 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
221
Oxford Poems
223
ODE
[_]
ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF DERBY AND RECITED IN THE SHELDONIAN THEATRE, OXFORD, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY, JUNE 1, 1853
I had been thinking of the antique masque
Before high peers and peeresses at Court,
Of the strong gracefulness of Milton's task,
‘Rare Ben's’ gigantic sport—
Before high peers and peeresses at Court,
Of the strong gracefulness of Milton's task,
‘Rare Ben's’ gigantic sport—
Those delicate creations, full of strange
And perilous stuff, wherein the silver flood
And crownèd city suffer'd human change
Like things of flesh and blood.
And perilous stuff, wherein the silver flood
And crownèd city suffer'd human change
Like things of flesh and blood.
And I was longing for a hand like those
Somewhere in bower of learning's fine retreat,
That it might fling immortally one rose
At Stanley's honour'd feet.
Somewhere in bower of learning's fine retreat,
That it might fling immortally one rose
At Stanley's honour'd feet.
224
Fair as that woman whom the Prophet old
In Ardath met, lamenting for her dead,
With sackcloth cast above the tiar of gold,
And ashes on her head.
In Ardath met, lamenting for her dead,
With sackcloth cast above the tiar of gold,
And ashes on her head.
Methought I met a lady yester-even;
A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail,
Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heav'n,
White as a moonlit sail.
A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail,
Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heav'n,
White as a moonlit sail.
She spake. ‘On this pale brow are looks of youth,
Yet angels, listening on the argent floor,
Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth
Nine hundred years and more.
Yet angels, listening on the argent floor,
Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth
Nine hundred years and more.
‘And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear'd up,
Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine,
Where quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup
Draughts of ambrosial wine.
Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine,
Where quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup
Draughts of ambrosial wine.
225
‘He knows how night by night my lamps are lit,
How day by day my bells are ringing clear,
Mother of ancient lore, and Attic wit,
And discipline severe.
How day by day my bells are ringing clear,
Mother of ancient lore, and Attic wit,
And discipline severe.
‘It may be long ago my dizzied brain
Enchanted swam beneath Rome's wondrous spell,
Till like light tinctured by the painted pane
Thought in her colours fell.
Enchanted swam beneath Rome's wondrous spell,
Till like light tinctured by the painted pane
Thought in her colours fell.
‘Yet when the great old tongue with strong effect
Woke from its sepulchre across the sea,
The subtler spell of Grecian intellect
Work'd mightily in me.
Woke from its sepulchre across the sea,
The subtler spell of Grecian intellect
Work'd mightily in me.
‘Time pass'd—my groves were full of warlike stirs;
The student's heart was with the merry spears,
Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs
Of Rupert's Cavaliers.
The student's heart was with the merry spears,
Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs
Of Rupert's Cavaliers.
226
‘All those long ages, like a holy mother,
I rear'd my children to a lore sublime,
Picking up fairer shells than any other
Along the shores of Time.
I rear'd my children to a lore sublime,
Picking up fairer shells than any other
Along the shores of Time.
‘And must I speak at last of sensual sleep,
The dull forgetfulness of aimless years?
Oh, let me turn away my head, and weep
Than Rachel's bitterer tears—
The dull forgetfulness of aimless years?
Oh, let me turn away my head, and weep
Than Rachel's bitterer tears—
‘Tears for the passionate hearts I might have won,
Tears for the age with which I might have striven,
Tears for a hundred years of work undone,
Crying like blood to Heaven.
Tears for the age with which I might have striven,
Tears for a hundred years of work undone,
Crying like blood to Heaven.
‘I have repented—and my glorious name
Stands scutcheon'd round with blazonry more bright.
The wither'd rod, the emblem of my shame,
Bloom'd blossoms in a night.
Stands scutcheon'd round with blazonry more bright.
The wither'd rod, the emblem of my shame,
Bloom'd blossoms in a night.
227
‘And I have led my children on steep mountains,
By fine attraction of my spirit brought
Up to the dark inexplicable fountains
That are the springs of thought,—
By fine attraction of my spirit brought
Up to the dark inexplicable fountains
That are the springs of thought,—
‘Led them, where on the old poetic shore
The flowers that change not with the changing moon
Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore
About the bees in June.
The flowers that change not with the changing moon
Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore
About the bees in June.
‘And I will bear them, as on eagle wings,
To leave them bow'd before the sapphire throne,
High o'er the haunts where dying pleasure sings
With sweet and swanlike tone.
To leave them bow'd before the sapphire throne,
High o'er the haunts where dying pleasure sings
With sweet and swanlike tone.
‘And I will lead the age's great expansions,
Progressive circles toward thought's Sabbath rest,
And point beyond them to the many mansions
Where Christ is with the blest.
Progressive circles toward thought's Sabbath rest,
And point beyond them to the many mansions
Where Christ is with the blest.
228
‘Am I not pledged who gave my bridal ring
To that old man heroic, strong, and true,
Whose grey-hair'd virtue was a nobler thing
Than even Waterloo?
To that old man heroic, strong, and true,
Whose grey-hair'd virtue was a nobler thing
Than even Waterloo?
‘Surely that spousal morn my chosen ones
Felt their hearts moving to mysterious calls,
And the old pictures of my sainted sons
Look'd brighter from the walls.
Felt their hearts moving to mysterious calls,
And the old pictures of my sainted sons
Look'd brighter from the walls.
‘He sleeps at last—no wind's tempestuous breath
Play'd a dead march upon the moaning billow,
What time God's angel visited with death
The old Field Marshal's pillow.
Play'd a dead march upon the moaning billow,
What time God's angel visited with death
The old Field Marshal's pillow.
‘There was no omen of a great disaster
Where castled Walmer stands beside the shore;
The evening clouds, like pillar'd alabaster,
Hung huge and silent o'er.
