 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE CARDINAL'S LAMENT
ROME: EASTER DAY, 1872
O perfect bride of God, renew thy tears;
Waken, my Rome, my chosen; feel the chains
Around thy sacred limbs; the iron weighs
Thy sweet hand earthward: lonely art thou bound,
In fetters, Rome, A mighty broken queen,
Staring with wild eyes at the Easter dawn—
Thro' all the night most patient till the ray—
The awful dumb dead night, wherein the Lord's
White body lay, with red wounds of the nails,
Waiting the resurrection touch to move;
And all the watcher angels o'er his shroud
Held awful silence, dim among the gloom,
Nor dared to stir or rustle any wing!
Waken, my Rome, my chosen; feel the chains
Around thy sacred limbs; the iron weighs
Thy sweet hand earthward: lonely art thou bound,
In fetters, Rome, A mighty broken queen,
Staring with wild eyes at the Easter dawn—
Thro' all the night most patient till the ray—
The awful dumb dead night, wherein the Lord's
White body lay, with red wounds of the nails,
Waiting the resurrection touch to move;
And all the watcher angels o'er his shroud
Held awful silence, dim among the gloom,
Nor dared to stir or rustle any wing!
In hope they waited; we have watched in none.
Lo! yonder sailing mist of signal rose
Is Easter, our celestial rising-day—
Easter in Rome, where Easter meant so much,
And drew the world a pilgrim; where men deemed
Her gorgeous consecrations here on earth
Some foretaste of the festival in Heaven.
Lo! yonder sailing mist of signal rose
Is Easter, our celestial rising-day—
Easter in Rome, where Easter meant so much,
And drew the world a pilgrim; where men deemed
Her gorgeous consecrations here on earth
Some foretaste of the festival in Heaven.
Beautiful sleeps the city in her mist.
Still are the fountains, calm her mighty squares,
Untrodden all her labyrinth of ways.
The very doves are silent and asleep
That build about St. Peter's. All the trees
In the Pope's garden seem blurred heads of cloud.
The great dome looms dull brown, unburnished yet:
Beneath whose soundless aisles in glory sleep
The dead Popes in their order, pale and still
And patient till the coming of their Christ;
That Easter of all graves, when Christ shall call
To his doom-angel, “Blow, the hour is ripe,
And ended is the sorrow of my own,
And ready is my sentence on the dead;
I have completed all my saints, and come.
Gather the nations. I will judge and end!”
Still are the fountains, calm her mighty squares,
Untrodden all her labyrinth of ways.
The very doves are silent and asleep
That build about St. Peter's. All the trees
In the Pope's garden seem blurred heads of cloud.
The great dome looms dull brown, unburnished yet:
Beneath whose soundless aisles in glory sleep
52
And patient till the coming of their Christ;
That Easter of all graves, when Christ shall call
To his doom-angel, “Blow, the hour is ripe,
And ended is the sorrow of my own,
And ready is my sentence on the dead;
I have completed all my saints, and come.
Gather the nations. I will judge and end!”
Come! for the earth is heavy, and we mourn.
Ah, spare us many Easters like this last;
For now the ungodly chide at us, and say,
We have no Christ this Easter to arise,
We watch corruption by some common grave,
Our Christ is in the ground, he will not hear.
We are dreamers, how in some old fabled tale,
A good man died unjustly, lay in earth,
How soldiers sealed the cavern of his rest;
How lovely dawned that Easter, when of old
The Galilean women came to weep,
Loving the gentle prophet that was gone.
So far the tale is credible: but now
We hear of certain angels, when indeed
Philosophy has settled there were none.
We hear of how the cold dead Christ arose—
But one wise Frenchman wrote a pretty book,
And proved that dead men always fell to dust.
Ah, spare us many Easters like this last;
For now the ungodly chide at us, and say,
We have no Christ this Easter to arise,
We watch corruption by some common grave,
Our Christ is in the ground, he will not hear.
