 | A Lost God |  |
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II. THE QUEST.
There looks a lonely column o'er the sea
Close to the cliff-edge, where the Ionian land
Leans westward. Far below the hungry sea
Sucks ever at the cliff-foot; and the temple—
Pillar and pediment and roof—is fallen,
This lonely column left. A wilding vine
Clasps it, and clings—like woman's faithful love—
Round the forsaken. At the pillar's foot
Leander lies, and watches wistfully
Each white wing that flies westward, each white sail
That dwindles to the distant verge, and dips
Below the sea-line, homeward bound for Greece.
Two years he has wandered; for at first the heat
Of young enthusiasm had carried him
Heedless upon his visionary quest,
Counting not distance, hither thither led
By shifting rumour, like a thistle seed
Blown by each crossing current down a glade.
From hill to hill, from shore to shore, he went,
From island unto island; till at last
Far off, 'mid alien men, Despondency
And Doubt, long kept at bay—even as a foe
That hangs on some impetuous conqueror,
Sullen, inexorable,—fell on him,
And all his fire and all his faith was lost.
And as a climber, who in heedless haste
Has clambered halfway up a precipice,
Turning at last perceives the giddy gulf:
His head swims, and his heart within him fails,
So far away lies safety: even so
Leander turning knew the unmeasured leagues
That lay between his longing eyes and home.
Close to the cliff-edge, where the Ionian land
Leans westward. Far below the hungry sea
Sucks ever at the cliff-foot; and the temple—
Pillar and pediment and roof—is fallen,
This lonely column left. A wilding vine
Clasps it, and clings—like woman's faithful love—
Round the forsaken. At the pillar's foot
Leander lies, and watches wistfully
Each white wing that flies westward, each white sail
That dwindles to the distant verge, and dips
Below the sea-line, homeward bound for Greece.
Two years he has wandered; for at first the heat
Of young enthusiasm had carried him
Heedless upon his visionary quest,
Counting not distance, hither thither led
By shifting rumour, like a thistle seed
Blown by each crossing current down a glade.
From hill to hill, from shore to shore, he went,
From island unto island; till at last
Far off, 'mid alien men, Despondency
And Doubt, long kept at bay—even as a foe
That hangs on some impetuous conqueror,
Sullen, inexorable,—fell on him,
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And as a climber, who in heedless haste
Has clambered halfway up a precipice,
Turning at last perceives the giddy gulf:
His head swims, and his heart within him fails,
So far away lies safety: even so
Leander turning knew the unmeasured leagues
That lay between his longing eyes and home.
Ay, many were the perils; land and sea
Alike were hostile to the wayfarer
In those wild days. Hungry and hard bested
He reached at last the sea; and there a crew
Of pirates seized him, purposing to sell
His delicate limbs to slavery. But a storm
And shipwreck rescued him, and he was cast
Friendless but free upon the Ionian shore.
Alike were hostile to the wayfarer
In those wild days. Hungry and hard bested
He reached at last the sea; and there a crew
Of pirates seized him, purposing to sell
His delicate limbs to slavery. But a storm
And shipwreck rescued him, and he was cast
Friendless but free upon the Ionian shore.
Was ever a Ulysses in sore straits
That found not a Calypso? Gentle hands
Succoured and saved him, and a gentle heart
From pitying fell to loving, and from love
To jealousy, finding his heart was fixed
Too firm on Helen to be wooed astray.
Alas, alas, Calypso! Can a heart
So gentle harbour such ungentle thoughts,
And kindness turn to torturing cruelty?
For when, for all her wooing, she perceived
No step advanced, but that he ever chose,
Rather than be with her, to sit alone
By that lone pillar, watching the wide sea
And weeping: then with love and jealousy
Tormented, she contrived a dire extreme.
For feigning she had planned a glad surprise
To please him, and a secret message sent
To know how Helen fared, she brought him news,
With pitying sighs and tears and woeful words,
That Helen had been wedded and was dead;
And to confirm it shewed him letters.—Then,
So like to madness was his agony,
That she his torturer wept most tender tears,
And had almost confessed the baseless lie.
Shame held her, till occasion oft let slip
Seemed lost for ever. Calmer too he grew
As sorrow like a petrifying surge
Sank drop by drop through all the pores of being.
And all the day, yea often all the night,
He kept his lonely station on the cliff,
Soothed haply by the seawind, or the low
Long murmur of the waves upon the beach.
Till once as he sat solitary there
Some breath of Spring, some scent of flower, or song
Of far-off wood-bird, smote him like a lash
To scathing recollection. All his life
Rose up before his eyes—his boyhood's dreams,
His purpose to be poet; and the love
So lightly left, so sweet, so wonderful,
Worthy to toss aside all purposes
To win it truly:—“O fool that left it, won!”
Passionately he cried the words aloud,
“O fool!” when as an echo close at hand
His word came back to him—“Fool? wherefore fool?”
Starting he turned, and half the pillar's length
Behind him saw an unknown wayfarer,
Whose reverend aspect shewed him sage or seer,
Crowned with the glory of a temperate life,
White hair; and long white beard upon his breast.
Again he spoke, “Why fool?” And in his eyes
Shone kindly light, as shine the fair twin stars
In storm to sailors.
That found not a Calypso? Gentle hands
Succoured and saved him, and a gentle heart
From pitying fell to loving, and from love
To jealousy, finding his heart was fixed
Too firm on Helen to be wooed astray.
Alas, alas, Calypso! Can a heart
So gentle harbour such ungentle thoughts,
And kindness turn to torturing cruelty?
For when, for all her wooing, she perceived
No step advanced, but that he ever chose,
Rather than be with her, to sit alone
By that lone pillar, watching the wide sea
And weeping: then with love and jealousy
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For feigning she had planned a glad surprise
To please him, and a secret message sent
To know how Helen fared, she brought him news,
With pitying sighs and tears and woeful words,
That Helen had been wedded and was dead;
And to confirm it shewed him letters.—Then,
So like to madness was his agony,
That she his torturer wept most tender tears,
And had almost confessed the baseless lie.
Shame held her, till occasion oft let slip
Seemed lost for ever. Calmer too he grew
As sorrow like a petrifying surge
Sank drop by drop through all the pores of being.
And all the day, yea often all the night,
He kept his lonely station on the cliff,
Soothed haply by the seawind, or the low
Long murmur of the waves upon the beach.
Till once as he sat solitary there
Some breath of Spring, some scent of flower, or song
Of far-off wood-bird, smote him like a lash
To scathing recollection. All his life
Rose up before his eyes—his boyhood's dreams,
His purpose to be poet; and the love
So lightly left, so sweet, so wonderful,
Worthy to toss aside all purposes
To win it truly:—“O fool that left it, won!”
Passionately he cried the words aloud,
“O fool!” when as an echo close at hand
His word came back to him—“Fool? wherefore fool?”
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Behind him saw an unknown wayfarer,
Whose reverend aspect shewed him sage or seer,
Crowned with the glory of a temperate life,
White hair; and long white beard upon his breast.
Again he spoke, “Why fool?” And in his eyes
Shone kindly light, as shine the fair twin stars
In storm to sailors.
Rose Leander up
Crying,
O Sir, if, as I deem, you are
Seer or philosopher or prophet sage,
Help me! for I lie helpless—hedged within
The ruins of a life planned loftily,
And scarce can breathe, or free my hands to feel
If base beneath the ruins yet be left
Enough to build on. Help me!
Philo.
Seer or philosopher or prophet sage,
Help me! for I lie helpless—hedged within
The ruins of a life planned loftily,
And scarce can breathe, or free my hands to feel
If base beneath the ruins yet be left
Enough to build on. Help me!
How to help
Not knowing yet your nature or your need?
Nay, but I half divine it—you are one
Sighing for Truth, as all are sighing now
Who drown not Reason in the sloughs of lust,
Nor poison her sweet nature with the taint
Of cynic unbelief.
Leander.
Truth—what is Truth?
Will some god tell us? Nay, the gods themselves
Are liars, since they send us lying dreams,
And give not what they promise to our prayers.
Philo.
Hush, the gods hear! And did the gods not hear
The sin would be the greater, lacking even
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Seeing thy sin unpunished should take heart
To sin more boldly. Sow not unbelief!
Doubt in thyself, if vexed by such sore plague!
But leave their faith to those who can believe;
For all pure faith is nearer truth than doubt.
Leander.
Yet purest faith may be the most deceived.
Philo.
Say where your faith was fixed, wherein deceived.
Leander.
In God my faith was, and by God deceived.
Philo.
Let not the poison-flower of blasphemy
Blossom upon your lips! Rather lay bare
Its roots to me, if haply I have skill
To purge the noxious nature. For indeed
Often are grafted on the self-same stem
The poisonous and the wholesome, being kin
As bitter and sweet apple. Tell me all
Your life—its bright hopes and its broken faiths—
As 'twere another's!
Leander.
I will tell thee all.—
Mine was that happy boyhood which in fields
And woodlands knows each nesting-place of birds,
Each nook of earliest flowers. My mother seemed
Herself a very nymph of Maia's train,
More careful of the moss-built linnet's nest
Than of majestic temples; loving more
The breath of morn or meadows after rain
Than Syrian perfumes, and the myriad eyes
Of the lawn daisies than the looks of men.
Nature was round me, as the river's breast
To little water-nestlings, and I drank,
Played, lived in her, in ever-growing trust.
Ever my mother taught me to adore
Gods in the woodland, in the mountain gods
Who made and kept the world in loveliness.
Childlike, in wonder more than awe, I asked
If I might see them; and she smiled and said:
“Some say that they have seen them; and even now,
“Unless our legends be but lovely lies,
“There is one lesser deity who clings
“To his old haunts in Hellas, even Pan
“The goat-foot god whom shepherd poets see.”
Then eager flowed my childish questionings;
And much she told me, winnowing fair tales
Which may be truth from foul which must be lies.
And ever afterwards I dreamed of Pan,
And thought to be a poet.
Mine was that happy boyhood which in fields
And woodlands knows each nesting-place of birds,
Each nook of earliest flowers. My mother seemed
Herself a very nymph of Maia's train,
More careful of the moss-built linnet's nest
Than of majestic temples; loving more
The breath of morn or meadows after rain
Than Syrian perfumes, and the myriad eyes
Of the lawn daisies than the looks of men.
Nature was round me, as the river's breast
To little water-nestlings, and I drank,
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Ever my mother taught me to adore
Gods in the woodland, in the mountain gods
Who made and kept the world in loveliness.
Childlike, in wonder more than awe, I asked
If I might see them; and she smiled and said:
“Some say that they have seen them; and even now,
“Unless our legends be but lovely lies,
“There is one lesser deity who clings
“To his old haunts in Hellas, even Pan
“The goat-foot god whom shepherd poets see.”
Then eager flowed my childish questionings;
And much she told me, winnowing fair tales
Which may be truth from foul which must be lies.
And ever afterwards I dreamed of Pan,
And thought to be a poet.
Thus the years
Passed in perpetual spring-time; till one year
Came two most dreadful, but undreamed of yet
In all my dreams of God—came Death and Love.
Death came and smote that life so knit with mine
As birth had only severed child and mother
Body from body but not soul from soul.
And in my anguish seemed me that a soul
So wounded must full surely bleed to death.
And day by day and night by night I lay
Waiting for Death to fetch me, as a thing
Forgotten and returned for. Reason shook
Upon her throne. Until a comforter
Came—not the Death that I desired, but Love,
A kinder Death. And at Love's dawn my life—
As Earth at morning—put away its pall,
And took for robe the rainbow. Hopes and dreams
Clothed as of old my soul, and hopes and dreams
Still to one good looked only—to see God.
Passed in perpetual spring-time; till one year
Came two most dreadful, but undreamed of yet
In all my dreams of God—came Death and Love.
Death came and smote that life so knit with mine
As birth had only severed child and mother
Body from body but not soul from soul.
And in my anguish seemed me that a soul
So wounded must full surely bleed to death.
And day by day and night by night I lay
Waiting for Death to fetch me, as a thing
Forgotten and returned for. Reason shook
Upon her throne. Until a comforter
Came—not the Death that I desired, but Love,
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As Earth at morning—put away its pall,
And took for robe the rainbow. Hopes and dreams
Clothed as of old my soul, and hopes and dreams
Still to one good looked only—to see God.
Then learnt I first how life's great visitings,
Prayer's answer, hope's fulfilment, come to us
At whiles we least expect them, and in ways
Which least we look for. In a dreadful dream
The revelation came for which I prayed.
Prayer's answer, hope's fulfilment, come to us
At whiles we least expect them, and in ways
Which least we look for. In a dreadful dream
The revelation came for which I prayed.
He told his vision of the death of Pan,
Fainter for two years' faded memory,
Yet still so clear it brought the ruddy blood
To his pale forehead, and a quicker pulse
Into his languid veins. The sun was sunk,
And heaven's wide arch was studded o'er with stars,
Or e'er he ended. Silent lay the Sage,
Smitten with his fervour, doubting not the dream,
Yet doubting of its import; loth to throw
One chilling breath of doubt on the warm heart
That glowed anew with half-forgotten fires.
At last he spoke.
Fainter for two years' faded memory,
Yet still so clear it brought the ruddy blood
To his pale forehead, and a quicker pulse
Into his languid veins. The sun was sunk,
And heaven's wide arch was studded o'er with stars,
Or e'er he ended. Silent lay the Sage,
Smitten with his fervour, doubting not the dream,
Yet doubting of its import; loth to throw
One chilling breath of doubt on the warm heart
That glowed anew with half-forgotten fires.
At last he spoke.
Philo.
Yet was not love still left?
What of your love?
Leander.
Ah, therefore cried I fool,
Fool on myself, nay madman! for I left
My love, my anchor of calm reason—dreamed
That air-born pageant was a thing my feet
Could follow, and by land and sea pursued,
As children follow rainbows. Love is lost,
And hope; faith only, after long eclipse,
Gleams cloudily since you have spoke with me.
Are there no gods, no goal of life, no world
Wherein our groping instincts shall find light?
Help me, if you can help—teach me, if aught
You know, for my old teachers fail me now!
Fool on myself, nay madman! for I left
My love, my anchor of calm reason—dreamed
That air-born pageant was a thing my feet
Could follow, and by land and sea pursued,
As children follow rainbows. Love is lost,
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Gleams cloudily since you have spoke with me.
Are there no gods, no goal of life, no world
Wherein our groping instincts shall find light?
Help me, if you can help—teach me, if aught
You know, for my old teachers fail me now!
He ended earnestly as a lost child
Who asks the way of any wayfarer.
Awhile in silence his companion sat,
Fixing a far-off gaze on one lone star,
A little lamp amid large space of night.
Then suddenly,
Who asks the way of any wayfarer.
Awhile in silence his companion sat,
Fixing a far-off gaze on one lone star,
A little lamp amid large space of night.
Then suddenly,
Philo.
Your teachers fail you now?
Mine too, who long had taught me, failed me once.
I too was like a vessel that long rode
Safely at anchor, till by sudden storm
Tossed from known harbour and safe anchorage.
I too had such an anchor of the soul
As your child-faith in Nature; nor my faith
Proved firmer fixed, though in a deeper sea.
For I am an Athenian; I was born
Where Socrates was slain, where Plato taught;
And I have trod the groves of Academe,
And I have worn the steps of Poecilè,
From my first years. From my first years I loved
These teachers, partly that I half believed
Their spirits haunted yet their ancient homes,
And made that sweet mysterious charm I loved
In street and temple. I too worshipped God;
But not the gods, a little lower than man,
Whom men have made, mere images to each,
Ideal of his own yearnings, good or bad.
But the divinity that underlies
All thought, speech, action in the world; in whom
We live and move and have our being; of whom
Men speak, saying, If God will: or, God ordains:
Or in their prayers for friends—our highest prayers
Being unselfish—as, God go with you,
God bless you!—By no name I worshipped him:
For who can know his nature or his name,
Or anything save this, that he is good,
Since he has made the sunshine and the flowers.
Nor in much knowledge as my reason grew
I sought to find him. Man's Creator must
Transcend his Creatures, even as man transcends
The mechanism he makes. The counterpart
In God of human reason must be past
The power of human thought to reason of.
Mine too, who long had taught me, failed me once.
I too was like a vessel that long rode
Safely at anchor, till by sudden storm
Tossed from known harbour and safe anchorage.
I too had such an anchor of the soul
As your child-faith in Nature; nor my faith
Proved firmer fixed, though in a deeper sea.
For I am an Athenian; I was born
Where Socrates was slain, where Plato taught;
And I have trod the groves of Academe,
And I have worn the steps of Poecilè,
From my first years. From my first years I loved
These teachers, partly that I half believed
Their spirits haunted yet their ancient homes,
And made that sweet mysterious charm I loved
In street and temple. I too worshipped God;
But not the gods, a little lower than man,
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Ideal of his own yearnings, good or bad.
But the divinity that underlies
All thought, speech, action in the world; in whom
We live and move and have our being; of whom
Men speak, saying, If God will: or, God ordains:
Or in their prayers for friends—our highest prayers
Being unselfish—as, God go with you,
God bless you!—By no name I worshipped him:
For who can know his nature or his name,
Or anything save this, that he is good,
Since he has made the sunshine and the flowers.
Nor in much knowledge as my reason grew
I sought to find him. Man's Creator must
Transcend his Creatures, even as man transcends
The mechanism he makes. The counterpart
In God of human reason must be past
The power of human thought to reason of.
So 'mid the olives and the marbles went
My life, and still I drank new knowledge in
Of natural things and high philosophy.
Cold do you deem my life beside the fires
You told with such a fervour of your youth?
Hard do you deem my life? Nay, listen still!
It had its core of tenderness, its days
Of music. Have you found at times a flint,
Cold, hard, immalleable, yet perchance
Broken across; and where you thought to see
The heart dull as the rest, bright crystals gleamed
With rainbow hues, the work of fires long dead?
My life hides such a centre; would you hear?
My life, and still I drank new knowledge in
Of natural things and high philosophy.
Cold do you deem my life beside the fires
You told with such a fervour of your youth?
Hard do you deem my life? Nay, listen still!
It had its core of tenderness, its days
Of music. Have you found at times a flint,
Cold, hard, immalleable, yet perchance
Broken across; and where you thought to see
The heart dull as the rest, bright crystals gleamed
With rainbow hues, the work of fires long dead?
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There fell a day of Spring, when weary grown
Of a long Winter's poring over books,
And feeling, as the caged lark feels, the Spring
Calling to freedom, forth I went, and took
The road to seaward. When I reached the shore
Fresh blew the breeze, and crisping breakers curled
Into the bay. My mood was idle, dreams
Were in my head, and reason half asleep.
So finding a lone boat upon the beach,
In idleness, not asking leave, alone
I launched it, stepped therein, and hoised the sail.
The credulous thereafter said some god
Sailed with me, held the tiller, called the wind,
That blew me softly, swiftly, till the land
Grew but a dim grey outline,—I know not;
But on a sudden, gazing witlessly
In reverie on the waters, I beheld
Some floating wreck, a broken mast, with ropes
Trailing, like sea-snakes fastening on its life;
And as I looked, lo, wound amid the ropes,
Lapped gently by the water, yet half dry,
An infant slept. O wonder!—Quick I seized
An oar and drew me to the spot. In haste
Unbound the knotted ropes, and tenderly
Lifted the child. Oh, was it living or dead?
Could it be living, sleeping gently so
Amid such gaping mouths of hungry death?
Yes, it was living. At my unused touch,
Tender, but even a tender hand unused
Is rough, it woke, and looked with large dark eyes
Up in my face, and laughed. O happy laugh!
That sweet laugh hailed me father, gave me heart
Kind as a father's, and a purpose fixed
Henceforth to be in its lost father's place.
Homeward, scarce knowing how, I sailed, and reached
The shore; then, landed, heard the news of wreck,
A rich Phœnician merchantman, all hands,
Save one who brought the tidings, lost. My heart
Leapt as I thought, Then none can claim the babe.
Of a long Winter's poring over books,
And feeling, as the caged lark feels, the Spring
Calling to freedom, forth I went, and took
The road to seaward. When I reached the shore
Fresh blew the breeze, and crisping breakers curled
Into the bay. My mood was idle, dreams
Were in my head, and reason half asleep.
So finding a lone boat upon the beach,
In idleness, not asking leave, alone
I launched it, stepped therein, and hoised the sail.
The credulous thereafter said some god
Sailed with me, held the tiller, called the wind,
That blew me softly, swiftly, till the land
Grew but a dim grey outline,—I know not;
But on a sudden, gazing witlessly
In reverie on the waters, I beheld
Some floating wreck, a broken mast, with ropes
Trailing, like sea-snakes fastening on its life;
And as I looked, lo, wound amid the ropes,
Lapped gently by the water, yet half dry,
An infant slept. O wonder!—Quick I seized
An oar and drew me to the spot. In haste
Unbound the knotted ropes, and tenderly
Lifted the child. Oh, was it living or dead?
Could it be living, sleeping gently so
Amid such gaping mouths of hungry death?
Yes, it was living. At my unused touch,
Tender, but even a tender hand unused
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Up in my face, and laughed. O happy laugh!
That sweet laugh hailed me father, gave me heart
Kind as a father's, and a purpose fixed
Henceforth to be in its lost father's place.
Homeward, scarce knowing how, I sailed, and reached
The shore; then, landed, heard the news of wreck,
A rich Phœnician merchantman, all hands,
Save one who brought the tidings, lost. My heart
Leapt as I thought, Then none can claim the babe.
'Twere wearisome to tell how day by day
Life fared, though each day in my memory
Is clear as each year's ring in trunks of pine.
But all my life was changed; rich sunlight poured
Where had been moonlight; nobler were the heights,
And less obscure the hollows.—Strange it is
This love that binds us to another life
So little like our own; but such strong love,
First for the helpless thing that smiled on me:
Then for child lips that lisped me Father: last,
For a fair maiden, slim and delicate,
With wistful eyes that ever seemed aware
Of things we see not,—such life-quickening love
Bound me to her, more dear than life itself.
She seemed the unknown hope of my young dreams,
The pure ideal of my philosophy,
The answer of full blessing to my prayers.
Life fared, though each day in my memory
Is clear as each year's ring in trunks of pine.
But all my life was changed; rich sunlight poured
Where had been moonlight; nobler were the heights,
And less obscure the hollows.—Strange it is
This love that binds us to another life
So little like our own; but such strong love,
First for the helpless thing that smiled on me:
Then for child lips that lisped me Father: last,
For a fair maiden, slim and delicate,
With wistful eyes that ever seemed aware
Of things we see not,—such life-quickening love
Bound me to her, more dear than life itself.
She seemed the unknown hope of my young dreams,
The pure ideal of my philosophy,
The answer of full blessing to my prayers.
Must I then tell the end?—Not all the years,
Not all the dreadful years have eaten yet
Into my soul so deeply as to loose
The barbèd grief that lodged there on the day
When Nerea died. “The gods had need of her,”
She murmured with a smile, and passed.
Not all the dreadful years have eaten yet
Into my soul so deeply as to loose
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When Nerea died. “The gods had need of her,”
She murmured with a smile, and passed.
O God,
Couldst thou have need of her as I had need—
My white-winged Psyche, leading me through life
Along the paths of flowers!
Couldst thou have need of her as I had need—
My white-winged Psyche, leading me through life
Along the paths of flowers!
Can you not guess
What shipwreck those fair vessels, hope and joy,
And reverence of God and faith in man,
Now suffered, when the convoy, love, was lost?
What goal, what guide, what comfort, what desire,
In all the desert seas of life?
What shipwreck those fair vessels, hope and joy,
And reverence of God and faith in man,
Now suffered, when the convoy, love, was lost?
What goal, what guide, what comfort, what desire,
In all the desert seas of life?
The lapse
Of measured days restored an even pulse
To fevered reason; the old habits came
To their old place. Philosophy was left,
Cold, clear, untroubled (bitterly I said),
As star above the storm that founders us.
I would be cold, untroubled, leaving dreams
Of God and goodness, love and loveliness.
So, locking all fair chambers I had loved,
I sought my lodging in the four bare walls
Of Stoicism; hardening all my heart
Against soft influences, the winds of Spring,
The sight of waters, the sweet voice of girls.
Of measured days restored an even pulse
To fevered reason; the old habits came
To their old place. Philosophy was left,
Cold, clear, untroubled (bitterly I said),
As star above the storm that founders us.
I would be cold, untroubled, leaving dreams
Of God and goodness, love and loveliness.
So, locking all fair chambers I had loved,
I sought my lodging in the four bare walls
Of Stoicism; hardening all my heart
Against soft influences, the winds of Spring,
The sight of waters, the sweet voice of girls.
Leander.
Master, what gracious influence melted you
From that hard mood to what I find you now?
Patient and gentle ear to murmurings,
Compassionate and kindly heart to grief,
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Philo.
I scarce can tell you; drops so numerous
Of blessing, unperceived as dew, came down
To soften day by day my arid will.
For first a lame child fallen in the street—
Her dark eyes were like Nerea's—strangely stirred
My Stoic humour; and her voice in thanks
(For being so moved I helped her to her home)
Sounded as sweet as falling waters heard
Of desert wanderers o'er the darkening sands.
And once, late passing by a lonely shrine,
I heard a mother praying for her son,
Her only son, far off, forgetful of her.
I thought I had forgotten how to weep
Till then.
Of blessing, unperceived as dew, came down
To soften day by day my arid will.
For first a lame child fallen in the street—
Her dark eyes were like Nerea's—strangely stirred
My Stoic humour; and her voice in thanks
(For being so moved I helped her to her home)
Sounded as sweet as falling waters heard
Of desert wanderers o'er the darkening sands.
And once, late passing by a lonely shrine,
I heard a mother praying for her son,
Her only son, far off, forgetful of her.
I thought I had forgotten how to weep
Till then.
Ah, once the frozen river stirs,
The break comes quickly!
The break comes quickly!
Most of all I found
New founts of pity in unmurmuring pain
Passing the deeds of heroes. Day by day
My heart changed in me; and with opened eyes,
Seeing that death and grief were to the world
The law, my grief not law's unwonted breach,
I said: If man by imitating God
Can carve fair statues and ordain just laws,
Shall not God's laws exceed our righteousness
Even as His works our art, and night as light,
Sadness as gladness, death as life, be good?
So said I, and so taught, that God is good:
All evil that we see is in our seeing,
Even as the spots that dance before our eyes
In the full sunlight. At such simple lore
The listeners stared, then laughed, “A Socrates!
Athenians, hear the new philosophy!”
But always when I heard some blatant voice
Preaching philosophies of life, I thought:
Who life expounds, and yet explains not death,
He maps an island, and omits the sea.
New founts of pity in unmurmuring pain
Passing the deeds of heroes. Day by day
My heart changed in me; and with opened eyes,
Seeing that death and grief were to the world
The law, my grief not law's unwonted breach,
I said: If man by imitating God
Can carve fair statues and ordain just laws,
Shall not God's laws exceed our righteousness
Even as His works our art, and night as light,
Sadness as gladness, death as life, be good?
So said I, and so taught, that God is good:
All evil that we see is in our seeing,
42
In the full sunlight. At such simple lore
The listeners stared, then laughed, “A Socrates!
Athenians, hear the new philosophy!”
But always when I heard some blatant voice
Preaching philosophies of life, I thought:
Who life expounds, and yet explains not death,
He maps an island, and omits the sea.
Thus the sweet violet Faith grew from the grave
Of Joy. Nor more I thought to understand,
But just to take all blessing and all grief
Blindly as good, and grope to ends unseen;
And haply—for who knows?—to find at last
Some clearer region at the back of Death.
The years went over; gently lapsed my life,
As meadow streams that once were waterfalls,
With naught to mark my days save whitening locks.
Till as a trumpet blown at dead of night
Tidings came to me; for whose sake I now
Am wearying my old limbs with journey long,
Sped onward by a freshening breeze of hope.
Of Joy. Nor more I thought to understand,
But just to take all blessing and all grief
Blindly as good, and grope to ends unseen;
And haply—for who knows?—to find at last
Some clearer region at the back of Death.
The years went over; gently lapsed my life,
As meadow streams that once were waterfalls,
With naught to mark my days save whitening locks.
Till as a trumpet blown at dead of night
Tidings came to me; for whose sake I now
Am wearying my old limbs with journey long,
Sped onward by a freshening breeze of hope.
Leander.
What tidings?
Philo.
A new teacher in the world,
Teaching what death is. Rumour, scant and dim,
Still held to this that he could raise the dead.
Leander.
O miracle! What blest above all lands
Heard first his teaching, feels his footsteps now?
Philo.
Not from our western wisdom this new light,
From Rome or Hellas, nay nor Egypt old,
Has risen upon the world. An ancient race,
43
Dwells south of Tyre. There, say they, is his home,
And there I seek him. Will you go with me?
Leander.
Master, my feet are as your feet, my heart
As your heart. I will follow to the end.
| A Lost God | |