 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
BOOK XIII. THE OPEN WAY.
When I awaken'd, wakening still in dream,
Methought that I was frail and bent with years,
And on a road that wound through a green vale
Slowly I trod, with pilgrim's staff and scrip,
While far away o'er dimly lightening hills
The rosy hand of Dawn closed softly o'er
One fluttering moth-like star; and as the light
Grew clearer, on a bank I sat me down
To watch the coming day, and rest and must.
‘Another day’ (ev'n thus my musings ran)
‘Another coming of a dewy day
After a night of pain! Once more above
The radiant rose of heaven openeth,
Petal by petal, glimmering in the dew;
Once more the lark arises paramount;
Once more the clouds move like a flock of sheep
Shepherded by the gentle summer wind.
The darkness is behind me, and I wake.
The way winds fresh before me, and I live.
O God! O Father! if indeed Thou art,
O face beyond the Phantom! much I fear
My feet fail, while Thy City yet is far!
The world is green as ever, and the way
Sweeter by reason of those perils past;
Yet on my hair the snow falls, in mine eyes
Thy dust is blown. Now I perceive full well
I set my soul upon a life-long quest
Which faileth if I pause before the end,
And yet my strength fails and my feet are sore
And surely I grow gray before my time.
Now of my weary journey nought remains
But babble of voices, glimmering of ghosts,
Tumult of shadows, with an under-sense
Of fair progressions moving to dim ends
Across a sad and problem-haunted world.
Much certes have I learn'd to make me wise,
Little to make me glad; yet now I see
The green earth dripping balmy from the bath
Of orient, smiling; but my soul for smiles
Is now too weary. Once my soul rejoiced
To drink the breath of each new dawn, to feel
The passion and the radiant power of life,
But now 'tis otherwise. The mask of Nature
Is beautiful—yea, far more beautiful
Than aught that I have known in happy dreams,
Yet seeing that I know it for a mask,
I love it less; and through its sockets shine
The Eyes behind, with portent horrible
And dangerous expectation. Help me, Lord!
For I am sick and weary of the way.’
Methought that I was frail and bent with years,
And on a road that wound through a green vale
Slowly I trod, with pilgrim's staff and scrip,
While far away o'er dimly lightening hills
The rosy hand of Dawn closed softly o'er
One fluttering moth-like star; and as the light
Grew clearer, on a bank I sat me down
To watch the coming day, and rest and must.
‘Another day’ (ev'n thus my musings ran)
‘Another coming of a dewy day
After a night of pain! Once more above
The radiant rose of heaven openeth,
Petal by petal, glimmering in the dew;
Once more the lark arises paramount;
Once more the clouds move like a flock of sheep
Shepherded by the gentle summer wind.
The darkness is behind me, and I wake.
The way winds fresh before me, and I live.
O God! O Father! if indeed Thou art,
O face beyond the Phantom! much I fear
My feet fail, while Thy City yet is far!
The world is green as ever, and the way
Sweeter by reason of those perils past;
Yet on my hair the snow falls, in mine eyes
Thy dust is blown. Now I perceive full well
I set my soul upon a life-long quest
Which faileth if I pause before the end,
And yet my strength fails and my feet are sore
And surely I grow gray before my time.
Now of my weary journey nought remains
But babble of voices, glimmering of ghosts,
Tumult of shadows, with an under-sense
Of fair progressions moving to dim ends
Across a sad and problem-haunted world.
Much certes have I learn'd to make me wise,
Little to make me glad; yet now I see
The green earth dripping balmy from the bath
Of orient, smiling; but my soul for smiles
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To drink the breath of each new dawn, to feel
The passion and the radiant power of life,
But now 'tis otherwise. The mask of Nature
Is beautiful—yea, far more beautiful
Than aught that I have known in happy dreams,
Yet seeing that I know it for a mask,
I love it less; and through its sockets shine
The Eyes behind, with portent horrible
And dangerous expectation. Help me, Lord!
For I am sick and weary of the way.’