We are dreamers, how in some old fabled tale,
A good man died unjustly, lay in earth,
How soldiers sealed the cavern of his rest;
How lovely dawned that Easter, when of old
The Galilean women came to weep,
Loving the gentle prophet that was gone.
So far the tale is credible: but now
We hear of certain angels, when indeed
Philosophy has settled there were none.
We hear of how the cold dead Christ arose—
But one wise Frenchman wrote a pretty book,
And proved that dead men always fell to dust.
So they blaspheme the watchers at thy grave—
Ah, God, the infidel is master here.
Here in thy Rome, thy last Jerusalem,
Thy righteous rose, the city of thy priests.
Is it well seen, O God? The abominable
Hath circled us weak fishes with his net.
His chain is on thy vicar, lord of stars;
The prisoner father droops in lonely halls,
The purple princes of the conclave weep.
While northern vermin, exiles, Piedmontese,
Scum of the alp-root, turn the holy town
To one vast barrack-yard of noisy war;
Set sentinels, have beacons, order camps,
Clatter along our squares, blow horns, beat drums;
Until the voices of our rhythmic bells
Are shamed to silence in a place of siege,
And mighty Rome lies dumb without a word.
Ah, God, the infidel is master here.
Here in thy Rome, thy last Jerusalem,
Thy righteous rose, the city of thy priests.
Is it well seen, O God? The abominable
Hath circled us weak fishes with his net.
His chain is on thy vicar, lord of stars;
The prisoner father droops in lonely halls,
The purple princes of the conclave weep.
While northern vermin, exiles, Piedmontese,
Scum of the alp-root, turn the holy town
To one vast barrack-yard of noisy war;
Set sentinels, have beacons, order camps,
Clatter along our squares, blow horns, beat drums;
Until the voices of our rhythmic bells
Are shamed to silence in a place of siege,
And mighty Rome lies dumb without a word.
53
Behold a trumpet from the Capitol
Calls through the shallow vapour of the dawn.
“The night in heaven is done, but not in Rome,
Her eyes are tender to sustain the sun—
She loves her prison-shadows more than day.”
A bugle answers from the Palatine,
“Great Rome is vanquished, fallen. We have come
And conquered the impregnable, the joy
Of God, the lamp of nations. At her gates
We rode, and blew a careless blast and won.
She is bound, we have bound her, we!”
Calls through the shallow vapour of the dawn.
“The night in heaven is done, but not in Rome,
Her eyes are tender to sustain the sun—
She loves her prison-shadows more than day.”
A bugle answers from the Palatine,
“Great Rome is vanquished, fallen. We have come
And conquered the impregnable, the joy
Of God, the lamp of nations. At her gates
We rode, and blew a careless blast and won.
She is bound, we have bound her, we!”
And who are these,
Who call so proudly out of Cæsar's nest?
“We are Italians and have conquered Rome.”
If ye indeed be sons of Italy,
Ye are risen against your mother, with foul hands
Ye have smitten upon your parent's holy face,
Ye have bruised her sacred lips until they bleed:
Your hands are red: ask pardon on your knees.
“She turned a tyrant, therefore is she bound;
Turin hath conquered Rome.” O deed of shame!
The weasel triumphs in the wolf-cub's lair.
Shall Rome hew Piedmont's wood, go to the well
For Piedmont; fetch and carry, as she's told,
Take buffets in the service of this thing?
Rome with her grand commemorative past,
Searching her annals, reading on her tombs,
Hath only heard of Piedmont yesterday;
As pasture of some hunger-bitten cows
Fed in the misty alp-heart up in heaven;
A realm of neat-herds, frozen in the cold.
Are these thy spoilers, city of the sun,
At whose great royal breasts the baby mouths
Of emperors drew nurture? Is this thou,
Whose mother-vein abounding gave to these
Their after strength to bruise and break the world?
Thy power was on them and they overcame,
And meted out the immeasurable earth
Among the purple nurslings of their loins.
