more woeful voices rose,
Crying, ‘Repent and die! Repent and die!’
And million voices echoed back the sound,
And even those silent men who counted gold
Moan'd answer from the darkness of their dens.
Then cried I, ‘He was wise who warn'd me, saying,
“Thy sepulchre, O bleeding Nazarene,
Is still thy sepulchre!” Thy dream was peace,
But lo, destruction, sorrow, and a sword;
Thy prayer was for the poor and meek of heart,
But lo, the golden gloom and dust of pride;
Thy oreed was mercy for the worst and best,
But lo! the hideous Tree and not the Cross;
Thy light was sunshine and a shining place,
But lo! deep dread and darkness of the Book;’
And turning to those men who follow'd me,
‘The black leaves of the Book are blossomless,
And of its upas-fruit whoever eats
Bears wormwood in his heart for evermore.’
‘Blasphemer!’ answer'd one in night-black robes,
And hollow-eyed as Famine throned on graves;
‘The Gospel which is wormwood in the mouth
Is honey being eaten and consumed.
Evil are mortals, evil is the world,
Evil are all things man hath written down;
But this one thing is absolutely good:
Read it, and live; cast it away, and die.’
THE PILGRIM.
I'll read no more;—fairer to me by far
That Book I read, not understanding yet,
Upon the lonely shores where I was born.
CITIZEN.
What Book is that? and written by whose hand?
THE PILGRIM.
By God's in the beginning; on its front
He set the stars for signs, the sun for seal;
Golden the letters, bright the shining pages,
Holy the natural gospel, of the earth;
Blessèd tenfold the language of that Book
For ever open; blessèd he who reads
The leaf that ever blossoms ever turn'd!
CITIZEN.
This Book I hold doth prove that other dust;
Its brightness is a fleshly sin and snare.
THE PILGRIM.
He made it; left it open for our seeing.
CITIZEN.
The shadow of the primal sin remains.
There, on the fallen rose-leaves of the world,
The snake crawls, as in Eden long ago.
Upon me, as he spake, methought there fell
A shadow like that shadow which he fear'd;
And in its midst, as in some night of storm
The crested billows flash with gleams of foam,
The faces of those sombre citizens
Glimmer'd around. Mad with mine own despair
I stood as on some dreary promontory
Looking on tempest of a sunless sea—
‘Behold the Book!’ I cried, while from my breast
I drew it forth and held it high in air;
‘Here in mine bosom it hath lain for long,
Chiller than ice and heavy as a stone;
I cast it back as bread upon the waters—
Uplift it, wear it on his heart who will,
Henceforward I reject it utterly.’
So saying I threw it from me, while a shriek
Of horror rose from that black crowd of men;
And ere I knew it I was circled round
With living waters rising high in wrath
To drown and to devour and dash me down.
‘Death to him! to the foul blasphemer, death!’
‘Wrath to the wretch who doth reject the Word!’
‘Ah, Satan, Satan!’ rose the murderous cries,
While all in vain I sought to shield my head
Against a shower of ever-increasing blows;
And, lo! again, I saw the doors and casements
Were open, and wild faces looking forth,
And warriors pointed at me with their swords,
And women rushing with dishevell'd hair
Shriek'd ‘Vengeance!’ till meseem'd before my feet
The very pit of Hell was yawning wide,
While flame flash'd up, and smoke of fire arose,
Scorching my sense and blotting from my sight
The towers and temples of Christopolis.
But as I struggled crying out on God,
Methought that one in raiment white and fair
Strode to me through the horror of the crowd
And held me up from falling, while the cry
Grew louder, ‘Cast him out beyond the Gate!
Slay him, and cast him forth!’ and as a straw
Is lifted on a torrent, I was raised,
And wildly, darkly, desolately driven
I knew not whither. From the earth still rose
Darkness and fire; fire from the heavens o'erhead
Seem'd following: baleful fire did wrap me round
As with red raiment—but that succouring hand
Still held me, and a low voice in mine ear
Cried, ‘Courage,’ as I drifted dumbly on.
From street to street, from lane to lane methought
They drove me, bruised and bleeding, till I reach'd
Another Gate, which on its hinges swinging
Open'd to let me pass, then with a clang
Did shut its soot-black jaws behind my back,
While from within I heard the sullen roar
Of those dark waters which had cast me forth.