O bright the morning came, as brightly shining
Upon the trembling murtherer's raisèd hand
As on the little clench'd hand of the babe
Smiling in sleep! softly the white clouds sail'd,
Edged with vermilion, to the east; the mists
Rose like white altar-smoke from that green vale,
The forests stirr'd with numerous leafy gleams,
The birch unbound her shining hair, the oak
Shone in his tawny mail, and from the wood
The brook sprang laughing; and above the fields
The lark rose, singing that same song it sang
On Adam's nuptial morn! Fresh, fair, and green,
Glisten'd that valley—only here and there
A little fold of morning vapour clung
To curtain yet some dewy mystery;
But through these folds of mist peep'd shining spires,
Fir tops as green as emerald, rookeries
Loud with the cawing rooks. In the damp fields
The mottled cattle gleam'd, while o'er the stile
The shepherd, yawning with a fresh red face,
Came ankle-deep in dew.
Upon the trembling murtherer's raisèd hand
As on the little clench'd hand of the babe
Smiling in sleep! softly the white clouds sail'd,
Edged with vermilion, to the east; the mists
Rose like white altar-smoke from that green vale,
The forests stirr'd with numerous leafy gleams,
The birch unbound her shining hair, the oak
Shone in his tawny mail, and from the wood
The brook sprang laughing; and above the fields
The lark rose, singing that same song it sang
On Adam's nuptial morn! Fresh, fair, and green,
Glisten'd that valley—only here and there
A little fold of morning vapour clung
To curtain yet some dewy mystery;
But through these folds of mist peep'd shining spires,
Fir tops as green as emerald, rookeries
Loud with the cawing rooks. In the damp fields
The mottled cattle gleam'd, while o'er the stile
The shepherd, yawning with a fresh red face,
Came ankle-deep in dew.
Then I beheld
The vale was populous, for here and there
In straight lines upward through the dead still air
The smoke of quaint and red-tiled hamlets rose,
And mossy bridges arch'd like maidens-feet
Spann'd still canals whereon, by stout steeds drawn,
Moved broad boats piled with yellow scented hay,
And soon my heart took cheer; and as I went,
Half sad, half-merry to myself I sang
This ditty of the sunshine and the dawn:—
The vale was populous, for here and there
In straight lines upward through the dead still air
The smoke of quaint and red-tiled hamlets rose,
And mossy bridges arch'd like maidens-feet
Spann'd still canals whereon, by stout steeds drawn,
Moved broad boats piled with yellow scented hay,
And soon my heart took cheer; and as I went,
Half sad, half-merry to myself I sang
This ditty of the sunshine and the dawn:—
Pleasant blows the growing grain,
Golden, scented with the rain:
Pleasant soundeth the lark's song
O'er the open way.
Golden, scented with the rain:
Pleasant soundeth the lark's song
O'er the open way.
Pleasant are the passing folk,
Russet gown and crimson cloak,
To and fro they pass along
All the summer day.
Russet gown and crimson cloak,
To and fro they pass along
All the summer day.
I can hear the church bells sound
From the happy thorpes around;
Men and maidens, old and young,
Flock afield full gay.
From the happy thorpes around;
Men and maidens, old and young,
Flock afield full gay.
Sweet is sunshine on the lea,
Sweet it is to hear and see,
Sweet it were to join the throng,
If my soul could stay!
Sweet it is to hear and see,
Sweet it were to join the throng,
If my soul could stay!
So sang I, hastening by the open road,
And all my heart was quicken'd twenty-fold
Because of brightness and a pleasant place;
But even as I sang I overtook
A wight who walking slowly seem'd to brood
In potent meditation, downcast-eyed.
And with no sign I would have pass'd him by,
Scarce noting the calm brow and clear-cut cheeks,
Had not the stranger raised his eyes and smiled
Calm greeting such as fellow-scholars gave,
Half absently, when pacing slow within
The groves of Academe; whereat, indeed,
My feet began to pause unconsciously,
And my looks question'd of the pale cold face,
The dreamless eyes, the calm unruffled brow,—
For all was restless trouble in my soul,
Yet these seem'd peaceful as a woodland well.