Where castled Walmer stands beside the shore;
The evening clouds, like pillar'd alabaster,
Hung huge and silent o'er.
229
‘The moon in brightness walk'd the fleecy rack,
Walk'd up and down among the starry fires;
Heaven's great cathedral was not hung with black
Up to its topmost spires.
Walk'd up and down among the starry fires;
Heaven's great cathedral was not hung with black
Up to its topmost spires.
‘But mine own Isis kept a solemn chiming,
A silver requiescat all night long,
And mine old trees with all their leaves were timing
The sorrow of the song.
A silver requiescat all night long,
And mine old trees with all their leaves were timing
The sorrow of the song.
‘And through mine angel-haunted aisles of beauty,
From the grand organs gush'd a music dim,
Lauds for a champion who had done his duty,
I knew they were for him!
From the grand organs gush'd a music dim,
Lauds for a champion who had done his duty,
I knew they were for him!
‘But night is fading—I must deck my hair
For the high pageant of the gladsome morn;
I would not meet my chosen Stanley there
In sorrow, or in scorn.
For the high pageant of the gladsome morn;
I would not meet my chosen Stanley there
In sorrow, or in scorn.
230
‘I know him nobler than his noble blood,
Seeking for wisdom as the earth's best pearl,
And bring my brightest jewelry to stud
The baldrick of mine Earl.
Seeking for wisdom as the earth's best pearl,
And bring my brightest jewelry to stud
The baldrick of mine Earl.
‘I, and my children, with our fairest gift,
With song will meet him, and with music's swell:
The coronal a king might love to lift,
It will beseem him well.
With song will meet him, and with music's swell:
The coronal a king might love to lift,
It will beseem him well.
‘And when the influx of the perilous fight
Shall be around us as a troubled sea,
He will remember, like a red-cross knight,
God, and this day, and me.’
Shall be around us as a troubled sea,
He will remember, like a red-cross knight,
God, and this day, and me.’
231
THE WATERS OF BABYLON
‘C'est là le mystère après lequel soupirent toutes
les âmes exilées, qui s'affligent sur les fleuves de
Babylon en se souvenant de Sion.’
Bossuet.
A dream of many waters. I beheld,
And lo! a summer night in Babylon,
And the great river, even Euphrates, wash'd
The land of Shinar, somewhat swifter now,
When snows were melting on the Armenian hills.
So by the hundred gates, lintel and post
All polish'd brass, the waves went washing on.
And on the flood the osier barges rode,
Shield-shaped, with earthen jars of palm-tree wine
Heap'd on the deck, and dark shapes stretch'd around.
League upon league, through tracts of wheat and corn,
That look'd on boundless plains, like knightly hosts,
Far glimmering with pale and ghostly gold;
Through ranks of cedar, planted by the Lord,
Round the lign-aloes by the river-side,
Had they dropp'd down the flood. Now the tilth ceased,
And banks, like mountains, rose on either hand,
Worthy of wonderment, the work of kings;
And long canals stretch'd, lighted by the moon
And by the company of Chaldean stars;
Till there came houses, bastion'd fortresses,
With lion gonfalons, and a maze of streets.
I saw the terraced pyramid of Bel;
And a vast palace with its gardens hung
As by art-magic in the spicèd air,
Pencill'd like purple islands fast asleep.
But evermore—by all the gates of brass,
And where the barges floated down the stream,
And far along the sloping line of streets
Hung with a thousand cressets naphtha-lit,
And up among the garden terraces—
I heard the murmur of Euphrates' flood.
Whenas I linger'd there, anon methought
The tide of life in that great city pent
Parted in twain and took its separate way.
For one moved upward by the basalt wall:
A host of fierce-eyed men with long black hair
Stream'd o'er white tunics, their dark faces wreath'd
With turbans white, in every hand a staff
Carven with lilies or with eagle head.
And haughty girls in gilded cars swept on
To the Assyrian Aphrodites' fane,
With faces passion-flush'd or terror-pale,—
Red and white roses rich, but soon to fade.
High on the palace terraces above,
There walk'd a king —it made me fear to see
How like he was to those old sculptured kings,
Black-curl'd, black-bearded, full of state and woe,
Who sit the world out on their chairs of stone,
Staring for ever on the arrow-heads,
Wherein their bloody chronicles are writ.
There, too, I saw grey-beard astrologers,
Who read the silver horologue of heaven;
And them who shape the purpose shadow'd forth
In visions of the head upon the bed;
And priests who give attendance at the shrine
Well strewn, that hath no image of its God,
Or at that other where he sits eterne,
Statue, and throne, and pedestal of gold,
Grinning and glimmering thro' the frankincense.
And lo! a summer night in Babylon,
And the great river, even Euphrates, wash'd
The land of Shinar, somewhat swifter now,
When snows were melting on the Armenian hills.
So by the hundred gates, lintel and post
All polish'd brass, the waves went washing on.
And on the flood the osier barges rode,
Shield-shaped, with earthen jars of palm-tree wine
Heap'd on the deck, and dark shapes stretch'd around.
232
That look'd on boundless plains, like knightly hosts,
Far glimmering with pale and ghostly gold;
Through ranks of cedar, planted by the Lord,
Round the lign-aloes by the river-side,
Had they dropp'd down the flood. Now the tilth ceased,
And banks, like mountains, rose on either hand,
Worthy of wonderment, the work of kings;
And long canals stretch'd, lighted by the moon
And by the company of Chaldean stars;
Till there came houses, bastion'd fortresses,
With lion gonfalons, and a maze of streets.
I saw the terraced pyramid of Bel;
And a vast palace with its gardens hung
As by art-magic in the spicèd air,
Pencill'd like purple islands fast asleep.
