The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice:—the youthful Chief
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,
And, gay and godless, makes the present hour
Its only heaven, is now within our power.
Smooth, impious school!—not all the weapons aim'd,
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was fram'd,
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers conceal'd.
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet
As any thou canst boast—ev'n when the feet
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian blood,
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,
And bring him, tam'd and prostrate, to implore
The vilest gods ev'n Egypt's saints adore.

343

What!—do these sages think, to them alone
The key of this world's happiness is known?
That none but they, who make such proud parade
Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid,
Or that Religion keeps no secret place,
No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace?
Fools!—did they know how keen the zest that's given
To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven;
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue
Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through,
And how the Priest, set aptly within reach
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,
Would they not, Decius—thou, whom th' ancient tie
'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally—
Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?
Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers,
Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers,
For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd
That slily lurk within the Temple's shade?

344

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school—
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,
Till Pleasure's self is chill'd by Wisdom's pride—
Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,
Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,
Who, far too wise to theorise on bliss,
Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss,
Preach other worlds, but live for only this:—
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they
Alone despise the craft of us who pray;—
Still less their creedless vanity deceive
With the fond thought, that we who pray believe.
Believe!—Apis forbid—forbid it, all
Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall—
Deities, fram'd in jest, as if to try
How far gross Man can vulgarise the sky;

345

How far the same low fancy that combines
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,
And turns that Heaven itself into a place
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,
Can bring Olympus ev'n to shame more deep,
Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap,
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food—
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!—oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care
For things divine, beyond the soldier's share,
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs—
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs
Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart,
Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part—
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade
Through the foul juggling of this holy trade—
This mud profound of mystery, where the feet,
At every step, sink deeper in deceit.

346

Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,
Did I not keep still proudly in my mind
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind—
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,
To move this world, than Archimede e'er plann'd—
I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel
At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel
Besotted round; and—like that kindred breed
Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,
At fam'd Arsinoë —make my keepers bless,
With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness.

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold,
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?
It must not be:—think'st thou that Christian sect,
Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect
Their crests anew and swell into a tide,
That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride—

347

Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, ev'n they
Would triumph thus, had not the constant play
Of Wit's resistless archery clear'd their way?—
That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,
Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,
Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs
Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,
Threat'ning such change as do the awful freaks
Of summer lightning, ere the tempest breaks.

But, to my point—a youth of this vain school,
But one, whom Doubt itself hath fail'd to cool
Down to that freezing point where Priests despair
Of any spark from th' altar catching there—
Hath, some nights since—it was, methinks, the night
That follow'd the full Moon's great annual rite—
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward stray
To these earth-hidden temples, track'd his way,
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.

348

The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands
At the Well's lowest depth—which none but hands
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move—
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:—
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,
Had been observ'd, curiously wand'ring round
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, th' Initiate's Trials were prepar'd,—
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dar'd,
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Samian pass'd,
With trembling hope, to come to—what, at last?
Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim,
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those, who brave
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave,
With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep
Those terrible night-myst'ries where they weep
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze,
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities—
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men,
Drown'd, hang'd, empal'd, to rise, as gods, again;—

349

Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below
This sev'n-fold myst'ry—can they tell thee? No;
Gravely they keep that only secret, well
And fairly kept—that they have none to tell;
And, dup'd themselves, console their humbled pride
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

And such th' advance in fraud since Orpheus' time—
That earliest master of our craft sublime—
So many minor Myst'ries, imps of fraud,
From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad,
That, still to' uphold our Temple's ancient boast,
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound;
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,
With changeful skill; and make the human mind
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray,
But by the Priest's permission, wins its way—
Where through the gloom as wave our wizard rods,
Monsters, at will, are conjured into Gods;
While Reason, like a grave-faced mummy, stands,
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.

350

But chiefly in that skill with which we use
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.
And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil
Hath, for our use, scoop'd out from Egypt's soil
This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,
Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns
In a rich, sunless empire of her own,
With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne;—
A realm for mystery made, which undermines
The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines
That keep Initiation's holy rite,
Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light,
A light that knows no change—its brooks that run
Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,
Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd, surpris'd,
And all that bard or prophet e'er devis'd
For man's Elysium, priests have realiz'd.

Here, at this moment—all his trials past,
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last—

351

Our new Initiate roves—as yet left free
To wander through this realm of mystery;
Feeding on such illusions as prepare
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will,
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still;—
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown,
By scenic skill, into that world unknown,
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;
And all those other witching, wildering arts,
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,
Ay, ev'n the wisest and the hardiest, quail
To any goblin thron'd behind a veil.

Yes—such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,
Mix with his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;
Till, if our Sage be not tam'd down, at length,
His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,
Like Phrygian priests, in honour of the shrine—
If he become not absolutely mine,
Body and soul, and, like the tame decoy
Which wary hunters of wild doves employ,
Draw converts also, lure his brother wits

352

To the dark cage where his own spirit flits,
And give us, if not saints, good hypocrites—
If I effect not this, then be it said
The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,
Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chas'd
To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.

For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. x.

Pythagoras.