 | Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love |  |
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THE DYING SWAN.
I.
Fair as the crescent Moon supine in Heaven,Floating among the Reeds which seemed to love her,
Beneath an emerald Willow, late at even,
Weeping upon the River just above her—
As if the soul within was music that did move her—
II.
A virgin Swan came in the time of Spring,Wrapped in the winding-sheet of her own whiteness—
Her Heaven-revealing dying Song to sing—
Breasting the stream with such majestic brightness
It seemed awe-struck beneath her bosom's downy lightness.
III.
The cataract of her song, at first, was mild,But like Ezekiel's River, wider growing,
Till all the world became an ocean wild—
It gathered volume with its onward flowing—
As if her joy sprung from the bliss she was bestowing.
IV.
As if some Angel down from Heaven had comeTo sing the Great Day of the Resurrection,
When all the thunder-cataracts grew dumb
At his loud Gabriel-voice—by God's direction,
Opening the graves for Man to rise in every section—
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V.
Like that great Amphionic-Song of joy,Whose Mountain-moving, Titan-jubilations
Built up, impregnable, the walls of Troy—
Giving to stones the heart's divine pulsations—
While teaching Heaven's world-making tongue unto the Nations—
VI.
Her mighty, soul-uplifting melody—Strong as an Angel's wing rising to glory
With the redeemed who died in purity—
Shouting to Angels at Heaven's Gate the story
Of her release from Earth where she had long been sorry—
VII.
In clarion-shouts of blissful joyance sprungOut of her heart in whirlwind-jubilations—
Rising in fiery swiftness from her tongue,
In wild, Elysian chant—as when two Nations,
Like clouds do thunder, lift their Heavenward acclamations
VIII.
In Hallelujah-shouts for Liberty's dear sake—Upsent out of each lightning-soul in thunder—
As if each mighty, Titan-heart would break
With its great earthquake-joy—tearing asunder
The Tyrant's throne—mute now with supernatural wonder!
IX.
Till all the golden-tongued PieridesUpon the Olympian Mountain loudly singing—
Filling Thessalia's Vale with music to the seas,
Whose storm-uplifted billows now were flinging
Their tribute of rare shells upon the shore, upspringing—
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X.
Were hushed to silence mute as hungry DeathWhen listening for the footsteps of the Living;
Till great Poseidon held his mighty breath,
The tribute of rare audience mutely giving—
Proclaiming, louder than in storms, the joy he was receiving.
XI.
This Niobe of Birds, rapt in Apocalypse,Deluged the world with her Seraphic wailing—
Turning the Stars in Heaven to an eclipse—
(Her joy, at length, above her grief prevailing—)
Proving that all except Grief's Song for grief is unavailing.
XII.
Thus did her soul pour forth its song's deep meer,In emulation of the God-like thunder
Of Saturn-overturning Jupiter,
Whose Heaven-usurping vengeance took with wonder
The Immortal Gods—tearing their Ramparts all asunder!
XIII.
Like some impetuous River to the Sea,Greening the Vallies through which it goes rolling,
With vital freshness—her sweet melody,
In crystal, joy-creating, grief-controlling
Volume, poured through all the thirsting world its cool consoling.
XIV.
Then, as some Dove-like Soul on wings of fire—(Forced from her husband twice on earth to sever—)
In blazing Chariot from her funeral pyre,
Ascends to Heaven unscathed, rejoicing ever—
All purified, redeemed from mortal taint forever—
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XV.
Swift rising on the circling wings of song,Out of her burning heart in transport soaring—
Leaving the Harp vibrating of her tongue—
So rose her soul—(all other souls restoring—)
Up to the God in Heaven she died on earth adoring.
XVI.
The cloud-sustaining, many-folded Hills—The soft, retiring mystery of the Vallies—
The open frankness of the verdant Fields—
The winding labyrinths of the emerald Alleys—
The bending Heavens, with all the Stars in cyclic sallies—
XVII.
The open mouths of Mountains—the dim Caves—Echoed her music with reverberant thunder,
From their sepulchral throats—deep as the grave's—
Dying around Night's throne now torn asunder—
Leaving the rapt World mute with supernatural wonder!—
XVIII.
This was the Gospel taught by that rapt Swan—White Angel-Prophet on the waters dying!
That many pleasures in this world foregone,
Are but the works of our great Faith relying
On Heaven for good, for which we are forever sighing.
XIX.
This was the great Evangel of that Swan—That not on Earth is that Unfading Treasure
For which we yearn as Night does for the Dawn;
But after death we shall possess the pleasure
Which God in Heaven has laid up for us without measure.
| Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love | |