Flower o' the thorn A book of wayside verse: By John Payne |
 |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | VII. THE HALLOWING OF THE HILLS. |
|
 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
VII. THE HALLOWING OF THE HILLS.
DUSK deepens on highland and lowland; the harpies of darkness descending
Go gathering up and devouring the last of the lingering light:
The day as a down-ridden beast is, that lies, at the long chase's ending,
Its death at the hand of its hunter awaiting, its conqueror, Night.
Go gathering up and devouring the last of the lingering light:
The day as a down-ridden beast is, that lies, at the long chase's ending,
Its death at the hand of its hunter awaiting, its conqueror, Night.
Awhile, with their whiteness phantasmal, like ghosts, 'gainst the shadow persisting,
Though else out of sight all the landscape is blotted, the snow-peaks shine pale;
Then, one by one, into the darkness they fade, as if tired of resisting,
And Night fore-eternal abideth sole monarch of mountain and dale.
Though else out of sight all the landscape is blotted, the snow-peaks shine pale;
Then, one by one, into the darkness they fade, as if tired of resisting,
And Night fore-eternal abideth sole monarch of mountain and dale.
122
It is finished; no longer a hand's breadth to see of the hills' shining scalps is;
The glory is gone from the landscape: I sigh, as I turn to go in.
The dream of the daylight is over; for who face to face with the Alps is,
To meditate aught but the mountains, whilst light on them lasts, is a sin.
The glory is gone from the landscape: I sigh, as I turn to go in.
The dream of the daylight is over; for who face to face with the Alps is,
To meditate aught but the mountains, whilst light on them lasts, is a sin.
But lo! what is this that is dawning? What light in the Westward awaketh,
That is as the beam of the dayspring reborn from the Occident's sills,
That surgeth and soareth, sea-fashion? What is it in ripples that breaketh
Of radiance, with rose overflooding and flushing the roots of the hills?
That is as the beam of the dayspring reborn from the Occident's sills,
That surgeth and soareth, sea-fashion? What is it in ripples that breaketh
Of radiance, with rose overflooding and flushing the roots of the hills?
O marvel! Behold how the mountains again from Night's graves have arisen;
But not, as they showed in the setting, as icicles pallid and cold:
Nay, now, like beatified spirits, new-radiant, released from Death's prison,
They thrust through the screen of the shadow, resplendent in rose and in gold.
But not, as they showed in the setting, as icicles pallid and cold:
Nay, now, like beatified spirits, new-radiant, released from Death's prison,
They thrust through the screen of the shadow, resplendent in rose and in gold.
Yet not rose and gold, as we know them, but rather such transfigurations
Of brightness and blossom for fancy as flower in the worlds unexplored,
The worlds beyond living and dying, undarkened of doubts and negations,
Where other ideals Faith follows and otherguess Gods they call Lord.
Of brightness and blossom for fancy as flower in the worlds unexplored,
The worlds beyond living and dying, undarkened of doubts and negations,
123
See, Heavenward upsoaring, soft-flaming, the summits, like flambeaux funereal,
Clear-kindled in honour of heroes and demigods, shimmer, like pyres
For Hercules, Horus, Serapis, high-builded, like altars imperial,
From each of whose cloud-climbing censers the soul of some hero aspires.
Clear-kindled in honour of heroes and demigods, shimmer, like pyres
For Hercules, Horus, Serapis, high-builded, like altars imperial,
From each of whose cloud-climbing censers the soul of some hero aspires.
There stand they, their pole-pointing pillars in mute aspiration upholding,
Like arms of adoring incessant upreared to some Godhead unknown;
And we, who no God know that's worthy our worship, their glory beholding,
Must bow to the power that up-pileth their spires for its luminous throne.
Like arms of adoring incessant upreared to some Godhead unknown;
And we, who no God know that's worthy our worship, their glory beholding,
Must bow to the power that up-pileth their spires for its luminous throne.
So poignant their pomp is, so voiceful, so solemn their silence, in wonder,
For pealing of paeans Elysian I listen, amazed that there comes
No waft to mine ears of the wailing of hautboys and horns and no thunder,
By clamorous silver of clarions through-lightened, of cymbals and drums.
For pealing of paeans Elysian I listen, amazed that there comes
No waft to mine ears of the wailing of hautboys and horns and no thunder,
By clamorous silver of clarions through-lightened, of cymbals and drums.
124
But see, now already the pageant is passing away. As I hearken,
The glory fades out from the glaciers. A second yet, pallid and white,
Their pinnacles gleam; then, as sudden anon as they lightened, they darken
And all things the prison re-enter of Silence sepulchral and Night.
The glory fades out from the glaciers. A second yet, pallid and white,
Their pinnacles gleam; then, as sudden anon as they lightened, they darken
And all things the prison re-enter of Silence sepulchral and Night.
| Flower o' the thorn | |