 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
242
THE AGONY OF THE AGE.
Horror of darkness, agony of craving
And straining after what we cannot see,
Bound hand and foot, fast, powerless to flee,
One moment dumb with stupor, wildly raving
The next, a maddening memory still saving
Deep down within some ancient recollection
Of life and love and laughter and affection,
Green fields and flowers and leaves and branches waving;
Pierces the walls of e'en this hideous prison
A ray of light, a memory of the sea
Dancing beneath a summer sun new-risen,
Risen for all things else, not risen for me,
A dream, a vain mirage, a vanishing vision,
That leaves the dark a deeper dark to be;
And straining after what we cannot see,
Bound hand and foot, fast, powerless to flee,
One moment dumb with stupor, wildly raving
The next, a maddening memory still saving
Deep down within some ancient recollection
Of life and love and laughter and affection,
Green fields and flowers and leaves and branches waving;
Pierces the walls of e'en this hideous prison
A ray of light, a memory of the sea
Dancing beneath a summer sun new-risen,
Risen for all things else, not risen for me,
A dream, a vain mirage, a vanishing vision,
That leaves the dark a deeper dark to be;
243
A consciousness of misery, and of gladness
A pale faint shadow that seemeth æons old,
A dream that's talked about, a tale that's told,
A dim delusion, echo of all men's madness,
Their refuge from the pelting storms of sadness,
A hut, a furze-bush on a lonely wold;
Short time it shields them for the walls are rolled
Asunder, and reality that had less
Pity than foe that waits to gather force,
Beats hard upon them, and they fold their arms,
And take it as the merest matter of course,
And close their eyes, and see the wondrous charms
Of Beauty fade and fall without remorse,
And all the might of men, and war's alarms,
And warrior's ecstasy, and love that strengthens,
And strainèd hour of battle life that lengthens,
And sink beneath a weight of windless calms;
A pale faint shadow that seemeth æons old,
A dream that's talked about, a tale that's told,
A dim delusion, echo of all men's madness,
Their refuge from the pelting storms of sadness,
A hut, a furze-bush on a lonely wold;
Short time it shields them for the walls are rolled
Asunder, and reality that had less
Pity than foe that waits to gather force,
Beats hard upon them, and they fold their arms,
And take it as the merest matter of course,
And close their eyes, and see the wondrous charms
Of Beauty fade and fall without remorse,
And all the might of men, and war's alarms,
And warrior's ecstasy, and love that strengthens,
And strainèd hour of battle life that lengthens,
And sink beneath a weight of windless calms;
244
At times they rouse them, rise, and feebly wonder,
“What was it—where is it—can it be true—
The life we lived, the work we used to do,
The open sea, the sky, the clouds, the thunder,
The piled-up heaps by lightning torn asunder
With intermittent glimpses of the blue,
The force of freshness when we rose anew
The purse of each new day's delights to plunder?”
Raising their heads and looking each to other,
Resting a weary brain on weary hand,
Each says to each, “do you believe it, brother,
Is it a dream, or was there such a land,
A land of love, of sister and of mother,
Have we lain here for ever, did we stand
Once fair among the foremost doing battle,
Rejoicing in the roaring and the rattle,
Or is it all a desolate waste of sand?
“What was it—where is it—can it be true—
The life we lived, the work we used to do,
The open sea, the sky, the clouds, the thunder,
The piled-up heaps by lightning torn asunder
With intermittent glimpses of the blue,
The force of freshness when we rose anew
The purse of each new day's delights to plunder?”
Raising their heads and looking each to other,
Resting a weary brain on weary hand,
Each says to each, “do you believe it, brother,
Is it a dream, or was there such a land,
A land of love, of sister and of mother,
Have we lain here for ever, did we stand
Once fair among the foremost doing battle,
Rejoicing in the roaring and the rattle,
Or is it all a desolate waste of sand?
245
“Whose fault is it, why is it we are sleeping
With weary heads upon the yellow sand,
A circle of sleepers, an inactive band,
Stiff as the stony circle that is keeping
Mute watch at Stonehenge, while the world is weeping,
Laughing, enjoying, tasting tears and sorrow,
And mirthfulness to-day and death to-morrow,
And times of birth, of sowing and of reaping?
Were it not well at least to have a part
In action, to immerse oneself in living,
Though action brought with it a keener smart
Than Buddhist feels his conscious life upgiving
To the Infinite Soul, to mingle in the mart,
And drink one's fill of struggling and of striving?
With weary heads upon the yellow sand,
A circle of sleepers, an inactive band,
Stiff as the stony circle that is keeping
Mute watch at Stonehenge, while the world is weeping,
Laughing, enjoying, tasting tears and sorrow,
And mirthfulness to-day and death to-morrow,
And times of birth, of sowing and of reaping?
Were it not well at least to have a part
In action, to immerse oneself in living,
Though action brought with it a keener smart
Than Buddhist feels his conscious life upgiving
To the Infinite Soul, to mingle in the mart,
And drink one's fill of struggling and of striving?
246
“But who will set us free? the winds are free,
The waters rise and fall for very gladness,
The evening pang, the shadow of sunset sadness
At morning advent fades in infinite glee,
The leaves pass kisses on from tree to tree,
The summer brings a sound of happy lovers,
An everlasting tunefulness that hovers
High on the hills, and shines upon the sea;
The Universe is Happiness—but we,
Striving in vain to tear away the chains
That circle us, the more acutely see
Our own consuming atmosphere of pains,
Long only the more maddeningly to flee,
The more triumphantly the sunshine reigns
Without us, the more ecstasy in the sky,
The more would we weave wings for us and fly,
But back we sink exhausted on the plains;
The waters rise and fall for very gladness,
The evening pang, the shadow of sunset sadness
At morning advent fades in infinite glee,
The leaves pass kisses on from tree to tree,
The summer brings a sound of happy lovers,
An everlasting tunefulness that hovers
High on the hills, and shines upon the sea;
The Universe is Happiness—but we,
Striving in vain to tear away the chains
That circle us, the more acutely see
Our own consuming atmosphere of pains,
Long only the more maddeningly to flee,
The more triumphantly the sunshine reigns
Without us, the more ecstasy in the sky,
The more would we weave wings for us and fly,
But back we sink exhausted on the plains;
247
“Black plains of horror, destitute of greenness,
Brooding above them lowers a lurid sky,
We gasp, and, could we, willingly would die
If but to escape the visions of uncleanness
And tear aside the rags and robes of meanness,
The rags that flutter around us as we lie;
The silence, piled upon us mountains high,
Burns in upon our brainlessness, sereneness
Of Infinite Atmosphere towers above our faces,
We sink into ourselves and fall for ever
And find no footing in the void, endeavour
A something sometimes seen in distant places,
A creature of the fancy, or a star
At times appearing dimly from afar,
While Hope, the Rainbow-Goddess, leaveth never
Of passage of her train the tiniest traces.”
Brooding above them lowers a lurid sky,
We gasp, and, could we, willingly would die
If but to escape the visions of uncleanness
And tear aside the rags and robes of meanness,
The rags that flutter around us as we lie;
The silence, piled upon us mountains high,
Burns in upon our brainlessness, sereneness
Of Infinite Atmosphere towers above our faces,
We sink into ourselves and fall for ever
And find no footing in the void, endeavour
A something sometimes seen in distant places,
A creature of the fancy, or a star
At times appearing dimly from afar,
While Hope, the Rainbow-Goddess, leaveth never
Of passage of her train the tiniest traces.”
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