But evermore—by all the gates of brass,
And where the barges floated down the stream,
And far along the sloping line of streets
Hung with a thousand cressets naphtha-lit,
And up among the garden terraces—
I heard the murmur of Euphrates' flood.
233
The tide of life in that great city pent
Parted in twain and took its separate way.
For one moved upward by the basalt wall:
A host of fierce-eyed men with long black hair
Stream'd o'er white tunics, their dark faces wreath'd
With turbans white, in every hand a staff
Carven with lilies or with eagle head.
And haughty girls in gilded cars swept on
To the Assyrian Aphrodites' fane,
With faces passion-flush'd or terror-pale,—
Red and white roses rich, but soon to fade.
High on the palace terraces above,
There walk'd a king —it made me fear to see
How like he was to those old sculptured kings,
Black-curl'd, black-bearded, full of state and woe,
Who sit the world out on their chairs of stone,
Staring for ever on the arrow-heads,
Wherein their bloody chronicles are writ.
There, too, I saw grey-beard astrologers,
Who read the silver horologue of heaven;
And them who shape the purpose shadow'd forth
In visions of the head upon the bed;
234
Well strewn, that hath no image of its God,
Or at that other where he sits eterne,
Statue, and throne, and pedestal of gold,
Grinning and glimmering thro' the frankincense.
From all these diverse went another way
Another concourse gentler of regard.
And as a widow, when her son is dead,
Putteth her white lip down to the white shroud,
And communeth a little while with death,
So did the exiles commune with their past.
Psalms did they murmur—poesy of him,
Shepherd, king, saint, and penitent, who wore
The golden grief that gave the golden song,—
And later lamentations. For as when
A wandering man, beside an ocean shore
Belated, hears the waves upon the beach
Discoursing drearily, and night hangs black
On the black rocks, over the moaning sea—
But suddenly there circles in the gloom
A bird's voice wailing, like a soul in pain,
Not dispossess'd of some immortal hope:
So Jeremiah wailed o'er Judah's path,
Still round and round that strange old alphabet
Weaving his long funereal chant of woe,
Still singing sweetly of the seventy years!
Another concourse gentler of regard.
And as a widow, when her son is dead,
Putteth her white lip down to the white shroud,
And communeth a little while with death,
So did the exiles commune with their past.
Psalms did they murmur—poesy of him,
Shepherd, king, saint, and penitent, who wore
The golden grief that gave the golden song,—
And later lamentations. For as when
A wandering man, beside an ocean shore
Belated, hears the waves upon the beach
Discoursing drearily, and night hangs black
On the black rocks, over the moaning sea—
But suddenly there circles in the gloom
A bird's voice wailing, like a soul in pain,
Not dispossess'd of some immortal hope:
235
Still round and round that strange old alphabet
Weaving his long funereal chant of woe,
Still singing sweetly of the seventy years!
I saw the exiles seek the river-side,
There where the willows grey grew in the midst
Of Babylon, and hang their harps thereon.
There where the willows grey grew in the midst
Of Babylon, and hang their harps thereon.
Thus evermore in ear of either throng
Sounded the voice of waters. It went up
Over the city, where the forests hang,
Sleepily parleying in the charmèd light
Round alabaster stairs and curious flowers
From Media brought, and sunny steeps of Ind.
How different to each!—To these it swept
On with a din of Oriental war.
It sounded an alarm that wakened up
Far echoes from far rivers all night long,
Angering the dragon in his lotos-bed,
And bringing Persian kings unto the brink
Of the Choaspes with their silver jars.
Like a soothsayer it denounced a woe
On Tigris, telling the predestined time
When he should wail along a waste of bricks
Painted with pine-cones and colossal bulls.
And like a divination it aroused
As it were gods ascending from the earth,
Disquieting old kings to bring them up,
Urukh and Ilgi, Iva, and the rest,
Whose politic alliances, fierce wars,
And love and hate have perished like themselves,
Forgotten in the city where they dwelt.
Sounded the voice of waters. It went up
Over the city, where the forests hang,
Sleepily parleying in the charmèd light
Round alabaster stairs and curious flowers
From Media brought, and sunny steeps of Ind.
How different to each!—To these it swept
On with a din of Oriental war.
It sounded an alarm that wakened up
Far echoes from far rivers all night long,
Angering the dragon in his lotos-bed,
And bringing Persian kings unto the brink
Of the Choaspes with their silver jars.
Like a soothsayer it denounced a woe
On Tigris, telling the predestined time
When he should wail along a waste of bricks
Painted with pine-cones and colossal bulls.
236
As it were gods ascending from the earth,
Disquieting old kings to bring them up,
Urukh and Ilgi, Iva, and the rest,
Whose politic alliances, fierce wars,
And love and hate have perished like themselves,
Forgotten in the city where they dwelt.
But to the other throng the river told
Things written in their great old Hebrew book.
It told how it had swept through Eden once,
A bright chord of the fourfold river-lyre.
And it had old-world songs of Abraham,
And him of Rehoboth who went to rule
Among the dark-eyed dukes on Seir's red rocks,
And him of Pethor, walking wrapped in thought.
Anon it seem'd to sing: ‘My waves flow past
A dungeon, and one bound with chains of brass,
A king, a crownless, childless, eyeless ghost!
And on my surface lights and shadows play,
And moonlights quiver on the ripply lines,
The silver roll among my sighing reeds,
And the stars look into my silent depths,
But on the awful river of his thoughts,
Black as the waters of a mountain lake
What time the hills are powder'd white with snow,
Sunlight, and moon, and stars, are not at all:
Dark, dark, all draped with shadows of his life.’
Things written in their great old Hebrew book.
It told how it had swept through Eden once,
A bright chord of the fourfold river-lyre.
And it had old-world songs of Abraham,
And him of Rehoboth who went to rule
Among the dark-eyed dukes on Seir's red rocks,
And him of Pethor, walking wrapped in thought.
