 | The Cup of Quietness |  |
7
THE AGE OF IRON
Let faith and hope grown grey,
Confusion and decay
Mingle their tears,
And let oblivion weave an ample shroud;
The Age of Iron is faint to death and, bowed
Beneath the burden of his hundred years,
Sinketh on time's highway.
Confusion and decay
Mingle their tears,
And let oblivion weave an ample shroud;
The Age of Iron is faint to death and, bowed
Beneath the burden of his hundred years,
Sinketh on time's highway.
Farewell!—of all the ages that have run,
Most arrogant and swift,
Most fraught with care;
Behind thee cometh one
Eager of aspect, who will dare
Thy fallen load to lift
Of dreams fulfilled, of hopes undone,
Of triumph and despair.
Most arrogant and swift,
Most fraught with care;
Behind thee cometh one
Eager of aspect, who will dare
Thy fallen load to lift
Of dreams fulfilled, of hopes undone,
Of triumph and despair.
Gather the darkness round thee and depart,
Worn brain and weary heart;
Well hast thou striven, and unashamed may'st fare
To that high senate where thy fathers brood
O'er counsels of eternity,
Travails and tribulations long gone by,
And wonders unrevealed,
Hate's frenzy healed,
War vanquished, evil overcome with good,
Christ risen, and man's accomplished brotherhood.
Worn brain and weary heart;
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To that high senate where thy fathers brood
O'er counsels of eternity,
Travails and tribulations long gone by,
And wonders unrevealed,
Hate's frenzy healed,
War vanquished, evil overcome with good,
Christ risen, and man's accomplished brotherhood.
Thy birth-cry was the crash
Of thrones, the people's wrath;
Dread and destruction o'er thy cradle hung;
And reason's lightning flash
Athwart thy doubtful path
The shadow of a tottering system flung;
Proudly thy manhood wore the bays
Of bloodless conquests; yet thy riper days
Saw not the prophet's promised life,
The nations leagued in peaceful strife,
But envious rivals, fearful of the clash
Of arms that ache with pent-up power;
And ever in thy dying ears hath rung
The laugh of them that live but to devour,
The cry of them that cower
Beneath the yoke of greed and want's remorseless lash.
Of thrones, the people's wrath;
Dread and destruction o'er thy cradle hung;
And reason's lightning flash
Athwart thy doubtful path
The shadow of a tottering system flung;
Proudly thy manhood wore the bays
Of bloodless conquests; yet thy riper days
Saw not the prophet's promised life,
The nations leagued in peaceful strife,
But envious rivals, fearful of the clash
Of arms that ache with pent-up power;
And ever in thy dying ears hath rung
The laugh of them that live but to devour,
The cry of them that cower
Beneath the yoke of greed and want's remorseless lash.
9
Of what avail to tame the levin's speed,
To hold the winds in leash and quell the waves,
If health no more be labour's meed,
If love be stifled, honour spurned,
And beauty crushed in Mammon's blind stampede?
What boots it to have turned
The soil's dull serfs to nervous factory-slaves,
If pain that stunts, if pleasure that depraves,
Hurry the haggard millions to their graves?
What gain to have been orphaned of our God,
To know, when worms destroy
Man's frame, his spirit lies beneath the sod,
If soul thereby be sacrificed to flesh,
If Christ be crucified each day afresh?
What profits it to heap
Hoard upon hoard in festering towns, and miss
The pure sky and the live air's kiss,
To weigh the stars and lack the wine of joy,
Outstrip the storm and lose the balm of sleep?
To hold the winds in leash and quell the waves,
If health no more be labour's meed,
If love be stifled, honour spurned,
And beauty crushed in Mammon's blind stampede?
What boots it to have turned
The soil's dull serfs to nervous factory-slaves,
If pain that stunts, if pleasure that depraves,
Hurry the haggard millions to their graves?
What gain to have been orphaned of our God,
To know, when worms destroy
Man's frame, his spirit lies beneath the sod,
If soul thereby be sacrificed to flesh,
If Christ be crucified each day afresh?
What profits it to heap
Hoard upon hoard in festering towns, and miss
The pure sky and the live air's kiss,
To weigh the stars and lack the wine of joy,
Outstrip the storm and lose the balm of sleep?
Gather the darkness round thee and depart,
Hot brain and restless heart;
We mourn thy death, but would not have thee stay;
Yet go not all in tears,
For through the incumbent gloom
Of thy vast cares, thy tribulation sore,
To watchful eyes at length appears
The dim uprising of a clearer day;
The shadows flee, and from the sealéd tomb
Where Christ lies stark and cold
The stone is slowly rolled;
The living Christ will dwell with men once more,
To fevered souls will tranquil strength restore,
Will quicken as of yore
The breathless clay,
Appease the waves of strife,
And pilot to the long-expected shore
The labouring bark of human life,
When we that grieve, with all that we deplore,
Have passed away.
Hot brain and restless heart;
We mourn thy death, but would not have thee stay;
Yet go not all in tears,
10
Of thy vast cares, thy tribulation sore,
To watchful eyes at length appears
The dim uprising of a clearer day;
The shadows flee, and from the sealéd tomb
Where Christ lies stark and cold
The stone is slowly rolled;
The living Christ will dwell with men once more,
To fevered souls will tranquil strength restore,
Will quicken as of yore
The breathless clay,
Appease the waves of strife,
And pilot to the long-expected shore
The labouring bark of human life,
When we that grieve, with all that we deplore,
Have passed away.
Let them whose faith is fled,
The dead, attend the dead;
But ye whose hope is fresh, whose love is young,
Go forth to greet the light
That kindles yonder height,
The dawn that seers have dreamed and poets sung;
Nor falter if the splendours ye discern
Wake but a weary smile in those
Who muse how fair the sun arose
Of their departing day,
Who marched beneath its dazzling fire,
And watched its setting glories burn
To ashen grey;
So, home returning from his toil, the sire
Wearily smiles to see his children play.
The dead, attend the dead;
But ye whose hope is fresh, whose love is young,
Go forth to greet the light
That kindles yonder height,
The dawn that seers have dreamed and poets sung;
Nor falter if the splendours ye discern
Wake but a weary smile in those
Who muse how fair the sun arose
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Who marched beneath its dazzling fire,
And watched its setting glories burn
To ashen grey;
So, home returning from his toil, the sire
Wearily smiles to see his children play.
Poor emmets, to and fro we run,
Rejoice and are afraid,
While in the night of space sun beyond sun
Doth flash awhile and fade;
The ages come and go,
But there abideth One
Whom none hath made,
From Whom all things proceed,
To Whom they flow;
Giver of breath,
Taker of all that perisheth;
Who, evermore persisting, hath no need
For pause or speed;
Who is the First and Last,
To Whom there is no future and no past,
Nor birth nor death.
Rejoice and are afraid,
While in the night of space sun beyond sun
Doth flash awhile and fade;
The ages come and go,
But there abideth One
Whom none hath made,
From Whom all things proceed,
To Whom they flow;
Giver of breath,
Taker of all that perisheth;
Who, evermore persisting, hath no need
For pause or speed;
Who is the First and Last,
To Whom there is no future and no past,
Nor birth nor death.
| The Cup of Quietness | |