Thy yesterdays, my Rome, are wonderful,
But awful change hath snapt thee in its snare,
With iron edge of strange calamities.
Bring down, my queen, thy bosom on the dust,
Shame thy bright hair with ashes; be their slave,
This hungry tribe of ragged mountaineers,
Who drape themselves in robes that Brutus wore,
And say, “We are Italy!” Return, keep cows,
Bring fodder in. Ye are herdsmen, brutish, boors!
Our common earth is nobler than your lives,
Our soil is mingled with imperial dust,
Our city is one catacomb of kings.
Begone! your feet defile your masters' grave.
But your realm rose a mushroom in the night,
Sardinians. “Nay,” ye answer, “we are risen,
Being the sons of progress in the south;
Ours is the ‘liberal’ kingdom, typifies
The new emergence of the baby-world
To ampler knowledge. Turin with her heel
Upon Rome's neck, means old theology
Prostrate before philosophy's new dawn;
Victor in Rome means light in the human soul—
But you, who blame our Piedmont, have good heed,
You with the tonsure, teacher of the folds,
Priest, prophet, in whatever name or robe,
You lend God man-ward, and raise men to God—
Behold, to all your sort the crucial hour
Arrives, the world-child strengthens out its limbs,
The papmeat season never can return.
Cleanse your religion clean of mythic lore,
Heave out old forms and fables to the deep.
The peoples roar for reasonable meat,
Keen they discern the draff among the food;
Humour their fancies else they will away;
The sheep will crawl for pasture to the wolf;
And leave you droning mass in empty fanes,
And tear the titles to your revenues.
Therefore, O priest, chop science with the best,
Cram us with reason, demonstrate, convince,
Avoid all dogma, or apologise
If gritty Athanasian bits protrude.
Lead us in roads historically laid,
Well lamped at intervals, without a rut
To jug the queasy conscience into doubt.
Then quietly thy sheep in tribes shall come,
And tinkle after with obedient bleats
Him with the crook, the triple cap, and keys.
Hold to the causeway Reason; Faith's a slough
On either hand. One tread, you're ankle-deep,
The next inextricably over-ears.
The flock forbade its pastor to diverge,
So far as hoof bit rock it followed him;
Here it tried footing, sniffed, and halted dead;
He blundered on, the quagmire sucked him in;
His woolbacks move without him; serve him right!”
Who call so proudly out of Cæsar's nest?
“We are Italians and have conquered Rome.”
If ye indeed be sons of Italy,
Ye are risen against your mother, with foul hands
Ye have smitten upon your parent's holy face,
Ye have bruised her sacred lips until they bleed:
Your hands are red: ask pardon on your knees.
“She turned a tyrant, therefore is she bound;
Turin hath conquered Rome.” O deed of shame!
The weasel triumphs in the wolf-cub's lair.
Shall Rome hew Piedmont's wood, go to the well
For Piedmont; fetch and carry, as she's told,
Take buffets in the service of this thing?
Rome with her grand commemorative past,
Searching her annals, reading on her tombs,
Hath only heard of Piedmont yesterday;
As pasture of some hunger-bitten cows
Fed in the misty alp-heart up in heaven;
A realm of neat-herds, frozen in the cold.
Are these thy spoilers, city of the sun,
At whose great royal breasts the baby mouths
Of emperors drew nurture? Is this thou,
Whose mother-vein abounding gave to these
Their after strength to bruise and break the world?
Thy power was on them and they overcame,
And meted out the immeasurable earth
Among the purple nurslings of their loins.
Thy yesterdays, my Rome, are wonderful,
But awful change hath snapt thee in its snare,
With iron edge of strange calamities.
Bring down, my queen, thy bosom on the dust,
Shame thy bright hair with ashes; be their slave,
This hungry tribe of ragged mountaineers,
54
And say, “We are Italy!” Return, keep cows,
Bring fodder in. Ye are herdsmen, brutish, boors!
Our common earth is nobler than your lives,
Our soil is mingled with imperial dust,
Our city is one catacomb of kings.