Anon it seem'd to sing: ‘My waves flow past
A dungeon, and one bound with chains of brass,
A king, a crownless, childless, eyeless ghost!
237
And moonlights quiver on the ripply lines,
The silver roll among my sighing reeds,
And the stars look into my silent depths,
But on the awful river of his thoughts,
Black as the waters of a mountain lake
What time the hills are powder'd white with snow,
Sunlight, and moon, and stars, are not at all:
Dark, dark, all draped with shadows of his life.’
There came another tale—a legend wild—
How the Ten Tribes, the banish'd of the Lord,
Took counsel with themselves, that they would leave
The multitude of heathen, and fare forth
To a far country where there never came
Oarsman or sail. A penitential host,
They enter'd the Euphrates by the ford.
And often hath the moon at midnight hung
Pillars of luminous silver o'er the wave,
But not a pillar half so broad and bright
As that which steered them on while the Most High
Held still the flood. And aye their way they took
Twice nine long months, until they reach'd the land
Arsareth. There the mountains gird them in;
And o'er the gleaming granite pass white clouds,
That sail from awful waterfalls, and catch
And tear their silver fleeces on the pines.
And never hunter scaled those granite peaks,
And never wandering man hath heard the roar
Of cataracts soften'd through those folds of fir,
But a great temple hangs upon the hills.
And ever and anon rolls through its gates
A mighty music, washing through the pines,
And silver trumps still snarl at the new moon;
And all their life is sacrament, and psalm,
Vesper, or festival, and holy deed.
There do they dwell until the latter time,
When God Most High shall stay the springs again.
How the Ten Tribes, the banish'd of the Lord,
Took counsel with themselves, that they would leave
The multitude of heathen, and fare forth
To a far country where there never came
Oarsman or sail. A penitential host,
They enter'd the Euphrates by the ford.
And often hath the moon at midnight hung
Pillars of luminous silver o'er the wave,
But not a pillar half so broad and bright
As that which steered them on while the Most High
238
Twice nine long months, until they reach'd the land
Arsareth. There the mountains gird them in;
And o'er the gleaming granite pass white clouds,
That sail from awful waterfalls, and catch
And tear their silver fleeces on the pines.
And never hunter scaled those granite peaks,
And never wandering man hath heard the roar
Of cataracts soften'd through those folds of fir,
But a great temple hangs upon the hills.
And ever and anon rolls through its gates
A mighty music, washing through the pines,
And silver trumps still snarl at the new moon;
And all their life is sacrament, and psalm,
Vesper, or festival, and holy deed.
There do they dwell until the latter time,
When God Most High shall stay the springs again.
239
The waters changed their meaning. There came down
Some of the others to Euphrates' brink,
And much they question'd why those harps hung there.
Saying, ‘Come, sing us one of Sion's songs!’
How shall they sing God's song in the strange land?
For it is native of the Temple, laid
Like a white flower on Moriah's breast;
And it is not for Asia's sealike plain,
But for the shadows of the purple hills;
Not for the broad and even-pulsing stream,
But for the land where Jordan passioneth
His poetry of waterfalls night and day,
Anger'd by cataracts, lull'd by nightingales,
Crown'd with white foam, and triumphing for ever,
That is to the Euphrates, as a saint
Full of sweet yearnings and of tears divine
Is to some cold and passionless idol god,
Imprison'd in its rigid marble lines.
Some of the others to Euphrates' brink,
And much they question'd why those harps hung there.
Saying, ‘Come, sing us one of Sion's songs!’
How shall they sing God's song in the strange land?
For it is native of the Temple, laid
Like a white flower on Moriah's breast;
And it is not for Asia's sealike plain,
But for the shadows of the purple hills;
Not for the broad and even-pulsing stream,
But for the land where Jordan passioneth
His poetry of waterfalls night and day,
Anger'd by cataracts, lull'd by nightingales,
Crown'd with white foam, and triumphing for ever,
That is to the Euphrates, as a saint
Full of sweet yearnings and of tears divine
Is to some cold and passionless idol god,
Imprison'd in its rigid marble lines.
240
Next, as from a far country, there came one.
Slow was his gait, his garment travel-stain'd,
And in his hand methought he held a scroll,
Written from right to left Semitic-wise.
And one said to him, ‘Wherefore art thou come?’
And he, ‘I come from him of Anathoth.’
Whereat he bound a stone upon the scroll,
And flung it far away into the flood;
When suddenly a trumpet-blast wax'd loud
Against Chaldea, rousing Ararat,
And Ashkenaz and Minni, kingdoms old.
Yea, instantaneously a mighty voice
Of Heaven, and earth, and all that is therein,
Sang over Babylon. And as far north
The ice-bound mariner looks up, and lo!
The sky is spann'd with the auroral arch,
And the Heav'n, full of glory, blossometh
With light unspeakable: so now, methought,
The sky grew radiant up above my head,
World upon world. Triumphantly I heard
Angels, archangels, and the company
Of Heav'n chanting unto golden harps
With exultation—‘Babylon the great
Is fallen, fallen’—and from earth below
Rose echo, ‘Fallen, fallen,’ back again.
Whereon I thought that I could hear far off
The cedars and the firs of Lebanon,
With a wind rustling all their odorous robes,
That shaped itself in long low syllables,
As if a happy thought went sighing through
Their dark green halls and sombre colonnades,
Saying, ‘No feller comes against us now,
Since they have laid thee low, O Babylon!’
And the great river sobb'd, ‘O Babylon!’
I beheld gods, and demigods, and kings,
Mere shadows upon unsubstantial thrones.
I saw the crowns upon their wither'd brows,
Like the thin circlet of the waning moon
Ring'd by a thin white cloud. Ranged were they all,
A royal consistory, row on row,
Sleeping their sleep. But now their ranks were stirred,
Like wan leaves, shrunken, scarcely substantive,
The chestnuts' ashes, or the beeches' fire—
Up-stirr'd in heaps, and a shrill murmuring went
Among them, like the wailing of the birds.
And they look'd narrowly on one that came
Into their company, and laugh'd, and said,
‘How art thou fallen, O thou Morning star!
For we are kings at least, and take our fill
Of rest, each one in glory on his bed,
Strewn with sweet odours, divers kinds of spice.
But thou art as a wanderer in our land,
Thy carcase trodden under foot of men—
Disrobed, dissceptred, dropp'd with blood, discrown'd!’
Thereat Heav'n and the abyss were mute once more,
And the curse fell upon broad walls, high gates,
Utterly broken, burnèd in the fire:
And the curse fell on garden-terraces,
Faded, all faded, like a golden cloud,
Or tumbled like a cliff in heaps of stones;
And the curse fell upon Euphrates last,
Fountain and flood and all his sea dried up.
Slow was his gait, his garment travel-stain'd,
And in his hand methought he held a scroll,
Written from right to left Semitic-wise.
And one said to him, ‘Wherefore art thou come?’
And he, ‘I come from him of Anathoth.’
Whereat he bound a stone upon the scroll,
And flung it far away into the flood;
When suddenly a trumpet-blast wax'd loud
Against Chaldea, rousing Ararat,
And Ashkenaz and Minni, kingdoms old.
Yea, instantaneously a mighty voice
Of Heaven, and earth, and all that is therein,
Sang over Babylon. And as far north
The ice-bound mariner looks up, and lo!
The sky is spann'd with the auroral arch,
And the Heav'n, full of glory, blossometh
With light unspeakable: so now, methought,
The sky grew radiant up above my head,
World upon world. Triumphantly I heard
Angels, archangels, and the company
Of Heav'n chanting unto golden harps
241
Is fallen, fallen’—and from earth below
Rose echo, ‘Fallen, fallen,’ back again.
Whereon I thought that I could hear far off
The cedars and the firs of Lebanon,
With a wind rustling all their odorous robes,
That shaped itself in long low syllables,
As if a happy thought went sighing through
Their dark green halls and sombre colonnades,
Saying, ‘No feller comes against us now,
Since they have laid thee low, O Babylon!’
And the great river sobb'd, ‘O Babylon!’
I beheld gods, and demigods, and kings,
Mere shadows upon unsubstantial thrones.
I saw the crowns upon their wither'd brows,
Like the thin circlet of the waning moon
Ring'd by a thin white cloud. Ranged were they all,
A royal consistory, row on row,
Sleeping their sleep. But now their ranks were stirred,
Like wan leaves, shrunken, scarcely substantive,
The chestnuts' ashes, or the beeches' fire—
242
Among them, like the wailing of the birds.
And they look'd narrowly on one that came
Into their company, and laugh'd, and said,
‘How art thou fallen, O thou Morning star!
For we are kings at least, and take our fill
Of rest, each one in glory on his bed,
Strewn with sweet odours, divers kinds of spice.
But thou art as a wanderer in our land,
Thy carcase trodden under foot of men—
Disrobed, dissceptred, dropp'd with blood, discrown'd!’
Thereat Heav'n and the abyss were mute once more,
And the curse fell upon broad walls, high gates,
Utterly broken, burnèd in the fire:
And the curse fell on garden-terraces,
Faded, all faded, like a golden cloud,
Or tumbled like a cliff in heaps of stones;
And the curse fell upon Euphrates last,
Fountain and flood and all his sea dried up.
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Yet other shapes and sounds came to me still.
I saw a fire dark-red in the fierce sky,
Three shadowy figures flitting to and fro;
Far off I heard their Benedicite.
I saw a host, across the river's bed,
Marching right onward to a palace-gate,
Whence from a great feast fled a thousand lords,
And dark sultanas dress'd in white symars.
And in the hall I saw a blaze of light
Round gold and silver cups of strange device,
And one mysterious figure, scarlet-robed,
Waiting unmoved, and on the daïs high
A king, the wine still red on his white lips.
And I beheld a barge upon the wave;
Lo! at its helm there was a godlike form,
A glittering tiar above his kausia.
Sitting the centre of a light of gems,
Shadow'd by silk-embroider'd sails, he steered
His pinnace to the dyke Pallakopas,
Keeping his royal court and state on deck,
As his yacht bore him to see the pictured graves
Of the old kings, that sleep world without end,
Where shadows are the only moving things.
And one kept court upon the deck as well,
A skeleton grim and stern, and that was Death.
And next a stately chamber, muffled round
With golden curtains, rose beside the stream:
And, his face cover'd with a silken veil,
Walked the Resch-Glutha among agèd men,
Thin faces, pinch'd-up foreheads, narrow hearts,
Whereon the thoughts of God's eternal book
Are stamp'd in petty legendary lore,
As the great waves with all their noble beat
Carve out thin feather'd lines along the strand.
And last I thought Euphrates was dried up,
And o'er his bed the kings of the Orient,
Saying with war's full stream of clanging gold,
March'd to the battle of Almighty God.
I saw a fire dark-red in the fierce sky,
Three shadowy figures flitting to and fro;
Far off I heard their Benedicite.
I saw a host, across the river's bed,
Marching right onward to a palace-gate,
Whence from a great feast fled a thousand lords,
And dark sultanas dress'd in white symars.
And in the hall I saw a blaze of light
Round gold and silver cups of strange device,
And one mysterious figure, scarlet-robed,
Waiting unmoved, and on the daïs high
A king, the wine still red on his white lips.
And I beheld a barge upon the wave;
Lo! at its helm there was a godlike form,
A glittering tiar above his kausia.