And all my heart was quicken'd twenty-fold
Because of brightness and a pleasant place;
But even as I sang I overtook
A wight who walking slowly seem'd to brood
In potent meditation, downcast-eyed.
And with no sign I would have pass'd him by,
Scarce noting the calm brow and clear-cut cheeks,
Had not the stranger raised his eyes and smiled
Calm greeting such as fellow-scholars gave,
Half absently, when pacing slow within
The groves of Academe; whereat, indeed,
My feet began to pause unconsciously,
And my looks question'd of the pale cold face,
The dreamless eyes, the calm unruffled brow,—
For all was restless trouble in my soul,
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Now, seeing my perplexity, once more
The stranger smiled, saying: ‘Good morrow, sir,—
A scholar, I presume? and by thy guise
A dweller in some city by the sea?
But wherefore in such haste?’
The stranger smiled, saying: ‘Good morrow, sir,—
A scholar, I presume? and by thy guise
A dweller in some city by the sea?
But wherefore in such haste?’
Then I replied:
‘Because the hunger and the thirst divine
Consume me, and with sleepless feet I seek
The City of the Lord.’
STRANGER.‘Because the hunger and the thirst divine
Consume me, and with sleepless feet I seek
The City of the Lord.’
Nay, pardon me—
What City, friend? and furthermore, what Lord?
THE PILGRIM.
The Lord of Light, whose name is Beautiful.
Thou smilest. Is thy soul so desolate
That it hath never heard the name of God?
STRANGER.
Not so. I know the names of God full well.
But which god? There are many, I believe.
THE PILGRIM.
There is one God which made the heavens and earth,
The air, the water, all that in them is.
STRANGER.
In sooth? Hast thou beheld Him with thine eyes?
THE PILGRIM.
Nay; none may look upon His face and live.
STRANGER.
Thou hast not seen Him yet thou sayest He is,
He whom thou hast not seen?
THE PILGRIM.
I say again,
No mortal may behold Him and endure.
STRANGER.
If thou hast not beheld Him for thyself,
How knowest thou that? Upon what testimony?
THE PILGRIM.
Upon the testimony of His works—
Yonder wide heaven, this green-hollow'd earth;
His footprints on the rocks and on the sands;
His finger-touch o' nights when I sleep sound
(Yet start on being touch'd and waken up
With empty arms!); His seal on dead men's graves;
His signs, His portents, His solemnities.
STRANGER.
'Tis strange; for I have search'd as close as thou,
Deeper than most, aided by such wise lore
As lieth in the circles of the schools—
I have found naught, where thou hast found so much.
THE PILGRIM.
Dost thou deny Him?
STRANGER.
Nay, by Epicurus!
Logician am I and philosopher:
What, on the one side, cannot be affirm'd,
Can never be denied, upon the other.
THE PILGRIM.
I will accost thee in a rounder way.—
Canst thou keep calm, canst thou sleep sound o' nights,
Indifferent whether there be God or no?
STRANGER.
And I will answer thee as roundly, friend.
But first, permit me to disclose my name,
My calling, and the business I pursue.
I am a scholar, christen'd Lateral,
Truth-speaker, dweller on the open way.
Much have I read in books, and more in men,
Far have I wander'd, deeply have I weigh'd
The words and ways of pilgrims passing by;
And much, I grant thee, they have blown abroad
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Sometimes a City and a God; ofttimes
A God without a City; but a God
Invariably. Nay, in earlier days
I was beguiled out of the open way
To seek Him: in full daylight, diligently,
I sought Him, and I sware I found Him not;
Nor did I seek Him blindly, nor by night,
But in full daylight, on the public road.
I do not say, He is not; this I say:
To me He is not, being thus unseen.
And thou hast said, None may behold this God,
Because the sight would wither up the eyes;
But as I am a scholar, I affirm
There is no sight of all that I have seen
So dazzling that mine orbs endured it not.
What can be seen is harmless to the eyes,
Since what the eyes can see the eyes can bear.’
Thereon I mused (methought) with darken'd brow,
Then said: ‘Dost thou know one Iconoclast?
Meseems that thou hast learn'd his lessons well.’
Then said: ‘Dost thou know one Iconoclast?
Meseems that thou hast learn'd his lessons well.’
But Lateral cried, with wave of his white hand,
‘I know the man thou meanest—know of him
Much good, some ill—but they would stone him here,
Where I walk free, upon the open way.
He gibes at all things, I at no thing gibe,
But measure all men's problems logically,
Not mocking, but in truthful reverence.’
‘I know the man thou meanest—know of him
Much good, some ill—but they would stone him here,
Where I walk free, upon the open way.
He gibes at all things, I at no thing gibe,
But measure all men's problems logically,
Not mocking, but in truthful reverence.’
We twain, thus walking, wander'd side by side,
And groups of men and women pass'd us by
In silence, as on harvest labour bent,
And many greeted Lateral by name.
Then as the toilworn congregation grew,
I ask'd ‘What folk are these who come and go?’
And Lateral in a low voice replied:
‘Friend, some of these are pilgrims like thyself
Whom I most courteously have spoken with,
Persuading them, whatever they believe,
That labour near the open way is best;
And lo! they leave the riddle of the gods
And quench their sad desires in blessèd toil.’
And groups of men and women pass'd us by
In silence, as on harvest labour bent,
And many greeted Lateral by name.
Then as the toilworn congregation grew,
I ask'd ‘What folk are these who come and go?’
And Lateral in a low voice replied:
‘Friend, some of these are pilgrims like thyself
Whom I most courteously have spoken with,
Persuading them, whatever they believe,
That labour near the open way is best;
And lo! they leave the riddle of the gods
And quench their sad desires in blessèd toil.’
Whereon I cried: ‘Hast thou search'd everywhere?’
And ‘Yea,’ said Lateral; when solemnly,
With mine uplifted finger pointing back,
I cried: ‘Raise now thine eyes to yonder peaks
Of mountain crested with eternal snow—
Hast thou sought there?’ And Lateral answer'd ‘Nay!
I am a dalesman, no mad mountaineer,
Nor do I deem a God, if God there be,
Would hang his glory like an icicle
Out of the common sunlight!’
And ‘Yea,’ said Lateral; when solemnly,
With mine uplifted finger pointing back,
I cried: ‘Raise now thine eyes to yonder peaks
Of mountain crested with eternal snow—
Hast thou sought there?’ And Lateral answer'd ‘Nay!
I am a dalesman, no mad mountaineer,
Nor do I deem a God, if God there be,
Would hang his glory like an icicle
Out of the common sunlight!’
‘Raise thine eyes,’
I answer'd, in a whisper thick with awe;
‘Hast never, in the darkness, seen His feet
Flash yonder, like the flashing of a star?
Or 'midst the hush of a still frosty night
Hast thou not seen Him from afar, swathed round
With moonlight, lying like a corpse asleep
Upon the silence of the untrodden peaks,
With lights innumerable round His head
Blowing blue i' the wind? or hast thou never mark'd
A motion, the white waving of a hand?’
I answer'd, in a whisper thick with awe;
‘Hast never, in the darkness, seen His feet
Flash yonder, like the flashing of a star?
Or 'midst the hush of a still frosty night
Hast thou not seen Him from afar, swathed round
With moonlight, lying like a corpse asleep
Upon the silence of the untrodden peaks,
With lights innumerable round His head
Blowing blue i' the wind? or hast thou never mark'd
A motion, the white waving of a hand?’
Then Lateral, discerning in mine eyes
Who spake the tumult of a maniac pain,
Gently replied: ‘I should have told thee, friend,
I am close-vision'd: what I see full nigh,
I see full clear, but these poor eyes of mine
Have never reach'd to the cold realm of ghosts.’
Who spake the tumult of a maniac pain,
Gently replied: ‘I should have told thee, friend,
I am close-vision'd: what I see full nigh,
I see full clear, but these poor eyes of mine
Have never reach'd to the cold realm of ghosts.’
Then did I laugh in scorn. ‘Blind human mole,
Dull burrower in the darkness! not for thee
God's glimmer, or the secret of the stars.
