Duganne's Poetical Works :: :: University of Virginia Library

I was a student in the schools of earth—
I was a wrestler in the strife for gain—
Until a Voice, which was not of myself,
Out-led my soul from life. My refluent thought,
Upon the electric wires of wondrous sleep,
Had compassed the immeasurable Past,
And journeyed with the Ages! I had trod
The ice-tesselated temples whose dread shrines
Are the upthrown vitals of extinct volcanoes;
Whose columns are gnarléd clouds,—whose awful arch
Springs through the mazy stars—its architraves
The garnered winds—its visionless capitals
The footstools of that unseen deity
Whom men call Science—
And my soul had sunk—
Even from those wildering deserts it had sunk,
Sounding a measureless deepness, through the sweep
Of whirlpools that ingulf the Northern seas,
Down to the interminable caves of Ocean!

I trod the unfathomed waters,—where the forms
Of vasty snakes like islands lie entombed—
I passed the innumerable host of Dead,
Marshaled like armies, where attraction wanes,
And bodies have no weight. I climbed the hills
Of long-forgotten treasures—heaps of gold,
And piles of gorgeous merchandry, that years
And ages have collected, in the marts
Of that dead empire Ocean—whence again
No caravan shall bear them—whence not one
Of all the uncounted fleets that in the ports
Of sunless silence ride in endless lines,
Shall voyage forth—beneath the flag of Mammon.

Cold Science—throned upon her awful snows!
And Mammon—reigning o'er the withered wrecks
Of a dead ocean!—these my soul surveyed,
Like one who lifts the mantle of his fate,
And seeth perdition.—These had been my quest!
Science I wooed—to freeze in her embrace;
And Mammon conquered—to be Mammon's slave.
Too late I learned it, as in agony
My spirit moaned aloud.—“Behold!” I cried—
“The Heritage of Science cannot bless—
The Power of Mammon cannot save mankind!
Tell me, O angel of my dreams! reveal
The glorious talisman which shall illume
Mine Intellect and glorify my Life!

Then answered me the Voice of Dreams, and said
Strange words which were of my own life long past;
As though my whole existence had been glassed
Within some wizard disc, whereon I read
All that I was or might have been—the vast
Minutiæ of all deeds, from first to last,
Of my unnoted being—each small thread
Of that strange woof which from my very birth had led.

As on a panorama I did look,
Wherein depicted were my thought and deed;
Not as I erst had reckoned them, but freed
From gloss and mist of earth—or like a book,
In which, beneath the context, I might read
The marginals by which the sense was keyed.
Fain had I now been blind—for scarce could brook
Mine eyes to thus behold what shades my being took.

For in that scroll of knowledge, which nor veil
Nor coloring had, I did Myself behold,
And saw each secret of my life unrolled;
Like some degraded knight, whose trenchant mail,
Albeit of proven steel or studded gold,
Is hacked from off his body, fold by fold;
Until quite naked, shivering, and pale,
He stands all stripped and weak, at every wind to quail.

Therein I saw the virtues which I prized
As mine own honor, were but dust and dross;
Therein I found each fancied gain but loss;
And saw black deeds in shining garb disguised;
And marked how evil thoughts bore holy gloss—
Like a dark atheist who wears a cross.
Each sin I knew, and felt like one despised,
Who, seeking Jordan's wave, in Dead Sea is baptized.

Like one arouséd from a dreamsome state
By rattling thunders in continuous clash,
The while beneath him rolls an earthquake's crash;
Who, fleeing wildly from his toppling gate,
Beholdeth by the fitful lightning's flash,
A lurid lake pursue, with sullen plash,
Wherein the goodly mansions, his so late,
Devoured by scoriac waves, sink darkly to their fate.

Thus on the sum of all that I had lost
My fearful memory dwelt—the wasted hours
In which I danced unknowing o'er crush'd flowers;
And jewels to the wind like ashes tost;
And builded what had seemed defiant towers,
That now were mist—and planted rosy bowers
That now were arid sands,—O God! the COST
Of these, which was a LIFE-TIME, now my vision cross'd.

Then did this Voice of Truth, with whispers low,
Like drip of hidden waters, fill mine ears
With knowledge of myself, until with tears,
That rained out of each heart-throb faint and slow,
I bowed me down, oppressed with chilling fears;
As some great criminal his sentence hears,
And while his blood hath half forgot to flow,
Attempts to grasp in thought the vastness of his wo.

Nathless the Voice spake not to wound or pain,
Save as 'twas meet that it severely should,
E'en for my soul's behoof and endless good;
Like as the reverend leech must ope a vein,
Or probe a wound, albeit with cautery rude.
So, as the leech, with soothing power imbued,
Was this low Voice of Dreams, whose gentle strain
Was healing while it hurt my heavy heart and brain.

And I uprose, when that the Voice had ceased,
Like paralytic from Bethesda's pool;
Or, as arose Naaman, fresh and cool,
From Jordan's waters,—with a life new leased,
It seemed, from God's own hand—and with a rule
Of life to guide me; as from Heaven's school
A teacher in my breast—a blesséd priest
Of the Most High—to give my soul a holy feast.

The Voice went out before me, as a wind,
And drew my weeping soul! Night followed night,
And days fled swiftly on the rolling wheels
Of golden suns; and seasons, like swift steeds,
Burdened with wealth, and driven by ancient Time,
Rushed past my sight, and vanished. On, and on—
My soul moved, trembling, through the deeps of space:
Cherubim brushed it with their snowy wings,
And radiant angels of the mercy-seat
Breathed Eden's odors, as they earthward passed,
Drying my tears with their celestial smiles.
On, through the deeps of space—a million worlds,
Dazzling in hazy glory, crossed my sight;
Myriads of stars stretched gleaming from my gaze,
And countless suns in bright effulgence burned.

Then fell my soul into a wildering trance
Of mystic silence. Solitude seemed bowed
By the awful weight of an eternal hush:
There was no atmosphere—no pulse, to thrill
With subtlest whisper:—vision was no more,
For light was absent. All was darksome void,
Where matter and its attributes were not—
Where Chaos yet was viewless!—
And there pressed
A weight upon my brain, as if a cloud
Of madness were approaching—and I cried,
That this was Death—and that there was no God!

Then answered me the Voice of Truth: “Behold!
Thus is Life dead—thus Godless is the world—
When Intellect bows down at Mammon's feet.”

Then suddenly, as with electric flame,
A light fell all around me, and a sound,
As of a thousand pinions, rocked my soul!
The immensity of visible space revealed
Itself before me,—and the stars fled back,
And systems melted into mist—and suns
Dissolved in ambient radiance,—until space
All space—was peopled by my soul alone!—

My vision swept the untenanted universe,
And from the dimness of Infinity
I heard the whisper of the Uncreate,
And bowed my listening spirit. Then arose,
Slowly, and like a phantom shape, from out
The invisible Beyond, a shadowy globe;—
And my soul knew it was—the Earth!
An atmosphere of congelated tears
Covered her brow as with a hoary frost,
And the deep stirred around her—as with sighs.

Once more the awful accents of that Voice
Controlled my heart. “Now shalt thou mark the earth!
And, from the Universe of thy Intellect,
Behold Humanity even as it is!”

Then, with a measureless reach, as if one blind
Should strain for sight, my soul looked trembling down,
And saw where, stretched athwart the boreal snows,
An old man, tossed with a tempestuous grief,
Lay writhing—while above, in midway light,
Rose, like a sorrowing god before mine eyes,
The Angel of the Wretched. He was crowned
With thorns, that gleamed amid the light like gems;
His brow was rigid, as with conquered grief,
And his bright eyes glittered with unwept tears!
I trembled as his sorrowing glance met mine,
And my soul bowed like Mary at the tomb,
When the angel talked with her.

And then I knew,
That the old man, wrestling with his mighty grief,
Like Jacob with the Evangel of the Lord,
Was the great mass of crushed Humanity—
The bound Prometheus of a suffering world—
Chained to the earth with shackles, which the kings
And great ones of all time have forged from swords
And spears, in the dread furnace of red War—
Whose fires are fanned by mortals' dying breaths,
And fed by slavery's hecatombs of lives!

Then, like the waters of the deep, updrawn
By the pale moon, my tears gushed thickly forth
Beneath the angel's glance; and stretching out

Mine arms, the while my bosom heaved and tossed
Like a stirred sea,—I lifted up my voice,
As Samuel 'mid the Holies: “Here am I—
Speak: Lord! thy servant heareth!”

And that Voice
Which had out-led me from the world, and showed
The desert throne of Science, and the dead,
Unsentient realm of Mammon,—now spake low,
In a strange whisper, as if all the waves
Of space were breathing lips; and the wide sound,
Circling infinitude with a subtile reach,
Thrilled through my swaying soul—“Arise, and work—
While the day lasteth—for, behold! the Night
Cometh, when no man worketh.”

Lo! that Voice
Troubled the waters of mine unbelief,
And healed mine ignorance!—“Behold!” I cried—
“Behold Humanity is crushed to earth—
Mankind is cursed through toil.” Then answered me
A sound as of the tread of marching orbs,
Rending the heavens!—and it said once more,
“Arise, and work!” I trembled, and obeyed.
Even from those infinite heights I sank to Earth,
And stood beside Humanity!

APOSTROPHE.

O, Earth! O beautiful and wondrous earth!
Jewelled with souls, and warm with generous hearts!
The morning stars sang gladly at thy birth!
And all God's sons, through Heaven's unmeasured girth,
Shouted with joy! Lo! when thy life departs,
All things created shall surcease, and thou—
Girt with great Nature's wrecks—shalt proudly bow,
And with the crumbling stars bedeck thy dying brow.

O bounteous earth! Thy fresh and teeming breast
Hath nourishment for all the tribes of men!
God is still with thee, and thy womb is blest!
Still with abundant good thou travailest!
And thy dead Ages fructify again,
With a new increase! Yet, O Earth! behold—
Millions are perishing with pangs untold!
Thy children faint, O Earth, for bread reluctant doled!

Mysterious Earth! Thou hast within thy deeps
The boundless stores of science! The immense
Arcanum of all glorious knowledge sleeps
Within thine arms, and awful Nature keeps
Watch o'er the treasuries of Omnipotence!
O mother Earth! why are thy golden plains
Made fields of torture, and thine iron veins
O'er-wrought for weary war, and forged to cruel chains?

PILGRIMAGE.

Thus murmured I, as in the lonely night
I wandered from the city's sights and sounds—
Where passion's variant moods, in endless rounds,
Were racing with the hours—where false delight,
And hollow joy, and folly without bounds,
And reckless riot which the soul astounds,
Were but the usual objects of my sight,
And grown so thick with life as seldom to affright.

I left behind the crowded thoroughfares,
Where streams of laughing folly dashed along!
I passed the theatres, where sin and song
Were mingled—turned me from the brilliant squares—
And reached the darksome avenues, among
The bleak abodes of poverty and wrong;
Where wretched outcasts crouch within their lairs,
And God's fair workmanship a demon's impress bears?

And, as with hurried feet I nearer drew
To narrow streets, where Wo and Shame and Want
Were task-masters, and Hunger, grim and gaunt,
Wolf-like clutched human throats, and overthrew
The souls of men,—there came, in garment scant,
A woman to my side, whose gait aslant,
And swaying steps, seemed of her sin the clue—
That most unhappy sin which all the good must rue!

With tangled hair, and bloodshot, stormy eyes,
And hands clenched nervously across her breast,
As to her heart some treasure she had prest;
With swinging motion, and strange, gasping cries,
As if of some lost thing she was in quest—
Like a wild bird when foes have robbed its nest,—
This woman came to me, and with low sighs
Sank prostrate at my feet, and gasped like one who dies.

And over her I bent, and raised her brow
Beneath the yellow moonbeams, and beheld
How all its blood was from her face dispelled;
And how the furrows deep which sorrows plough,
Were graven on cheek and brow in many a weld;
But Grief, and not Intemperance, had quelled
Her hapless brain, and she, in truth, was now
A maniac woman, doomed to gibber and to mow.

And this poor being fixed on me the glare
Of her glassed eyes, while on her lips the froth
Of a wild spasm gathered—and, as loth,
Even in her madness, stranger looks to bear,
Struggled within my grasp, and waxing wroth,
Rent with her nervous hand the tattered cloth
That hid, but shielded not, her breast, and there—
Slumbering in peace, I saw—an infant wondrous fair!

There is nought holier than an infant's sleep!
For the sanctification of its innocence
Enshrines its soul—a shelter and defence;
Like crystal wave, unfathomably deep,
That guards some blessed island, and prevents
The unhallowed entrance of all dark intents:
Or like the viewless cherubim that keep
Watch over Eden's gates, lest sin within should creep.

And cherubim there are—though visionless—
Who fold the infant with their heavenly wings,
And soothe its slumber with soft whisperings
Of the eternal Love and Holiness
Of God! O, radiant beautiful things—
Glimpses of glory! bright imaginings
Of Eden—must they be, which oft impress
An infant's lips with smiles whose meaning none may guess.

And this fair child, which now in slumber lay
Upon its mother's bosom, like a rose
That on a lightning-blasted cedar grows;
This child—which seemed a cherubic Estray—
Awoke not from that innocent repose,
Though its frame shook with the convulsive throes
Which rent the mother, as, with maniac sway,
She struggled to her feet, and flung my grasp away.

Unscared the infant slumbered, while below
Its roseate cheek throbbed that wild woman's heart,
As from its seat it would in madness start;
Even as fair Virtue on the breast of Wo
Calmly reclines, with life and soul apart
From all the raging thoughts that fiercly dart
Their arrowy flames beneath it, to and fro!
The child slept on, nor guilt nor madness could it know.

But yearnings in my heart, that seemed to plead
For the mad woman's babe, forbade my feet
To turn, till, haply, I might soothe the heat
Of its wild mother's passion, and outlead
The frenzy from her mind, that throbbed and beat
Like smothered flame within the burning seat
Of her poor brain;—for madness, like a reed,
Is swayed as ye may will—if ye its humors heed.

So I no longer wrestled with the rage
That swelled her heart—but fixed on her my gaze;
Like one who tenderly some grief surveys,
Which he with gentle act would fain assuage;
And as she marked, with wonder scarce concealed,
The unusual pity which my looks revealed—
Pity that words in vain might strive to speak—
I bent once more my head—and kissed her baby's cheek.

Behold! at once the darksome street grew bright
With golden beams, whose lustre pure and mild
Fell o'er the mother's form, and wrapped the child!
I turned—and, clad in robes of clustering light,
Dazzling as those in heavenly courts that beam,
I saw the radiant Angel of my Dream;
And heard the Voice—but now with sweeter sound—
“O Intellect! thou hast thy Mission found!

ORDINATION.

“Go forth, and find amid the world thy field:
And such as THESE shall teach thee how to live!
Go forth, and mark the sorrows of thy race,
And soothe the madness of their ignorance!
Go forth, and preach that earth is cursed by toil,
Because that toil is linked with want and wo!
Be this thy Mission—to exalt the doom,
By patient virtue and by watchful love!
Be thine to teach that man is kin to man!—
That stars may glimmer through the darkest night,
And flowerets bloom amid the rankest weeds;
That in God's plan there is no evil thing
Which may not yet take hold on purity!”

Silent the Voice: but I, with quivering lips,
Implored the Angel's name.—Then answered me
Those flutelike tones, o'erswaying all my heart,
And said, “Behold—I am thy Comforter!

By me the rocky fountains of hard hearts
Are touched, as with the prophet's wand, and gush
In holiest streams; by me the stone of grief
Is rolled from off the mourner's sepulchre,
And Christ ariseth 'mid its gloom; by me
Are souls made free from error's leprosy,
As Naaman in Jordan; at my touch
The bolts and shackles of misfortune's prison
Fall, as fell Peter's, when the angel came!
I am the calmer of life's raging waves!
To me men cry, when sinking—Help! we perish!
Blesséd are they who have my power confessed—
And they who love me—they are truly blest!”

Thy name! I cried—as bent my trembling knee—
Thy Name! The Angel answered, “Charity!”
The Vision passed—but I remained enwrapt,
Like him of Tarsus, when the awful light
Shone round about him. But my soul had learned
Its mission among mankind, and it burned
To speak the exalted truth to kindred mind—
That Intellect is steward for mankind!
That mental life is more than mental dreaming,
That earth is still no sham—and heaven no seeming;
That untaught souls will find an untrue God:
For ignorance will worship still its clod!
That sacred fire may flame on various shrines;
For Love is bound by no sectarian lines!

2. PART SECOND.

EXORDIUM.

Men of mind! O, men of mind!
Ye who wield the mighty Pen,
Scanning souls with angel-ken!
Ye who mould our human-kind
In the matrix of your thought,—
Why have ye for ages wrought—
(Moral miracle and wonder!)—
Still asunder—still asunder?

Men of mind! O, men of mind!
Could the electric fire of Soul
Fuse ye in one glowing whole,—
Could the immortal flame, enshrined
In each stranger heart and brain,
Flash from one tremendous fane!—
Then might all the world awaken—
Then would Earth with joy be shaken!

Men of mind! O, men of mind!
Ye are stewards of your Lord—
Ye are treasurers of his word!
Whatsoe'er on earth ye bind,
Lo! it shall be bound in heaven!
What by you on earth is riven
Shall in heaven be loosed and broken—
Lo! the Eternal Voice hath spoken!

Men of mind! O, men of mind!
Flash your million souls in one—
Let the stars become the sun!
Be ye as your God designed!
Then shall Error withering fall—
Then shall perish Wrong and Thrall!
Then shall Freedom's Anthem rise—
Earth's eternal Sacrifice!

INVOCATION.

I.

Hearts of love and souls of daring, in the world's high field of action—
Ye who cherish God's commandments, bending not to rank or faction:
Ye whose lives in slothful pleasure never sink nor idly stagnate—
Ye who wield the scales of Justice, weighing peasant-man with magnate,—
Lo! the Voice of Benediction falls upon you from on High:
Ye are chosen—ye are missioned—ye are watched by Heaven's Eye!

II.

Ye have voices, thoughts and feelings—they were given by God to bless you:
Pour them forth, till Wrong shall hear you—till it fear you, and redress you!
Ye have friends in all God's servants—friends in Heaven, with power supernal—
Friends in all who worship justice, all who fear the great Eternal:
Raise your voices from the Forum—challenge Wrong upon its throne—
Let your avalanchine warnings sweep the earth from zone to zone!

III.

Speak ye boldly! pause not—fear not! God is reigning still above you:
Pour the truth, like light, o'er mankind, if they hate or if they love you!
Like the Swiss, like Arnold Winkelried

Arnold Winkelried, of Unterwalden, one of the Swiss Cantons, fell at the battle of Sempach, A. D. 1386. Throwing himself amid the Austrian ranks, he cried to his countrymen—“I make a path for liberty.” They followed, and won the day.

—his valorous watchword crying—
Ye may “make a path for liberty!”—though in it ye lie dying!
Like old Decius, white-robed warrior—priest and victim

Decius was a Roman consul, who, in a battle with the Sabines, (558 B. C.) arrayed himself in priestly vestments, and, devoting his life to the gods Manes, rode unarmed into the ranks of the enemy, invoking victory to his troops as a recompense for the sacrifice.

—ride ye on:
Matters not if ye shall perish, so the glorious Cause be won!

IV.

Though ye bleed as John the Baptist—though ye suffer as St. Stephen—
Pause not! fear not! hurl your warnings o'er the earth like gleaming levin!
Lo! your fall shall raise up witnesses, your death shall prove your mission,
And your murderers will bedew your dust with tears of sad contrition:
Cry aloud amid life's desert—'mid the wilderness of earth—
And “prepare the way!” like him who first announced the Saviour's birth!

V.

Trust in heaven, though ye be lowly! weak and lowly were those preachers,
Who, from fishermen of Galilee, became Creation's teachers:
Pause ye not, though musty learning hath not doled its scanty morsels—
For the flaming tongues of knowledge filled with fire the Twelve Apostles!
Truth will shame the crafty schoolmen—fill the hoary scribes with awe—
Like the youthful Christ, expounding at Jerusalem the law!

VI.

Intellect hath Voice forever! Let that Voice be firm, unquavering—
As the dauntless Three of Israel, in the furnace still unwavering!
Lift your prayers like ancient Daniel—praising God amid the lions:
Smite the priests of cruel Dagons—crush the shrines of gilded Dians—
Preach ye now like him of Tarsus, when the hill of Mars he trod:
Words of virtues long forgotten—tidings of the Unknown God!

“For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar, with this inscription, TO THE UNKNOWN GOD. Whom, therefore, ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you.” Paul to the Athenians.

VII.

Speak ye boldly! from your temple-tops, Muezzin-like, give warning!

No church-bells are used in Mohammedan countries, but, instead, the muezzin, or priest, ascends to the minarets of a mosque, and, in a loud voice, cries out, “Allah Acbar,” which means “God is great;” on hearing which every good Mussulman immediately prostrates himself, turning his face toward Mecca, the city of the Prophet.

Bid your brother's eyes turn sun-ward—bid him hail the Future's morning.
Point where Truth hath reared her Kaaba

The kaaba, a holy stone of Mecca, is an object of great devotion to all Mohammedan pilgrims, as having been pressed by their prophet's feet just before he was taken up into heaven.

—point the Mecca of salvation—
Till, like Moslems at the minaret-call, shall sink in prayer each nation!—
Pause not, shrink not in your Mission!—Flash the sunlight of your thought,
Like the blaze of God's first mandate, that revealed what He had wrought!

“And God said, Let there be light; and there was light.”—

Genesis.

VIII.

Speak to kings, as Paul to Festus—till they own the truths ye teach them—
Speak to men like Christ to Lazarus—till the breath of life shall reach them—
Though ye lie in chains, like Peter—angel hands shall ope your prison:
Though ye die, as died the Prophets—trust ye still your prayers have risen!
Shrink not—pause not in your Mission!—ye must lead the Future's van:
For Jehovah gives to Intellect the stewardship of Man!

ASPIRATION.

I am looking from my heart through cloudy skies and stormy years,
While the dim, uncertain Present vails me in a mist of tears;
And a low, mysterious murmuring my sinking spirit hears:

Like the sad and solemn shivering of the trembling forest leaves,
When the muttered breath of thunder through the rocking darkness heaves,
Ere the bolt of fiery levin 'mid the crashing heaven cleaves.

And a mighty Thought, like sultriness, o'ersways me, as a wing—
Even as blended wings of cherubim, while fearfully I sing,
And most fearfully, like Samuel, to the altar-foot I cling;—

To the foot of that great Darkness, lifting high its awful head—
While the clouds, in rolling billows, over its bosom widely spread—
Like the darkness round the Stygian shores—the darkness of the Dead.

At the foot of this dread Altar kneel I now with claspéd hands,
And my bosom smites the Darkness, as a billow beats the sands—
When the Ocean, all behind it, drives it madly on the strands.

Thus the Ocean of my longings forces on my surging heart—
Till the Darkness seems to crumble—crumble heavily apart;
And beyond it—as from Chaos—golden paradises start.

Lo! the mountain Thought falls from me—falls from off my heaving soul—
As if Earth from Titan Atlas should with silent motion roll:
And, behold! it belts the heavens, in a wondrous, flaming scroll,—

Af if all the hurrying thunderbolts, in viewless fingers held,
Whilst they burned upon the azure, were to mortal language quelled—
Straightway now all human Error from my spirit is dispelled!

And I know that towering Altar is Jehovah's Throne on Earth—
And the billowy clouds around it hide the Future's mighty birth—
This I read amid the flaming Thought, that spans the heaven's girth.

Lo! that Thought is Man's Redemption—Man's enfranchisement from wrong—
When the Earth to all God's children shall in brotherhood belong—
And the Weak shall rest securely on the bosom of the Strong.

When the ploughshare's peaceful furrows shall efface the battle scar,
And the golden sheaves of Harvest in battalia shine afar,
And the children gather roses to enchain the hand of War.

Like an endless fire, consumeless, burns that Thought before mine eyes:
And my soul's electric flashes would eternally uprise—
Rise and mingle with the Prophecy that belts the Future's skies!