Sitting the centre of a light of gems,
Shadow'd by silk-embroider'd sails, he steered
His pinnace to the dyke Pallakopas,
Keeping his royal court and state on deck,
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Of the old kings, that sleep world without end,
Where shadows are the only moving things.
And one kept court upon the deck as well,
A skeleton grim and stern, and that was Death.
And next a stately chamber, muffled round
With golden curtains, rose beside the stream:
And, his face cover'd with a silken veil,
Walked the Resch-Glutha among agèd men,
Thin faces, pinch'd-up foreheads, narrow hearts,
Whereon the thoughts of God's eternal book
Are stamp'd in petty legendary lore,
As the great waves with all their noble beat
Carve out thin feather'd lines along the strand.
And last I thought Euphrates was dried up,
And o'er his bed the kings of the Orient,
Saying with war's full stream of clanging gold,
March'd to the battle of Almighty God.
245
Once more before me swept the moonlit stream
That had entranced me with its memories—
A thousand battles, and one burst of psalms,
Rolling his waters to the Indian Sea
Beyond Balsara and Elana far,
Nigh to two thousand miles from Ararat.
And his full music took a finer tone,
And sang me something of a ‘gentler stream’
That rolls for ever to another shore
Whereof our God Himself is the sole sea,
And Christ's dear love the pulsing of the tide,
And His sweet Spirit is the breathing wind.
Something it chanted, too, of exiled men
On the sad bank of that strange river Life,
Hanging the harp of their deep heart desires
To rest upon the willow of the Cross,
And longing for the everlasting hills,
Mount Sion, and Jerusalem of God.
And then I thought I knelt, and kneeling heard
Nothing—save only the long wash of waves,
And one sweet psalm that sobbed for evermore.
That had entranced me with its memories—
A thousand battles, and one burst of psalms,
Rolling his waters to the Indian Sea
Beyond Balsara and Elana far,
Nigh to two thousand miles from Ararat.
And his full music took a finer tone,
And sang me something of a ‘gentler stream’
That rolls for ever to another shore
Whereof our God Himself is the sole sea,
And Christ's dear love the pulsing of the tide,
And His sweet Spirit is the breathing wind.
Something it chanted, too, of exiled men
On the sad bank of that strange river Life,
Hanging the harp of their deep heart desires
To rest upon the willow of the Cross,
And longing for the everlasting hills,
Mount Sion, and Jerusalem of God.
And then I thought I knelt, and kneeling heard
Nothing—save only the long wash of waves,
And one sweet psalm that sobbed for evermore.
The ‘Chief of the Captivity’ among the Babylonian Jews. The emara, Mischna, and Talmud grew up in Babylon.
246
TO ROBERT JOCELYN ALEXANDER
Suspected all my life of poetry,Late have I come to make confession here—
Late, late indeed, in autumn of my year,
I gather up my sheaves that scatter'd lie,
Some faint far light of immortality
Falling upon my harvest—the severe
Reproachful winds whistling into mine ear,
‘Come, gather up thy sheaves before thou die.’
Sheaves! at that word of valleys thick with corn
I think, and how along their golden line
To Joseph's ev'n his sire's obeisance did!
But thee thy three triumphal years adorn,
Three sheaves of prose and verse—and on my lid
A proud tear trembles for a son like mine.
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ISHMAEL
An angel's voice—and lo! on Hagar's ears,
Sitting in Zophar by the well forlorn,
Four words—the future of a life unborn;
Four words—the story of four thousand years!
Sitting in Zophar by the well forlorn,
Four words—the future of a life unborn;
Four words—the story of four thousand years!
Here in this West, the land of onward wills,
Our restless history moves, and all things change;
But there they stand unmoved, as is the range
And steadfast front of the eternal hills.
Our restless history moves, and all things change;
But there they stand unmoved, as is the range
And steadfast front of the eternal hills.
And as the man for ever, so the race,
Wearing about it through the changeless years
The selfsame laughters and the selfsame tears,
The selfsame lights and shadows on the face!
Wearing about it through the changeless years
The selfsame laughters and the selfsame tears,
The selfsame lights and shadows on the face!
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So Ishmael yet can rein his battle steeds
Over the burning stretches vast and wide,
The country from the Red Sea's western side
To where Euphrates moans among his reeds;
Over the burning stretches vast and wide,
The country from the Red Sea's western side
To where Euphrates moans among his reeds;
Then back and back, o'er miles of desert sand,
Till over-wearied horse and rider rest
Beneath some Pyramid, whose lofty crest
Welcomes them nobly to their mother-land.
Till over-wearied horse and rider rest
Beneath some Pyramid, whose lofty crest
Welcomes them nobly to their mother-land.
Shall there be music for them? any cry?
Yes! Memnon, rousing when the dawn is near,
Shall wake a strain so desolate and drear,
It suits the wanderer's children riding by.
Yes! Memnon, rousing when the dawn is near,
Shall wake a strain so desolate and drear,
It suits the wanderer's children riding by.
A race not wholly cursed, not wholly blest,
Countless as sands—into the desert vast
Plump after plump of spears before me past,
Seeking, it seem'd in vain, for any rest.
Countless as sands—into the desert vast
Plump after plump of spears before me past,
Seeking, it seem'd in vain, for any rest.
I thought the centuries were rolling back,
And those wild horsemen as they rode apace
Might meet the wandering father of their race,
And comfort Hagar on her lonely track;
And those wild horsemen as they rode apace
Might meet the wandering father of their race,
And comfort Hagar on her lonely track;
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And they might come ere the quick evening fell—
Future and past together strangely met,—
And find the mother, and with lips still wet
The boy reviving by that charmèd well.
Future and past together strangely met,—
And find the mother, and with lips still wet
The boy reviving by that charmèd well.
Round them a space of yellow sand unroll'd
Lies weltering in the evening's purple light—
His heritage and theirs—before the night
Sweeps the red sunlight from that cloth of gold.
Lies weltering in the evening's purple light—
His heritage and theirs—before the night
Sweeps the red sunlight from that cloth of gold.
Vain fancy; for no thought the poet weaves,
Clothing his figures with a mortal toil,
Can add aught nobler—nay, would rather spoil
The simple truth on God's immortal leaves,
Clothing his figures with a mortal toil,
Can add aught nobler—nay, would rather spoil
The simple truth on God's immortal leaves,
Which, undestroy'd, lives on divinely yet.
For whensoe'er an Ishmael is born,
Then are the lips of Hagar wreath'd in scorn,
And Sarah's bitter heart can not forget.
For whensoe'er an Ishmael is born,
Then are the lips of Hagar wreath'd in scorn,
And Sarah's bitter heart can not forget.
Its streams shall fail not, for in every clime
Hagars and Ishmaels of years to be,
Lifting up sudden eyes of hope, shall see
The fountain love amid the sands of time;
Hagars and Ishmaels of years to be,
Lifting up sudden eyes of hope, shall see
The fountain love amid the sands of time;
250
And God be with them, coming as He came—
Not Isaac's only, but the Lord of all;
Softly on overburden'd hearts shall fall
The music of His universal Name.
Not Isaac's only, but the Lord of all;
Softly on overburden'd hearts shall fall
The music of His universal Name.
Short glimpse of heaven, and brief respite from pain;
For all the future, with its heavy cost
Of progress unattain'd, and blessings lost,
Of tears and triumphs, calls us back again.
For all the future, with its heavy cost
Of progress unattain'd, and blessings lost,
Of tears and triumphs, calls us back again.
Thou shalt not set thy city on a hill,
There to hold festival, and royal state,
Girdled with walls, and buckled with a gate,
And fondly thinking to abide there still,—
There to hold festival, and royal state,
Girdled with walls, and buckled with a gate,
And fondly thinking to abide there still,—
Like some grey king, upon his head a crown,
Dreaming in some grey castle, unaware
Of Time's fell feet upon the marble stair,
Stealing right on to shake his greatness down.
Dreaming in some grey castle, unaware
Of Time's fell feet upon the marble stair,
Stealing right on to shake his greatness down.
Thou, too, art but a mortal! yet thy roof
Is builded up of air, and lit with stars;
Thy pillars are the fluted sunrise bars,
Thy walls of rock are time and tempest-proof.
Is builded up of air, and lit with stars;
Thy pillars are the fluted sunrise bars,
Thy walls of rock are time and tempest-proof.
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There thou shalt dwell, in more than kingly power,
Beneath some palm; and when the hills show brown
At even, with the shadows bowing down,
Shalt bow and worship in that holy hour.
Beneath some palm; and when the hills show brown
At even, with the shadows bowing down,
Shalt bow and worship in that holy hour.
Oh, the poor mother that was never wife!
The twice-pathetic anguish of the slave;
Turning away from that she could not save,
Fainting so fast beside the streams of life.
The twice-pathetic anguish of the slave;
Turning away from that she could not save,
Fainting so fast beside the streams of life.
Yet her wild son some earthly blessing wins—
Children, the earnest of a countless race,
With sunrise on the dying archer's face,
Fallen amid his twelve stout Paladins:
Children, the earnest of a countless race,
With sunrise on the dying archer's face,
Fallen amid his twelve stout Paladins:
And reconciliation, it may be,
When to the silence of Machpelah's cave,
Owning the greatness of the truce death gave,
Isaac and Ishmael came heavily
When to the silence of Machpelah's cave,
Owning the greatness of the truce death gave,
Isaac and Ishmael came heavily
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To lay their father in his rocky bed.
How should they not put all contention by!
He found it such a gentle thing to die—
And there is peace amid the mighty dead.
How should they not put all contention by!
He found it such a gentle thing to die—
And there is peace amid the mighty dead.
There let them linger for a little while—
Those brothers sunder'd long and far away,—
Merging in sacred tears, what space they may,
The heavenly laughter and the mocking smile.
Those brothers sunder'd long and far away,—
Merging in sacred tears, what space they may,
The heavenly laughter and the mocking smile.
So that old story—mingled joy and strife,
Divine and human—through a mist of tears
Speaks to men's hearts across a sea of years,
True as the imperfections of our life.
Divine and human—through a mist of tears
Speaks to men's hearts across a sea of years,
True as the imperfections of our life.
Bards thou shalt have, importunate to sing
Of gorgeous love, and how the fights were fought;
Bright songs, with no deep undertone of thought—
Rich jewels sparkling round a meaner thing.
Of gorgeous love, and how the fights were fought;
Bright songs, with no deep undertone of thought—
Rich jewels sparkling round a meaner thing.
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Ah! how unlike the melody he found,
The shepherd, when his waves of music broke
Upon the ringing shores of souls, and woke
A twofold poetry of thought, and sound!
The shepherd, when his waves of music broke
Upon the ringing shores of souls, and woke
A twofold poetry of thought, and sound!
Thy minstrels shall pass out into the dark,
The flowers of language change 'neath other skies—
On alien tongues their delicacy dies—
God only stamps a universal mark.
The flowers of language change 'neath other skies—
On alien tongues their delicacy dies—
God only stamps a universal mark.
No son of thine, a flush upon his brow,
Shall sink with many sunsets to the West;
No travell'd breezes give him far-off rest,
No virgin waters sing around his prow.
Shall sink with many sunsets to the West;
No travell'd breezes give him far-off rest,
No virgin waters sing around his prow.
Lay we such triumph by, 'tis none of thine!