I see in thee the sexton of the creeds—
A cold and humourous knave, with never a guess
Beyond his spade and the cold skull it strikes
In digging his own grave. But fare thee well—
Our paths part here.’
Dull burrower in the darkness! not for thee
God's glimmer, or the secret of the stars.
I see in thee the sexton of the creeds—
A cold and humourous knave, with never a guess
Beyond his spade and the cold skull it strikes
In digging his own grave. But fare thee well—
Our paths part here.’
I spake, and on I ran,
Leaving the pallid scholar far behind.
And as I pass'd along the open way,
I met on every side the drowsy stare
Of bovine human faces, heard the hum
Of hollow human voices; here and there
From bushy thickets peep'd a peaceful spire,
And oftentimes a church-bell rang, and folk
Came thronging unto prayer.
Leaving the pallid scholar far behind.
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I met on every side the drowsy stare
Of bovine human faces, heard the hum
Of hollow human voices; here and there
From bushy thickets peep'd a peaceful spire,
And oftentimes a church-bell rang, and folk
Came thronging unto prayer.
Then, slackening pace,
Darkling I mused. ‘They toil, and pray together
In intervals of toil; and yet meseems
Their toil and prayer are cold mechanic things,
Since on no face there lieth any light
Of expectation, hope, or bright resolve.
Happy they seem; and happy are the beasts
They yoke for labour in the water'd meads;
And with the reverent habit of the sense
They soothe the solemn motions of the soul.’
And, looking round, on every side I sought
Some pilgrim with a heaven-seeking face,
But found none: only harvest-hoping eyes,
And lips compress'd with thoughts of golden gain.
Darkling I mused. ‘They toil, and pray together
In intervals of toil; and yet meseems
Their toil and prayer are cold mechanic things,
Since on no face there lieth any light
Of expectation, hope, or bright resolve.
Happy they seem; and happy are the beasts
They yoke for labour in the water'd meads;
And with the reverent habit of the sense
They soothe the solemn motions of the soul.’
And, looking round, on every side I sought
Some pilgrim with a heaven-seeking face,
But found none: only harvest-hoping eyes,
And lips compress'd with thoughts of golden gain.
At last, grown weary of the open way,
I turn'd aside, prest through a quickset hedge,
And over meads that rose to sunny slopes
Began with careless idle feet to fare;
But resting on my staff from time to time,
Drawing deep breath, I watch'd the winding road
Crowded with men and women of the vale.
Sweet were the slopes I trod with grass and thyme
And cool the clear air blew from bank to bank
Of crowsfoot flowers; and as I went I cried:
‘O gladder this than is the open way,
The common level road of tilth and toil—
or men are foolish, weak, and miserable,
azing straight downward like to blindest beasts,
Yoked to the ploughshare and prick'd forward ever
By base ignoble goads!’
I turn'd aside, prest through a quickset hedge,
And over meads that rose to sunny slopes
Began with careless idle feet to fare;
But resting on my staff from time to time,
Drawing deep breath, I watch'd the winding road
Crowded with men and women of the vale.
Sweet were the slopes I trod with grass and thyme
And cool the clear air blew from bank to bank
Of crowsfoot flowers; and as I went I cried:
‘O gladder this than is the open way,
The common level road of tilth and toil—
or men are foolish, weak, and miserable,
azing straight downward like to blindest beasts,
Yoked to the ploughshare and prick'd forward ever
By base ignoble goads!’
Even as I spake,
I saw, upon a green bank in the sun
Beside a running brook, a curious wight
Who lying on his belly half asleep
Heard the brook gurgle in a gentle dream,
Yet read or seem'd to read an open Book
Set among scattered lilies on the grass.
He, looking upward as I slowly came,
Smiled like an infant or a heathen god
Calm and complacent in its gilded niche,
And nodded greeting supercilious
With half-shut eyes; and him I gazed upon
Awhile in silence, breathing from the ascent,
Then question'd:—
I saw, upon a green bank in the sun
Beside a running brook, a curious wight
Who lying on his belly half asleep
Heard the brook gurgle in a gentle dream,
Yet read or seem'd to read an open Book
Set among scattered lilies on the grass.
