The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite :: :: University of Virginia Library

Here is high teaching from the far blue lift,
For Madeline, sweet maid of Mary's gift,
By certain stars transmitted—on a beam
Of argent splendour—through a lilac haze;
A legend of the land which is not dream
Or waking, as of eyes in earthly ways,
Under the crimson splendours of the morn,
But something greater which from both is born
And far o'er life abides, in joyful stress,
Full of high state and thoughtful solemnness.

Now, list! That Madeline of white and red
Rose-blooms was wrought, who doubts?—The wise have said—
And the gold hair, assuredly, of her
Shone once upon the King-Sun's royal head,
As all the speaking parables aver,
Whence sunshine loves so well to brood thereon;
But all of scarlet was the Flying Swan

Which, on the day that Madeline was made,
God in such glory of bright plumes array'd,
And so commission'd over starry tides,
Saying:—Dear heart, have courage, a rest abides!

Now thus it is that through the breathless deeps
Of heaven's great space upon his flight he keeps:
Star after star upon the Scarlet Swan,
Pours floods of light, and ever and anon,
Athwart his path, the comets with a crash
Hurtle, the falling meteors seethe and flash;
Dark worlds, bereft of all the fire within,
Blind in the void about him feebly spin;
And where in luminous mists the starry eyes
Shew myriad points of light, swift-wing'd, he flies.

Must he not weary? For deep rest indeed
Longs he not, dreaming of the waters cool,
The clear brown stillness of some shaded pool,
A nest engirded by a world of reed?
I know at least, with keen eyes fix'd before,
And fill'd with frighten'd longing, evermore
He labours night and day to reach his end;
On Madeline, of Mary's gift, alone,
As legends tell, for help his wings depend,
Lest he faint somewhere on his paths unknown.

The Scarlet Swan to Mary's gift is bound;
With her it rests that he shall reach his end:
When she on earth is full of goodness found,
Strength and high purpose to his heart ascend.
When Mary's gift aspires to Mary's throne,
And with the will of heaven unites her own,
Asleep on dreaming wings he softly glides
And towards his end is drawn by silent tides;
But when from maiden grace and fair estate
She stoops awhile, sad is the wanderer's fate;

His flagging wings athwart the stir and stress
Of hostile currents wildly forward press;
Against dark worlds he strikes, and stars that fall
With desolating shrieks his heart appal—
Alone, St. Mary's gift; what weariness!

Now, therefore, Madeline shall, inly stirr'd
By this most faithful legend's secret word,
Reflect for ever in her heart thereon,
That so all grace and strength the Scarlet Swan
May visit in his flight, and sleep be his,
With winds that favour, till he reach where is—
O joy!—the refuge of a restful town.
Then, Swan no more, Bright Spirit under crown,
After such struggles, shall God applaud the pains,
Saying:—Dear heart, be welcome; peace remains!

Stars, and a thousand stars, and lilac lift—
God save the Scarlet Swan, save Mary's gift!