Thou drinkest not from any peaceful cup;
When the wild tribes are out, and standards up,
Of blood—blood red, the colour of thy wine:
Thou drinkest not from any peaceful cup;
When the wild tribes are out, and standards up,
Of blood—blood red, the colour of thy wine:
254
From distant mountains, from the lone hill ledge,
The Arabs sweep to battle thro' the night,
Their snowy caftans—a fell line of white—
Showing along the swarthy battle edge;
The Arabs sweep to battle thro' the night,
Their snowy caftans—a fell line of white—
Showing along the swarthy battle edge;
As on that impious day when, neck to neck
In one array 'gainst Israel, were seen
The sons of Moab, with the Hagarene;
Gebal was there, Ammon, and Amalek.
In one array 'gainst Israel, were seen
The sons of Moab, with the Hagarene;
Gebal was there, Ammon, and Amalek.
And still the picture darkens, till we see
Only that wondrous contrast, which the pen
Of Paul has set before the eyes of men,—
The offspring of the bondmaid, and the free.
Only that wondrous contrast, which the pen
Of Paul has set before the eyes of men,—
The offspring of the bondmaid, and the free.
Not thine, O Ishmael, the gain and loss,
The gloom and gleam of type o'er Isaac's race,
That brighten'd on to an immortal Face,
And deepen'd to the shadow of the Cross.
The gloom and gleam of type o'er Isaac's race,
That brighten'd on to an immortal Face,
And deepen'd to the shadow of the Cross.
255
For thee no recompense the ages hold,
No God Incarnate springing from thy line;
On earth no Virgin with a Son Divine;
In heaven no eastern star's prophetic gold.
No God Incarnate springing from thy line;
On earth no Virgin with a Son Divine;
In heaven no eastern star's prophetic gold.
Oh, ‘wild, not free,’ the slave-born's deepest brand,
Imprison'd in a changeless mould of mind,
With passions shifting like the shifting wind,
And hand still lifted 'gainst the lifted hand.
Imprison'd in a changeless mould of mind,
With passions shifting like the shifting wind,
And hand still lifted 'gainst the lifted hand.
If less the height of grace, then less the fall,
Less gifted, having wander'd less away.
Thou hast no brightest and no darkest day,
No Bethlehem, no Pilate's judgment-hall.
Less gifted, having wander'd less away.
Thou hast no brightest and no darkest day,
No Bethlehem, no Pilate's judgment-hall.
If, for thy fault, the outcast Hagar trod
Lone paths of grief, how is it not the worst,
The drearest fate, and more than twice accurst
To be the Hagar of the Church of God!
Lone paths of grief, how is it not the worst,
The drearest fate, and more than twice accurst
To be the Hagar of the Church of God!
Still Isaac wanders over land and sea,
Stopping betimes with men a little while;
There is unfathom'd sadness in his smile,
As one who looks for what has been to be.
Stopping betimes with men a little while;
There is unfathom'd sadness in his smile,
As one who looks for what has been to be.
256
Still, in that thirsty land where it befell
That one for mortal streams who thirsted sore,
But needing the immortal waters more,
Found, Hagar-like, her Lord beside the well;
That one for mortal streams who thirsted sore,
But needing the immortal waters more,
Found, Hagar-like, her Lord beside the well;
Oh, still by Sion, and where Jordan runs,
Over against his waterfalls dark gray
The Arabs pitch their nomad tents to-day
Upon the land that knoweth not her sons.
Over against his waterfalls dark gray
The Arabs pitch their nomad tents to-day
Upon the land that knoweth not her sons.
But not for ever—it shall yet be well;
And when this tyranny is overpast,
Deep respite from unquiet find at last
Alike God's Isaac and His Ishmael.
And when this tyranny is overpast,
Deep respite from unquiet find at last
Alike God's Isaac and His Ishmael.
Enough of fret and fever—he is gone;
Long ages since he yielded up his breath;
Why should he live so sadly after death?
Leave him to sleep, and let the world pass on.
Long ages since he yielded up his breath;
Why should he live so sadly after death?
Leave him to sleep, and let the world pass on.
Seek not to raise again the broken psalm,
So strangely utter'd to the desert sky;
After quick throbbing, it is sweet to die,
And take a deep exchange of awful calm.
So strangely utter'd to the desert sky;
After quick throbbing, it is sweet to die,
And take a deep exchange of awful calm.
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Freely, as one not having aught to hide,
Before his brethren's faces to the last,
Softly and gallantly the wild soul pass'd;
Homelike and hero-like the death he died.
Before his brethren's faces to the last,
Softly and gallantly the wild soul pass'd;
Homelike and hero-like the death he died.
So rest in death's dark tent beyond thy wars,
Where noise of battle doth for ever cease,
Nor earthly weeping break upon thy peace,
Under the brimm'd eyes of the Eastern stars.
Where noise of battle doth for ever cease,
Nor earthly weeping break upon thy peace,
Under the brimm'd eyes of the Eastern stars.
Dear is the boon that much oblivion gave;
Not monumental marble for the head,
But kindly gloom around the quiet dead,—
The requiescat of an unknown grave.
Not monumental marble for the head,
But kindly gloom around the quiet dead,—
The requiescat of an unknown grave.
And I, upon the wings of thought would bear
Thy body from the noise of busy men,
Into the heart of some untrodden glen,
Far off amid the lustrous mountain air;
Thy body from the noise of busy men,
Into the heart of some untrodden glen,
Far off amid the lustrous mountain air;
258
There to be buried when the night shall fall,
In Sinai, a bowshot from the crest,
Caught like a child, into its mother's breast—
The bosom of the Hagar of St. Paul.
In Sinai, a bowshot from the crest,
Caught like a child, into its mother's breast—
The bosom of the Hagar of St. Paul.
ROBERT JOCELYN ALEXANDER.
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