Begone! your feet defile your masters' grave.
But your realm rose a mushroom in the night,
Sardinians. “Nay,” ye answer, “we are risen,
Being the sons of progress in the south;
Ours is the ‘liberal’ kingdom, typifies
The new emergence of the baby-world
To ampler knowledge. Turin with her heel
Upon Rome's neck, means old theology
Prostrate before philosophy's new dawn;
Victor in Rome means light in the human soul—
But you, who blame our Piedmont, have good heed,
You with the tonsure, teacher of the folds,
Priest, prophet, in whatever name or robe,
You lend God man-ward, and raise men to God—
Behold, to all your sort the crucial hour
Arrives, the world-child strengthens out its limbs,
The papmeat season never can return.
Cleanse your religion clean of mythic lore,
Heave out old forms and fables to the deep.
The peoples roar for reasonable meat,
Keen they discern the draff among the food;
Humour their fancies else they will away;
The sheep will crawl for pasture to the wolf;
And leave you droning mass in empty fanes,
And tear the titles to your revenues.
Therefore, O priest, chop science with the best,
Cram us with reason, demonstrate, convince,
Avoid all dogma, or apologise
If gritty Athanasian bits protrude.
Lead us in roads historically laid,
Well lamped at intervals, without a rut
To jug the queasy conscience into doubt.
Then quietly thy sheep in tribes shall come,
And tinkle after with obedient bleats
Him with the crook, the triple cap, and keys.
Hold to the causeway Reason; Faith's a slough
On either hand. One tread, you're ankle-deep,
The next inextricably over-ears.
The flock forbade its pastor to diverge,
So far as hoof bit rock it followed him;
55
He blundered on, the quagmire sucked him in;
His woolbacks move without him; serve him right!”
Which is a parable! and comes to this,—
An evil people, greedy of a sign,
Must comprehend to worship, analyse
Ere they adore. Each individual soul
With his small lanthorn walks the world alone;
He lifts no eyes on heaven's high fitful stars;
Indeed he cannot kindle or relume
Those large white lamps of God; a rush-light's best,
Whose feeble sputtering insignificance
You trim yourself to grapple with the gloom.
An evil people, greedy of a sign,
Must comprehend to worship, analyse
Ere they adore. Each individual soul
With his small lanthorn walks the world alone;
He lifts no eyes on heaven's high fitful stars;
Indeed he cannot kindle or relume
Those large white lamps of God; a rush-light's best,
Whose feeble sputtering insignificance
You trim yourself to grapple with the gloom.
Ye blind and lonely fellers in the dark,
Ye halt men arrogant, ye wise run mad,
Who shall provide such gropers with a god,
Before what essence will ye bend your knees?
Believe in Euclid, worship axioms,
Trust in triangles, to a cube sing hymns!
I see no other worship for the fools.
Ye halt men arrogant, ye wise run mad,
Who shall provide such gropers with a god,
Before what essence will ye bend your knees?
Believe in Euclid, worship axioms,
Trust in triangles, to a cube sing hymns!
I see no other worship for the fools.
Have ye not understood, ere time began
Reason and Faith have been unreconciled?
Their feud is old as ocean, keen as fire;
As oil and acid mingle so do they.
You cannot build a reasonable faith.
Vain is your labour, if you rear a wall
And smear no mortar in between the chinks.
Ah, teacher, build thy little tower of cards.
Try! Meet all views, prune, sift, avoid old sores,
Tread upon no man's theologic corns;
Frame some mild creed with neither back nor bones,
A mist of genial benevolences
To please all round, Budd, Calvin, Moses, Comte.
Fair bodes the scheme in its first fluid stage,—
It makes a tidy pamphlet, well reviewed,—
But crystallise it can't, except around
Some little tiny notion of a god,
Some germ organic in the central haze
To vivify and quicken the inert;
Some atom-grain of personality
To sweeten and begin a crust of rays.
Reason and Faith have been unreconciled?
Their feud is old as ocean, keen as fire;
As oil and acid mingle so do they.
You cannot build a reasonable faith.
Vain is your labour, if you rear a wall
And smear no mortar in between the chinks.
Ah, teacher, build thy little tower of cards.
Try! Meet all views, prune, sift, avoid old sores,
Tread upon no man's theologic corns;
Frame some mild creed with neither back nor bones,
A mist of genial benevolences
To please all round, Budd, Calvin, Moses, Comte.
Fair bodes the scheme in its first fluid stage,—
It makes a tidy pamphlet, well reviewed,—
But crystallise it can't, except around
Some little tiny notion of a god,
Some germ organic in the central haze
To vivify and quicken the inert;
Some atom-grain of personality
To sweeten and begin a crust of rays.
56
Here your dilemma rises, man of mind.
Either ignore your god-mote, leave your scheme
A vapid thing to fester on grey shelves,
Limp, theoretic, leprous, flat, inane;
Or accept something which transcends your rules,
And promulgate your germ-god's attributes;
Till by degrees your wary pen grows warm,
And the third column of your monograph
Lands you in purest dogma half-way down;
Then the pace strengthens, acrid, on you flow
Till finis dubs you scientific pope,
Damning opponents all to left or right,
As idiots or as rascals. Rome herself
Ne'er fulminated deeper. Hold, my friend:
Remember where we started; reason and sight,
All else you rolled away. Where are we now?
Either ignore your god-mote, leave your scheme
A vapid thing to fester on grey shelves,
Limp, theoretic, leprous, flat, inane;
Or accept something which transcends your rules,
And promulgate your germ-god's attributes;
Till by degrees your wary pen grows warm,
And the third column of your monograph
Lands you in purest dogma half-way down;
Then the pace strengthens, acrid, on you flow
Till finis dubs you scientific pope,
Damning opponents all to left or right,
As idiots or as rascals. Rome herself
Ne'er fulminated deeper. Hold, my friend:
Remember where we started; reason and sight,
All else you rolled away. Where are we now?
Your fairest hope is, you may frame at best,
An almost credible theology.
Alas, wise man, that “almost” ruins all,
It means you postulate one thing on trust;
Be it the least division of a hair,
One fibre in a gnat; confession's made
That some faith's wanted. Faith, say, in a midge.
Concede me this—I answer, then believe
In Juggernaut and all his monstrous heads;
Size is no test to the deductive brain;
In each the mental process is the same.
Neither the gnat nor idol can be proved,
You took the midge on trust, accept the god!
An almost credible theology.
Alas, wise man, that “almost” ruins all,
It means you postulate one thing on trust;
Be it the least division of a hair,
One fibre in a gnat; confession's made
That some faith's wanted. Faith, say, in a midge.
Concede me this—I answer, then believe
In Juggernaut and all his monstrous heads;
Size is no test to the deductive brain;
In each the mental process is the same.
Neither the gnat nor idol can be proved,
You took the midge on trust, accept the god!
The nations are as children, after all;
Some blink, some blinkard. You or I of these
See by some inches further than our nose.
I grant our reason's keener, but what then?
The contradictions in the simplest creed,
The reasonablest revelation known,
Are to our wits and those of country clods
An equal wall of nonsense. We are lithe,
And they are lame, but Atlas intervenes,
And neither can o'erleap his barrier rocks.
Inform a drayman two and two are five,
He stares and lounges on. Repeat the lie
To some great thinker gravely, he growls out,
“Disturb me not; return, O dunce, to school.”
Some blink, some blinkard. You or I of these
See by some inches further than our nose.
I grant our reason's keener, but what then?
The contradictions in the simplest creed,
The reasonablest revelation known,
Are to our wits and those of country clods
An equal wall of nonsense. We are lithe,
And they are lame, but Atlas intervenes,
And neither can o'erleap his barrier rocks.