He, looking upward as I slowly came,
Smiled like an infant or a heathen god
Calm and complacent in its gilded niche,
And nodded greeting supercilious
With half-shut eyes; and him I gazed upon
Awhile in silence, breathing from the ascent,
Then question'd:—
‘Who art thou that liest here
Close to the tumult of the open way,
Lord of thyself and pitiful to scorn
Of those who all around thee like to bees
Throng in and out the hive! What man art thou,
And what is that great Book which thou dost read?’
Then smiling softly, with the studied scorn
Of perfect courtesy, the man replied:
‘I am a student, Microcos by name,
Who, scorning babble and the popular voice,
Dwell in the certainty of summer meads
Scarce vex'd by fear of thunder; and in this Book—
Observe it—old it is and worm-eaten—
Writ in the common tongue and there-withal
Dear to the common folk, I smiling read
Strange, sweet, old tales of God.’ Thereon I said,
Stretching mine arms out with a weary cry:
‘Thou art the man I seek, for surely thou
Must know the magic that makes conscience clear
And as with nard and frankincense anoints
The sad worn feet of Woe. Unfold to me
Thy knowledge and the knowledge of thy Book.’
Close to the tumult of the open way,
Lord of thyself and pitiful to scorn
Of those who all around thee like to bees
Throng in and out the hive! What man art thou,
And what is that great Book which thou dost read?’
Then smiling softly, with the studied scorn
Of perfect courtesy, the man replied:
‘I am a student, Microcos by name,
Who, scorning babble and the popular voice,
Dwell in the certainty of summer meads
Scarce vex'd by fear of thunder; and in this Book—
Observe it—old it is and worm-eaten—
Writ in the common tongue and there-withal
Dear to the common folk, I smiling read
Strange, sweet, old tales of God.’ Thereon I said,
Stretching mine arms out with a weary cry:
‘Thou art the man I seek, for surely thou
Must know the magic that makes conscience clear
And as with nard and frankincense anoints
The sad worn feet of Woe. Unfold to me
Thy knowledge and the knowledge of thy Book.’
But Microcos uplifted a white hand
In protestation. ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘be calm.
Dark on thy tired eyes lies dust of earth,
And on thy tongue the echoes of the road
Ring hollow yet. Mark me, the sweet blue sky
Was ne'er yet mirror'd in a broken water!
And for the blessèd knowledge thou dost seek
Calm is the consecration! Sit awhile
Beside me on the greensward by the brook,
And mark the white clouds sailing overhead,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing,
Then while the brook sings and from yonder comes
Subdued by distance the deep hum of men,
Let us together read a little space
The Legend of the Book.’
In protestation. ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘be calm.
Dark on thy tired eyes lies dust of earth,
And on thy tongue the echoes of the road
Ring hollow yet. Mark me, the sweet blue sky
Was ne'er yet mirror'd in a broken water!
And for the blessèd knowledge thou dost seek
Calm is the consecration! Sit awhile
Beside me on the greensward by the brook,
And mark the white clouds sailing overhead,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing,
139
Subdued by distance the deep hum of men,
Let us together read a little space
The Legend of the Book.’
Methought I stretch'd
My weary limbs upon the velvet sward,
And watch'd the white clouds sailing over-head,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing;
Then listen'd to the murmur of the brook,
And heard the cries of mortals faint as dream,
While in a low voice Microcos intoned,
With white forefinger on the stainèd page.
But scarcely had he turn'd one fluttering leaf,
When with a moan of wonder and of pain
I leapt up, wildly crying: ‘Peace! O peace!
'Tis the same Legend I so oft have read—
The same dark Legend that hath made men mad—
No more, no more!’
MICROCOS.My weary limbs upon the velvet sward,
And watch'd the white clouds sailing over-head,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing;
Then listen'd to the murmur of the brook,
And heard the cries of mortals faint as dream,
While in a low voice Microcos intoned,
With white forefinger on the stainèd page.
But scarcely had he turn'd one fluttering leaf,
When with a moan of wonder and of pain
I leapt up, wildly crying: ‘Peace! O peace!
'Tis the same Legend I so oft have read—
The same dark Legend that hath made men mad—
No more, no more!’
Now verily I perceive
The ways of unbelief have darken'd thee.
Sweet is the Book, read sweetly, in sweet weather.
O listen, and thy soul will be at peace.
THE PILGRIM.
Peace! Who names peace? O man! the words thou readest
Are as a whirlwind on a battle plain,
And every letter on that printed page
Is red as blood. How canst thou sit and smile,
And 'mid that carnage of the stainèd leaves
Sit as a dove that o'er its own voice broods
Perch'd on the red mouth of a murther'd man?
MICROCOS.
Meseems the Book is very beautiful,
Read in the light of Beauty, beautifully.
It tells of God, who framed the heavens and earth,
Who made Himself a sorrow and a sword,
Who lash'd Euroclydon unto his grip,
And 'mid the fiery smoke of sacrifice
Sat as the Sphinx with cold eternal eyes
Outlooking on his pallid worshippers.
Nay, further, of that same strange God it tells
Who clothed Himself with our humanity
As with a garment, drank the running brook,
And pass'd, a wan Shape waving feeble hands,
Silently thro' the very gates of Death!
THE PILGRIM.
That God I seek! O if these things be true,
Instruct me—let me look upon His face!
Thou smilest. Read the riddle of thy smile.
MICROCOS.
I smile because thou comest fresh from paths
Where Literal and Lateral (the drones!)
Interpret the dry letter of the Book.
I tell thee, friend (now hear and be at peace!),
These things are phantasies and images
As unsubstantial as the dream I dream
Stretch'd here beside the babbling of the brook;
Yet sweeter, being dream: yea, no less sweet
Than moonlight, or the wonder of the flower,
Or aught of beautiful or terrible
That haunts the regions of the earth or air.
THE PILGRIM.
Where is this God? I care not by what name
Ye know Him—Beautiful or Terrible?
Where is this God? and is He God at all?
MICROCOS.
I have not seen Him, and I know Him not.
THE PILGRIM.
Dost thou believe He is? or dost thou read
A fable, disbelieving that He is?
For either all that Book is dust and lies
Or else there was a Father and a Son—
A cruel Father and an outcast Son—
The story of whose tears on this sad earth
Is there in words of wonder written down.
But with a dreamy smile the wight replied:
‘These things I understand not; this I know—
Sweet is the Book, read sweetly, in sweet weather.
I prithee quit my sunshine!’ Thereupon
He turn'd his back, and on his elbows leaning,
Smiled and read on,—while with a bitter cry
I left him, and ascended the green hill
Close to whose feet he lay.
A fable, disbelieving that He is?
For either all that Book is dust and lies
Or else there was a Father and a Son—
A cruel Father and an outcast Son—
The story of whose tears on this sad earth
Is there in words of wonder written down.
140
‘These things I understand not; this I know—
Sweet is the Book, read sweetly, in sweet weather.
I prithee quit my sunshine!’ Thereupon
He turn'd his back, and on his elbows leaning,
Smiled and read on,—while with a bitter cry
I left him, and ascended the green hill
Close to whose feet he lay.
Meseem'd I climbed
Through verdurous ways for hours until I reach'd
The grassy summit, there methought I found
A man in ragged raiment all alone;
And lo, his face was set as is a star
In contemplation of some far-off thing
Down in a valley underneath his feet.
Nor when I near'd him did he turn or speak,
But sadly gazed; and following his gaze
Mine eyes saw nothing but afar away
What seem'd a shining cloud
Through verdurous ways for hours until I reach'd
The grassy summit, there methought I found
A man in ragged raiment all alone;
And lo, his face was set as is a star
In contemplation of some far-off thing
Down in a valley underneath his feet.
Nor when I near'd him did he turn or speak,
But sadly gazed; and following his gaze
Mine eyes saw nothing but afar away
What seem'd a shining cloud
I touch'd his arm
And question'd: ‘What is that thou gazest on?’
And question'd: ‘What is that thou gazest on?’
And he replied, not looking in my face'
‘The City without God, where I was born.’
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |