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149
PROTEUS.
A sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Σοι και ξυνειμι και λογοις σ' αμειβομαι,
Κλυων μεν αυδην, ομμα δ' ουχ ορων το σον.
Eur. Hipp. 84.
Κλυων μεν αυδην, ομμα δ' ουχ ορων το σον.
Eur. Hipp. 84.
151
I
Sole in blank boundless darkness, dimly bright,The hornèd moon hangs o'er the viewless sea,
Whose faint lips at my feet wash fitfully
Up the black shingle in whisperings of crisp light.
Lonely I stand, the midnight's eremite,
Whilst my awed seaward gaze goes earnestly
Into the darkness face to face with me—
The darkness where the sea is, and the night.
And lo, I feel It coming again, again,
Up from the deeps as Proteus did of old.
Ah, wert thou like that old god of the main,
To whom we cry, ‘Unveil!’ for ever in vain,
Formless Desire, which no eye may behold,
No hands of ours can weary, and no spell chain.
152
II
Oh, bosom-friend! familiar Mystery!Oh, Lurer with veiled face! oh, Comforter!
One spirit of many forms, felt everywhere,
Who knows what manner of Spirit thou mayst be?
None, though his most loved haunts are full of thee—
Valleys where leaves and clear streams sleep and stir,
The blue flash of the diving kingfisher—
The rose whose depth of scent soft rains set free—
Though thy wild way be with the hurricane,
Thunder and cloud; though he behold the day
Cradling thee in some loneliest eastern fleece
Of crimson fire; and sadly sighing again
His evening soul bewail thee, dying away
To unknown lands, and gold Hesperian seas.
III
Lo, even now thou art very near to me,But veiled, and far as ever from my prayer.
Still my soul feels thee, and strange longings there
Start at thy voice, and cry in choirs towards thee.
In my mid soul what may this tumult be—
Longings I cannot rule, that do not dare
Whole days to stir within their secret lair,
153
One to another in a strange tongue calls:
I hearken, but can catch not what they say,
Only I hear their voices far away
Swell to a passionate clamour at intervals.
Ah, who art thou, their god? For what boon pray
These, mine own inmost soul's vague Bacchanals?
IV
What! wilt Thou never be revealed to us?Must our souls still in blindness follow Thee,
Nor, borne in swift raft over the deep sea,
Ever sleep even upon thy Dindymus?
Not ever build Thee up a pillared house,
And serve Thee with articulate liturgy?
Never before Thine altar bend our knee,
And twine rare flowers in garlands round Thy brows?
No costlier offerings than these prefer—
Blind discontent, insatiable unrest,
And lonely love following an unknown quest,
Sad as man's love for woman, and tenderer?
Lo, these be all we offer—alas! our best:
No certain gold and frankincense and myrrh!
154
V
Do we then waver, and fear we are fools and blind?Doubt we, and ask we whither lead Thy ways?
Ask, whither! Nay, see whence, pale, doubtful face!
Look back and see what things we have left behind—
Anger, and blinding lusts, and loves that bind,
And the mean voice that to any moment says
‘Stay! thou art fair;’ as with unflinching pace,
Veiled One, we follow Thee, and trust to find
Hereafter, Thee unveiled, knowing and known,
Set with a rainbow round about Thy throne,
Soul of our life's unrest! to find in Thee
The Thing we have long sought sorrowing here from far—
The Spirit of the bright and morning star,
The sunrise, and the sunset, and the sea.
An. æt. 20.
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