Inform a drayman two and two are five,
He stares and lounges on. Repeat the lie
To some great thinker gravely, he growls out,
“Disturb me not; return, O dunce, to school.”
57
Suppose God said, “Believe that two straight lines
Could hedge a space in; be convinced of this,
Or miserably perish. On this truth
My church is founded. All who contradict
Are lost throughout the abysses of all time.”
Will reason help you here? You shudder. No.
Dismiss the fancy, and compare the fact.
How hath the just God spoken? He hath bound
All nations at their peril to receive,
That perfect God was also perfect man.
Digest this truth by reason, if you may;
Reason won't aid; at faith arrive you must
Sooner or later; and if you take in
One grain by faith which reason cannot chew,
You may as well swallow a mountain down,
And lay all doubt asleep, and rest your brains
And conscience in a comfortable church;
Nor let the devils lash you out to the hills
To chop dry logic in the barren cold,
Beneath the stern inexorable stars.
Could hedge a space in; be convinced of this,
Or miserably perish. On this truth
My church is founded. All who contradict
Are lost throughout the abysses of all time.”
Will reason help you here? You shudder. No.
Dismiss the fancy, and compare the fact.
How hath the just God spoken? He hath bound
All nations at their peril to receive,
That perfect God was also perfect man.
Digest this truth by reason, if you may;
Reason won't aid; at faith arrive you must
Sooner or later; and if you take in
One grain by faith which reason cannot chew,
You may as well swallow a mountain down,
And lay all doubt asleep, and rest your brains
And conscience in a comfortable church;
Nor let the devils lash you out to the hills
To chop dry logic in the barren cold,
Beneath the stern inexorable stars.
What follows? Has God left the world quite dark?
Have all the ages tumbled men to hell
Along the lampless ledges of the past?
Pitiful souls, whose reason led them wrong.
Is there no beacon ready till the dawn,
No light his love hath saved us? Blind, behold
His affluence dwells among us; and ye turn
And answer, “Show us God and it's enough.”
Lo, Peter's chair, and God in flesh thereon!
Have all the ages tumbled men to hell
Along the lampless ledges of the past?
Pitiful souls, whose reason led them wrong.
Is there no beacon ready till the dawn,
No light his love hath saved us? Blind, behold
His affluence dwells among us; and ye turn
And answer, “Show us God and it's enough.”
Lo, Peter's chair, and God in flesh thereon!
Refuse the truth, hale down his vicar's throne,
Lead back the lees of Rome to mock and spit
At the old venerable saint, whose locks
Are white with many winters of long prayer,
Whose hand is weak with blessing men so long,
Whose kind eyes sadden at your ruffian deeds.
Are ye come up with tumult to destroy?
To quench our only light and leave the world
Eyeless and dark—as here our Easter is.
Destruction is so easy. God allows
The fiends to overturn, that they may feel
Horrible hell around them when all's done,
And awful isolation from their deed.
Lead back the lees of Rome to mock and spit
At the old venerable saint, whose locks
Are white with many winters of long prayer,
Whose hand is weak with blessing men so long,
Whose kind eyes sadden at your ruffian deeds.
Are ye come up with tumult to destroy?
To quench our only light and leave the world
Eyeless and dark—as here our Easter is.
Destruction is so easy. God allows
The fiends to overturn, that they may feel
Horrible hell around them when all's done,
And awful isolation from their deed.
58
But, ah, ye errant peoples of God's fold,
How would this holy foster-mother Rome,
Have gathered you between her ample wings,
And called you in beneath her silken plumes,
And yet ye would not. Her sweet house and ours
Is surely left unto us desolate;
And God's own chosen flower, celestial Rome,
Is chained lamenting in her Easter dawn.
How would this holy foster-mother Rome,
Have gathered you between her ample wings,
And called you in beneath her silken plumes,
And yet ye would not. Her sweet house and ours
Is surely left unto us desolate;
And God's own chosen flower, celestial Rome,
Is chained lamenting in her Easter dawn.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |