 | Love-Songs |  |
160
TO CHRIST.
Have we not garlands in these latter days
Whether of gold or rosebuds or of bays—
Have we not fitting joys and loves to treasure—
Snow-stars of winter, green light spring-tide sprays,
Passion with heart-throbs tender beyond measure;
Friendship of manhood, woman's love and praise?
Whether of gold or rosebuds or of bays—
Have we not fitting joys and loves to treasure—
Snow-stars of winter, green light spring-tide sprays,
Passion with heart-throbs tender beyond measure;
Friendship of manhood, woman's love and praise?
Have we not white seas beating round our shores
And in our ironbound creeks the throb of oars?
Have we not all the early summer sweetness
Of morning, and delight that even pours
Upon us at the burning day's completeness—
And the same sunset's cloud-built golden doors?
And in our ironbound creeks the throb of oars?
Have we not all the early summer sweetness
Of morning, and delight that even pours
Upon us at the burning day's completeness—
And the same sunset's cloud-built golden doors?
What is there wanting? Are the skies not gold?
The clouds not tipped with crimson as of old?
Is the gold hair of women grown less ample—
The fire of love a worn-out thing and cold—
Yea, do the heavy-footed centuries trample
All that humanity would clasp, enfold?
The clouds not tipped with crimson as of old?
Is the gold hair of women grown less ample—
The fire of love a worn-out thing and cold—
Yea, do the heavy-footed centuries trample
All that humanity would clasp, enfold?
161
May we not mark within our own grey sea
Tints fairer than o' the lake of Galilee?
Is any flower than the English rose more splendid?
Are women than our women more divine?
Are sweeter sprays and goldener extended
In Jewish fields than English lush woodbine?
Tints fairer than o' the lake of Galilee?
Is any flower than the English rose more splendid?
Are women than our women more divine?
Are sweeter sprays and goldener extended
In Jewish fields than English lush woodbine?
Can we not meet the high God face to face,
Yea, pant and wrestle for his pure embrace?
Oh, what have we to do with legends devious
On whose clear brows the English God hath shone?
Why bind our souls by lore of ages previous—
Why guide our spirits by aspirations gone?
Yea, pant and wrestle for his pure embrace?
Oh, what have we to do with legends devious
On whose clear brows the English God hath shone?
Why bind our souls by lore of ages previous—
Why guide our spirits by aspirations gone?
See how the sweet sun on our cliff-tops shines;
Sweeter than suns that thread meandering vines;
There is not any greater God or purer
Than the strong God within the soul of each:
Nor God-inspired majestic record surer
Than the long centuries of English speech.
Sweeter than suns that thread meandering vines;
There is not any greater God or purer
Than the strong God within the soul of each:
Nor God-inspired majestic record surer
Than the long centuries of English speech.
Lo! in the gathered voice of English song
Is God, than Gods of Jewish speech more strong,
Than all the Hellenic oracles supremer,
Than Christ's own crown and spirit more divine:
England rise up! thou slow of heart, thou dreamer!
Lo! here is God, and not in Palestine!
Is God, than Gods of Jewish speech more strong,
Than all the Hellenic oracles supremer,
Than Christ's own crown and spirit more divine:
England rise up! thou slow of heart, thou dreamer!
Lo! here is God, and not in Palestine!
162
Lo! here to-day the high God stands before
Thy face O England and his feet thy floor
Impress, and he within thy blue waves singeth
And on the green slopes of thy thousand hills:
Be blind no more,—see all the bloom he bringeth,
Mark how his endless hand thy summer fills.
Thy face O England and his feet thy floor
Impress, and he within thy blue waves singeth
And on the green slopes of thy thousand hills:
Be blind no more,—see all the bloom he bringeth,
Mark how his endless hand thy summer fills.
Traitor thou art: yea traitor to thy Lord,
And murderer of thy God with foolish sword:
He stands before thee, and thou dost not know him
But wanderest in the Palestinian vales;
Yea, blind, inane and vain, thou dost forego him
And Eastward spreadest soulless fatuous sails.
And murderer of thy God with foolish sword:
He stands before thee, and thou dost not know him
But wanderest in the Palestinian vales;
Yea, blind, inane and vain, thou dost forego him
And Eastward spreadest soulless fatuous sails.
Traitor thou art, O England! rise up now
And gaze towards thine own sky with fearless brow:
Hear thou within the music of thy waters
The many-voiced fair psalm of God thy king;
Mark in the flower-sweet white forms of thy daughters
The fairest blossoms that the ages bring.
And gaze towards thine own sky with fearless brow:
Hear thou within the music of thy waters
The many-voiced fair psalm of God thy king;
Mark in the flower-sweet white forms of thy daughters
The fairest blossoms that the ages bring.
Christ's voice was sweet, but sweeter is thine own
O England, and a loftier seat thy throne
Than his throne; O Lord Christ shalt thou for ever
Rule with thine alien sceptre young great lands?
Shall these rise up full-grown, defiant, never?
Is there no foot against thy foot that stands?
O England, and a loftier seat thy throne
Than his throne; O Lord Christ shalt thou for ever
Rule with thine alien sceptre young great lands?
Shall these rise up full-grown, defiant, never?
Is there no foot against thy foot that stands?
163
Yea, I stand forth to-day in England's name
And through my song upon my fellows shame
I cry in that they spread not fearless pinions,
And haply so transcend thee in the air,
Reaching auguster spirit-high dominions,
Finding a Father's bosom yet more fair!
And through my song upon my fellows shame
I cry in that they spread not fearless pinions,
And haply so transcend thee in the air,
Reaching auguster spirit-high dominions,
Finding a Father's bosom yet more fair!
A tenderer Mother-God in star-strewn night,
A kinglier Father-God within the bright
Abode of day; king Christ, thou art usurper
Of English hearts! thy crown shall pass away,
Thy chant be but as tongue of linnet-chirper
To future nightingales' full-voicèd lay.
A kinglier Father-God within the bright
Abode of day; king Christ, thou art usurper
Of English hearts! thy crown shall pass away,
Thy chant be but as tongue of linnet-chirper
To future nightingales' full-voicèd lay.
The age advances: lo! the white waves break
With thunder upon thunder, and they take
The trembling shore by inches; art thou stable
When all life's sands and rocks are insecure?
Thine empire rotten, and thy creed a fable,
Shalt thou, the unsuccessful prince, endure?
With thunder upon thunder, and they take
The trembling shore by inches; art thou stable
When all life's sands and rocks are insecure?
Thine empire rotten, and thy creed a fable,
Shalt thou, the unsuccessful prince, endure?
Successful art thou, and triumphant, king!
Victorious and snow-white thine outspread wing!
But not victorious as the priests who crown thee,
Victorious only through the simple soul:
In waves of blood these friends of thine would drown thee,
And tides of blood above thy followers roll.
Victorious and snow-white thine outspread wing!
But not victorious as the priests who crown thee,
Victorious only through the simple soul:
In waves of blood these friends of thine would drown thee,
And tides of blood above thy followers roll.
164
The soul of man is thine; and thine own town:
Jerusalem thou hast for seal and crown,
But not the towers of ours the Western nations,
Yea, not the roses of our English fields!
Offerings of Easterns, sacrifice, oblations,
But not the corn the white chalk-cliff-top yields.
Jerusalem thou hast for seal and crown,
But not the towers of ours the Western nations,
Yea, not the roses of our English fields!
Offerings of Easterns, sacrifice, oblations,
But not the corn the white chalk-cliff-top yields.
Thou hast for handmaids English maidens frail
Who turned at thy presumptuous coming pale,
Forsook their English lover-souls and gave thee
What feeble power of passion-joy they knew:
Thou hast not, nor shouldst have from hell to save thee,
One great soul of one English woman true.
Who turned at thy presumptuous coming pale,
Forsook their English lover-souls and gave thee
What feeble power of passion-joy they knew:
Thou hast not, nor shouldst have from hell to save thee,
One great soul of one English woman true.
Rest thou content with glances dark and hold
Thine hand from meddling with bright locks of gold:
Test not the Northern heart or Northern weather
But dwell thou in thy balmy Palestine,
Thine olive-skinned lithe loves and thou together,
Thou hast no rule where English grey eyes shine.
Thine hand from meddling with bright locks of gold:
Test not the Northern heart or Northern weather
But dwell thou in thy balmy Palestine,
Thine olive-skinned lithe loves and thou together,
Thou hast no rule where English grey eyes shine.
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