The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan

In Two Volumes. With a Portrait

Buchanan, Robert Williams (1841-1901)

VOL. I.

II.

VOL. II.

The Ballad of Mary the Mother.

The New Rome.

Songs of Empire.

Thro' the Great City.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

II. VOL. II.

The Earthquake.

(1885.)

DEDICATION: AD MATREM.

I.

One deathless flame, one holy name,
One light that shines where'er I move,
Are thine, out of whose life I came,
Through whom I live and love.

Dearest, I knew thee ere I knew
Myself, and, stirring to thy breath,
From fountains of thy soul I drew
This soul discerning Death.

The light of sun and stars, the clear
Still air of yonder azure space,
The seas and sands of this green sphere,
That is my dwelling-place.

All form, all motion, all delight,
Fused in thy frame flash'd on to mine,
Grew quick, and woke to sense and sight,
And last, to Love divine!

A thousand gifts the green earth gives
Out of the fulness of her breast,
But she by whom one loves and lives
Is God's gift, and the best.

Fair type of tenderness and power,
Of Love whence all things sweetly flow,
Constant as God through every hour
Of happiness or woe,—

My Mother, take the book I bring,
Sure of thy blessing on my brow!
This life of mine, these songs I sing,
Are thine,—for they are thou!

Yea, they are thine, as they are his,
That other part of thee and me,
Who greeted with a father's kiss
The child upon thy knee,

He is not lost (or all were lost);
His voice ere long shall call us hence:
Unchanged he stands, though he has crost
The borderland of sense.

For God were as a drop of dew,
If individual love could fall
Back from the conscious type, whereto
It floweth, crowning all!

When yonder sun has ceased to shine
This earth subsist, those waters roll,
God shall preserve each breathing sign
Of Love's eternal soul! . . . .

One deathless flame, one holy name,
One light that shines where'er I move,
Are thine, out of whose life I came,
Through whom I live and love!

II.

Even as I utter'd in such wise
Thy praises, kneeling on my knee,
The Spirit with the pitiless eyes
Came up and gazed on thee!

He lingered long beside thy bed,
But hour by hour his face grew fair:
The greater Spirit overhead
Was list'ning to my prayer!

Ah yes! He smiled on thee and me,
Our Father who is in the skies:
I felt His mercy—I could see
His strange, still, tearless eyes!

I clasped thee to my aching heart,
I prayed till the dread Shape passed on:
God heard my cry—He did not part
The mother and the son!

And all my pains and lonely fears
Trembled to rapturous hope, and lo!
In passionate prayer that broke to tears
I watch'd the Shadow go!

III.

I asked for bread—a stone was given;
I asked for Fame—men mock'd at me;
I asked for Love—my heart was riven
By man's worst cruelty.

I wander'd haunted and alone,
I sank in doubts from day to day;
The snake Detraction crawl'd upon
The roof'neath which I lay.

I rush'd into the world, and smote
The first proud foe that pass'd along;
Then treachery fasten'd on my throat
And drained my soul of song.

Yet, dearest, thou wast one of three
Who watch'd beside me, white as snow:
More rich than any king could be
Was I, yet did not know!

Fool, to be clamouring for gold,
When I possess'd a wealth divine!
Fool, to ask praises from the cold
World, when the worlds were mine!

Fool, to go arm'd in hate and fear,
When Heaven itself broke blue above;
Yea, thrice a fool, too deaf to hear
The still small voice of Love!

Three angels to my hearth were given—
Margaret, Mary, Harriett—
One watching waits in yonder heaven,
But two are with me yet.

Margaret with the mother's eyes,
The sad grey hair, the holy mien,
Walks by my side, while Mary lies
Under the kirkyard green.

[For darkness wrapt me like a cloud,
While the pale spirit men name Death
Came, with white lilies and a shroud,
And hush'd an angel's breath.]

And she, Love's youngest child divine,
Cloth'd on with radiance heavenly sweet,
Places her little hand in mine
And guides my faltering feet!

The earthly tumult fades away,
The waters sigh, the stars keep chime,
Rose-red the great celestial Day
Walks the waste waves of Time.

And so one thing at least is sure—
Love, and the fountain whence it flows!
God keep me passionately pure
To drink its deep repose!

Bring me no laurel wreaths to deck
My brow, no gold in large increase;
Twine loving arms around my neck,
And chain my soul to peace!

R.B.

Southend-on-Sea, Essex, May 1885.

PRELUDE.

That summer when the shocks of Earthquake came
Under the very streets of the Great City,
The Lady Barbara was the first to fly;
Yet flew not far, but pausing with her train
At Ferndale Priory, on the banks of Tweed,
Sat in the sun and held her frighten'd court.

Now thus the thing befell. The first shock came
At midnight, when the City partly slept,
But here and there, where lights of feast were lit
And men and women circled in the dance,
A murmur like the very voice of God,
A rocking like the rocking of the Deep,
Came, and the revellers looked at one another
In terror dumb as death; a moment's space,
And all again was still, and haggard men
Question'd if it had only been a dream.
Next day the public journals blazed abroad
The nameless terror; how at dead of night
A deep vibration like a thunder-crash,
Faint yet distinct, brief yet electrical,
Had run through London; how some fiery force,
Volcanic, geocentric, such as that
Which in the former time laid Lisbon low,
Had stirred the roots of that vast tree of life,
The mighty City; how the troubled Thames
Had risen like a serpent in the night,
And, shuddering, overflown its slimy banks;
How the dark streets were shaken, rocked, and riven,
Above the sudden and mysterious swell
Of some dark subterranean sea of fire.

With hand half-palsied from a nameless fear
The newsman nigh forgot his flowers of speech,
Telling of columns tottering to the fall,
Of shattered dwellings and of broken panes,
Of sleepers wakening in the dead of night,
Their white beds surging like the waves o' the sea!

At Limehouse, on the troubled river-side,
A factory had fallen; farther east,
A narrow street had open'd to its sewers,
Just wide enough to show the seams of stone,
While the black dwellings upon either side,
With fissured walls and crackling window-panes,
Rock'd back from their foundations, but as yet
Stood firm and fell not; on the western side
Of great St. Paul's, by folk descried at dawn,
A running crack like forkèd lightning ran—
Strange as the fabled writing on the wall,
And, like that writing, ominous of doom.
Yet, for the rest, the City stood unscathed.
The Earthquake, like a monster lioness
Watching its victim, some poor helpless lamb,
Having first stretched one cruel fatal claw
To strike it into terror, crouch'd unseen,
While through the affrighted victim's feeble frame
Trembled mesmeric thrills of nameless fear
And dangerous expectation. All next day
The trouble and the hum of terror grew,
And when again the clouds of darkness fell,
Men feared to creep into their beds and sleep,
Lest the dark Deep should open under them!
So many sat in vigil, listening
All through the solemn watches of the night,
Which nevertheless passed by in starry peace;
And when the next night, and the next again,
Went by in silence, London breath'd once more,
The sounds of life once more grew jubilant,
And from their watch-towers and observatories
The hierarchy of Science reassured
The trembling townsfolk, bade them cast off fear,
Because the threat of doom had passed away.

But on the fourth night, when the streets were still,
Another throb from earths fierce heart of fire
Ran through the City with a thunder-shock,
Though feebler than the first: once more the Thames
Rose loudly sobbing and o'erswept its bed;
Once more the streets and walls chattered like teeth;
Once more men wakened shuddering out of sleep
With that dread sough of warning in their ears!

Then preachers prophesied the end of all,
Doom, and the opening of the seventh great seal;
While in the lonely streets and crowded lanes
The haggard folk clustered as thick as ants
Which feel the anthill crumbling underneath
Uprooted by the mole; the palaces
Were empty of their regal butterflies;
The parks and public squares were desolate,
The theatres abandoned to the dust,
And all glad sounds of merriment and feast
Hushed in the princely dwellings of the proud.
But in the city still, and in the marts
The lamps of commerce flickered timorously;
A few pale men still walked about on 'Change,
And in the darkened vaults of dusty banks
Gaunt slaves still guarded gold.

Then first of those
Who fled before the dark Cimmerian threat
Was that young wife whose delicate nether limbs
Were brawly buskin'd with celestial blue—
The Lady Barbara of Kensington.
Who doth not know our Barbara the learned,

Flower of Midlothian and the agnostic queen,
Who, full of culture to the finger tips,
A Scots earl's daughter, born 'neath Arthur's Seat,
Young, bonnie, winsome, and a poetess,
Married the little Yankee millionaire,
And flitted from the North to Babylon?
Her London mansion was the home of Art,
In style antique, with Argus on the walls
And “Salve” on the threshold of the door;
Her guests the very learned of the land
And every guest a lion great or small.
All through the season to her afternoons
The favourites of Fashion and the Muse,—
The last great traveller in gorilla-land,
The newest painter or musician,
The poet latest found and most divine,—
Flock'd, sure of worship and a cup of tea;
But chiefly (for our Barbara, understand,
Was nothing if not philosophical!)
The modern savant and the scientist,
The students of the heavens and the earth,
Professors of all 'ologies and 'isms,
Found there a welcome; there, in tongues diverse
As those that puzzled Babel long ago,
They wrangled o'er the nebular theory,
The spectrum of the tail of the new comet
Just seen in Capricornus, Bastian's scheme
Of life's beginning. Nor the occult alone,
But every male or female wanderer
Out of the beaten highway of the creeds
Was gathered into Barbara's peaceful fold:
The castaway who had, in soul's despair,
His cassock lost, his prayer-book left i' the hold,
Plunged overboard from that old ship the Church,
Now tossing water-logg'd amidst the storm;
The Arian and the Unitarian,
The lady Medium, the Spiritualist,
The Æsthetic, who, proclaiming Art for Art,
Carving his God on his own handiwork,
Proves totem-worship not an empty dream.

But when the murmur of the Earthquake came,
The teacup trembled in the scoffer's hand,
The wise looked foolish, and the lions ran
Lowing together like affrighted stirks
In that dread moment, he who faced the Sphinx
And read annihilation in its eyes,
Who, from the cynosure of mastery,
Survey'd the conflict and the wreck of worlds,
Saw suns grow dark like torches suddenly
Plunged hissing into water, and foretold,
With scientific equanimity,
The sure extinction of the human race,
Became as terror-stricken as a bairn
Who, waking suddenly at dead of night
To find the night-light out, begins to wail.
Then many named God's Judgment with a sigh
Who thitherto had named it with a smile!

But ever fleet in feminine resolve,
And now made fleeter by a fluttering fear,
Our Barbara did not pause to think or pray,
But, followed by her folk and husband, fled
Back to her native Scotland, where she dwelt
In safety at the Priory, gathering
Faint rumours from the City far away.
Thence, when her fears had time for breathing space,
And when no message of destruction came,
She issued to her chosen votaries
Sweet-scented missives in her own fair hand,
Bidding them, while the terror held the City,
To attend her Court of Learning, bright and glad
As any mediæval Court of Love,
In that fair dwelling on the banks of Tweed.

In flocks they came, the apostles of the creeds,
Poets and painters and philosophers,
Teachers and preachers, lions, lionesses,
Long-haired æsthetes, long-winded scientists;
And since the Priory could not lodge them all,
The inns and cottages around about
Were full of spectacled and bearded men,
Whose strange ways made the country people gape
In wonder and in awe; but every day
They gathered at the Priory, droning there
Like bees about their queen.

'Twas summer time.
The hills and vales had put their glory on,
And wandering in Barbara's Paradise,

You would have thought the world as sweet and safe
As on Creation's day. Fronting the south,
Upon the shoulder of a woody brae,
The broad and comely modern mansion stood,
And pausing on its air-hung terraces
You saw beneath you on the river-side
The roofless ruin whence it took its name.
All round stretched park and pale, with colonnades
Where the horse-chestnut spread its seven-leafed fan
And broke to amber foam of waxen blooms
O'er deep green dells where dappled fallow deer
Like restless shadows among shadows moved;
With ponds of silver, where with dripping run
The marble Naiad o'er her image hung,
Girt with the water-lily's oilèd leaves;
With sweeps of fronded fern and flowery knolls
As full of twinkling ears and watchful eyes—
Coney and squirrel, doe and leveret—
As any happy dell in Fairyland!
Beyond the woodland, sloping to the banks,
Were shaven lawns with flower-edged paths between.
In midst of these, upon the river-side,
Clearly reflected in the running river,
The Priory ruins, roofless, windowless,
And thickly carpeted with emerald grass.

Here, where the uncut hair o' the grass grows deep,
The summer light falls solemn and subdued,
While entering the mouldering roofless walls,
Pencilled with golden moss and lichens grey
Where'er the night-black ivy doth not crawl,
You see the jackdaws in a cawing crowd,
Like spirits of the long-departed monks,
Rise from the topmost ruins clamorously
And flit against the azure patch of sky.
The world, the thought of man, dissolves away,
And with a sea of stillness overhead
You walk in awe, even like a charmèd man
Pacing the voiceless bottom of the Deep.

Crossing the ivy-hung refectory
You glide beneath a broad low porch of stone,
And in a moment, ere you know it, pass
From shadow into sunlight,—for you stand
Upon a terrace set with flowery urns
Descending to the very water's brim.
Upon that terrace, in the summer sheen.
There stands the figure of a naked Faun,
Goat-eared, goat-footed, playing on his pipes
And smiling like the very Pan himself.
Straightway upon the ears (or so it seems)
There comes the summer sound of singing birds,
Of fountains falling, runlets murmuring,
Leaves rustling, wood and valley echoing
In joy primeval to that sylvan sound;
And glancing back upon the Priory walls,
O'er which the jackdaws hover in a crowd,
You half expect to see the monks appear,
Hornèd like satyrs, shouting, streaming forth
To foot it to the merry pipes of Pan.

Upon this terrace sat, one summer day,
Our hostess, smiling 'neath her parasol
On troops of motley guests; close to her side
Three Graces, cousins, born in Annandale,
With country cheeks of strawberry and cream;
A little in the background, grimly pleased,
Cigar in mouth, straw hat upon his head,
Midas, her husband. Scattered here and there,
Grouped on the flowery lawns and garden seats,
In summer costumes brighter than the flowers,
Or learnèd suits of philosophic black,
The fugitives from threaten'd Babylon;
While in and out the Priory's ruin'd walls,
Like glad bees swarming in and out the hive,
Throng'd others, garrulous as the busy daws
Gossiping in the ivy overhead.
Some on the shining river rowed and sang,
Fluttering in shallops round the granite stairs;
Some promenaded, deep in learned talk;

While liveried lacqueys and trim serving lasses
Moved here and there with baskets of ripe fruit,
Clusters of grapes, and draughts of mountain dew.
'Twas like a golden glimpse of Arcady
Painted by Watteau for a happy court,
With nymphs and satyrs neatly modernised,
Shepherds and shepherdesses gaily dight
As shapes of Dresden china, bright and clean.
The Priory in the background, dark and grey
Against a sky of clear and burning gold,
And in the foreground such a sylvan view
Of winding water, fields of growing grain,
Clusters of woodland, knolls and bosky bowers,
Melting away to dim blue heathery hills,
As made the place seem Arcady indeed!
Golden the prospect, earth and azure heaven
Mingling their happy lights like Life and Love,
And eyes that on the winding river gazed
Could scarce discern within those crystal depths
Water from heaven, heaven from the heavenly stream.
‘What news from London?’ Lady Barbara cried
To one, a little dapper scientist,
Fresh from the train, who trotted to her seat
Shaking her small gloved hand; and with a smile
The new-comer replied, ‘The City stands!
And though the streets and marts are empty still
Of all save those who are over poor to fly,
Many believe the peril passed away.
This morning's journals say a shock was felt
On Thursday at Madrid; if so, the fires
Whose fierce pulsations took us unaware,
Are running southward, back to warmer zones,
Their tropic birthplace, near the heart of Earth.’

‘Pray God it be so,’ answer'd Barbara;
Then turning 'neath her sunshade, she resumed
Her converse with the group surrounding her:
‘Dear friends, you are right!—what scene, howe'er so bonnie,
What country merriment, howe'er so merry,
Can compensate us children of the age
For London in the season? I confess,
Though Scottish born and Edinboro' bred,
From boot to bonnet I'm a Londoner!
And even here with chosen friends around
I miss the mighty flow, the changeful sound,
Of yon vast ocean of Humanity.
The canker-worm of Ennui gnaws the heart
Of Pleasure's full-blown rose! Come, who'll devise
Some sport to fleet away the golden time?
Who'll lead our drowsy-headed idleness
In flowery fetters of some pleasant toil,
Until the Earthquake-Monster is appeased,
And gladly once again we enter in
Fashion's celestial gate?’

Smiling she paused,
And for a space none answered; but the air
Was filled with summer music, and we heard,
Above the humming of the honey-bees
That flitted in and out the flowery knolls,
The black rooks sleepily cawing, and the dove
Cooing clear answer from the Priory woods;
On a wild apple-tree that clung and bloomed
High on the ruin'd walls, the blue-wing'd jay
Flash'd screaming, and along the river-side
The kingfisher, an azure ray, flew past.
Thus all things were alive with peaceful joy:
The dædal Earth, bright faced and golden hair'd,
With ample heaving bosom, sighed for bliss,
Through half-closed eyelids blinking up at heaven!

Then one said, ‘As near Florence long ago
Gallants and gentle dames that fled the Plague

Sat 'neath green boughs and passed the golden time
In dainty tale-telling, that grew divine
On eloquent Boccaccio's honeyed tongue,
So let us here, to fleet the summer hours,
Tell tales of Mirth and Love and Love's disdain!
Be thou our Queen of Love, let these thy maids
Twine a green garland for the brows of him
Whose tale beguiles the fever'd fancy best!’
‘Alas!’ said Barbara, sighing wearily,
‘The world is old and grey before its time;
And that blind god, who used to run before
Its happy feet, and wave the golden torch,
Beckoning with smiles, now sits as Darwin's ape
Upon its shoulder, whispering “Vanity!”
Ours is no Court of Love for amorous dames
And bonnie cavaliers; hush d is Love's lyre,
Its poet dead, his cold hand on its strings;
And all remaining now for man to seek
Is the great Problem neither bard nor seer
Has help'd as yet to solve!’

Then with a smile
Cold as the scalpel, Douglas Sutherland,
Critic and comic vivisectionist,
Young cynic of the Cynical Review,
Scot from the mountains, but a renegade
Forswearing homely porridge and the trews,
Who, drifting round the compass of the creeds,
Had found no foothold for his slippery feet,
Cried, ‘The great Problem ever sought by fools,
Forgetting that whoever froms the Sphinx,
And meets her stony glare, must rave till doom!’

Here the plump pantheist, Spinoza Smith,
With luminous eye and hanging underlip,
Loose gait, lax logic, interposed and said,
‘Better to rave like the old oracle
Than, quivering like a restless tadpole, haunt
The muddy shallows of perpetual doubt!’
Turning to Barbara, ‘Since we moderns seek
A summer pastime like those Florentines,
Why not let that same Problem be our theme,
And let each man and woman tell in turn
Some chronicle of those who, quick or dead,
Have wander'd problem-haunted through the world?’

‘Agreed!’ cried Barbara; then, brightly turning
Her face upon the groups surrounding her,
‘A golden thought, to employ our idleness
With tales of meaning and of mystery—
Not old wives' rhymes to frighten foolish bairns,
But stories wise that sad Philosophy,
The way-worn wandering Jew, still toiling on
With staff and wallet, croaks at every door!
How say you? Shall our new Decameron
Take as its theme no little pasteboard god,
Pink Cupid or bright-eyed Saint Valentine,
But God Himself, the riddle of the worlds?’

Smiling she paused. We looked at one another,
And even then we seemed to hear afar
The murmur of that subterranean voice
Which thundered from the fiery heart of Earth,
Threatening the mighty City in its pride.
‘Agreed! agreed!’ we clamoured, echoing her;
‘Begin the sport, and be yourself our Queen!’

‘Then thus,’ said Barbara, ‘we form our court:
Be you our maids of honour’—here she smiled
On the three cousins born in Annandale—
‘You gentlemen our faithful cavaliers
And braw-drest pages, headed if you please
By Verity as learned Chamberlain.
Be thou,’ she added (turning next to me),
‘Our poet lyrical and laureate,
Breaking our measured prose at intervals
To music; and do thou, Sir Whimsical’
(Nodding her head at Douglas as she spoke),
‘Assume the hood and baldrick of the Fool,

Here at our elbow set, with privilege
To make a passing jest from time to time
Of better wiser folk!’

Here Douglas seized
A stalk of foxglove drooping purple bells,
And shook it, zany-fashion, in the air,
Crying ‘By Touchstone and by Rigoletto,
I accept the scoffer's office cheerfully,
And on my badge, expect much merriment
When wise men choose so lunatic a theme!’
‘To-morrow,’ laughing added Barbara,
‘Our coronation revels shall begin;
And after that, each summer afternoon,
We shall conjure you, on your fealty,
To gather here, and rax your wits to speed
The solemn pastime. Till yon smiling sun
Again is near his setting, we dismiss
Our court, and leave our leal and loving friends
Free to devise what other sports they please—
To-morrow we shall mount our throne and reign!’

And with that tryst to meet upon the morrow
We scattered, some to dream about the park,
Some to explore the neighbouring rocks and woods,
Some to the dusky Priory libraries,
To fleet the moments till the dinner-bell
Should bring the pasturing human flocks together.
But I, who knew by heart the winding Tweed,
Wander'd away along the river-side
Glad-hearted and alone, and drank for hours
Full sweetness and full summer, pondering
The green world's problem with a poet's heart.
'Twas the glad flower-time—over orchard walls,
Mossy and golden, softly blushed the pear,
Though apple-blooms were falling; scented May
Ran quick along the hedgerows, white and red;
And lilac, scented like a maiden's breath,
Flower'd in sun-shaded gardens, maiden-like;
And lush laburnum shook its locks of gold
O'er bonnie banks of green and golden broom;
The white pea lit its delicate lamps afield,
And in the lanes speedwell and campion
Cluster'd round snow-white stars of Bethlehem.
The bee, with dusty gold upon his thigh,
Humm'd busily to himself; the butterfly,
A wingèd flower, blew lightly higher and thither;
The woods, the fields, the lanes, were all alive
With quick-eyed sylvan creatures, numerous
As motes i' the sunshine. Cheerily sung the lark,
Answer'd from hawthorn branches by the merle,
Gold-bill'd and silver-throated. By the river
The heron stood as motionless as stone
Over his dim blue double, then arose
With soft dark flap of wing, to light again
Among the speckled shallows lower down.
Lingering silent on the banks, I saw
The muddy cabin of the water-rat,
And in the calm beheld the brown rogue swim,
Bearing a green leaf for his little house,
His whisker'd nose above the surface peeping,
A long bright ripple sparkling in his track.

Musing I wandered, till, beyond the braes,
The sun sank crimson among purple isles
And reefs of black, and from the paling west
The round thin filmy moon floated like silk,
Then 'gainst the green transparent topmost leaves
O' the woodland flutter'd, brightening. Then, the glades
Dark'ning, the dusky mavis and the merle
Pour'd their precipitate rapture 'mong the boughs,
And nestling lovers listen'd as they sang:
Lover! lover!
Kiss sweet! kiss sweet! sweet!
Woo her now! woo her now!
The glassy river sparkled smooth as jet,
Just touch'd with crystal beams.

Soft as a leat
The gloaming fell, and flutter'd like a veil
Over the half-closed eyelids of the world.

Stars glimmer'd faintly, opening one by one
And blossoming above me, while I stole
Through warmly scented shadows till I gained
Dark fern-clad slopes that ran to hills of heather,
And looking heavenward saw a painter's vision.
There like a naked maiden stood the Moon,
Wading in saffron shallows of the west:
Timidly, with a tender backward glance,
She reach'd a faltering foot to feel the way,
Then, brightly smiling, as the lucent waves
Wash'd, tipt with splendour, round her swan-white throat,
Bent forward, cleft the dusk with ivory hands,
And swam in splendour thro' the seas of night.

THE FIRST DAY.

(RENAISSANCE.)

The morrow came; and, when the sun was high,
Beneath a silken awning rosy-hued
Sat Barbara, smiling on her happy court;
The Graces near her, Midas at her side,
And all the Sciences and all the Arts,
In decent black or motley summer suits,
Gathered around her; modern Muses too,
From Sappho Syntax in her spectacles
To Jennie Homespun, Clapham's idyllist,
Called ‘Wordsworth's daughter’ by the small reviews.
Nor lacked we grace of stately company
From lands beyond the thunders of the Chimes
Which turn the small beer of the Senate sour:
Dan Paumanok, the Yankee pantheist,
Hot gospeller of Nature and the flesh,
Who, holding soul but body purified,
Vaunted the perfect body fifty years,
Then sank beneath a sunstroke paralyzed,
A wreck in all save that serener soul
Outlooking from his grave and patient eyes.
There sat he, in his chair, a craggy form,
Snow-bearded, patriarchal, wearing well
His crown of kindly sorrow. Close to him,
Miranda Jones, the lyric poetess,
Lean and æsthetic to the finger-tips,
Crouched like a pythoness with lissome limbs,
Pale eyes that swam with sybilline desire,
And vagrant locks of amber.

To this last
Queen Barbara turn'd, and smiling royally cried:
‘Barbara to Miranda! Take the harp,
And sound the prelude that befits our theme.’
Whereon the other, starting from a trance,
Answered, ‘You spoke? My soul was far away!
And watching that old Faun whose stony eyes
Have seen a hundred summers come and go,
Methought he changed, and on his naked back
Had drawn a cassock, on his head a cowl,
And so, transformed into a very monk,
Moaned answer to his comrades, turn'd to daws
There in the Priory, cawing high in the air
Their pax vobiscum!’

With a laugh then cried
Douglas the scoffer, puffing his cigar—
‘The dream was apt, Miranda! Strip the monk
In new tunes as in old, you find beneath
The satyr's skin; beneath the black rogue's cowl,
The satry's swinish leer.’ But scornfully
Tossing her python ringlets, she replied—
‘The monks were men, and in their holy hearts,
And in their weary eyes, though filled with dust,
The elemental pagan lingered still.
I read a tale once in a dusty book
Bought at a bookstall in a dusty street
At Florence—how, long centuries ago,
When all the world was gray because of Christ,
A sudden glory of the buried world
Flashed from the tomb, as Cytherea rose
From darkness of the weary and rainy sea;
And how a monk (no satyr, but a soul
Pure as this sapphire on my finger, sir!),
Having with eyes of wonder seen the sight,
Died of its rapture. Have you heard the tale?
I put it into rhymes which Sweetsong praised
One week I was his guest at Sunbury.'

‘Give us the tale!’ we cried, and at a nod
From Barbara, our queen and arbitress,
Miranda shook her locks and thus began:—

JULIA CYTHEREA:

A Legend of the Renaissance.

I.

With shadow black upon the convent wall
In fierce white light the musing Monk doth crawl;
He sees the lizards pass
Beneath him on the grass;—
Silent as they, he stirs, and that is all.

With blood that slippeth slow as hour-glass sand,
He weeds the garden with his lean long hand,
The sun beats down on him,
But, sunless and most dim,
His sad eyes downward look upon the land.

Yet once or twice he riseth up his height,
Gaunt as a tree he loometh in the light,
And gazeth far away
Where, through the trembling day,
Rome sits and gleams, insufferably bright.

His hand he presses on his breast and sighs,
Towers, churches, temples, wearily he spies;
His black eyes blink i' the ray,
His bloodless cheek keeps gray;
He stoops again, and weeds, with weary eyes.

To him there leapeth one with eager bound,
Crying, ‘Ho, Marcus, leave thy garden ground
Gird up thy loins and come
Down to the streets of Rome—
Behold the miracle which men have found!

‘'Tis Venus’ self,—with lips still poppy-red,
Light on her cheeks, bright gold upon her head,
Divine, yet cold in death,
Still living without breath,
As white and chill as is her marble bed;

‘By some dark chemic trick of fingers old
Embalm'd within that ivory coffin cold,
A thousand years i' the tomb
Her cheek hath kept its bloom,
Her eyes their glory, and her hair its gold.

‘Come down and look upon her in her rest,
Her white hands crost upon her whiter breast;
One fold of fleecy dress
Covers her nakedness;
Her face doth smile, as though her dreams are blest.’

The pale monk Marcus scarcely heeds or hears—
He stands and through the sunlight sadly peers—
‘Thou ravest, get thee gone!’
He murmureth anon—
Thin sounds his voice, yea, faint as falling tears.

That other crieth, ‘Doubt me not, but go!
Venus awakes; Rome's buried blossoms blow;
Not Christ in His winding-sheet
Was half so pure and sweet—
Run to the Capitol, and thou shalt know!’

He cries, and soon around him others come,
All panting, pointing to the far-off dome,—
Till, drawn from his cold height
To look upon the sight,
The pale monk Marcus creepeth down to Rome.

II.

Now mark what old traditions tell
Of how this miracle befell. . . .

Nigh fifteen centuries had shed
Their snows upon the sad Earth's head
Since on the heights of perfect peace
Where banqueted the gods of Greece,

One starry midnight there did rise
That pallid Shape with human eyes,
Who, clad in grave-clothes and thorn-crown'd,
Stood silently and gazed around
From face to face,—and as on each
He looked in sorrow with no speech,
Each face grew wan and chill as clay,
And faded wearily away!
Ay, one by one those forms had fled,
Till all the heavenly host were dead,
Cast down and conquer'd, overthrown
Like broken shapes of marble stone.
Pallas, with pansies in her hair,
Like to a statue wondrous fair
Stricken and fall'n;—Selene white,
Cold, sleeping in the starry light;
Great Zeus, Apollo, and sad Pan,
With all his flocks Arcadian,
Strewn down like dead leaves on the tomb
Of Him who slew them in their bloom.
All dead! the brightest and the best!
And Cytherea with the rest!

And now He too, who cast in thrall
All shapes within that banquet-hall,
Who came to slay and overcome
The shining gods of Greece and Rome,
Had crept again to find repose
In the dark grave from which He rose;
And there for fifteen centuries
Had lain unseen with closèd eyes,
Had slept, and had not stirr'd a limb,
Though men grew mad for lack of Him.
‘Awake, O Christ!’ they cried in pain,
‘For lo! no other gods remain;
And Thou hast promised to return
With robes that flame and eyes that burn,
'Midst thunder-flash and trumpet-peal,
Legions of angels at Thy heel,
To take Thy throne, and overwhelm
Thine enemies, and rule Thy realm!’
In vain! Within His clay-cold prison
Silent He slept, and had not risen—
Though all the other gods were fled,
Though no god ruled the quick or dead,
Though all the eyes of Earth were wet,
He slept,—and had not risen yet.

Meantime, to keep his name in Rome,
The Eighth Pope Innocent had come
Instead of Christ, and from Christ's seat
Thrown down his bastards to the street—
So wither'd up with sin and death,
The dark world drew laborious breath
Beneath his footstool;—and no fair
Dead god would waken to its prayer!

It happen'd at this very time,
When in the sinful Church's slime
Grew monsters of malignant birth,
To eat man's substance on the earth,
And sit, where gods had sat, in Rome
(Where Christ would sit if He should come),
In this dark moment of eclipse,
When prayer was silent on the lips
And faith was dead within the thought,
The mystic miracle was wrought.
For Lombard workmen, on a day,
Digging beneath the Appian way,
Sifting the ruins of Rome dead,
Untomb'd, in wonder and in dread,
A marble coffin strangely scroll'd,
Enwrought with ivory and with gold.
Stain'd was it with great earthen stains,
Worn with the washing of the rains,
And splash'd with blots of blood-red clay,
But sealèd as a shrine it lay;
And when they raised it to the light,
After a thousand years of night,
Their eyes read its inscription thus:
‘Fulia, the child of Claudius!’

The Church authorities were brought—
Great cardinals in raiment wrought
With gold and red, and trains resplendent
Of mighty priests and monks attendant;
And while these cross themselves and strew
The coffin cold with holy dew,
They force the lid, and lo! they find—
Not dust to scatter on the wind,
Not bleaching bones, not blacken'd clay
Horrible in the light of day,
Nought o'er whose sweetness Death hath power,
Not dark corruption,—but a Flower!

Flower of the flesh, as soft and new
As when she drank the sun and dew,
Golden her hair with light from heaven,
As if she slept but yester-even;
Her lips, that softly lay apart,
Still red as any beating heart;
Her form, still fairy-like and bright,
Though marble-cold and lily-white,—

Her hands, unwither'd, softly prest
Upon her still unstainèd breast,—
A Maiden Flower she slumber'd there,
After a thousand years still fair,
Within her white sarcophagus.

‘Julia, the child of Claudius!’

Out of the coffin cold as ice
Rich fumes of cinnabar and spice
Still floated; as she lay within
Flower-sweet she scented, and her skin
Shone as anointed. One soft fold
Of precious woof around her roll'd
Half veil'd, with its transparent dress,
Her lithe and luminous loveliness;
Upon her wrists bracelets of gold
Were fastened; on one finger cold
Glimmer'd an onyx ring. So sweet,
She lay, embalm'd from head to feet,
Kept (by some secret long forgot)
Without a stain, without a spot,
As when, a thousand years before,
In days of god and emperor,
She closed her eyes and slumber'd thus.

‘Julia, the child of Claudius!’

When thus she turn'd with soft last breath
Into the chilly arms of Death,
She might have seen the happy light
Some sixteen years,—but form so bright
Ne'er trembled between childish glee
And tremulous virginity.
Only a child; yet far too fair
For any child of mortal air,
Since Passion's fiery flame, it seem'd,
Still play'd about her locks, and stream'd
From 'neath her eyelids; and her limbs
Were amber with such light as swims
Round Love's own altar; and her lips,
Untouch'd by darkness or eclipse,
Were wonderful and poppy-red
With kisses of a time long dead,—
When Love indeed in naked guise
Still walk'd the world with awful eyes
And flaming hair. So fair she lay,
Burning like amber in the ray,
As burns a lamp with sweet oils fed
Within some shrine no foot may tread,
No hand of any mortal mar;
And as men gaze on some new star,
Men marvell'd while they gazed on her.
Soundly she slept, and did not stir:
And far away beyond the sea
The white Christ slept as sound as she!

III.

They bore her to the Capitol,
And left her lying, where the whole
Of Rome might look upon her face.

And lo! her beauty fill'd the place
Like very sunlight, and her lips
Seem'd redder, and her finger-tips
Pink-tinted, and the scent that came
Out of her mouth seem'd fraught with flame
Of a live burning heart; and lo!
Her gold-hair caught a deeper glow,
Making an aureole of light
Around her forehead waxen white;
And those who gazed upon her thus,
Within her white sarcophagus,
Were awed, and felt their hearts grow faint
Like folk that look on some dead saint.
‘No saint is she,’ the pale priests said,
‘But of an evil beauty dead
The ghost accurst. Behold again
The pagan world that Christ hath slain,
Kept by the charm of God, to show
The fate of fairest flesh below!’
And as they murmur'd thus anew
They sprinkled her with holy dew,
And while they sprinkled her some thought
The sleeper smiled!

And thus through Rome,
And o'er the land, and past the foam,
The rumour of her glory flies;
And flocking underneath the skies
From dawn to sunset, great crowds press
To look upon her loveliness.
Prelates and kings and courtiers throng
With priests and nobles; old and young;
Matron and maid and girl o' the street,
And wicked women scented sweet;
Soldier and beggar, monk and clown;
Nuns from the cloisters, peasants brown
From the far hills—

Last, to the place
There cometh, deathly pale of face,
His heart scarce fluttering in his breast,
The tall monk Marcus with the rest.

IV.

He came, he gazed upon her there,
Her closèd eyes, her clinging hair,
Her marble cheek just flush'd with red;
And first he shrank away in dread
Like one who fears to break with sound
The charm which wraps some sleeper round;
Then, in the fumes of spice and myrrh
That floated round and over her,
Kindling a sense that sweeten'd Death,
He seem'd to drink her very breath,—
And creeping closer—like a snake
That croucheth low in a green brake,
Watching a lambkin starry white
Which lieth still and slumbereth light—
He watch'd in fascination deep
The crystal mirror of her sleep;
And though they thrust him oft aside,
Crept back to mark her, vacant-eyed
Like one that dreams.

Wolf-like and gaunt,
Full of some secret woe and want
Only that loveliness could still,
Lost to all other wish and will,
He paused, while others went and came;
And when his comrades named his name
He only turn'd a silent face
Upon them for a moment's space,
And smiled, then dumbly gazed once more.

Ever across the marble floor,
With murmurs deep and whispers low,
The wondering folk did come and go—
But never voice or footfall loud,
Nor all the trouble of the crowd,
Awoke that sleeper from her rest;
And when upon her marble breast
And o'er her brow and on her lips
The sunlight's trembling finger-tips
Were laid blood-red, she slumber'd on!

And when the wondering crowds were gone,
And silent night fell down on Rome,
And 'neath the Capitolian dome
The shadows blacken'd, still she lay
Beauteous as she had been by day;—
For round her limbs and o'er her hair
Trembled a light serenely fair,
And all the darkness of the place
Felt the soft starlight of her face;—
Upon her, from the dome o'erhead,
Great shadowy shapes of spirits dread
Gazed darkly down, and all around
The shadows brooded with no sound;—
Without, beyond the doorway, fell
The arm'd heel of the sentinel,
Who paced in vigil to and fro
Under the mighty portico.

Then, when the Capitol was dark,
And not a living eye might mark,
When the great City slumber'd deep
Wrapt in its azure robe of sleep,
Out of some shadowy hiding-spot,—
Wherein, unseen, suspected not,
He had linger'd darkly on till then,—
Crept, like a wild beast from its den,
Marcus the Monk! Silent, alone,
With naked feet on the cold stone,
He rose and feebly felt his way
To the cold coffin where she lay;
And looking down as in a dream
He caught the dim and doubtful gleam
Of the cold face he could not see.
Then kneeling low on bended knee
He clutch'd with fingers clammy cold
The coffin wrought about with gold,
And drank with lips as cold as ice
The scents of cinnabar and spice
That hover'd o'er the form divine
Sleeping therein as in a shrine.
Then, lo! beyond the painted pane,
The Moon rose, wan and on the wane,
And gentle amber light was shed
Upon the live form and the dead;
And Marcus rose his height and stood,
While from his head the monkish hood
Fell darkly back, and on his brow
Starlight like hoar-frost trembled now,
And in his eyes there gleam'd again
Hope like despair, rapture like pain.
Thus, with his thin hand on his heart,
His sad lips softly held apart,
He gazed in fascination deep
Upon that passion-flower of Sleep!
More beautiful, more strangely sweet,
Than in the daylight's golden heat,
More softly still, more dimly bright,
Clothed in the mystery of the night,
With small hands folded on her breast,
She slumbers on in balmy rest.
And now the yellow moonlight lies
Upon her lips and closèd eyes,

Gleams on her hair of braided gold,
Fades on her forehead marble-cold,
And o'er her as she lies in death
Trembles and broods like frozen breath!
Still mystical and strange to sight,
Though marble-cold and lily-white,
A maiden-flower she slumbers there,
After a thousand years still fair,
Within her white sarcophagus!

Then, haggard, wild-eyed, tremulous,
Clasping her coffin gold-enwrought,
Marcus the Monk gazed down and caught
From the still splendour of her look
Strange madness, and his sick soul shook
With dark despairs. Then made he moan:—
‘Flower fair as thou no man hath known
Since Christ came down—but in thy stead,
And in the place of sweet gods dead,
The harlot and the concubine
Sit haggard, sharing bread and wine
At Christ's own board, and mocking man
Within the very Vatican!
And Christ is dead and will not rise,
Though, spat on by the cruel skies,
A thousand mortals spirit-sore
Creep to His dark tomb and implore;—
Yea, the stark Skeleton therein,
With shrouded limbs and bandaged chin,
Lies still and hears not, crumbling down
Beside its crimson thorny crown.
Decay is there, and deep decay
Within a million tombs of clay,
And dark decay of craft and creed
Within a million hearts that bleed;
Yet here, though all fair things have died,
Serene and fair thou dost abide,
Preserved to show to our dim sight
What shapes of wonder and of light
The gods our God has stricken low
Fashioned a thousand years ago.
O fair white lily, softly pearl'd
With dim dews of a happy world
Long lost, long miss'd—awake, awake!
And save the world for Beauty's sake
Instead of Christ's!’ . . .

God, is he dreaming?
Is this thing sooth, or only seeming?
Why doth he tremble to his knees
In awe of some new sight he sees? . . .
The moon-rays turn to shapes of gold
Clinging around that coffin cold,—
The stars of night look in, and shine
With rapture tremulous and divine,—
The figures on the dome above
Glimmer, look down, and seem to move,—
And lo! the Sleeper's shining hair
Grows yet more luminously fair,
And light like life's pulsation swims
Faint blood-red through her lissome limbs.
Behold! she reddens like a rose,
Her bosom heaves, her eyes unclose,
And (as a maiden from her sleep
Stirs with a sigh serene and deep,
Half conscious of some broken dream,
Half dazzled by the morning beam)
She draws one long and balmy breath,
And turns upon her bed of death!

V.

Her bed of death? She is not dead!
Her breath is warm, her lips are red,
Her hands are fluttering, softly prest
Against the warmth of her bright breast;
One knee is raised, and from its white
The fleecy lawn falls soft and light;
And, turning her bright head, she sees
The pale Monk moaning on his knees!
Then, as a little maid may see,
When awakening very peacefully,
Some one she loveth waiting near,
And gaze upon him with no fear,—
She looks upon his wondering face,
Smiles gently for a moment's space,
Then reaches out her hand!

‘Christ God!
Master and Maker, 'neath whose rod
This man hath bent so many years,
In famine, fever, torture, tears,—
Thou God by whom the gods of old
Are smitten low and coffin'd cold—
Strengthen Thy slave, if such he be,
Lest this thing slay him utterly!’
He takes her hand, he clasps it to him,
Rapture, like life-blood, kindles through him!
He kisseth it, he feels it warm,
He strains it to his famish'd form,
And crieth on—‘Awake! arise!
Love on thy lips, light in thine eyes—
Arise! the wide world waits to be
Thy servant and to worship thee!
Awake! and let the gods that were,
Who shaped thee thus divinely fair,

And kept thee by some chemic charm
Imperishably bright and warm,
Awaken too, and take the crown
Of Him whose red Cross struck thee down.
He died, and will not wake, but thou
Didst only rest and sleep till now!
And they who framed thee thus divine,
And seal'd thee in thy solemn shrine,
Perchance are only slumbering too!’

She stirs,—with brightening eyes of blue—
She rises from her pillow cold,
And rippleth down her locks of gold;
She shakes away the shroud of lawn
Around her soft sides lightly drawn;
She stretches out her arms snow-white,
She riseth up in the dim light,
She stands erect and smiling sweet,
With glistening limbs and rosy feet,
Upon the marble floor that gleams
Like water in the trembling beams!
Hast thou beheld in some green path
A nymph of stone, fresh from the bath,
One snowy foot within a pool
That spreads beneath her rippling cool,
The other softly raised, the while
She draweth on with sleepy smile
Her garment,—and in act to dress
Frozen to everlastingness,
Full of some maiden thought doth look
In silent vision on the brook,
While her dark shadow under her
Stirs softly, though she doth not stir?
Even so that sleeper, when she rose
From that divinely deep repose,
Paused wondering at herself, and felt
The light flow round her limbs, and melt
On the white moonlit floor whereon
She stood erect, as still as stone.

Then unto Marcus it did seem
That all things trembled into dream!
Clinging around that maiden frame
The moonlight kindled into flame,
And all the place grew burning gold
With beams more bright a thousandfold
Than beams of day; the coffin bright
Was heap'd with roses red and white,
And all the floor seem'd blossom-strewn
Crimson and white beneath the moon!
With heaving breasts and soft footfall,
Amid that glory mystical,
The Maiden moved, her eyes of fire
Answering his look of dumb desire,
Then lo! the very Capitol
Grew shrunken like a burning scroll,
And vanish'd:—the great City fled;—
The glory deepen'd overhead;—
Instead of stone beneath their feet
Were grass and blossoms scented sweet,
A blue sea wrinkling far away
Crept foam-fringed round a purple bay,
And through a green and flowery land,
Under the cloudless sapphire skies,
Those twain were walking hand in hand,
Looking into each other's eyes!

VI.

In that green land of light and love
It seem'd enough to live and move—
To wander hand in hand and see
The dewy light on flower and tree,
The sparkling of the brooks and streams,
The hills asleep in sunny beams;
And then to glide on unafraid
Through warm deep groves of summer shade,
Where the hot sunlight's golden blaze
Fell tangled into emerald rays. . . .
O hark! 'mid dingles green and deep
The dove's cry, like a sound in sleep,
At intervals is faintly heard!
On her thin eggs the mother-bird
Sits brooding, while her mate is seen
Flitting across the tree-tops green!

What shout is that, what sylvan cry?
What shapes are those that flash and fly?
Wood-nymphs and satyrs whirling round,
Naked and merry, and vine-crown'd;
Then with deep laugh and faint halloo
Far down the glade they fade from view. . . .
What faces bright are those that gaze
Out yonder from the leafy haze,
And smile, and vanish into air?

Silent she stands, supremely fair,
Whiter than ivory, on a lawn
Flower-strewn and bright and deep-withdrawn
In the green bosom of the woods;
And while from the green solitudes
Come drowsy murmurs, sylvan cries,
He gazes gently in her eyes.

Beneath their feet a fountain's pool
Spreads o'er the grass and ripples cool,
And from the diamond depths below
A Naiad's face as white as snow
Looks up, 'neath glimmering hands that braid
Her dripping locks in the green shade.

And now again the prospects gleam
Into the glory of a dream;
And lo! they stand 'mid sand and shells,
And watch the waves with sleepy swells
Rising and breaking drowsily
In a blue crescent of the sea.
Beyond them pastoral hills are seen
Mist-capt, but roped in purple sheen;
And 'midst the clouds above them pass,
As in some old magician's glass,
Shapes of Immortals that pursue
Their path across the dreamful blue.

On the white sands they sit and rest,
His head is pillow'd on her breast;
He feels her heart's warm go-and-come,
He sees the blue sea fringed with foam;
He marks the white clouds sailing slowly
Across the heavens serene and holy;
Then closes eyes—thrusts one warm hand
For coolness deep in the soft sand—
And with the other holdeth hers.
So still he sits and never stirs,
But feels his life and being blent
With all he loves, and is content.

Is it still dream? for now they pass
Along a pathway of deep grass,
And find where Venus sets her shrine
Amidst a flowery wood of pine:
And side by side they enter there,
And kneel with folded hands at prayer
A little space—and when 'tis done
Glide forth again into the sun.

VII.

What form is this in white arrayed
Far down the woodland colonnade,
Approaching slow with a black wand
Cross-shapen in her lily hand?
Is't Cytherea?—is it she
Who rules the green earth and the sea,
Who moves abroad with fearless tread
Her hand upon a lion's head,
Wherever men or beasts are wild,
And tames their hearts and makes them mild?

Slowly she comes,—a shape of grace,
Leading a lion,—and her face
Is white and cold and thin as death;
And as she cometh near her breath
Is very faint and feebly drawn,
And heavy on the shaven lawn
Her footstep falls, and in her eyes
Dwell deathly pain and sad surmise.
Why seem all things so sudden chill?
Why grows the light on wood and hill
Frosty and faint? Why shrinks the sun
So coldly as she cometh on?

‘Marcus!’—she cries,—and lo! he stands,
With pallid face and outstretch'd hands,
Gazing in awe—and from his lips
One wondering word in answer slips—
‘Madonna!’

Yea, in sooth 'tis she,
Mother of Him who died on Tree,
The Virgin from whose milky breast
He drank who set the world at rest!
Ah me! how pallid and how thin,
With clammy grave-cloth 'neath her chin,
And dust upon her golden hair,
She stands and looks upon him there!
Shuddering he moans, with low bent brow,
‘Mother of God, what seekest thou?’
‘What dost thou here?’ the faint voice cries,
While underneath the darkening skies
All groweth dim. ‘Frail-hearted one,
Why hast thou ceased to serve my Son?
And who is this who now doth stand
Naked beside thee, with her hand
Thrust into thine, and hangs the head,
But shows her hot neck blushing red?
Let go her hand whoe'er she be—
And, for thy soul's sake, follow me!’

But Marcus cried, ‘My Master lies,
Silent, with dust upon His eyes—
He sleeps and He will ne'er awake.
But lo! from cloud, from brook, from brake,

From every nook of earth and main,
The old gods gather once again.
Go back into thy grave once more—
Sleep with thy Son, thy reign is o'er—
Leave the green world to her and me,
Nor mar our loves' eternity!’

Paler the weary Mother grew,
And with her sunken eyes of blue
Gazed piteously a little space
Into his passion-fever'd face—
Then pointing with thin hand, she cried
To that fair semblance at his side—
‘Follow me, thou! my grave is deep—
There by my pillow thou shalt sleep;
There shall we wait with darken'd eyes
In peace, until my Son shall rise!’

But Marcus clutch'd her with a cry,
And all things darken'd 'neath the sky,
And tall and terrible and white
The Virgin loom'd before his sight,
And with a finger cold as ice
Touch'd on the shining forehead thrice
That gentle vision; and behold!
She shiver'd as with deathly cold,
And lay a corpse of marble, prest
In madness to his burning breast.

Then Marcus wail'd, ‘Lost! lost!’ and lo!
The cruel heavens began to snow,
And all was dark, and a shrill gale
Of wintry wind began to wail;
But clasping her with piteous cries,
He kiss'd her on the mouth and eyes,
And kissing cried, ‘Awake! awake!’
Till his heart broke for sorrow's sake;
And heavy as a stone he fell.

VIII.

At dawn (as old traditions tell),
When the pale priests and soldiers came
To see once more that shining frame
Within her marble tomb, behold!
Still beautiful, with locks of gold,
Unfaded to the finger-tips,
With faint pink cheeks and rose-red lips,
Her they found softly sleeping on;
And by her, turn'd to senseless stone,
Watching her face with eyes of lead,
Knelt the monk Marcus, cold and dead.
He ceased, to a chorus from the Priory walls
Of daws thick-throated. Straightway Douglas cried,
‘It is the caws, my soul, it is the caws!
Hark how the dusky rascals echo her!
They vaunt the merriment of cakes and ale,
And other succulent sweets they loved when monks,
Above all kneeling and praying in the dark
That make the stony heart and horny knee!’
But no one laughed, for on our souls the tale
Fell with a touch of sweet solemnity;
And we were silent, till a quiet voice,
Low like a woman's, murmured: ‘Oftentimes
I have dreamed a dream like that (if dream it were),
And seen, instead of Cytherea's eyes,
The orbs of Dian, passionately pure,
Witching the world to worship!’

He who spoke—
A man with heavily hanging under lip,
Man's brow above a maiden's moist blue eyes—
Was Verity, the gentle priest of Art,
A vestal spirit, not too masculine
To avoid those seizures epileptiform
Which virgins have when yielding oracles.
He, by the affinity of sex which draws
The ivy to the oak-tree, long had loved
Not wisely but too well, though reverently,
The Scottish prophet, Thomas Ercildoune,
Who, thundering for the nations seventy years,
Found in the end that he had merely soured
The small beer and the milk of his own dwelling.
He, Verity, though all his soul was love,
Had from his master learned the scolding trick,
And so was somewhat shrewish out o' doors.
Inside the temple where he ministered
His soul was solemnised to perfect speech,
And many a storm-toss'd wanderer, listening to him,
Had worshipt and been saved.

‘How sweet it were,’
He added, ‘in this godless age of Fact,
When hideous monsters of machinery

Are fashioned unto largess-giving gods,
To uprear on some green mountain-side a shrine
To Artemis, the goddess of the pure!
For if, as Heine held, the gentler gods
Whom Christ drave forth from heaven with whip of cords
Survive, but banish'd into lonely lands
Do gloomy task work for their bitter bread,
Somewhere on this sad earth the heaveneyed Maid
Wears homespun, turns the wheel, and is a slave.
Upbuild her temple, make it beautiful
With shapes of marble wonderfully wrought,
Strew it with flowers of antique witchery,
And on the altar let the lunar beam
Sleep like the white and sacrificial Lamb;
And thither on some peaceful summer night
Perchance the weary one will come, and shed
Peace on the eyelids of her worshippers!’

We listen'd wondering, some with pitying smiles,
And others credulous of the fantasy.
I answered, ‘Who shall find her? We, who dwell
In cities vast and foul as Babylon,
Have seen, or seemed to see, the baser gods,
Her sisters and her brethren, busy yet
As spirits of the orgy and the dance.
Smooth Hermes, full of craft as when he filch'd
Apollo's horses, wears a modern coat,
And helps the citizen to cheat on 'Change;
And Jupiter, though feeble and rheumatic,
Leading his moulting eagle on the chain,
Still creeps about the distant villages
And prompts the silly preacher as he throws
His Calvinistic lightnings at the boors;
And who that ever walk'd down Regent Street
At midnight, or some garish summer day
At Paris saw the Grand Prix lost and won,
Has failed to note the pink divinity,
In rags or silk and sealskin, still the same
As when she tript Adonis long ago!
But for the other, Dian, Artemis,
Athenian or Ephesian, who shall say
The pure thing lives, where nought that lives is pure?
The sunshine knows her not, and the sweet moon,
Which used to shine upon her ivory limbs
Bright and pellucid in her dusky bath,
Now lights the pale street-walker at her trade,
And there's an end.’

Buller from Brazenose,
Another priest of Art, who holds that Art
Is lost if clothed or draped, and in whose eyes
The very fig-leaf is a priest's device
To mar the fair and archetypal Eve,
Broke in with mincing speech and courteous sneer—
‘I have heard that when that good man George the Third
Reign'd o'er his farm, this England, Artemis
Was noticed raining happy influences
Over the national pig-sty! Later still,
Arm'd with the British matron's household broom,
She drove our Byron out and bang'd the door.
Since then, thank God!—or say, since Wordsworth died
[Poor man, he came to physic a sick world
That wanted wine, and gave it curds and whey!]—
Your goddess has been seldom heard or seen.
Doubtless she drudges in some parson's house
As far as Lapland, where the temperature
Is like her bosom, virginal and cold.
We want her not in England! Heaven forbid!
We need the sun of love to warm our blood,
Apollo's blaze and Cytherea's breath
To thaw our lives and prove us men indeed!’

While thus he spake, I noticed in our midst
A pale young man who had come into the world
White-hair'd, and so looked old before his time;
His eye was burning, and his delicate hand
Was thrust into his bosom, touching there
Some secret treasure. Listening he stood,
Eager to speak, yet dumb through diffidence.
To him the pythoness Miranda Jones

Exclaimed, ‘What secret are you hiding there,
Close to your heart, or shirt-front, Cousin Fred?
I'll swear—a poem!’ Turning with a laugh
To Barbara, she added, ‘Speak to him!
My cousin Frederick is a poet too,
And fain I know would win a poet's praise
From this fair company and you, its Queen.’

Then blushing like a girl, and glancing up
To encounter Barbara's smile of kind command,
The young man answered, ‘Nay, indeed 'tis naught—
The merest trifle—not a tale at all;
Yet strangely enough, it touches rhyme by rhyme
Upon the very quest of which they speak;—
I too,’ he added, blushing still more deep,
‘Have chased that same Diana, in a song!’

‘Then prithee read it,’ cried Queen Barbara,
And other voices clamour'd echoing her;
And drawing a paper from his breast, the youth
Glanced timidly around the company,
And then with eye that kindled like a coal
Blown with the breath, he eagerly began.

PAN AT HAMPTON COURT.

‘O who will worship the great god Pan
Out in the woods with me,
Now the chestnut spreadeth its seven-leaved fan
Over the hive of the bee?
Now the cushat cries, and the fallow deer
Creep on the woodland way,
O who will hearken, and try to hear
The voice of the god to-day?’

One May morning as I woke
Thus the sweet Muse smiling spoke,
Resting pure and radiant-eyed
On the pillow at my side,—
Sweetest Muse that ever drew
Light from sunlight, earth, and dew
Sweeter Muse and more divine
Than the faded spinsters Nine!
Up I sprang and cried aloud,
‘May-day morn, and not a cloud!
Out beyond the City dark
Spring awakes in Bushey Park;
There the royal chestnuts break
Into golden foam and make
Waxlike flowers like honeycomb,
Whither humming wild bees roam;
While upon the lakes, whereon
Tritons blow through trumps of stone,
The great water-lily weaves
Milk-white cups and oilèd leaves.
Phillis dear, at last 'tis May!
Take my hand and come away!’

Out of town by train we went,
Poor but merrily content,
Phillis in her new spring dress,
Dainty bonnet lily-white,
Warm with youth and loveliness,
Full of love and love's delight;
I. the lonely outcast man,
Happy and Bohemian,
Loving all and hating none
Of my brethren 'neath the sun.
Soon, a dozen miles away,
From the train we lightly leapt,
Saw the gardens glancing gay
Where the royal fountains leapt,
Heard the muffled voices cry
In the deep green Maze hard by,
Heard the happy fiddler's din
From the gardens of the inn;
Saw the 'prentice lads and lasses,
Pale with dreary days of town,
Shuffling feet and jingling glasses;
While, like flies around molasses,
Gipsies gathered dusky brown!
O the merry, merry May!
O the happy golden day!
Pan was there, and Faunus too,
All the romping sylvan crew,
Nature's Mænads flocking mad
From the City dark and sad,
Finding once again the free
Sunshine and its jollity!
Phillis smiled and leapt for joy,
I was gamesome as a boy;
Gaily twang'd the fiddle-string,
Men and maids played kiss-in-ring,

Fountains leapt against the sun,
Roses bloom'd and children played,
All the world was full of fun,
Lovers cuddled in the shade!
What though God was proved to be
Paradox and fantasy?
What though Christ had ceased to stir
From his lonely selpulchre?
‘If the Trinity be dead,
Pagan gods are still alive!
Fast they come to-day,’ I said,
‘Thick as bees from out a hive!
Pan is here, with all his train
Flocking out of street and lane;
Flora in a cotton gown
Ties her garter stooping down;
Town-bred Sylvan plump and fat
Weareth lilac in his hat;
Faun and satyr laughing pass,
Hither and thither Venus roams,
Gay Bacchantes on the grass
Laughingly adjust their combs!—
Phillis, all the world is gay
In the merry, merry May!’

‘O who will worship the great god Pan
At Hampton Court with me?’
She cried, and unto the Maze we ran
Laughing so merrily.
‘The sun is bright, and the music plays,
And all is May,’ sang she:
And I caught my love in the heart of the Maze
With kisses three times three.

Down the chestnut colonnades
Full of freckled light and shades,
Soon we saw the dappled deer,
Pricking hairy tail and ear,
Stand like Fauns with still brown eyes
Looking on us as we came.
Faint behind us grew the cries,
Merry music and acclaim,
Till we found beneath a tree
All the peace of Arcady.
Lying there, where green boughs spread
Curtains soft against the sky,
While the stock-dove far o'erhead
Pass'd with solitary cry,
Now and then we look'd around
Listening, till distinct and clear
Came the cuckoo's call profound
From some happy Dreamland near!
Happy as a heart of gold
Shook the sunshine everywhere,
Throbbing pulses manifold
Through the warmly panting air;
On the leaves and o'er the grass
Living things were thronging bright,
'Neath a sky as clear as glass
Flashing rays of life and light.
All things gladden'd 'neath the blue,
While we kiss'd and gladden'd too.
‘Praised be golden Pan,’ I said,
‘All the duller gods are dead;
But the wood-god wakes to-day
In the merry, merry May!’

‘O who will worship the great god Pan?’
I cried as I clasped you, dear;
‘Form of a faun and soul of a man,
He plays for the world to hear;
Sweetly he pipeth beneath the skies,
For a brave old god is he!’
O I kissed my love on the lips and eyes!
And O my love kissed me!

Slowly, softly, westward flew
Day on wings of gold and blue;
As she faded out of sight
Dark and balmy fell the night.
Silent 'neath the azure cope,
Earth, a naked Ethiope,
Reach'd black arms up through the air,
Dragging down the branches bright
Of the flowering heavens, where
Starry fruitage glimmer'd white!
As he drew them gently near,
Dewdrops dim and crystal clear
Rain'd upon his face and eyes!
Listening, watching, we could hear
His deep breathing 'neath the skies;—
Suddenly, far down the glade,
Startled from some place of shade,
Like an antelope the dim
Moon upsprang, and looked at him!
Panting, trembling, in the dark,
Paused to listen and to mark,
Then with shimmer dimly fair
On from shade to shade did spring,
Gain'd the fields of heaven, and there
Wander'd, calmly pasturing!

‘O who will worship the great god Pan
Out in the woods with me?
Maker and lover of woman and man,
Under the stars sings he;

And Dian the huntress with all her train
Awakes to the wood-notes wild!’
O I kissed my love on the lips again,
And Dian looked down and smiled.

Hand in hand without a care
Following the Huntress fair,
Wheresoe'er we went we found
Silver footprints on the ground:
Grass and flowers kept the shine
Of the naked feet divine.
Now and then our eyes could see,
As we softly crept along
Through the dusky greenery,
Glimmers of the vestal throng—
Locks of gold and limbs of snow
Fading on as we came near,
Faint soft cries and laughter low
Ceasing as we paused to hear!
O the night more sweet than day!
O the merry, merry May!
O the rapture dark and deep
Of the woodlands hush'd to sleep!
O the old sweet human tune
Pan is piping to the moon!
‘Though the systems wax and wane,
Thou and I,’ he sings, ‘remain—
Both by night and one by day
Witch a world the old warm way!
Foot it, foot it! Where you tread
Woods are greenly carpeted.
Foot it round me as I sing
Nymphs and satyrs in a ring!

‘Gnarled and old sits the great god Pan—
(Peep through the boughs, and see!)—
He plays on his pipes Arcadian
Under the dark oak-tree.
But the boughs are dark round his sightless eyes—
And Dian, where is she;
O follow, follow, and where she flies
Follow her flight with me!’

Slowly, dreamily, we crept
From the silent sleeping park,
Join'd the merry throng that swept
Townward through the summer dark.
Shining round our path again,
Dian flash'd before the train,
In upon our comrades shone,
Smiled and beckon'd, bounding on!
Satyrs brown in corduroys
Smoked their pipes and join'd in song;
Gamesome girls and merry boys
Fondled as we swept along;
Here a flush'd Bacchante prest
Heavy head and crumpled bonnet
On her drowsy lover's breast,
Sprawling drowsily upon it;
Flush'd from dancing sports of Pan
Sat the little artizan,
With his wife and children three,
And the baby on his knee;
Here a little milliner,
Smart in silk and shape-improver,
All the happy Spring astir
In her veins, sat by her lover;
Mounted somewhere on the train,
Pan on the accordion played!
Rough feet shuffled to the strain,
Happy hearts the spell obeyed;
While fair Dian, looking in,
Saw the throng and heard the din,
Touch'd the young heads and the grey
With the magic of the May!

‘O who will worship the great god Pan,
Where life runs wild and free?
Form of a faun and soul of a man,
He playeth eternallie.
And Dian is out on the azure waste
As bright as bright can be!’
O my arm embraced my love's small waist,
And my love crept close to me!

When we reached the streets of stone
Dian there was bright before us,
Wading naked and alone
In the pools of heaven o'er us!
Fainter came the wood-god's sound
As we crossed the Bridge, and there
Saw the City splendour-crown'd
Sleeping dark in silver air;
Saw the river dark beneath
Rippling dim to Dian's breath.
Phillis nestling to my side
Watch'd the sad street-walker pass,
Hollow-voiced and weary-eyed,
Painted underneath the gas.
Paler, sadder, looked the moon,
Sadder grew the old sweet tune;
Shapes of sorrow and despair
Flitted ghostwise in the air,

And among them, wan and slow,
Stalked the spectral Shape of Woe—
Piercèd hands and piercèd feet
Passing on from street to street;
Silently behind Him crept
Pallid Magdalens who wept!
All the world at His footfall
Darken'd, and the music ceased—
Dark and sacrificial
Loom'd the altars of the priest,
All the magic died away
And the music of the May.

‘O who will worship the great god Pan
Here in the streets with me?
Sad and tearjul and weary and wan
Is the god who died on the Tree;
But Pan is under and Dian above,
Though the dead god cannot see,
And the merry music of youth and love
Returns eternallie!’

Homeward went my love and I
To our lodging near the sky;
There beside the snow-white bed
Dian stood with radiant eyes!
Smiled a moment ere she fled—
Then, with halo round her head,
Hung above us in the skies!
By the casement open wide
Long we watch'd her side by side;
While from the dark streets around
Came again the sylvan sound—
Pan was softly piping there
As he pipes in field and grove,
Conquering sorrow and despair
With the strains of life and love!
Phillis in her bedgown white
Kissed me, standing in the moon;
Louder, sweeter, through the night
Rang the olden antique tune;
Gently on my knee I drew her
Smiling as I heard her say,
All her warm life kindling through her,
‘Dearest, what a happy day!’
‘'Tis a happy world,’ I said;
‘Pan still pipes, though Christ is dead!’

Blushing he ceased, and folded up the scroll,
While Sappho Syntax through her spectacles
Looked grave as Pallas, and the Graces hung
Their pink-white cheeks and titter'd among their curls.
Dan Paumanok the Yankee pantheist
Was first to speak; quoth he, ‘I like that song!
It suits me, it tastes pleasant in the mouth;
But Christ is just as much alive as Pan,
Not less or more; and for the Magdalen,
I guess she suits me too. I beckon her
To an appointment, and she smiling comes:
The paint upon her lips is just as good
As roses, and her loose wild dress surpasses
The lily's raiment—’

He was talking on,
When Douglas interposed—‘May I suggest
The moral of the ditty? It is here:
The joys of costermongers and their wenches,
Of poets and their sweethearts, vindicate
Nature's loose morals and the primal Fall.
Eat, drink, be merry—carpe diem—since
Man is a Satyr; half a beast at best,
When wholly so, most happy! Am I right,
Madonna?’ This to Lady Barbara,
Who sat with pensive cheek upon her hand,
Her bright eyes tender with some summer dream.
‘Nay, Fool!’ she sighed; and ‘Nay,’ cried Verity,
With delicate nostril breathing vestal fire,
‘The passionate eternal purity,
Bright Artemis, who walks the fields of night
And trims with lustrous hands the lamps of heaven,
Rebukes the eternal riot of the sense!
Woe to the land wherein the Satyr reigns,
And Pan usurps Apollo's ivory throne!
Thank God we Englishmen at last have heard,
Amidst the pagan orgy and the shame
Of yonder City, Nature's warning voice
Of Earthquake,—with the wine-cup raised to drink,
Have read the handwriting on the riven wall
In characters of His eternal fire!’

‘Superfluous was the warning,’ interposed
Wormwood, the pessimist philosopher;

‘Man needs no miracle to attest the law
Which made him and preserves him miserable!
Like fabled Tantalus in the poet's song,
In aquis quœrit aquas, and pursues
The ever-flying apple. Let him gladden
A little in the sunshine if he can—
To-morrow he must die!’

‘Man cannot die!’
Shrill'd the sleek pantheist, Spinoza Smith;
‘For though the individual perishes,
The sum Divine, cipher of which Man is,
Abides imperishable. Thought alone
Is God, and is the only Absolute;
And Thought remains though men and systems fade.
The music lasts, the instrument is changed:
Thought was, is, and shall be; Thought has at last
Become material in Humanity.
The consciousness of the Eternal flames
Upon the mirror of thy consciousness,
And for a moment while the splendour lasts
Thou knowest and perceivest. Die, and lo!
The light that was and is thy consciousness
Abides divine and indestructible,—
Invisible, with power to re-emerge
In forms material, other instruments,
In forms and hues which figure Thought divine;
Yea, even letters, which like hieroglyphs
Preserve the eternal attributes of Soul.
Thus man is God, and therefore cannot die.’

Quoth Paumanok dryly, ‘What you say is true,
But with interpretations! Man emerges
From the Divine Idea, to gain, not lose,
Identity, and once identified
I guess he cannot once again retire
Impersonal; having become as God
By knowing and perceiving, he remains
Godlike, immortal, and has vanquish'd Death!’

‘We wander,’ said Queen Barbara with a smile,
‘Far from our starting-place. Great Rome still stands
Upon the solid ground, the mighty rock;
Philosophy with heavy and weary wing
Still seeks to rise, but flaps along the ground;
And poets' dreams of fairyland and gods
Are fantasies too faint for flesh and blood.’

Then Cuthbert spoke, our Modern Abelard—
The Church's outcast, foe of all the creeds,
But most at war with his own unbelief,
A priest at heart, yet scorning every form
Of priesthood, dim-eyed through excess of light,
Believing nought, believing everything,
And groping through his doubts he knew not whither.
‘Rome conquer'd where she crown'd the hopes of man
With a celestial promise, but she failed
Where the old pagan triumphed—in a joy
Material, archetypal, quick not dead,
That met the happy needs of human life.
We are mortal and immortal; mortal first,
Women and men, although eternal souls;
And warring with the laws of life and love,
Rejecting flesh which symbolises God,
Blind to the law of Nature, seeing not
Thought and material are but woof and web,
Scorning the animal instinct and its pleas
For sunshine and free light, free exercise
Of life and breath, Rome turned the world she ruled
Into a lazar-den and sepulchre.
She proved Man cannot die, but failed to prove
That Man is fit to live; she comforted
The grief of Man, but caused the tears she dried;
She slew the idolatries of heathendom,
But made an image of the living God,
And lapsed, as all idolaters must lapse,
To darkness and despair. Yet she endures,—
The blind old Mother, grovelling on the ground
In purple sad as sackcloth, and the world
Still sees the sceptre that is but a reed
Shake in her palsied hand. Too weary and old
To learn the lesson that the infant Man
Is prattling at her knee, she lieth prone,
And measures—her own grave!’

So saying, he turned
To one who stood and listened at his side—
Sparkle, Professor of the Institute,—

A tall lithe man, brown as a mountaineer,
Who through a glittering eyeglass, the bright pane
Fix'd in his intellectual dwelling-house,
Half study, half observatory, gazed
Serenely on the follies of the world.
‘Right, right, dear Cuthbert,’ answering his look,
Sparkle replied: ‘and yet, and yet—who knows?
I have often thought with Comte that fallen Rome
Might yet arise, if she would cast aside
Her supernatural fancies and baptize
Us wandering priests of Science, fashioning
A truly nobler order of the Wise
To rule the world and spread the solemn creed
Of Nature and the Law. She wastes her life
Mourning her Eldest Born, that beauteous soul
Who ere He perish'd, centuries ago,
Promised so wonderfully that the world
Is haunted by His memory even now!
Well, that is o'er, the golden bowl is broken,
The fair head still, within its Eastern grave;
But we who have come upon a stormier time,
The apostles of a sterner, saner creed,
Would gladly wake the Mother from her dream
And seat her on the throne of human thought.
Man craves a creed—we bring it; seeks a rule
Imperial,—she might wield it as of old;
Demands a priesthood,—we who follow Truth,
Far as the limits of the Knowable,
Would form that priesthood,—ay, and cheerfully
Elect our Pope and give him ample power,
Scarce stopping at infallibility!
'Tis sad so perfect a machinery
Should rust away dishonoured and disused
For lack of all it needs—a Hierarchy
Which might restore it for the use of men!’

Two priests of Rome, outcast, yet still of Rome
(Since he who once hath ta'en the priestly garb
Is ever a priest), were in that company:
Both smiled, but neither answer'd; silent men,
With eyes that seem'd to suffer from the light
They shed on others, even there, amid
That throng of shallow or rebellious souls,
They both were busy sowing subtle seeds
That sprout by midnight. Well they knew, in sooth,
How oft the pathos of a creed forlorn
Acts magnet-like on sympathetic clay
Sighing without a foothold. What had grown
In pain and persecution still (they prayed),
After long centuries of pomp and pride
Might, under persecution, rise again.
Their patient faces touch'd a piteous chord
Within me: and as wistfully they watched
The sunset fading like a blackening brand,
Both speechless, faintly flush'd with that sad light,
While Lady Barbara stirred upon her seat,
Signing dismissal to her wearied court
Whose yawns proclaim'd the dinner-hour at hand,
I craved again the singer's privilege
And sang of Roman Rizpah's last despair:

O Rizpah, Mother of Nations, the days of whose glory are done,
Moaning alone in the darkness, thou countest—the bones of thy Son!

The Cross is vacant above thee, and He is no longer thereon—
A wind came out of the night, and He fell like a leaf, and was gone.

But wearily through the ages, searching the sands of the years,
Thou didst gather His bones together, and wash them, Madonna, with tears.

They have taken thy crown, O Rizpah, and driven thee forth with the swine,
But the bones of thy Son they have left thee; yea, kiss them and clasp—they are thine!

Thou canst not piece them together, or hang them up yonder afresh,
The skull hath no eye within it, the feet and the hands are not flesh.

Thou moanest an old incantation, thou troublest the world with thy cries—
Ah God, if the bones should hear thee, and join once again, and arise!

In the night of the seven-hill'd City, discrown'd and disrobed and undone,
Thou waitest a sign, O Madonna, and countest the bones of thy Son!

THE SECOND DAY.

(ANTHROPOMORPHISM.)

Two miles of field and wood as flies the crow,
But thrice two miles of azure curves and bends
As winds the peaceful river, turning oft
With lingering feet as turns and turns again
On her own footprints some sweet dreaming maid
Who gathers ferns and flowers with listless hand,
Lay like a jewel a green promontory
Sparkling bright emerald on the breast of Tweed.
Thither next day our happy company
In barges, boats, and shallops idly rowed,
A bright flotilla, all the rainbow's hues
Fluttering in sunshine and in azure depths
Brokenly mirror'd; Satyrs, Nymphs, and Fauns,
The Graces under pink silk parasols,
The Muses under Gainsborough hats of straw,
Venus, white-vestured and without her doves,
Chattering to Vulcan in blue spectacles,
The modern Syrens, singing as they dipt
White hands in crystal o'er the shallop's side,
Followed each other merrily as we went.
And here the willow trailed her yellow locks
In golden shallows whence the kingfisher
Flashed like a living topaz and was gone;
And here the clustering water-lilies spread
Their oilèd leaves and alabaster cups,
Tangled amid the river's sedgy hair;
And there from shadowy oaks that fringed the stream
The squirrel stood upright and lookt at us
With beaded eyes; and all the flowery banks
Were loud with hum of bees and song of birds;
And often on the smooth and silent pools,
Brimful of golden warmth and heavenly light,
The salmon sprang a foot into the sun,
Sparkled in panoply of silver mail,
And sank in the circle of his own bright leap!

For on the promontory which we sought
A Hermit in the olden time had dwelt,
White-hair'd, white-bearded, cress and pulse his food,
The crystal stream his drink; and still the rock
Preserved the outline of his mossy cell;
And where his naked foot had press'd the grass
Under the shadowy boughs of oak and beech,
The blue of heaven had fallen and blossom'd up
In azure harebells multitudinous,
For ever misted with their own soft breath
Of sunless summer dew.

Gaily we sailed,
And after many windings serpentine
We reached the place. Against the grassy banks
Our boats discharged their many-coloured freight,
Till all the flowery slopes and dusky glades
Were busy and bright with smiling human shapes;
And through the warm and honeysuckled ways,
Tangled with bramble, ferns, and foxglove bells,
We pushed our path until we found indeed
The mossy cell, with overhanging eaves
Encalendured with lichens like the Cross,
And down below the dewy grass, knee-deep,
And countless hyacinths with their waxen stems
And fairy bells of thin transparent blue.
Most cool and still, embower'd on every side,
With just a peep of azure overhead,
Was that sweet sanctuary, hush'd as a nest
Deserted, with no stir of summer sound;
And down the mossy rock a crystal dew
Stole coldly, while one sparkling minute drop
Fell like quicksilver on a flowering fern,
Gleam'd, and rolled luminous to the chill green ground.

Hard by the cell we found an open lawn
Sprinkled with fronds of fern and azure flowers,

And here full soon we spread our snowy cloths
And picnick'd in the sunlight. From the boughs
The gold-bill'd blackbird and the bluewing'd jay
Gazed down on such a scene as birds beheld
When Oberon's enchanted cavaliers
Stole forth to banquet underneath the moon;
And they whose scientific bolts and brooms
Had driven the fairies forth from field and farm,
So that the shepherdess and dairymaid
No longer fear the roguish pixy's thumb
Punishing idleness, were merriest there,
And laughed as loud as if the work-a-day world
Were sweetly haunted yet! In lily hands
The light glass tinkled, while the beaded wine
Cream'd and ran o'er, and every learnèd lap
Was like a Dryad's, full of ripen'd fruit;
And presently for sport our Satyrs plucked
Flowers of the wood, and pelted merrily
Some saucy-eyed Bacchantes, who upsprang
White-bosom'd, dimple-breasted, and escaped
Hotly pursued into the flowery glades—
Whence silvery peals of laughter, stifled cries,
Were wafted to us on the summer air.

Then to her throne, a high and mossy bank
Emblazon'd with the crowsfoot's dusky gold,
Our Barbara moved, with royally lifted hand
Enjoining silence; happily her court
Clustered about her, as she smiled and cried—
‘Surround me and attend, all ye whose souls,
Though glad with summer light and warm with milk
Of Venus (which we moderns call champagne!)
Remember that Great Problem, and our oath
Each day to take it as a summer theme.
Here on this very spot, in yonder cell,
The holy Hermit dwelt and ponder'd it
Alone, so many a hundred years ago.
Alas! how few in this our feverish age
Dare play the hermit now! Our anchorites
Are noisy men, who tell their beads for show,
And print their prosings in the magazines
Beside the gigman's diatribes at “God,”
Spelt with a little “g”!’

A quiet voice,
That of a bright-eyed preacher from the north—
(Our Norman, ripe and mellow as Friar Tuck,
Yet tender-soul'd as sweet Maid Marian!)—
Made echo:—‘Wisely spoken! Here and there
A few sad thinkers crawl on hands and knees
Into the temples of the solitude;
But these, being reverent, are awed and dumb,—
Unlike the jaunty, dapper, newly breech'd
Child of the age, who, strutting in the sun
Selling his birthright for a penman's praise,
Denies his Heavenly Father!’

‘Pardon me,’
Broke in the scoffer, Douglas Sutherland,
‘The age we live in has its vanities
I grant you, but it stands supreme in this,—
The use of soap and water, the crusade
Still needful against other-worldliness.
If holiness be gauged by length of nail,
Heart's purity by epidermic crust,
I grant your anchorites were blessed men;
If not, quite otherwise; and for the rest,
The Heavenly Father they perceived and praised,
Their magnified non-natural Heavenly Father,
Was, like themselves, a dull old Anchorite,
Unclean and useless, brooding in a den
With Fever for his servant, Pestilence
To scatter forth his breathings. Nowadays
We prize a cleanlier Godhead, scorning dreams
Which at the best are childish,—in a word,
Anthropomorphic!’

Then that other's face,
A little angry, for a burning soul
With faith at white heat cannot jest with fire,
Flash'd scornfully and almost pityingly—
‘The babe must have his rattle, and the child
His catchword! Verily, Science is at best
A foolish Virgin, thinking to destroy

The Eternal Verity with a cumbrous phrase!
Anthropomorphic, say you, is the dream,—
A man's, an infant's, vision of himself
Flashed upon mental darkness? Be it so.
Then as a child that in the cradle lies
And feels the darkness stir, and seems to feel
The brightness of a face he cannot see,
I, who am old, accept the happy dream,
And, since you will it so, the phrase as well.
Go, range the empty heaven of fantasy
Upon Spinoza's wingèd horse of brass
(Which, coming down to earth with thundershock,
Stuns him that rides and robs him of an eye),
Or lose your wits in Hegel's cloud of words,
Or prone on hands and knees inspect the worms
With Darwin, or with Spencer blankly stare
At vacuum and the Inconceivable;
But what if, like those leaders, lonely men,
You find yourselves at last without a Friend?
Meantime I stretch a hand out in the darkness
And touch—my Father's; nay, I wake and gaze,
And lo! I see the very Face and Form
I have dream'd of; and, a child once more, I say
“Our Father,” and I know my prayer is heard!
God help me if my God be not indeed
The Father of my simple childish faith!’

Then Douglas shrugged his shoulders, scorning speech
With one in Superstition's swaddling clothes;
But something in the brave benignant face,
Bright-eyed and lofty-brow'd, and in the voice
So tender with its soft deep Highland burr,
Subdued us, and we listened reverently
Ev'n where we doubted most; and when he ceased
A certain timid echo in our hearts
Murmur'd approval. Thereupon our Queen
Besought him, having faith so absolute,
To carry our fitful torch of tale-telling
A little space that day, 'then hand it on
To the next, and next. He shook his head and smiled,
Then answer'd, being urged—‘To me at least
Your Problem is no Problem after all—
I solved it at my Heavenly Father's knee,
Spelling His Name out of the Book Divine,
And looking up into those loving eyes
With which He shines upon the worst and best;
But since you wish it, I will tell a tale
Of that same heavenly Presence—how it came
To one who was in heart a little child,
But who, being lesson'd by the over-wise,
Beheld the gentle dream dissolve away.’

Then, without further prelude, he began
This story of the monk Serapion,
Who in the evening of his days embraced
The sweet anthropomorphic heresy.

SERAPION.

I.

On the mountain heights, in a cell of stone,
Dwelt Serapion;
There, winter and summer, he linger'd alone.

Most drear was the mountain and dismal the cell;
Yet he loved them well—
Contented and glad in their silence to dwell.

And ever his face wore an innocent ray,
And his spirit was gay,
And he sang, like the angels who sing far away!

The goathered, who gathered his flocks ere the night,
In the red sunset light,
Heard the voice ring above him, from height on to height.

Ofttimes, from his cell on the cold mountain's crown,
He came merrily down,
And stood, with a smile, 'mid the folk in the town.

With raiment all ragged, worn shoon on his feet,
He walk'd in the street,
Yet his eyes were so happy, his voice was so sweet!

And ever his face wore the grace and the gleam
Of a beautiful dream,
Like the light of the sun shed asleep on a stream!

And the folk cried aloud, as they gathered to see:
‘Of all men that be,
The brightest and happiest surely is he!’

And they question'd: ‘O! why is thy face ever bright,
And thy spirit so light,
Down here in the valley, up there on the height?’

He answer'd: ‘What makes me so happy and gay
Wheresoever I stray?
The Lord I behold all the night, all the day!

‘He walks like a Shepherd in raiment of gold
On the mountain-tops cold;
He comes to my cell; on my knees I behold.

‘He smiles like my father who died long ago;
His eyes sweetly glow—
Those eyes are as sapphires; His beard is as snow!

‘Yea, night-time and day-time he comes to my call,
The dear Father of all,
With a face ever fair, with a solemn footfall!’

Then the folk cried again: ‘Of all mortals that be,
Surely gladdest is he!’ . . . .
Wise monks from afar came to hear and to see.

II.

As they climb'd through the snows to his cell, they could hear
His voice ringing clear,
In a hymn to the Lord who for ever seem'd near.

They enter'd and saw him. He sat like a wight
Who beholds some strange sight—
Face fix'd, his eyes shining, most peaceful and bright!

‘O brother! what makes thee so happy?’ they cried.
With a smile he replied:
‘The Lord who so loves me, my Guardian and Guide!

‘He comes in the night and He comes in the day
From his Heaven far away;
I feel His soft touch on my hair, as I pray.

‘He smiles with grave eyes like my father long dead,
His hand bows my head,
From the breath of His nostrils a blessing is shed!’

Through their ranks as they listened a cold shudder ran,
And the murmur began:
‘Can God have the touch and the breath of a man?

‘No soul can conceive Him, no sight may descry
The Most Strange, the Most High,
Not the quick when they live, not the holy who die.’

But Serapion answer'd: ‘I hear and I see;
He comes hourly to me;
He speaks in mine ear, as I pray on my knee!’

They murmur'd: ‘Blaspheme not! He dwells far away;
None fathom Him may;
For He is not as man, nor is fashion'd of clay.

‘Can the God we conceive not have ears and have eyes?
Who sayeth so, lies!
Cast thy heresy off, hear our words, and be wise!

‘For God is not flesh, as His worshippers be—
Nay, a Spirit is He,
Not shapen for mortals to hear or to see.

‘Inconceivable, Holy, Divine evermore,
All His works ruling o'er;
Yet by these we conceive Him, and darkly adore.’

Then Serapion answer'd: ‘How strange! For He seems,
In my beautiful dreams,
To be near, with a kind face that brightens and beams!’

They murmur'd: ‘These fancies are false and abhorred;
Since the God who is Lord
Neither face hath nor form, though His wrath is a sword!

‘Put the vision behind thee! Be sure no man's eye
Can conceive or descry
What is hidden from angels of God in the sky!’

But Serapion answer'd: ‘He comes to my prayer:
He is kind, He is fair;
His smile is as sunlight, that sleeps on the air.

‘Not as men, but more splendid and stately and tall
Is the Father of all.
He walks on the snows with a solemn footfall!’

But they cried: ‘By some fiend is thy solitude stirred!
Shall the Light and the Word,
The Spirit Almighty, be seen and be heard?

‘Put the vision aside; like a dream let it flit,
And the shadow of it;
Lest the heresy drive thee, accurst, to the Pit.’

They spake and he listened. For nights and for days
He hark'd in amaze,
While they proved that a Phantom had gladden'd his gaze.

At last all was clear, and his forehead was bent
In submissive assent.
They confess'd him and bless'd him, and joyfully went.

III.

There he sat, still as stone, sadly thinking it o'er,
At his desolate door.
Then, alone in his cell, tried to pray, as before.

He reached out his arms to the cold, empty air,
Kneeling woefully there;
He prayed unto God; but none came to his prayer.

He walked from his cell on the cold mountain's crown,
Wending silently down,
Till he stood as before, 'mid the folk in the town.

With raiment all ragged, worn shoon on his feet,
He stood in the street;
And his eyes were not happy, his voice was not sweet!

The gladness was gone that made golden his face;
Yea, there linger'd no trace
Of the smile and the sunshine, the peace and the grace.

And the folk whisper'd low, as they gathered to see—
‘Of all men that be,
The saddest and weariest surely is he!’

He climb'd up the mountain, and sat there alone;
And his spirit made moan—
‘My God, they have slain Thee! My God, Thou art gone!

‘Their breath hath destroy'd Thee, my Father!’ he said—
‘Thou art lost! Thou art fled!’
And the sense of his doom was as dust on his head.

IV.

The goatherd still gather'd his flocks ere the night,
In the red sunset-light;
But heard no voice singing, afar on the height!

Silent we cluster'd when the tale was done,
Till Verity exclaimed: ‘As that lone monk
Who suffered pedants to destroy his God,
So is our England now! For many years
She dwelt apart and ponder'd that pure thought
Which turned to heavenly song in Milton's mouth,
And never questioning taught her wisest sons
To bow their heads beneath the Father's hand;
Then in an evil hour her ear was turn'd
To specious pleadings which profaned the faith
And quickened unbelieving; from that hour
Faith faded, the heroic stature sank
Cubit by cubit, and her heroes changed
To problem-haunted pigmies, clustering mites
On the green cheese of Science. Faugh, how rank
The stale thing smells, to nostrils which have drunk
The pure air sweeten'd by the mountain snows
Where men even yet may find the living God!’

Cried Sparkle quickly, ‘I will grant you, Faith
Was marvellous, when Faith was possible!
But which is best for outcast Nature's Son,
Fatherless, illegitimately born,
And at the best remitted to the care
Of an abandon'd mother—which is best,
To play the farce of filial faith to One
Who utterly declines to show His face,
Nay, who, if He exists, denies Himself,
And leaves His offspring unprovided for,
Or boldly, calmly, facing all events,
To say, “In all the world where'er I search
I find no trace of Fatherhood at all,
No token of His kindness or His care,—
Only inexorable Law pursuing
Me and my brethren, and that greater one,
Nature, our mother. Blessings upon her,
Upon her poor blind eyes and beauteous face
Still sunny with insufferable love!
Blessings upon her, and sweet reverence,
Who loveth us, her children! On her breast
We wakened, ever in her circling arms
We found kind shelter; when our hearts are sore,
Our spirits weary, she can comfort us
With countless ministrations, woven smiles
Of light and flowers and sunshine; when at last
We are wearied out with our brief day of life,
She hath a bed of quiet ready, strewn
With grass and scented shadow. Bid me kneel
To her who never fail'd in acts of love,
And lo! how eagerly, how reverently,
I haste to bend the knee; but bid me kneel
To Him I know not, who since life began
Hath never stood acknowledged or revealed,
And lo! I rise erect with folded arms
In the full pride and privilege of Man,
Rejecting, scorning, or denying Him!
How hath He helped me? When my finger ached
Or my soul sicken'd of some dark disease,
Where was my Father—where was He for whom
I shriek'd through all the watches of the night
In pain and protestation? Did He come
To comfort and sustain me? When I shrank
Affrighted from the clammy hands of Death,
When in mine arms the maiden of my love
Lay dead and cold, slain by her own first kiss,
Where was the Father that ye vaunt so much?
I owe Him life? Perchance. Love too? Ah me,
A little love to mock a little life

Forlorn, and swiftly flying! He hath chosen,
To leave me in the wilderness of thought
Abandon'd and rejected; I in turn,
Finding He fails me in my hour of need,
Finding He cannot save me from the fangs
Of His own bloodhounds, Death and Force and Law,
Reject Him, and abandon that old dream
Of ever looking on a Father's face!”’

More would his lips have utter'd in a strain
By some deemed blasphemous, but angry cries
Broke in upon the current of his speech;
And many there, remembering the fear
Which drove them thither from the City's streets,
Drew timorously together, as if fearing
The Earthquake's jaws might open under them.
‘Enough!’ cried Barbara—‘you touch the harp
Of feeling with too strenuous a touch,
And jar the delicate chords too cruelly!
For me, I mourn the faith which long ago
Led men into the desert sands to pray,
And tomb'd the hermit in his narrow cell;
Then love was pain, and pain was privilege,
And he who sought the Father was content
To find Him bleeding on the wayside Cross,
Or looking sadly from the Sepulchre.
Now who will justify the holiness
Of self-renouncement, shaming with some tale,
Quaint as a missal love-illuminèd,
Our peevish problem-haunted modernness?
Come, Bishop, for you have not spoken yet,
Though clad in wisdom and in purity
As whitely as your ancestors, the monks.’

Close to her side stood Bishop Eglantine,
The gentle priest who dwells an anchorite
Amid the busiest throngs of living men—
A man who, sitting at the laden board
Of Knowledge, looking with a longing eye
On the rare dainties that he must not touch,
Grows gaunt and lean with intellectual fasts;
So spare, the soul seems shining through his flesh
Like light through alabaster. Tall he stood,
Upgazing through the thin transparent roof
Of leaves upon some peaceful sight in heaven,
And when he smiled in answer to her words
His smile was spectre-like and virginal,
Too faint for flesh and blood. Not far away
The plumper Bishop Primrose laughing sat,
Broad as his Church and sunnier than his creed,
And held a bright-eyed child between his knees.
A Roman lily and an English rose
Were these two prelates; one proclaiming Christ
Ghostly and sad and sacrificial,
The other, Christ the brown young Shepherd, clad
With strength as with a garment, bending down
To lift a lambkin struggling among thorns,
And bear it on his back across the hills
Into the Master's fold.

Quoth Eglantine,
With courteous bow to all the circle round,
‘Ev'n as you spoke my thoughts were far away
With one who tenderly renounced the flesh
And found in pain sweet comfort long ago.
Here is the tale—scarcely indeed a tale—
'Tis given in a monkish chronicle,
And is so brief, that he who runs may hear.’

RAMON MONAT.

1

Hidden from the light of day,
All his care to plead and pray,
In his cell sat Ramon Monat,
Gaunt and grey.

2

Suddenly before his sight
Stood the Virgin robed in white,—
In her arms fresh-gather'd roses
Red and bright.

3

‘Ramon, Ramon,’ murmur'd she,
‘See the gifts I bring to thee,
Roses, red celestial roses,
Pluck'd by me!

4

‘Walking in His gardens fair,
'Midst the golden glory there,
My sweet Son, the Lord Christ Jesus,
Hears thy prayer!

5

‘Lo, He sendeth thee to-day
These blest flowers from far away!’ . . .
Wildly sobbing, Ramon Monat
Answer'd ‘Nay!

6

'Holy Mother, on thy breast
Let the flowers of rapture rest,—
Not for me—I am not worthy—
Gifts so blest!

7

'Ah, but if my brows might gain
(Hear me, though the prayer is vain),
For a moment's space, my Master's
Crown of pain!’

8

From his sight the Virgin fair
Vanish'd, as he sank in prayer;
Presently, again he saw her,
Standing there!

9

Weeping bitterly she said,
‘See, the gift I bring instead—
Lo, the cruel crown of sorrow,
Bloody-red!’

10

When the Virgin Mother mild,
Weeping like a little child,
Set the thorns on Ramon's forehead,
Ramon smiled!

11

Lonely there for many a day,
Rack'd with anguish, gaunt and grey,
Happy with that crown of sorrow,
Ramon lay.

12

Then, when 'twas his Master's will,
There they found him dead and chill,
Sweetly, in his crown of sorrow,
Smiling still!

‘The lunatic, the anchorite, and the poet
Are of rank superstition all compact,’
Cried Douglas, lifting high his cap and bells;
‘Your Ramon Monat wore his crown of thorns
Upon his pallid brow as jauntily
As Cæsar throws the purple round his limbs.
Such creatures on the body of Mother Church
Crawl'd thickly, till good Doctor Rational,
Call'd when the lady's state was perilous,
Said, “Wash thyself—be clean, take exercise!”
And so the vermin died. He serves God best
Who loves his kind, and teaches them to rinse
Both soul and body, until both appear
As clean—as a sheep's heart!’

A speech so bold
Jarr'd with the gentle temper of the hour,
The peaceful woods, the summer afternoon,
The dreamy spirit of that sylvan scene.
‘Peace, knave!’ cried Barbara mock-seriously,
‘Moments there are when even cap and bells
Must lose their privilege, and fools be dumb
For fear of stripes!’—and to him on the grass
She tossed a bunch of grapes, which Douglas caught
And munch'd in silence, lying on his back.
Then came a pause, so deep that we could hear
The breathing of the silence, the soft stir
Of birds among the boughs, the waterfall
Crooning itself to sleep within the woods.

Quoth Bishop Primrose: ‘Your ascetics shrank
Sense after sense, until their very souls
Became as mere Narcissi, pondering
Their own reflections, figuring in their pride
A moral catalepsy, death not life.
He serves God best who launches fearlessly
Out on the living waters, and proclaiming
The great celestial haven, leads the way
With all sails set, that the poor storm-toss'd fleet
Of Humankind may follow fearlessly!
Ev'n so the preachers of our Church have done,

Spreading glad tidings up and down the world,
And working out salvation for themselves
Through the redemption of the human race!’

‘Alas!’ another speaker interposed,
‘The Storm is loud for ever on the seas,
And while the proud strong Churches of the creeds
Sail to and fro with golden argosies,
Each night a fleet of fishing-boats goes down
And no man heeds! Science is tenderer;
She puts a beacon on each rocky cape,
And sounds the shallows, that poor mariners
May know the seas their ships must navigate.
Meantime the tumult of Euroclydon
Roars on the Deep; and mark! the tempest blows
Not to but from the far-off Heavenly Land,
Beating the vessels back on dusky shores
To shipwreck close at home. I'd rather trust
The roughest pilot born upon the coast,
Familiar with the dangers round about,
Than any of your Priests who shut their eyes
And wring their hands and pray! This world of ours
Is at the mercy of the elements;
Who tries to weigh them? Science does her best,
While poor Religion quakes, and conjures up
More spectres than the storm itself can breed.’
He added: ‘Just the other day in church,
Drifted there Heaven knows how and Heaven knows why,
I heard the preacher preach, and dreamed a dream;
If you will have it, here it is in verse,
Rude as the maker, rugged as the theme,’—
And no one interposing, he began.

IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH.

I.

What Shape is this with hands outreaching,
Walking the waters of Hell, and preaching?
The waves are rolling beneath and glistening,
Each breaking wave is a white face, listening!

The rift is roaring, the rain is moaning—
His robe streams back as He stands intoning;
With jet-black troughs the mad seas break at Him,
And the lightning springs, like a hissing snake, at Him!

God, doth He guess any soul can hear Him,
With the wind so wailing, the storm so near Him?
Yet now and then sounds His voice of wonder there,
Like the plash of a shower in the pause of thunder, there.

The Devil sits by those waters evil,
Pensive, as is the wont of the Devil,
So bored and blasé his expression is
None would guess what his true profession is.

The waters and he are tired together
Of such eternally stormy weather;
Always that wind is roaring busily,
Till the heart feels faint and the head rocks dizzily.

Always gusty both night and morrow!
No wonder the Devil is full of sorrow,
No wonder he sneers at the Figure preaching there
With bright eyes burning and hands outreaching there.

The Devil thinks, ‘What use of trying
To preach a sermon 'midst such a crying?
If He bade the Almighty close His batteries,
The damn'd beneath Him might guess what the matter is!’

And lo! the Figure with white robe streaming
Raises His hand while the winds are screaming—
As He stood on the earth when the Pharisees found Him,
He stands, and the same Storm beats around Him.

As long ago 'neath the empyrean
He walked on the waters Galilean,

With only the poor damn'd souls to discern it, He
Walks, and has walked through a long eternity!

God with the still small voice's calling!
Soft as rain on the grass 'tis falling,
Yet little blame to the souls who are near to it
If they break and groan and give no ear to it!

Something it is for the damn'd below Him
To see the patient Figure and know Him! . . . .
What a wind! what a raining and roaring now!
Lightning, thunder, and black rain pouring now!

II.

Up with a start I waken groaning,
And hear sweet Honeydew's voice intoning.
Only a dream!—and in church I am again,
Half asleep, in the midst of the sham again!

Hark! how the soft-eyed, soft-voiced creature
Preaches, with sweetness in every feature!
The ladies listen, the maids sit dutiful,
The spinsters quiver, and murmur, ‘Beautiful!’

Surely as every Sunday passes
The scented silken superior classes
Flutter flounces and flash like sunny dew
Around the Reverend Mr. Honeydew.

Cambric handkerchiefs scatter scent about,
Pomaded heads are devoutly bent about,
Silks are rustling, lips are muttering,
To the dear man's emotional pausing and fluttering.

The actor with his shaven cheek here
Studies his art and learns to speak here;
Every period properly weighted is,
With gentle matter the sermon freighted is.

Sir Midas, portly and resplendent,
With the little Midases attendant,
And Lady Midas, all eyes upon her here,
Sit and smile in the pew of honour here.

Even the agnostic and revolter
Gather before this Chapel's altar,
For none of the bigot's mad insanity
Deforms dear Honeydew's Christianity.

In such an excellent pastor's leading,
So full of brightness and dainty breeding,
Even the faith ecclesiastical
Seems entertaining and less fantastical!

The preacher is an excellent fellow!
His matter and manner are ever mellow. . . .
But afar the tempest of Hell is thundering,
The Figure preaching, the Devil wondering!

Strange as some low and far-off thunderpeal
Heard in the still heat of a summer day,
While shepherds looking upward in the sun
See purple banks of cloud that ominously
Roll in the distance, came the speaker's words;
And as they ended we beheld indeed
Hell, or Creation adumbrating Hell,
Breathing with ululations of despair.
Hearing the wails of sin, the moans of men,
The hopeless, ceaseless wash of weary lives
Which sigh for sunlight or some shore of peace,
We pitied that supreme despairing Shape
Who treads the waves of woe with luminous feet,
And since He cannot still them, grows as sad
As the wild waters He is walking on.
And all were silent until Barbara rose
And sigh'd: ‘The sun is sinking in the west;
Our happy day is ended—let us go!’
And murmuring like bees around the queen
We wandered slowly to the river-side.

Now like a gentle herdsman stood the sun
Pausing upon the brae-tops while he drove
His fleecy flocks of cloud into their fold
Beneath the faintly glimmering evening star;
And coming from the shadow of the woods,
Hushing our cries, we saw the gloaming grow,
The trees behind us black, the prospects dim,
But all things looming large in lustrous air,

The river-pools as full of deep strange light
As the still sky. The air, too, seem'd alive
With ominous sound akin to that strange light:
The bull-frogs croaking from the river shallows,
The cat-owl calling from the distant glade,
The murmuring waterfall now faintly heard
Drowsy and half asleep. Then from the woods
Rang sudden laughter, sharp and silvery clear,
Of merry maidens, and the music seem'd
As hollow as a bell, and when we spoke
Our voices had an eerie and empty sound
As if through vast and echoing corridors
We walked in awe.

But soon upon the stream
Our bright flotilla homeward sailed again,
And ere we reached the silent Priory woods
The azure gates of darkness, swinging wide,
Revealed the lucent starry-paven floors,
And all the lamps of heaven ranged in rows
Each in its order round the Altar-steps,
From which a pale and silver-vestured Moon
Pour'd bright ablution and upraised the Host.

Then, as the glory wrapt us round and round,
And the dark river, sparkling to our oars,
Flash'd back the dewy splendour, soft and low
Some voices joined in song; and thus they sang:—

Storm in the night! and a voice in the Storm is crying:
‘They have taken my Lord, and I know not where He is lying!’

‘I sat in the Tomb by His side, with a soul unshaken,
I chafed His clay-cold hands,—for I knew He must waken.

‘Before He closed His eyes, He said to the weeping—
“'Tis but a little while—I shall wake from sleeping!”

Cold and stiff He lay, not seeing or hearing;
The Tomb was sealed with a rock,—but I sat unfearing.

‘For a light lay on His eyes, and His face was gleaming;
I heard Him sigh in His sleep, and thought “He is dreaming!”

‘And then, with a thunder-peal, the rock was riven;
Bright, in the mouth of the Tomb, stood Angels of Heaven!

‘He did not stir, though I whispered, “Master, awaken!”. .
Then brightness blinded my eyes,—and lo, He was taken!

‘I woke in the Tomb alone, and the wind chill'd through me:
“O Master,” I moan'd, “remember Thy promise to me!”

‘I crept through the night and sought Him. . . . Hither and their
The swift Moon walk'd, and the white-tooth'd Sea ran with her.

‘I stole from palace to palace, from prison to prison,
I found no trace of my Lord, though they said “He hath risen!”

‘I heard the Nations weeping—I questioned the Nations:
One said, “He is dead!” another, “He lives—have patience!”

‘Twice—on the desert sands, in the City Holy,
I have found two piercèd footprints, vanishing slowly!

‘Wearily still I wander and still pursue Him—
He promised and I await Him, wailing unto Him!

‘And now they say, “He is dead—hath the world forsaken.”
Ah no, He hath promised!—hath waken'd,—or will awaken!’

Storm in the night! and a voice in the Storm still crying:
‘They have taken my Lord, and I know not where He is lying!’

THE THIRD DAY.

(THIS WORLD.)

Next day it storm'd. Awakening I gazed forth,
And saw a slanting wall of liquid gray
Shutting out park and pale, while overhead

The black clouds droop'd their banners drifting east;
Then gazing southward, through the mists I saw
The ghostly glimmer of the distant Ocean!
Desolate as a soul that leaps from heaven,
The wild rain flung itself into the sea,
And sobbing, choked and drown'd!

The day drew on.
Slowly at intervals, with dismal yawns,
The guests descended to the breakfast-rooms,
And afterwards they scatter'd hither and thither:
Some to the drawing-room to lounge and flirt,
Some to the billiard-room, whence soon there came
The light sharp rattle of the ivory ball;
Some to the library, others to the porch,
To lounge there, pipe in mouth, and watch the weather.
A few, with Sappho Syntax at their head,
Donned their goloshes and their water-proofs,
And faced the Storm; but many kept apart
Until the lunch-bell rang; then, luncheon o'er,
More straggling up and down from room to room,
Till, as the hum spreads through a throng of bees
That the queen bee is near, and straightway all
Throng to the honey'd centre of the hive,
The murmur spread that Barbara held her court
In the great drawing-room; whither hastening,
We found her, throned upon an ottoman,
Sparkle, high priest of Science, at her side,
And murmuring silken periods in her ear.

‘Dreary indeed, flat, dreary and confined,
As this our Priory on a day of rain,
With walls of liquid black on every side,
Must the sad Earth have seemed ere Science rose
To tear the veil from Nature's face, and show
The wonders of the illimitable Void.
A thousand years after the birth of Christ,
Religion, like the Spirit of the Storm,
Obscured the open heaven, veiled land and tide,
And made Creation dark; and no man knew
The clime wherein he dwelt, or dared explore
His earthly habitation; but the tide
Of Superstition, like another Flood,
Submerged the landmarks, hid the continents,
And mingled black with the unpastured Sea.
Then, like a cumbrous Ark, the Church survived,
And resting on the Ararat of Rome,
Rock'd to the wash of waters—those within,
Arrayed in priestly raiment, crying aloud,
“Woe! woe to man! the Day of Doom is near!”
Honour to those who in that awful hour
Flew forth upon the waves like fearless doves,
And though the craven priests cried out “Beware!”
Faced the wild darkness and the winds of heaven,
Seeking for glimpses of the solid land!
Then some came circling back with wearied wings,
And many vanished never to return;
A few, the fleetest and most strong of flight,
Returning after many wanderings,
Brought with them, as the dove its olive branch,
Tidings of gladness and a sunlit world!’

Then murmured Leslie Lambe with kindling cheeks,
‘Doves, say you? Doves? I' faith, it needed then
The eagle's pinion and the eagle's eye
To penetrate that melancholy waste.
Think of Magellan! what an eagle, he!—
The man of marble who in Hell's despite
Unto his lonely purpose held unmoved,
And sailing with unconquerable wing
Across that blackness, came at last in sight
Of a new Heaven sown with unknown stars,
And underneath, a new and wondrous World.
Stranger the problem he, the undaunted, solved
Than all your problems of a world to come.

Fie on your poets, fools of fantasy,
That never one hath sung that hero's praise!’

Then I remember'd an old Song o' the Sea
Put in the mouth of one who sailed the main
With that stern captain, and within his arms
Held him when, slain by poisonous darts, he died;
The words, the rhyme, kept time within my brain
Like wild sea-surges as the other spake;
And when, with eager glance around, he ceased,
I craved permission of our smiling Queen,
And having quickly gained it, thus began:—

THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN.

(SPOKEN IN THE PERSON OF ONE OF HIS LIEUTENANTS, DYING AT HOME, YEARS AFTER THE WONDERFUL VOYAGE WAS OVER.)

Send no shaven monks to shrive me, close the doors against their cries;
Liars all! ay, rogues and liars, like the Father of all lies;
Nay, but open wide the casement, once more let me feast my gaze
On the glittering signs of Heaven, on the mighty Ocean-ways!

Who's that knocking? Fra Ramiro? Left his wine-cup and arm-chair,
Come again with book and ointment, to anoint me and prepare?
Sacramento!—send him packing, with his comrades shaven-crown'd:
Liars all! and prince of liars is their Pope! The world is round!

See, the Ocean! like quicksilver, throbbing in the starry light!
See the stars and constellations, strangely, mystically bright!
Ah, but there, beyond our vision, other stars look brightly down,
Other stars, and high among them, great Magellan's starry crown!

O Magellan! lord and master!—mighty soul no Pope could tame!
On the seas and on the heavens you have left your radiant name;
Brightly shall it burn for ever, o'er the waters without bound,
Proving Pope and Priests still liars, while the sun-kist world is round.

Let the cowls at Salamanca cluster thick as rook and daw!
Let the Pope, with right hand palsied, clutch his thunderbolts of straw!
Heaven and Ocean, here and yonder, put their feeble dreams to shame;
Earth is round, and high above it shines Magellan's starry name!

Have you vanish'd, O my Master? O my Captain, King of men,
Shall I never more behold you standing at the mast again,
Eagle-eyed, and stern and silent, never sleeping or at rest,
Pallid as a man of marble, ever looking to the west?

As I lie and watch the heavens, once again I seem to be
Out upon the waste of waters, sailing on from sea to sea. . . .
Hark! what's that?—the monks intoning in the chapel close at hand?
Nay, I hear but sea-birds screaming, round dark capes of lonely land.

Out upon the still equator, on a sea without a breath,
Burning, blistering in the sunlight, we are tossing sick to death;
Every night the sun sinks crimson on the water's endless swell,
Every dawn he rises golden, fiery as the flames of Hell.

Seventy days our five brave vessels welter in the watery glare,
O'er the bulwarks hang the seamen panting open-mouth'd for air;
On the ‘Trinitie’ Magellan watches in a fierce unrest,
Never doubting or despairing, ever looking to the west.

Then at last with fire and thunder open cracks the sultry sky,
While the surging seas roll under, swift before the blast we fly,
Westward, ever westward, plunging, while the waters wash and wail;
Nights and days drift past in darkness while we sail, and sail, and sail.

Then the Tempest, like an eagle by a thunderbolt struck dead,
With one last wild flap of pinions, droppeth spent and bloody-red,
Purpling Heaven and Ocean lieth on the dark horizon's brink,
While upon the decks we gather silently, and watch him sink.

Troublously the Ocean labours in a last surcease of pain,
While a soft breath blowing westward wafts us softly on the main,—
Nearer to the edge of darkness where the flat earth ends, men swear,
Where the dark abysses open, gulf on gulf of empty air!

Creeping silently our vessels enter wastes of wondrous weed,
Slimy growth that clings around them, tangle growing purple seed,
Staining all the waste of waters, making isles of floating black,
While the seamen, pointing fingers, shrink in dread, and cry, ‘Turn back!’

On the ‘Trinitie’ Magellan stands and looks with fearless eyes—
‘Fools, the world is round!’ he answers, ‘onward still our pathway lies;
Though the gulfs of Hell yawn'd yonder, though the Earth were ended there,
I would venture boldly forward, facing Death and Death's despair.’

On their knees they kneel unto him, cross themselves and shriek afraid,
Pallid as a man of marble stands the Captain undismayed,
Claps on sail and leads us onward, while the ships crawl in his track,
Slowly, scarcely moving, trailing monstrous weeds that hold them back.

On each vessel's prow a seaman stands and casts the sounding-lead,
In the cage high up the foremast gather watchers sick with dread.
Calmly on the poop Magellan marks the Heavens and marks the Sea,
Darkness round and darkness o'er him, closing round the ‘Trinitie.’

Days and nights of deeper darkness follow—then there comes the cry,
‘He is mad—Death waits before us—turn the ships and let us fly!’
Storm of mutinous anger gathers round the Captain stern and true,
Near the foremast, fiercely glaring, flash the faces of the crew.

One there is, a savage seaman, gnashing teeth and waving hands,
Strides with curses to the Captain where with folded arms he stands,—
‘Turn, thou madman, turn!’ he shrieketh—scarcely hath he spoke the word,
Ere a bleeding log he falleth, slaughter'd by the Leader's sword!

‘Fools and cowards!’ cries Magellan, spurning him with armèd heel,
‘If another dreams of flying, let him speak—and taste my steel!’
Like caged tigers when the Tamer enters calmly, shrink the band,
While the Master strides among them, cloth'd in mail and sword in hand.

O Magellan! lord and leader!—only He whose fingers frame
Twisted thews of pard or panther, knot them round their hearts of flame,
Light the emeralds burning brightly in their eyeballs as they roll,
Could have made that mightier marvel, thine inexorable soul!

Onward, ever on, we falter—till there comes a dawn of Day
Creeping ghostly up behind us, mirror'd faintly far away,
While across the seas to starboard loometh strangely land or cloud—
‘Land to starboard!’ cries Magellan—‘Land!’ the seamen call aloud.

Southward steering creep the vessels, while the lights of morning grow;
Fades the land, while in our faces chilly fog and vapour blow;
Colder grows the air, and clinging round the masts and stiffening sails
Freezes into crystal dewdrops, into hanging icicles!

Suddenly arise before us, phantom-wise, as in eclipse,
Icebergs drifting on the Ocean like innumerable ships—
In the light they flash prismatic as among their throng we creep,
Crashing down to overwhelm us, thundering to the thund'rous Deep!

Towering ghostly and gigantic, 'midst the steam of their own breath,
Moving northward in procession in their snowy shrouds of Death,
Rise the bergs, now overtoppling like great fountains in the air,
While along their crumbling edges slips the seal and steals the bear.

With the frost upon his armour, like a skeleton of steel,
Stands the Master, waiting, watching, clad in cold from head to heel;
Loud his voice rings through the vapours, ordering all and leading on,
Till the bergs, before his finger, fall back ghostlike, and are gone!

Once again before our vision sparkles Ocean wide and free,
With the sun's red ball of crimson resting on the rim of sea;—
‘Lo, the sun!’ he laughs exulting—‘still he beckons far away—
Earth is round, and on its circle evermore we chase the Day!’

As he speaks the sunset blackens. Twilight trembles through the skies
For a moment—then the heavens open all their starry eyes!
Suddenly strange Constellations flash from out the fields of blue—
Not a star that we remember, not a splendour priestcraft knew!

Sinking on his knee, Magellan prays: ‘Now glory be to God!
To the Christ who led us forward on His wondrous watery road!
See, the heavens give attestation that our search shall yet be crowned,
Proving Pope and Priests still liars, and the sun-kist world is round!’

Sparkling ruby-ray'd and golden round the dusky neck of Night
Hangs the jewel'd Constellation, strangely, mystically bright—
Pointing at it cries the Master, ‘By the God we all adore,
It shall bear my name, Magellan!’ and it bears it, evermore.

Storms arising sweep us onward, but each night our courage grows,
Newer portals of the Heavens seem to open and enclose,
Showing in the blue abysm vistas luminously strange,
Sphere on sphere, and far beyond them fainter lights that sparkle and change!

Presently once more we falter among pools of drifting scum,
Weed and tangle—o'er the blackness curious sea-birds go and come—
While to southward looms a darkness, as of land or gathering cloud,
Northward too, another darkness, and a sound of breakers loud.

Once again they call in terror, ‘Turn again, for Death is near!
Once again he quells their tumult, smiting till they crouch in fear.
On the darkness closing round them, land or cloud, our fleet is led,
Fighting tides that sweep them backward, flowing from some gulf of dread.

Next, the Vision! next the Morning, after rayless nights and days,
Twinkling on a great calm Ocean stretching far as eye can gaze,—
Newer heavens and newer waters, solitary and profound,
Rise before us, while behind us Day arises crimson-crown'd!

Turning we behold the shadows of the straits through which we sped,
Then again our eyes look forward where the windless waters spread;
Overhead the sun rolls golden, moving westward through the blue,
Reddens down the far-off heavens, beckons bright, and we pursue.

On that vast and tranquil Ocean, folding wings the strong winds dwell,
Sleeping softly or just stirring to the water's tranquil swell,
Peaceful as the fields of heaven where the stars like bright flocks feed,—
So that many dream they wander thro' the azure Heaven indeed!

Then Magellan, from its scabbard drawing forth his shining sword,
Grasps the blade, and downward bending dips the bright hilt overboard—
‘By the holy Cross's likeness, mirror'd in this hilt!’ cries he,
‘Be this Ocean called Pacific, since it sleeps eternallie!’

Pastured with a calm eternal, drawing down the clouds in dew,
Sighing low with soft pulsations, darkly, mystically blue,
Lies that long untrodden Ocean, while for months we sail it o'er;
Ever dawns the sun behind us, ever swiftly sets before.

But like devils out of Tophet, as we sail with God for Guide,
Rise the Spectres, Thirst and Hunger, hollow-cheek'd and cruel-eyed;
Fierce and famish'd creep the seamen, while the tongues between their teeth
Loll like tongues of hounds for water, dry as dust and black with death.

Many fall and die blaspheming, ‘Give us food!’ the living call—
Pallid as a man of marble stands the Master gaunt and tall,
Hunger fierce within him also, and his parch'd lips prest in pain,
But a mightier thirst and hunger burning in his heart and brain!

Black decks blistering in the sunlight, sails and cordage dry as clay,
Crawl the ships on those still waters night by night and day by day;
Then the rain comes, and we lap it as upon the decks it flows—
‘Spread a sail!’ calls out the Master, and we catch it ere it goes.

Now and then a lonely sea-bird hovers far away, and we
Crouch with hungry eyes and watch it fluttering closer o'er the sea,
Curse it if it flies beyond us, shoot it if it cometh nigh,
Share the flesh and blood among us, underneath the Captain's eye.

Sometimes famish'd unto madness, fierce as wolves that shriek in strife,
One man springs upon another, stabs him with the murderous knife;
Then the Master, stalking forward where the murderer shrinks in dread,
Bids him kneel, and as he kneeleth cleaves him down, and leaves him dead.

O Magellan! mighty Eagle, circling sunward lost in light,
Wafting wings of power and striking meaner things that cross thy flight,
God to such as thee gives never lambkin's love or dove's desire—
Nay, but eyes that scatter terror from a ruthless heart of fire!

Give me wine. My pulses falter. . . So! . . . Confusion to the cowls!
They who hooted at my Eagle, eyes of bats and heads of owls!
Throw the casement open wider! There is something yet to tell—
How we came at last to waters where the naked islesmen dwell.

Isles of wonder, fringed with coral, ring'd with shallows turquoise-blue,
Where bright fish and crimson monsters flash'd their jewel'd lights and flew,
Steeps of palm that rose to heaven out of purple depths of sea,
While upon their sunlit summits stirr'd the tufted cocoa-tree—

Isles of cinnabar and spices, where soft airs for ever creep,
Scenting Ocean all around them with strange odours soft as sleep—
Isles about whose promontories danced the black man's light canoe,
Isles where dark-eyed women beckon'd, perfumed like the breath they drew.

Drunken with the sight we landed, rush'd into the scented glades,
Treading down the scented branches, seized the struggling savage maids.
Ah, the orgy! Still it sickens!—blood of men bestrewed our path,
Till the islesmen rose against us, thick as vultures shrieking wrath.

Then, the sequel! Nay, I know not how the damnëd deed could be—
By some islesman's poisoned arrow or some Spaniard's treacherie;
But one evening, as we struggled fighting to our boats on shore,
In the shallows fell the Captain, foully slain, and rose no more!

O Magellan! O my Master! O my Captain, King of men!
Was it fit thou so shouldst perish, though thy work was over then,
Foully slain by foe or comrade, butcher'd like a common thing,
Thou whose eagle flight had circled Earth upon undaunted wing!

Nay, but then my King had conquered! Earth and Ocean to his sight
Open'd had their wondrous visions, shaming centuries of night;
Nay, but even the shining Heavens kept the record of his fame—
Earth was round, and high above it shone Magellan's starry name.

How our wondrous voyage ended? Nay, I know not,—all was done;
Lying in my ship I sickened, moaning, hidden from the sun.
Yea! the vessels drifted onward till hey came to isles of calm,
Where some savage monarch hail'd them, standing underneath a palm.

How the wanderers took these islands tributary to our King,
Show'd the Cross, baptized the monarch, homeward crept on weary wing?
Pshaw, 'tis nothing! All was over! He had staked his soul and gained,
They but reaped the Master's sowing, they but crawl'd where he had reigned!

Hark! what sound is that? The chiming of the dreary vesper bell?
Nay, I hear but Ocean sighing, feel the waters heave and swell.
Earth is round, but sailing sunward with my Master still I fare—
Other Heavens his ship is searching,—and I go to seek him there!

The wall of darkness round the rainy house
Broke as I ended, and a watery beam
Of sunshine struck the pane, and lingering on it,
Became prismatic. Then with quiet smile
Professor Mors, the truculent Irishman,
Whose treatise on the origin of worlds
Fluttered the Churches for a season, said:
‘Man conquers earth, and climbing yonder Heaven
Pursues the baleful gods from throne to throne!
Ah, but the strife was long, and even here
It hath not ended yet. Each Phantom laid,
Another rises, though on fearless wing
We creep from world to world. Evil abides,
And with her hideous mother, Ignorance,
Scatters pollution!’

Calmly answered him
Dan Paumanok, the Yankee pantheist:
‘Friend, I have dwelt on earth as long as you,
And found all evil here but forms of good!’
Whereat some laughed, and cried, ‘A paradox!’
But, gravely leaning back in his arm-chair,
The greybeard cried, ‘Knowledge and Ignorance,
I calculate, are sisters—otherwise
Named Good and Evil. Hand in hand they walk,
So like, that even those who know them best
Scarcely distinguish their identities!
Thro' the dark places of the troubled earth

The first walks radiant and the last gropes blind;
But when they come upon the mountaintops,
In the night's stillness, underneath the stars,
The last it is that ofttimes leads the first
And points her upward to the heavenly way!’

‘If this be so,’ the grim Professor cried,
Shrugging his shoulders with impatient sneer,
‘Then wrong is every whit as good as right,
The Darkness is no better than the Light
It comprehends not!’ ‘Certainly,’ exclaimed
The melancholy transcendentalist;
‘One is the tally of the other, friend;
Nay more, they intermingle, and are one!
The morning dew, that scarcely bends the flowers,
Exhaled to heaven becomes the thunderbolt
That strikes and slays at noon.’

But Mors replied
With cold superior smile: ‘A cheerful creed!
And comfortable,—since, whate'er befalls,
No matter if the foemen sack the city,
No matter if the plague-cart comes and goes,
No matter if the starving cry for bread,
The sleepy watchman calmly cries “All's well!”
For my poor part, as one whose youth was spent,
Not in pursuit of vain delusive dreams,
But in the halls of Science, whom I serve,
I fail to find in Evil any form
My mistress would be brought to christen good;
Nay, on my life,’ he added, gathering zeal,
‘Than such a pantheistic lotus-flower
I'd rather choose those husks and shells of grace
John Calvin found when, prone on hands and knees,
He searched the garbage of Original Sin!
And rather than believe that Hell was Heaven,
People my Hell once more with soot-black fiends!
For Fever, Pestilence, and Ignorance
No angels are, fall'n from some high estate,
But devilish shapes indeed, beneath the heel
Of Hermes, god of healing and of light,
Soon to be trampled down and vanquishëd.
And other hideous things that waste the world,
War, Superstition, Anarchy, Disease,
Monsters that Man has fashion'd, like to that
Framed in the poet's tale by Frankenstein—
These shall be slain by their creator's hand,
Their Master's, even Man's. Survey the earth;
And see the sunrise of our saner creed
Scattering the darkness and the poisonous fumes
Which eighteen hundred weary years ago
Came from the sunless sepulchre of Christ.
Where Fever poisoned the pellucid wel
The drinking-fountain clear as crystal flows;
Where the marsh thicken'd and miasma spread,
Cities arise, with clean and shining streets
And sewers transmuting garbage into gold;
Where the foul blood-stained Altar once was set,
Stand the Museum and Laboratory;
The Library, the Gymnasium, and the Bath
Replace the palace; Manufactories,
Gathering together precious gifts for man,
Supplant the Monolith and Pyramid.
Thus everywhere the light of human love
Brightens a wondering convalescent world
Just rising from the spectre-haunted bed
Whereon it sickened of a long disease,
Attended by the false physician, Christ.’

He paused; the fever of his eager words
Flash'd on from face to face until it reached
The face of Verity, the priest of Art;
But there it faded, for with pallid frown
And lifted hands, the gentle prophet cried:
‘Light? Sunrise? Sunlight? I who speak have eyes,
And yet I see but darkness visible!
Lost is the azure in whose virgin depths
The filmy cirrus turn'd to Shapes divine,
Goddess and god, soft-vestured, white as wool!
Faded the sun, which, striking things of stone,
Turn'd them to statues which like Memnon's sang,
And palpitating over domes and walls,

Cover'd them o'er with forms miraculous,
Prismatic, which the hand of genius touch'd
And fixed in colour ere the forms could fade!
The world, you say, is heal'd; to me, it seems
Just smitten with the plague, and everywhere
The foul cloud gathers, shutting out the sun.
And that faint sound we deem the sweet church chimes,
Is but the death-bell tinkling, while the cart
Comes for its load of dark disfigured dead.
Meantime, within the foul dissecting-room
The form of Man, which, ere our plague-time came,
Was reverenced in shapes of loveliness,
Rosy in flesh, or snowy white in stone,
Lies desecrated, hideous, horrible,
Pois'ning the air and sickening the soul!
And on the slab, beneath the torturer's knife,
Man's gentle friend, the hound, shrieks piteously,
Answer'd by all the bleeding flocks of Pan!
And everywhere the fume of Anarchy,
And hideous monsters of machinery
Toiling for ever in their own thick breath,
Blends with the plague-smoke, blotting out the sun,
Whereby alone all shapes of beauty live!’

‘Nay, nay,’ cried Barbara, ‘though it rains to-day
The lift will clear to-morrow. I believe
You all are partly right and partly wrong,
For surely many things in life that seem
Most evil are but blessings in disguise?
And difficult 'tis, maybe, to discern
Where Knowledge ends and Ignorance begins.
But then, again, what soul rejoices not
To see yon mailéd Perseus, Science, stand
Bruising the loathsome hydra of Disease,
Ay, often slaying Sin and conquering Death?
And yet, again, the counter-plea is true,
That Science, though she heals the wounds of life,
Whiles heals them cruelly and uncannily,—
Just shuts the sufferer in a sunless room,
And changes the old merry tunes of time
To daft mechanic discord, such as that
Which issues from the throats of mine and mill,
With sough of poisonous reek and flames more sad
Than ever came from Tophet!’

As she ceased,
Professor Mors, the pallid pessimist,
Outstretched his lean and skeletonian hand,
Pointing out sunward:—‘See!’ he cried, ‘the God,
Last-born and first-born, Nature's microcosm,
Who, sitting on his mighty throne of graves,
Murmurs the death-dirge of Humanity!
Had ye but ears, methinks that you might catch
The burthen of his melancholy song,
As I myself have heard it oftentimes
When wandering weary underneath the stars.
'Twas thus, methinks, it ran, or something thus,
Full of a burthen strange and sad as ever
Was heard beside the wave-wash'd shores of Time.’

SOLILOQUY OF THE GRAND ÊTRE.

I am God, who was Man. Lord of earth, sea, and sky,
I endure while men die;
The River of Life laps my feet, flowing by.

Out of darkness it came, into darkness it goes,
From repose to repose,
And mirrors my face in its flood as it flows.

I am Man, who was men. I am flesh, sense, and soul,
I was part who am Whole,
I am God, being Man, whom no god may control.

Now, sitting alone on my throne, I survey
The dim Past far away,
Whence I came, on the borders of infinite day.

All things and all forces combining have brought
Me, their God, out of nought,
Through the night-time of sense to the morning of thought.

I think and I am. I look round me, and lo!
I remember and know
Both whence I have issued and whither I go.

I stand on the heights of the earth, and descry,
From sky on to sky,
The path through the ages that led me so high.

From the deserts of space where my firewebs were spun,
Spreading thence one by one
Till they flash'd into flame and cohered to a sun;

From the great whirling sun whence, with no eye to mark,
I shot like a spark,
Then spun fiery-wing'd, round and round, through the dark.

There slowly, alone in the silence of space,
I moved in my place,
With the night at my back and the light on my face.

First shapeless and formless, then spheric and fair,
With no sense, with no care,
I cool'd my hot breast in dark fountains of air.

And the mist of my breathing enwrapt me, and grew
Like a cloud in the blue—
Then flooded my frame with warm oceans of dew.

In the waters I swam, while the sun, red as blood,
Of the waves of that flood
Wove a green grassy sheen, for my raiment and food.

At last, one bright morn, with no sense, with no sight,
After æons of night,
I lay like a bride new apparell'd and bright.

And embracing my Bridegroom, who bent from the skies
With bright beautiful eyes,
Felt something within me grow quick, and arise.

And straightway I too was the seed, and behold!
Small and lustrous and cold,
I moved in the slime, taking shapes manifold.

I was quick who was clay. I was living and drew
Breath of darkness and dew;
From form on to form groping blindly, I grew.

Then form'd like a Monster with wings, I upleapt
From the waters and swept
Through the mirk of their breath; or lay snakewise, and crept.

Change on change, till I wander'd on hands and on feet
Where the cloud-waves retreat;
And ever each age I grew fair and more fleet.

The world that was I brighten'd round me, and still,
Some strange task to fulfil,
I changed and I changed, with no wish, with no will.

At last, after æons of death and decay,
At the gateways of Day
I stood, looking up at the heavens far away!

The sea at my feet, and the stars o'er my head,
Naked, dark, with proud tread
I walked on the heights, being quick, who was dead.

I was Man, who was monster. I lived, and I drew
Gentle breath from the blue,
Looked backward and forward, moved blindly, but knew.

And I heark'd to the sounds of the earth, to the herds
Of the beasts and the birds,
And I broke to wild babble of mystical words.

I could speak, who was dumb; I could smile, who was stone;
Of those others not one
Could speak or could smile. I was kinglike and lone.

I reign'd o'er the earth, and I slew for a feast
Both the bird and the beast;
My seed, scatter'd eastward and westward, increased.

But I feared what the bird and the beast did not fear:
Shapes of dread creeping near
In the night-time, strange voices that cried in mine ear.

And I saw what the bird and the beast could not see—
Shapes that thunder'd at me
From the clouds overhead, till I prayed on my knee.

And I named the dark gods that the beasts could not name—
And I crouch'd, fearing blame
At the voice of the waters, the thunder's acclaim.

One god seemed the strangest and saddest of all,
Who with silent footfall
Slew my seed in the night, smote the great and the small.

Men were scattered like leaves—I remained being Man;
'Neath the blight and the ban,
Like a hound on the grave of its master I ran

On the tombs of my race, crying loud in despair
To the gods of the air,
Who changed as the clouds and were deaf to my prayer.

Then I learned the one Name that the gods overhead
Ever whisper'd in dread,
And methought He was Lord of the quick and the dead.

For I looked on the Book of the stars, and could frame
The strange signs of the Name,
And yet when I called Him He heard not, nor came.

And as wave follows wave, or as cloud follows cloud,
Flash'd my kind in their crowd,
Then slept in their season, each man in his shroud.

Men died, but I died not; I lived and discerned,
With my face ever turned
To the skies, where the lights of my universe burned.

Then I groped on the earth, and I searched sea and land
For the signs of the Hand
Which shaped the cloud-limits, the stars, and the sand.

And all that I found was the footprints of clay
I had left on my way
From the darkness of night to the borders of day.

Then I search'd the great voids of the heaven for a trace
Of a Form or a Face;
I questioned the stars—each was dumb in its place.

So I cried ‘Wheresoever I gaze, I descry,
On the earth, in the sky,
One thing that is deathless, the Life that is I!’

And I cried, as I looked on the image I cast
On the limitless Vast,
‘I was from the first, and I am till the last!’

I am Lord of the world. I am God, being Man.
In the night I began,
Then grew from a cell to a soul, without plan.

As far as the limits of Time and of Space
I my footprints can trace
Wending onward and upward, from race back to race.

I behold, who was blind. I was part, who am Whole.
As the waters that roll
Are my seed who forsake and upbuild me, their Soul.

Do they weep? I am calm. Do they doubt? I am sure.
Though they die, I endure,
As a fire that ascending grows stainless and pure.

I discern all the Past, waves on waves that have fled,
While I press with slow tread
To a goal I discern not, o'er snowdrifts of dead.

I am Thought in the flesh, who was Sense in the seed.
Silent, sanctified, freed,
I emerge, the full sign of the Dream and the Deed.

I am God, being Man. In my glory I blend
Life and death without end.
If the Void hold my peer, let Him speak. I attend.

‘So speaks the last and mightiest of the gods,
Our Master, Man immortal!’ Sparkle cried;
‘His shadow fills the universe as far
As His own thought can wing; His bright eyes face
The sunlight with a blaze it cannot blind;
And in the hollow of His hand He weighs
The stars that are His playthings. He has slain
All other gods, the greatest and the least,
And now within the inmost heart of earth
He builds a Temple more miraculous
Than any little temple wrought in stone!’

‘Say rather,’ answered Bishop Eglantine,
‘He wearily prepares the funeral pyre
Whereon Himself, in the dim coming years,
Shall mount and royally burn, or (failing fire)
Whereon outstretch'd He shall await the end,
While quietly the skeleton hands of Frost
Weave Him a shroud, and Time doth snow upon Him
Out of the heavens of eternal cold!
For is not one thing sure, that this round world
Must perish in its season, or become
A habitation where no breathing thing
Can longer creep or crawl? Alas for Him,
Your poor Grand Être, enrooted like a tree
In the still changing soil of human life,
When human life itself shall pass away
As breath upon a mirror, and Night resume
Her empire on the rayless universe.
Wiser, methinks, than your pale seer of France,
Who fashion'd this same shadow of a god,
Is he who prophesies in soul's despair
The sure extinction of the conscious types.
Place for the pessimist!—in Hartmann comes
A later Buddha, and a balefuller.
“Ere yet Man's Soul,” he crieth, “merges back
Into the nothingness from which it rose,
Three stages of illusion must be past:
The stage of a belief in happiness
In this hard world; the stage of a belief
In happiness in any world to come;
And last, the stage of yet more foolish faith
In any happiness the race can gain
Beyond the life of individual man.
Your god, then, is foredoom'd to nothingness,
Surely as Zeus or any of the slain
Already peopling chaos!”’

‘Yet—he reigns!’
Cried Sparkle, ‘and we do him reverence!
Fairer than Balder, tenderer than Christ,
His brethren, mightier than Jove or Brahm,
He adumbrates the wisdom and the joy
Of Nature, and his large beneficence
Extends sweet aid to all created things.
All that he prophesies and promises
He realises and fulfils, unlike
The thunderer on Sinai, or the God
Who wore the crown of thorns!’

‘Alas, poor God!’
Murmur'd that other. ‘Fashion'd out of pain,
Shapen in doubt, and clothen with despair,
How shall He, having re-created Earth
And brought the fabled Eden back again,
Shut out the memory of His own sad dead?
For looking backward, He beholds the world
Strewn with the graves of those who have lived and loved,
And suffered, to complete His deity;

And looking sadly round Him, He beholds
Millions in act to suffer, hears the wail
That shall not cease for many an age to come;
And looking forward, He sees the cataclysm
Of Nature, and his own completed work
Abolish'd in the twinkling of a star!
O pale phantasmic mockery of a god!
O shadow fainter than all shadows cast
Since first the wild man fear'd the darkness, shrieked
At his own shape projected on the cloud—
A spectre of the Brocken, a forlorn
Image of primal ignorance and fear!
Shall we resign for such a dream as this
Our human birthright and our heavenly hope?’

‘Nay,’ interposed another—Edward Clay,
Pupil of Verity and Ercildoune,
‘The exodus from Paris following
The exodus from Houndsditch, what remain
But human types of godhead, fit at least
For temporary worship? I will travel
As far as Mecca on my hands and knees
To see a godlike man,—in whom alone
We find the apex and the crown of things,
The vindication of Humanity.
The individual gives the type divine,
The rest, the race, is nothing!’

Thereupon
Outspoke Dan Paumanok, the pantheist:
‘Friend, I have often known your godlike men,
And loved them, not for that wherein they missed,
But that wherein they shared, the common strength
And weakness of the race. I love to look
On Goethe's feet of clay, to touch the dross
Mixed with the golden heart of Washington,
To think that Socrates, who braved the gods
And drank his hemlock cup so cheerfully,
Shrank from the chiding of a shrew at home.
Gods? Godlike men? I guess all men possess,
By right of manhood, godlike qualities;
But high as ever human type has reached,
The wave of masterful Humanity
Sweeps higher, striking yonder shore of stars!
Worship no man at all, but every man,
Man typical, Man cosmic, multiform,
The flower and fruit of Being; seize the Thought
Effused from human forms as light is shed
Out of the motion of a living thing;
Follow the sunward flight of our fair race,
Which breathes and suffers, multiplies and dies,
And in a million forms of sense and soul
Sweeps into action and is justified!
The blacksmith at his anvil, the glad child
Gathering shells upon the ocean shore,
The scientist in his laboratory,
The prostitute that walks the moonlit streets,
The sailor at the masthead, or the poet
Lying and dreaming in the summer wood—
All these, and countless other forms divine,
Are evermore divine enough for me.
Fast through them flows the strange and mystic Thought
We comprehend not being things that die,
But which, if we but knew, is Life itself—
Large Life and ample godhead. We are forms
The god-force fashions, as it fashions suns
And clouds and waves and patient animals,
Dead things and living, quickening through the stars
As through the kindling ovum in the womb,—
And every form of life, howe'er so faint,
Is corporate godhead!’

‘Ho! a heretic!’
Cried Douglas, laughing; ‘come, my myrmidons,
Make ready there the faggots and the stake:
By Cock and by St. Peter, Dan must burn.
For less than this Giordano Bruno wore
The martyr's shirt of fire, for less than this
John Calvin tuck'd the bed of flaming coals
Around Servetus, chuckling to himself
“He called me names, improbus et blasphemus,
And routing me in argument, affirm'd
Stone bench and table, things inanimate,
To be celestial Substance, very God:
Wherefore I hand him to be burned alive
By such celestial Substance—wood, coals, fire—
And to this God I leave him cheerfully!”

For John had humour, mark you, grim as death
And blue as brimstone; for the rest, he knew
The God of Judah kept His ancient tastes
And dearly loved a human sacrifice!’

‘Those days are done for ever,’ Primrose said,
‘And he who slew Servetus in his wrath
Slew also priestcraft and the crimson Beast,
So that the lamb of gentleness might reign.’

‘Indeed!’ cried Sparkle with a smile and sneer.
‘One comfort is, grim John invented Hell,
Fit home for such a ravening wolf as he!
Why, yes, we grant you Hell, if you admit
Your Calvin's place there! But I doubt indeed
If you have yet abolished martyrdom.
I know full many Christians, worthy souls,
Who swear by book and preach to simple men,
Who, did our gentler human laws permit,
Would strip our Cuthberts naked to the skin
And give them fire for raiment willingly!
Ay, and they do it, freely dealing out
Moral damnation and keen social flame,
So that no man alive, if he would keep
His worldly goods and social privileges,
Dare speak the thing he thinks, or openly
Affirm the heavens are empty, God dethroned.
The thinker is an outcast as of old,
And scarcely dares to phrase his thought aloud
Even on the pillow where he rests his head,
Lest his goodwife should hear the heresy,
And call the curate or the parish priest
To compass his conversion, or at least
Rescue the little ones from blight and bane.’

‘Why not?’ most sadly answer'd Eglantine;
‘Blame not the shepherd if he seeks to save
His lambkins from the touch of Antichrist.
Our gentle Inquisition, though it works
In cruelty no more, but all in love,
Is slack, too slack. The age is godless, sir.
Affrighted by the spectres all around,
Our priests lack zeal! Meantime how busily
The self-approven priests of Science toil—
The Devil still is busier gathering tares
Than angels who upbind the golden grain.’

Another voice broke in, a woman's voice,
Clear-toned and gentle—round Miss Hazlemere's,
The grey-hair'd lassie with a matron's form
And mother's yearning in her virgin eyes:
Half doubter, half believer, she asserts
The privilege of woman's sex to solve
Problems to which the arid minds of men
Are too untender and rectangular,
Rebukes the Churches, rates the scientists,
And lights a lonely spiritual lamp
By stormy waters, on the rocks of Doubt.
‘The truth's with Father Eglantine,’ she said;
‘A priestcraft is a priestcraft, though it speaks
The first word of Religion or the last
Of Science. I would trust Geneva John
No more than Torquemada, and no less
Than Cuthbert or than Mors, if e'er the law
Arm'd them with amplitude of priestly power.
Think you there is no Inquisition now?
Alas! I too know scores of simple souls
Who, having kept their foolish faith in God,
Anthropomorphic, ancient, infantine,
Are, brought before the judges of the time,
Condemn'd as mad or hypocritical!
The old belief is so unfashionable
Among the very wise and over-wise,
That he who dares affirm it openly
Is deem'd unfit to govern his own wife
Or be the lord of his own nursery.
And presently, be sure, if this thing grows,
'Twill be as perilous to believe in God
As 'twas in darker ages to discuss
God's Substance, or attempt to separate
The Tria Juncta of the Trinity.
No priestcraft and no priest at all, say I,
But freedom and free thought, free scope, free choice
To fashion any fetish that I please!’

So speaking, she was conscious of two eyes,
Youthful and eloquent, regarding her:
Mr. Marsh Mallow, bright and bold, but growing
Like his own namesake in a watery place,
Caught up the ball she smiling threw his way,
And cried: ‘Truth still remains with Eglantine!

The Church which builds itself on Peter's Rock,
And still doth keep the keys of Heaven and Hell,
Lacks zeal to face those Spectres of the mind
Which it might lay to sleep for evermore
With just one wave of the enchanter's wand.
Meantime they rush abroad like ravening wolves,
Appalling Reason, making Love afraid,
Rending in twain the beauteous heaven-eyed Lamb
Which men have christen'd Faith. But patience yet;
The priestcraft and the priest shall conquer yet,
And men grow holy in their own despite!’

Flush'd to the temples, Stephen Harkaway,
The dandy of revolt, a positivist,
And positive to the very finger-tips,
Made answer: ‘Yet again the solemn truth
Remains with Eglantine! The priest shall reign,
And on the sands of time another Pope
Upbuild another and a fairer Rome.
There the apostles of the fair new creed,
Having abolished Christ and all the gods,
Destroyed the current poison of belief
In individual immortality,
Shall to the only god, Humanity,
Sing their hosannah! Ay, and they shall raise
Their Inquisition on the heart of man,
And unto Vice and Ignorance and Disease,
All things that mar their god's divinity,
Deal the peine forte et dure! Prison and fire
Shall fright the fortune-telling charlatans
Who creep with old wives' tales from house to house!
Since Man without a creed is stark and starved,
And only feeble souls desiderate
A creed without a priestcraft, ours shall be
Tyrannical, I trust, and, furthermore,
Kind to the very verge of cruelty!
No fetish, Madam, will be tolerated,
Nor any juggler's tricks to cheat the soul.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ Miss Hazlemere replied,
‘For throwing off the mask that we may see
The features of your God. I ever thought
Your Comte a Jesuit in disguise! But come,
Our Queen looks sadly on this war of words,
And longs to hush its Babel. Who will touch
The midriff of the mystery with a song?
For Music, of all angels walking earth,
Is fittest far to phrase the Thought divine
Which dies away in utterance on the lips
That only speak poor human nature's prose.
Sweet Music gropes her way and walketh blind
Because she saw the Vision long ago
And closed her eyes in joy unutterable,
The light of which lies ever upon her face
Although she cannot see!’

Then at a sign
From Lady Barbara, I, her poet, rose
And touch'd the instrument, with eager hand
Sounded a prelude of precipitous notes,
Then broke to measured song; and thus I sang:—

O MARINERS.

O Mariners, out of the sunlight, and on through the infinite Main,
We have sailed, departing at morning;—and now it is morning again.

Dimly, darkly, and blindly, our life and our journey begun,
Blind and deaf was our sense with the fiery sands of the sun.

Then slowly, grown stronger and stronger, feeling from zone on to zone,
We passed the islands of darkness, and reached the sad Ocean, alone.

But now we pause for a moment, searching the east and the west,
Above and beneath us the waters that mirror our eyes in their breast!

Behind, the dawn and the darkness,—new dawn around and before,—
Ah me, we are weary, and hunger to rest, and to wonder no more.

Yet never, O Mariners, never were we so stately and fair—
The forms of the flood obey us, we are lords of the birds of the air.

And yet as we sail we are weeping, and crying, ‘Although we have ranged
So far over infinite waters, transformed out of darkness and changed,

We know that the Deep beneath us must drink us and wash us away’—
Nay, courage—sail on for a season—on, on to the gateways of Day.

Our voyage is only beginning—its dreariest dangers are done,
We now have a compass to guide us, the Soul, and it points to the Sun!

The stars in their places obey us, the winds are as slaves to our sail—
Be sure that we never had journey'd so far but to perish and fail!

Out of the wonderful sunlight, and on through the infinite Main,
We have sail'd, departing at morning—and now it is morning again!

INTERLUDE. To H---.

Dearest, thou whose lightest breath
Sweetens Life and conquers Death,
Fair as pure, and purer far
Than the dreams of poets are,
Unto thee, and only thee,
I upon my bended knee
Give my birthright—Poesy!

Ishmael of the singing race,
Born where sky and mountain meet,
Standing in a lonely place
With the world below my feet,
Wrapt about with mist and cloud,
Songs of joy I sang aloud!
Then the Muses of the North,
Like Valkyries heavenly-eyed,
From the storm-cloud trooping forth,
Found me on the mountain-side,
Buckled on my mail of steel,
Arm'd me nobly head to heel,
Placed a sword within my hand,
Made me warrior of the Right,
Crying, ‘Go and take thy stand
In the vanward of the fight!
Hasten forth, made strong and free,
Through thy birthright—Poesy!’

Then I gazed, and far below
Saw the fires of battle glow,
Saw the banners of the world
Kindle, to the winds unfurl'd,—
Saw the pomp of priests and kings
Girt about by underlings,
Hunting down with sword and spear
Liberty, the fleet red-deer,—
Saw the Cities vast and loud,
Foul as Sodom and as proud,
Each a Monster in its mire
Crouching low with eyes of fire;
Heard the cruel trumpet's blare,
Mix'd with plagal-hymns of prayer,
Saw the world from sea to sea
Blind to Death and Deity!

Singing loud with savage joy
Down the glens I sprang, a boy—
Downward as the torrent swept,
On from rock to rock I leapt,
Reach'd the valleys where the fight
Flash'd in flame from morn to night,
Plunged into the thickest strife,
Scarcely knowing friend from foe,
Knew the bloody stress of life,
Till a sword-thrust laid me low.

Slowly on the moonlit plain,
Where the dead lay dark and dumb,
I, unclosing mine eyes again,
Saw my fair Valkyries come.
Bending over me they crooned
Loving runes and heal'd my wound,—
Then they cried, ‘Uprise once more,
Seek the City's inmost core,
Find the wretched and opprest,
Sing them mountain-songs of cheer;
Help the basest, brand the best,
We shall watch and hover near—
Face the King upon his throne,
Face the Priest within the shrine,
Fear no voice save God's alone
(Thou hast heard it oft intone
Through the cloud-wrapt woods of pine)—
Take thy place, but close to thee
Clasp thy birthright—Poesy!’

Through the City's gates I crept
Silent, while the watchmen slept—
Pass'd from shade to shade wherein
Crowded monstrous shapes of sin,
Peer'd against the panes to see
Lamplit rooms of revelry,
Where the warrior's head did rest
On the harlot's wine-stain'd breast;
Linger'd on the bridges great,
Melancholy, desolate;
Watch'd the river roll beneath,
Shimmering in the moonbeam's breath;
Met the fluttering forms that pass
Painted underneath the gas,
Mark'd the murderer's fearful face
Looming in a lonely place,
Knew the things that wake, and those
Lost in rapture of repose;
Saw the gradual Dawn flash red
On the housetops overhead,
Till the morning glory broke,
And the sleeping Monster woke!

Singing loud in savage joy,
In the streets I stood, a boy!
Round me flocked the citizens,
Thronging from their homes and dens,
While I spake of signs and dreams
Learn'd among the hills and streams,
Of the God with veilèd head
Passing by with thunder-tread
On the mountains red with morn
In whose bosom I was born.
In a tongue uncouth I sang,
While the air with laughter rang,
Loudest, merriest, when I told
Of strange visions in the night—
God and angels manifold
Shining on the mountain-height;
Then a voice cried, ‘Come away,
He is mad, this mountaineer!’—
Lonely in the morning gray
Soon I sang, with none to hear,
Save a few sad outcast men,
And a weeping Magdalen.
Then with loud prophetic song
To the public marts I came,
Strode amidst the busy throng,
Curst the avarice and the shame,
Call'd the wrath of God upon
Cæsar sitting on his throne,
By the lights of Heaven and Hell
Shamed the tinsel'd priests of Bel.
Then around me ere I knew
Clamour of the factions grew,
Thronging, shrieking, multiplying,
Came the legions of the lying,
Cast me down and stript me bare;
Yet I struggled in despair,
Till a poison'd dagger's thrust
Laid me dying in the dust.

Then the night came, and the skies
With innumerable eyes
Saw me lying there alone,
Bleeding on the streets of stone;
While my voice before I died
On my wild Valkyries cried.
Closing eyelids with a sigh,
Into night I seem'd to pass,
Seem'd to fade away and fly
As the breath upon a glass.

Presently I woke again,
Thinking ‘All is o'er and done,
This is chilly Death's domain,
Far away from moon and sun!’
Even then methought I heard
Something moving, breathing near;
Struggling with the sense I stirred,
Open'd eyes in fluttering fear,
And before my dazzled sight
Shone a Vision heavenly bright!
Ah, the Vision! ah, the blest
Rapture, smiling manifest!
O'er me bending stood and smiled
Love in likeness of a Child,—
Holding in her gentle hand
Lilies of the Heavenly Land!
Azure eyes and golden hair,
Gazing on me unafraid,
Sweetly, marvellously fair,
Stood the little Angel-Maid!

Shall I tell how that same hour
Little hands my wound did dress,
How I woke to life and power
Through that Maiden's tenderness?
Shall I tell (ah, wherefore tell
Unto her who knows so well?)
Of the strength that came to me,
Not from my Valkyries wild,
Who in need abandon'd me,
But from that celestial Child?
Though my sword was broken, though
Helm and mail were lying low,
Though my savage strength was shed,
I was quick who late was dead,
All my mountain blood again
Rush'd electric to my brain,
All grew fair where'er I trod
With that messenger of God.

Need I tell (ah, wherefore tell
Unto her who wrought the spell?)
How I seem'd from that strange hour
Arm'd in nakedness of power?—
Yet the dagger's thrust again,
Poison'd, treacherous, as before,
Sought me out and would have slain,
While we passed from door to door,
Curst, rejected, and denied,
Ishmael, I, and thou, my Guide!
Child of Light, thy loving look
Brighten'd at each step we took,
Kindled into love more strong
At each cruel slight and wrong,
While thy presence heavenly bright
Grew from child's to woman's height,
And within thy pensive eyes
Rose the lore that makes us wise,—
Woman's love, without whose gleam
Life is like a drunkard's dream!

Need I tell (ah, wherefore tell,
When thy soul remembers well?)
How smooth Jacob and his race,
Hounding me from place to place,
Hating truth and cursing me,
Stole my birthright—Poesy?
How the sources of my song,
Darken'd o'er and frozen numb,
Cold and silent lay for long
Like a fountain seal'd and dumb,

Till thy finger touch'd at last
Springs the world deem'd frozen fast?
High in sunlight, sparkling o er,
Leaps my fount of song once more,
While thy blessing back to me
Brings my birthright—Poesy!

Child of Light, whose softest breath
Sweetens Life and conquers Death,
Fair as pure, and purer far
Than the dreams of poets are,
Never tongue of man can tell
All thy gifts to Ishmaèl!—
Side by side and hand in hand,—
Facing yonder mountain-land
Whence I came and whereupon
God the Lord has set His throne,—
Through the shadowy vales below
Climbing sunward, let us go.
If I sing, I sing through thee!
Wherefore, Sweet, still share with me
What I bring on bended knee—
This my birthright,—Poesy!—

New York: Yuletide, 1884.

The City of Dream.

(1888.)

ARGUMENT.

One Ishmael, born in an earthly City beside the sea, having heard strange tidings of a Heavenly City, sets forth to seek the same; and as he fares forth he is blindfolded by Evangelist, and given a Holy Book; reading which Book, he wanders on terrified and blindfold, until, coming by chance to the house of one Iconoclast, he is relieved of the bandage covering his eyes, and led to an eminence, whence he beholds all the Pilgrims of the World. Quitting Evangelist, he encounters Pitiful, and is directed towards the City of Christopolis, but in the crowded highway leading thitherward he meets Eglantine, who warns him that Christopolis is not the City of his quest. Yet nevertheless he proceeds thither in his new friend's company. He wanders through Christopolis and sees strange sights therein; but being denounced for unbelief and heresy, he takes refuge beyond a great Gate dividing the City into two parts. Wise men accost him and warn him that peace and assurance are to be found only in the Book given him by Evangelist; but this in his perversity he denies, and casting away the Book is again denounced as unbelieving, and driven out of the City into the areary region beyond it. His talk with one Merciful, who beseeches him in vain to pause and pray. Flying on he knows not whither, he encounters rain and tempest, and takes shelter in a woeful Wayside Inn, where he meets the outcasts of all the creeds. His journey thence through the night, and his meeting with the wild horseman Esau, who carries him to the Groves of Faun, watched over by the shepherd Thyrsis and his child, a maid of surpassing beauty. Led by Thyrsis, he sees the Vales of Vain Delight, and after drinking of the Waters of Oblivion, beholds the living apparition of the Greek god Eros. He sails with Eros over strange waters, and comes betimes to an Amphitheatre among mountains, where he witnesses the sacrificial tragedy of Cheiron, and the transubstantiation of Eros. He passes through the Valley of Dead Gods, and finds there his townsman Faith lying dead and cold. Yet he dies not, but finds himself on a wan wayside, close to a rain-worn Cross, and holds speech with Sylvan, leaving whom he climbs again upward among mountains and shelters with the Hermit of the Mere. Thereon one Nightshade leads him up the highest peaks and shows him the Spectre of the Inconceivable; after which sight of wonder he finds himself worn and old, but emerges presently in full daylight on the Open Way, whence, after parleying with Lateral and with Microcos, he is guided by a gentle stranger to the gates of the City builded without God. His weary wanderings and experiences in that same City, latest and fairest of any built by Man, till the hour when, sickened and afraid, he forsakes it and flies on into the region of Monsters and strange births of Time. At last, in the winter of his pilgrimage, he beholds the old man Masterful, who becomes his guide to the brink of the Celestial Ocean; and now, standing on those mysterious shores, the highest peak of earth, he sees a Ship of Souls; but as it vanishes in the cœrulean haze, he awakens, and knows that all he hath seen—yea, all his spirit's life-long quest— hath been only a Dream within a Dream.

DEDICATION: TO THE SAINTED SPIRIT OF JOHN BUNYAN.

O Teller of the Fairy Tale Divine,
How bright a dream was thine,—
Wherein God's City shining as a star
Gleam'd silently from far
O'er haunted wastes, where Pilgrims pale as death
Toil'd slow, with bated breath!

Like children at thy knees we gather'd all,
Man, maiden, great and small;
Tho' death was nigh and snow was on our hair,
Yet still we gather'd there,
Feeling upon our cheeks blow sweet and bland
A breath from Fairyland!

The sunless Book, held ever on thy knee,
Grew magical thro' thee;
Touch'd by thy wand the fountain of our fear
Sprang bright and crystal clear;
Thy right hand held a lily flower most fair,
And holly deck'd thy hair.

Of Giants and of Monsters thou didst tell,
Fiends, and the Pit of Hell;
Of Angels that like swallows manifold
Fly round God's eaves of gold;
Of God Himself, the Spirit those adore,
Throned in the City's core!

O fairy Tale Divine! O gentle quest
Of Christian and the rest!
What wonder if we love it to the last,
Tho' childish faith be past,
What marvel if it changes not, but seems
The pleasantest of dreams?

Far other paths we follow—colder creeds
Answer our spirits' needs—
The gentle dream is done;—'neath life's sad shades,
The fabled City fades:—
The God within it, shooting from his throne,
Falls, like a meteor stone!

So much is lost, yet still we mortals sad
Despair not or grow mad,
But still search on, in hope to find full blest
The City of our quest;—
New guides to lead; below, new lights of love,
And grander Gods, above.

And while of this strange latter quest I sing,
First to thy skirts I cling
Like to a child, and in thy face I look
As in a gentle book,
And all thy happy lore and fancies wise
I gather from thine eyes.

Tho' that first faith in Fairyland hath fled,
Its glory is not dead;
And tho' the lesser truth exists no more,
Yet in thy sweet Tale's core
The higher truth of poesy divine
For evermore shall shine.

There dwells within all creeds of mortal birth,
That die and fall to earth,
A higher element, a spark most bright
Of primal truth and light;—
No creed is wholly false, old creed or new,
Since none is wholly true.

Wherefore we Pilgrims bless thee as we go
With feeble feet and slow;
Light of forgotten Fairyland still lies
Upon our cheeks and eyes;
And somewhere in the starry waste doth gleam
The City of our Dream!

BOOK I. SETTING FORTH.

In the noontide of my days I had a dream,
And in my dream, which seem'd no dream at all,
I saw these things which here are written down.

And first methought, with terror on my heart,
I fled, like many a pilgrim theretofore,
From a dark City built beside the sea,
Crying, ‘I cannot any longer bear
The tumult and the terror and the tears,
The sadness, of the City where I dwell;
Sad is the wailing of the waters, sad
The coming and the going of the sun,
And sad the homeless echoes of the streets,
Since I have heard that up among the hills
There stands the City christen'd Beautiful,
Green sited, golden, and with heaven above it
Soft as the shining of an angel's hair;

And thither comes not rain, or wind, or snow,
Nor the bleak blowing of Euroclydon,
Nor moans of many miserable men.’

Now in my dream meseem'd that I had known
A melancholy neighbour, old and blind,
Named Faith, led by a beauteous snow-white hound,
Named Peace; and this same Faith, grown worn and weak
With wandering up and down the weary ways,
Had one day learn'd, high up among the hills,
Strange tidings of the City Beautiful,
And heard in sooth a far-off melody
Of harps and lutes, blown from the heavenly gate.
Now, when he spake of this, upon his face
There grew a gleam like moonlight upon water,
Sweet with exceeding sadness; and at last,
Though blind, he had left his lonely home again,
And stolen across the valleys silently
At midnight; and he had return'd no more.

Him, after many melancholy days,
And many wrestlings with a darkening doubt,
I, Ishmael (lone descendant of a race
Who chased the mirage among desert sands),
Follow'd in fear; and lo! I fled with speed
Like one who flees before some dreadful beast;
But just beyond our town I met with one
Clad in white robes and named Evangelist,
Who, at the threshold of his summer dwelling,
Girt round by plenteous harvest, sat and smiled;
To whom I cried:

‘O thou who sittest here
In thy fair garden girt by golden glebe,
Instruct me (for thy beard is white and wise)
Which is the pathway to the heavenly City
Call'd Beautiful, first of the Land of Light?’

Then said Evangelist, with courteous smile:
O Pilgrim, close thine eyes, and wander on;
One Faith precedes thee, blind, led by a hound,
Else trusting God; and when thou stumblest, rise;
And when thou comest among thorns and flints,
Praise God and pray; and when in some deep slough
Thou flounderest, bless God and struggle through.
But chief, be warn'd, to walk with close-shut eyes
Is safest, seeing our twin eyes of flesh
Mislead us, and a thousand evil things
Are made for our temptation. Grant me grace;
And I will give thee this brave Book to read,
And for the further safety of thy soul
Will bind this blessèd bandage o'er thine eyes,
To keep thy sight from evil. Though thine eyes
Be blind from seeing forward, ne'ertheless
Look down thou canst while wandering, and glean
The wisdom of the Book.’

A space I paused,
Gazing into his coldly happy eyes,
Then cried: ‘But thou?—O master, answer me!—
Art thou content here in the dales to dwell
Nor climb thyself the heavenly heights whereon
The wondrous City stands?’

Then with a smile
As soft, as still, as is the snake of fire
Coil'd up and flickering on some happy hearth,
Evangelist replied: ‘My post is here,
Not on the mountains, nor a rocky place;
He whom I serve hath given me this my task
To blindfold pilgrims and to point them on;
This house is His, this porch with roses hung,
These golden fields; nor can I quit my post
Until He sends His own dark Angel down.
And on my head methought Evangelist
Placed his soft hands in blessing; and my soul,
With one long sigh, one glance at the blue heaven,
Assented; and methought Evangelist

Did blindfold me, and set me on my way,
And place the Book within my hands to read,
Then softly singing in the summer sheen,
Cried, ‘Courage!’ as I wander'd from his sight.

And as I wander'd on, not seeing whither,
But trusting in some heavenly hand to guide,
I, casting down my gaze upon the Book,
Read these things, and was little comforted:—

In six days God the Lord made heaven and earth,
And rested from His labours on the seventh;
Dividing firmament from firmament,
Fishes He made, and flesh, and flying birds,
And, lastly, Man; next, from a rib of Man,
Woman. These twain He in a garden set,
Naked, and glad, and innocent of heart;
But in the centre of the garden placed
A Tree for their temptation. Thither came
The ancient snake upon his belly crawling,
And bade the woman pluck the fruit and eat.
And first the woman ate, and then the man,
And knew their nakedness, and were ashamed;
And furthermore an Angel with a sword
Drave them from Eden into the sunless waste.

From these twain had the generations come,
The million generations of the earth,
Bearing the burthen of that primal sin;
And whatsoever man is born on earth
Is born unto the issues of that sin,
Albeit each step he takes is predestined.

Further, I read the legend of the Flood,
Of Noah and of the building of an Ark,
And how the Maker (as a craftsman oft
Rejects a piece of labour ill begun)
Destroy'd His first work and began again
With sorrow and the symbol of the Dove.

Much, furthermore, I read of the first race
Of shepherds, Abraham's race and Jacob's race;
And of the chosen people God deliver'd
Out of the land of bondage. Portents burnt,
Strange omens came, wild scenes and faces flash'd
Before me, and I ever seem'd to hear
The rustle of the serpent; till I heard
The voice of David cursing to his harp
His enemies, and smiting hip and thigh,
And holding up his blood-stain'd hands to God.

And ever across my soul a vision flash'd
Of a most direful Form with robes of fire,
A footfall loud as many chariots,
A voice like thunder on a mountain-top,
And nostrils drinking up with joy divine
The crimson sacrifice of flesh and blood;
And ever as I read I felt my soul
Shake with exceeding fear, and stumbled on
With fleeter footsteps; and I fled for hours
Ere, with a fascination deep as death,
I cast my gaze upon the Book again.

And now I read of pale and wild-eyed kings,
Of sounding trumpets and of clarions,
The clash of hosts in carnage, and the shriek
Of haggard prophets standing on the heights,
And urging on the host as men urge hounds;
As in a mirror, darkly, I beheld
The generations drift like vapour past,
Driven westward by a whirlwind, while on high
The Breath Divine like fire came and went;
And, suddenly, the storm-cloud of the world
Uplifted,—there was light—stillness and death;
All nature lay as one vast battle-field,
And cities numberless lay desolate,
And crowns were strewn about and broken swords,
And everywhere the vulture and the raven
Pick'd at the eyeballs of slain kings and churls;
And through the world a crimson river of blood
Ran streaming, till it wash'd the feet of God.

These things I gather'd, trembling like a leaf,
And moaning, ‘God of Thunder! save my soul!
Destroy me not, Destroyer! Pity me,
O Pitiless, but let Thine anger pass!’

And now, methought that I had left my home
Behind me, and was far beyond the town,
When, suddenly, I heard upon my path
A crowd of people hearkening to one
Who raised his voice aloud and prophesied.
‘Who speaks?’ I ask'd; and one, with low, deep laugh,
Said, ‘Only our old prophet, Hurricane:
He began early, and the people applauded;
But now the matter hath outgrown his wits,
And newer lights are risen.’ Whereon I said:
‘Methinks I know the man; he hath a house
Within a suburb of our town, and ever
He mocketh all his neighbours and the poor,
And praises only God, and priests, and kings.’

And in my dream I heard him, Hurricane,
Railing aloud to those who flock'd around:

‘Scum of the Maker's scorn, what seek ye here?
Go, thou whose sin is black, and kiss the lash;
Haste, thou whose skin is white, and strike for kings.
O miserable generation, foam
That flashes from the Maker's chariot-wheels,
What do you crave for, shrieking for a sign?
See yonder o'er your heads the sun and stars
Hang like bright apples on the Eternal Tree,
And day comes, and the night is wonderful,
And æon after æon, 'spite your groans,
The eternal Order stands. What seek ye, worms?
To shake away the slime of that first curse,
Spoken when ye were fashion'd out of dust?
It is the mission of the worm to crawl;
No snake is he, and cannot even sting
The heel that bruises him. Crawl on for ever;
Obey your masters here and yonder in heaven—
Ye cannot slough your sin or quit your curse.’
Then a voice deep and rough, as from the throat
Of some strong wight, responded:

‘Softly, master!
What profit comes of railing? We who hear,
An we were worms indeed, might creep and die;
But being men, we deem thy counsel blind,
And all thy words as impotent as sparks
Blown by the bellows from my smithy fire.
Nay, those thou bidst us honour are (I swear
By Tubal Cain, the founder of my craft!)
The plagues of this green earth. I know them well,
I rate them, I! the monsters of this earth,
Blind priests and prophets blind, and blindest kings,
And conquerors slaying in the name of God.’

Then Hurricane made answer, while a groan
Went through the inmost ranks of those who heard:
‘I tell you, ye are dust of evil, things
For mighty powers to work with. God is strength,
His blessing makes strong men, and they are strong
Who blister you and bind you to your doom,
Black slaves and white. Worms, do ye rave of rights?
I tell you, He who fashion'd you for pain,
And set you in a sad and sunless world,
Scatters your rights as the eternal sea
Loosens the fading foam-bells from its hair.
What man cried out, “There is no God at all”?
I swear to you, by sun, and stars, and moon,
By hunger, by starvation and disease,
By death, that there is God omnipotent,
Awful, a King, a strong God! yea, indeed,
The Maker of the whirlwind and the worm,
The judgment waiting in the heavens o'erhead,
The vengeance burning in the earth beneath,
The end of sin, the doom no man eludes,
Not even at the very gates of death!’

Now in my dream I shudder'd, for methought
I heard the living echo of the Book;
So, sick and sad at heart, I turn'd away,
And hasten'd, desolate, I knew not whither.

Methought I wander'd on and on, for long,
Shadow'd with sorrow, smitten through with sin,
Not heeding whither, blindfold, caring not
If the next step of my sad pilgrimage
Should be into some nameless, open grave.
But as I crept across the darken'd earth,
O'er which the sad sky shed a sobbing rain,
One cried to me, ‘Poor soul, take shelter here!’
And following the summons of the voice
I felt the cold touch of an outstretch'd hand,
Which led me darkly through an open door,
Up steps of stone, into some unknown dwelling.

Then said I, pale, blindfolded, Book in hand:
‘Who spake? whose hand was that which led me hither?
And what strange dwelling have I enter'd in?’
And sharper, shriller than an eunuch's voice
One answer'd, ‘But for that same blinding band
Across thine eyes thou for thyself couldst see—
Perchance, good man, my name is known to thee,
Iconoclast,—called sometimes “Gibe-at-God,”
Whose name hath travell'd over the wide earth.’

Then all my spirit darken'd for a moment,
For I had heard the name said under breath
With Satan's and with Moloch's and with Baal's,
And my young soul had loathed the man who mock'd
All that the world deems holy. But as I stood,
Troubled and timorous, he did laugh aloud, Saying:
‘My name hath reach'd thee, I perceive,
And, though thou deem'st it evil, I have hope
To gain thy good opinion presently ....
Whence dost thou come? and whither dost thou go?’

THE PILGRIM.
I come from yonder City beside the sea,
And seek the Beautiful City of the Lord.

ICONOCLAST.
And dost thou think to gain that City's gate
(If such a city there be, which travellers doubt)
Blindfolded, with that bandage on thine eyes?

THE PILGRIM.
Yea, verily; for a good man set it there,
Evangelist.—But wherefore dost thou laugh?

ICONOCLAST.
O foolish Pilgrim, wherefore did thy Lord,
Whoever made thee, or receives from thee
Credit for having made thee, give thee sight,
If thou consentest not to look, or see?

THE PILGRIM.
I know not. These are mysteries. Yet I know,
Evangelist did bid me journey thus.

ICONOCLAST.
I know the fellow, a fat trencher slave,
He wears no bandage, he, nor goeth forth
On pilgrimage, but sitteth in the sun,
Right prosperous, and eyes his golden glebe.
O fool, to be persuaded by this priest
Out of thy birthright; to be blind and dark;
The sun to see not, or the stars and moon,
Or any light that shines; to turn thy face
Into the tomb of dead intelligence;
To quit mortality and be a mole!

THE PILGRIM.
My townsman, Faith, precedes me: he is blind,
And yet he journeys safely through the land.

ICONOCLAST.
Leave faith to Faith; since the good, simple soul
Is eyeless, let his other senses thrive!
But thou hast eyes, and eyes were given thee
To see with; that to doubt, were blasphemy!

THE PILGRIM.
Why should I see? This Book held in my hand
Assures me 'tis a miserable world,
Base, burthen'd, and most bleak to look upon.

ICONOCLAST.
See for thyself! Wherefore consult a Book
Upon a point of eyesight? Look, and see!

THE PILGRIM.
I dare not. I am stricken dumb and sad,
After the testimony written here.

ICONOCLAST.
If there be misery in the ways thou treadest,
If this thine earth be wretched and unclean,
It is because so many walk in blindness,
And read the dreary gospel written there.

THE PILGRIM.
How may that be? God fashion'd all things well;
And only by man's sin did all grow sad.

ICONOCLAST.
Assuredly; God fashion'd all things well.

THE PILGRIM.
And all had still been well had man not eaten
The bitter Tree of Knowledge, and been shamed.

ICONOCLAST.
Softly, good friend; that is the one good tree
Adam ne'er tasted, not to speak of Eve
Or any wiser woman. Cast that Book
Over thy shoulder! Leave the dreary dream;
Forswear the apple and the fig-leaf; cease
To credit fables old of fire and flood;
Quit gloomy visions and crude eastern nights
Of legendary horror: in a word,
Cast off thy bandage and thine ignorance,
And look abroad upon thy destiny!

So saying, with one quick movement of his hand,
Iconoclast did snatch from off my brows
The bandage placed there by Evangelist;
And lo! I scream'd, and with my trembling fingers
Cover'd mine eyes, then, trembling like a leaf,
Perused the stranger's face, and saw it full
Of many wrinkles, and a snake-like sneer
Playing about the edges of the lips.
And it was noon, noon of a cold grey day,
A silvern, melancholy light in heaven,
All calm, the prospects and the distances
Sharp and distinct to vision, but no sun.
‘Where am I?’ next I murmur'd; and, ‘Behold,’
Answer'd that other, ‘on an eminence
Thou standest, named Mount Clear; for all the air
Is crystal pure, and hither rise no mists.
Follow me higher; far above my dwelling
I have built a solitary garden-seat,
Commanding a great prospect o'er the earth.’
Methought I follow'd, and we gain'd the height,
And, full of wonder now, I look'd abroad.

I saw great valleys and green watery wastes,
Deep-shelter'd woods and marshes full of mist,
And rivers winding seaward; then, mine eyes
Following the winding rivers, I beheld,
Far away, silent, solemn, grey, and still,
The waters of the Ocean; and thereon
Sat, like a sea-bird on the ribbèd sand,
A City that I knew to be mine own;
But following the windings of the coast
I beheld other Cities like mine own,
All hungrily set beside the wash of waves,
Looking expectant, seaward; and from each
Came solitary figures as of men,
Mere specks upon the highways and the fields,

All toiling, as it seem'd, with constant feet
To those green slopes whereon I stood at gaze.

Then as I look'd, and wonder'd, in mine ear
The old man murmur'd: ‘Lo, thou lookest on
The Cities of the Nations of the Earth,
Each crouching by the sad shores of the Sea
Infinite, dreadful, mighty, without bound;
And in each City thou dost look upon
A different legend and a different God
Lengthen man's misery and make him mad;
Further, from City unto City have gone
Tidings of that same City Beautiful
Thou seekest; at the gate of each there sits
An arch-priest, like thine own Evangelist,
Blindfolding those who wearily set forth;
And these, the Pilgrims thou beholdest now
As specks afar, go stumbling sadly on;
And if they perish not upon the way,
As ninety-nine in every hundred perish,
Hither among the hills of ironstone
They, slowly ascending, by such hands as mine
Are of their blinded ignorance relieved.’

Whereat I cried, in bitterness of heart:
‘I see, but seeing comfort find I none,
But all thou showest me is sick and sad,
For lo! the things I fled from, the sad Earth,
The melancholy City, the grey Heaven,
And the vast silence of the unfathomed Sea!’
And turning to Iconoclast, I cried:
‘Thy words are shallow, and thy counsel blind!
Lo! thou hast snatch'd the bandage from my eyes,
And I perceive the fables of the Book;
What shall I do, and whither shall I go?’

‘Haste homeward!’ smiling said Iconoclast;
‘Back to thine earthly City, work thy work,
And dream of Cities in the clouds no more.’

But with a moan, uplifting hands, I cried:
Whither, oh whither? To return is Death,
For mine own City is dreadful, and the Sea
Hath voices, and the homeless winds of woe
Wander with white feet wearily on the deep;
And every slope beside the sea is green
With the dead generations; and I seek
A City fairer and not perishable,
Peaceable and holy, in the Land of Light!’

Then did Iconoclast, with bitter scorn,
Cry:‘'Tis an infant moaning for the moon,
For the moon's phantom in the running brook.
O fool! there is no City Beautiful
Beyond these Cities of the Earth thou seest!’

But turning now my back upon the Sea,
And on my native City, I beheld
A mighty land of hills. There, far away,
Beyond the pastoral regions at my feet,
Beyond the quiet lanes and wayside wells,
Rose mountains, darken'd by deep woods of pine,
With air-hung bridges spanning cataracts,
And rainbows o'er the waters hovering;
Mists moved, celestial shadows came and went,
While higher, dim against the blue, there rose
Peaks soft as sleep, white with eternal snow.

‘What land is that?’ I question'd; and the other
Answer'd: ‘I know not; nay, nor seek to know;
For those be perilous regions, with an air
Too thin for man to breathe; yet many, I wis,
Have travell'd thither (O the weary way!),
But never a one hath hither come again.
And how they fared I know not, yet I dream
That never one doth reach those frigid heights,
But on the crags and 'mid the pathless woods
They perish, and the skeleton hands of Frost
Cling to them, breaking up their bleaching bones!’

But now I cried: ‘O fool that I have been
To talk with such a shallow soul so long!
A scoffing voice like to the mocking-bird's,
The dreary echo of a hollow sound
Bred in an empty heart. For, lo! I see
The land afar, and, though the ways be dire,
Thither I fare, since, far among the heights,
Beyond the scoffer's voice, beyond these vales,
Beyond the weary wailings of the sea,
First in its place the Heavenly City stands!’

So stood I trembling in the act to go,
When grey Iconoclast, with cynic sneer,
Not angry, cried: ‘Stay yet!—I had forgot!
Not far beyond these valleys lies indeed
A City wondrous smiling to the sight
Like that which thou art seeking. In its streets
Full many a prosperous pilgrim findeth peace.’
And, smiling bitterly, as if in scorn,
He added: ‘O'er the mighty earth its fame
Hath travell'd on four winds! Who hath not heard
Of this same City of Christopolis?’

Then I upleapt i' the air and waved my hands.
‘The name! the name!—He built it with His blood!—
I charge thee on thy life, point out the way!’
‘Thou canst not miss it,’ said Iconoclast;
‘For if the milestone or the finger-post
Should fail thee, only seek the open road,
And there beshrew me if thou meetest not
With many of its priestly citizens,
Who will direct thee onward willingly.
Still, if thou lovest wisdom, be advised—
Turn back and hasten home. Christopolis,
Methinks, is not the City of thy quest.’

‘How knowest thou that?’ I cried, full eagerly.
‘Hast thou thyself fared thither?’

‘Verily,’
Answered the greybeard; ‘more, within its streets
I first drew breath!’

THE PILGRIM.
I understand thee not.
Born there, and yet, alas! thou sittest here?

ICONOCLAST.
I could not choose. She from whose womb I came,
More mighty than my yet unwoven will,
Would have it so!—and thus on golden streets
I ran, and under golden fanes I played,
And in the splendour of Christopolis
I fed and throve, till, weary of so much light,
While yet a fleet-heel'd boy I fled away.

THE PILGRIM.
Fled? From thy birthplace? from thy happiness?
O fool, to quit the paths and ways of peace!

ICONOCLAST.
I was not peaceful in those peaceful ways,
I did not love my birthplace. So I fled.

THE PILGRIM.
Was it not fair?

ICONOCLAST.
Most fair.

THE PILGRIM.
And holy?

ICONOCLAST.
In sooth,
My nurses said so much.

THE PILGRIM.
Yet thou art here!

ICONOCLAST.
I loved my freedom better far than fanes:
Within those scented shrines I could not breathe.
Besides, the people were idolaters,—
Fools of the fig-leaf, blind inheritors
Of that sad symbol of a slaughter'd God.
I left them, and I came to warn the world
Against the follies I had left behind,
Or haply now and then with this weak arm

To aid some miserable human thing
Their citizens have hunted even hither!’

He added, with a strange and inward smile:
‘Go thither, if thou wilt—seek out its gates—
Remember that I warn'd thee 'twas in vain.’

More might his lips have spoken garrulously,
But swiftly down the silent heights I ran,
Thrusting the Book into my breast; and now
Methought my soul was wroth against the man,
Iconoclast. Most fleet of foot I fled,
Until I reach'd the shadowy vale below,
Through whose green heart there wound a dusty way
Where many men and women came and went.
But as I leapt a brook to gain the road,
Suddenly on mine ears there swept a sound,
A tumult, then a tramp of horses' feet,
Sharp yelp of hounds, and all the cries o' the chase.

Wondering I stood, and lo! across the meads,
There came a naked man who shriek'd for dread,
Speeding as swift as any dappled deer;
And close behind him silent blood-hounds ran,
Swiftly, with crimson nostrils to the ground;
And after these came a great company,
Priests in red robes, and hoary crownèd Kings,
And pallid Queens with grey and golden hair,
With countless savage slaves that ran afoot,
And huntsmen, shrieking, ‘In the name of God!’
And much I fear'd the hounds behind the man,
Lolling their crimson tongues to drink his life;
And lo! they would have caught and rent the man,
But, suddenly, he sprang with one swift bound
Over the threshold of a house of stone,
A lowly place white-visaged like a shrine,
That at the corner of a little wood
Stood with a spire that pointed up to heaven.
Therein he leapt and vanish'd through a door
That stands for ever open; and the train
Were following when there rose beneath the porch
A figure like an angel with one hand
Outreaching; and they dare not enter in,
But with a sullen roar, clashing like waves,
Broke at the threshold, foam'd, and were repell'd.
Then, gazing past the Spirit, I beheld
A chancel and an altar, and the man,
With panting mouth and wild eyes backward gazing,
Cast prone before the altar, faint with fear;
And further, full of wonder, raising eyes,
I read these words written above the porch—
‘Iconoclast hath built this church to God!’

Then did I pray and weep, crying aloud:
‘Lord, let me judge not, since Thou art my Judge,
For I perceive an angel bright doth guard
The Temple of the Scoffer, and the same
May be Thy servant, though his place be set
Outside Thy City, in a rocky place.’
Then turning, I gazed upward, and behold!
On the cold eminence above my head,
I saw Iconoclast in milk-white robes
Walking with sunlight on his reverend hair;
And as he walk'd upon the golden sward
He scatter'd seeds and call'd, and many doves,
That rear'd their young beneath his lonely eaves,
Came fluttering down in answer to his call,
Making a snow around him, and were fed.

BOOK II. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS.

And now my path was on a public road,
And where I walk'd methought the weary air
Was full of lamentations; for the sick
Lay on the roadside basking in the sun,
The leper with his sores, the paralysed

Moveless as stone, the halt and lame and blind,
And many beggars pluck'd me by the sleeve,
And when I fled shriek'd curses after me;
And my tears fell, and my knees knock'd together,
And I fled faster, crying: ‘That first curse
Still darkens all! Oh, City Beautiful,
Where art thou?—for these ways are sad to tread.’

Even as I spake I heard a gentle voice
Close by me saying, ‘Good morrow, gentle Sir;
'Tis sweet and pleasant weather;’ and I cried,
Quickly, not looking in his face who spake:
‘I am in haste, and cannot pause for speech—
Farewell!’ but, lo, the other touch'd my arm,
Saying: ‘One word, I prithee, ere thou fliest.
In yonder village, Poppythorpe by name—
Pastor I dwell—my name is Pitiful.
I know thine errand. Prithee, since 'tis late,
Accept the shelter of my roof this night.’

THE PILGRIM.
I cannot rest. A wind behind me blows,
And like a cloud I travel darkly on.

PITIFUL.
And whither away?—Stay, from thy wayworn face
I guess;—thou goest to Christopolis?

THE PILGRIM.
Again that name. Oh help me! Guide me thither.

PITIFUL.
Most gladly. But, if thou wilt trust in me,
Rest for to-night, to-morrow fare afresh;
From hence the City is a weary way.

THE PILGRIM.
God help me!—I would fain not rest at all
Until the hunger of my heart is fed.
But tell me of those wretched on the road:
Whence have they come, and whither do they go?

PITIFUL.
Those wretched are but Pilgrims like thyself—
They, too, are crawling to Christopolis.
Ah, look not on them, or thy heart may fail—
For few will ever gain the golden Gate.

Then all my force was broken, and I leant
Heavily on the arm of my sad guide,
A pale tall wight with soft eyes red from tears,
And through a wicket gate across the fields
We pass'd, and came unto a lowly house,—
A peaceful house beside a running rill;
And Pitiful did bring me food and milk;
And Sentiment and Sensibility,
His two grave daughters, made me up a bed
Deep, soft, and drowsy; that same night, methought,
I slept therein; upon the morrow morn
Rose languid, and went forth upon my way.

The road was busy still with eager folk,
Coming and going, but I saw them not,
For I bethought me of the blessèd Book,
And drew it from my heart, and as I walk'd
I read its solemn pages once again.

And now I read a tale so sad and sweet,
That all the darker matter of the Book
Dissolved away like mists around a star.
And I forgot the thunders of the Word
Spoken in Sinai to the bloody tribe,
Seeing a white Shape rise with heavenly eyes
By the still sleeping Lake of Galilee—
And Him, that Shape, the sick, and halt, and lame,
The miserable millions of the earth,
Follow'd in joy; and by His side walk'd women,
Tall and most fair, fair flowers that grew 'mong thorns
Like to the Hûleh lily; and the earth
Blossom'd beneath the kiss of His bright feet.
But, suddenly, out of the gathering cloud
Above the footsteps of that Man Divine,
Jehovah's eyes, bloodthirsty, terrible,
Flash'd at the pallid, patient, upraised face;

And He, the Paraclete, the Son, the Lamb,
Trembled and held His hand upon His heart,
Crying: ‘O God, My God, if it may be,
Have mercy on Me, do not shed My blood!’
Whereon, methought, before my sight there swam
A vision of a night sown thick with stars
Like leopard spots, the deep dead dark below
The flashes of the torches round a town,
And the shrill sound of that last victim's shriek
To an omnipotent and vengeful God.

Now as I read, methought I stopp'd mine ears,
And fled in horror from the thoughts that surged
Within mine own sad soul; and all the earth
Seem'd hateful to me, yea, the scent of flowers,
The savour of the new-mown hay, the breath
Of browsing sheep and kine, all odour of life,
Grew sick and sacrificial; yea, mine eyes
Shed tears like blood; and my soul sicken'd, saying:
‘How should this God have mercy upon men,
Seeing He spared not His anointed Son?’

Aloud I spake in agony of heart,
And as I ceased there came unto my side
One clad in crimson, bearing in his hand
A snow-white staff; and Time upon his hair
Had snow'd full long, but in his jet-black eyes
There burn'd a bitter and a baleful light.
‘Peace!’ cried he, lifting up his wand on high:
‘Peace—thou blasphemest!’

Starting like a thief,
To have my thoughts so angrily surprised,
I gazed into the other's angry face
In question, but, ere yet my lips could speak,
That other, sinking lower his shrill voice,
Proceeded:

‘What art thou, that thou shouldst judge
The cruelty or mercy of the Lord?
A Pilgrim, by the hunger in thy face—
Perchance a Pilgrim to Christopolis?
Nay, silence yet—and pluck not at my robe—
My guess was right, and to Christopolis
Indeed thou farest; thank the Lord thy God
They heard thee not who ope and shut the Gate,
Else surely would they never let thee in.
For less than thou hast harbour'd in thy heart
We hunted down a human wolf last night,
And would have slain him as a sacrifice,
But that an evil spirit interposed!’

Then did I tremble, for in him who spake
I recognised one of that hunting train
Whom I beheld upon the level meads
That hour I parted from Iconoclast.
Wherefore my heart woke in me angrily,
And in a low and bitter voice I said,
‘I saw that chase,—and blest the holy form
Who from your cruelty deliver'd him.’

White as sheet-lightning flash'd that other's face,
And his voice trembled crying: ‘Once again
Thou dost blaspheme! He did deny God's justice,
And God in justice gave him to our hands.’

‘Nay then,’ I answered, ‘God, for such a deed,
Was much too pitiful.’

‘Fool!’ the other cried;
‘Did yonder semblance cheat thee? Did thine eyes
Fail to perceive that yonder seeming shrine,
Erected by accurst Iconoclast,
Was but the brilliant-colour'd mouth of Hell?
And did Iconoclast (for I perceive
Thy lips have talk'd with that arch-enemy!)
So cheat thy vision that thou knew'st him not
For what he is, black Belial and a fiend?
I tell thee, though his hair be white as snow,
His face most holy, sweet, and venerable,
He is the procurer of Satan's self;
And those white doves thou saw'st around his head
Devils attendant, taking from his hand
The crumbs of guile, the seed of blasphemy!
His spell is on thee yet—his seal is there,
Over thine eyelids,—down upon thy knees,

Pray God to shrive thee from thy hateful sin
Of that dark speech with the abominable,
And even yet thy sinful soul may see
The light and glory of Christopolis.’

Then spirit-shaken, broken, and appall'd,
Part by the horror in the stranger's eyes,
Part by the dim and darken'd memory
Of what my soul had read within the Book,
I cried aloud, and fell upon my knees,
And o'er my head the multitudinous clouds
Took dark and formless likenesses of One
Down-looking in His wrath; and as I pray'd,
I did remember how Iconoclast
Had blacken'd and reviled the Holy Book,
And wickedly blasphemed the very God.
Wherefore I moan'd: ‘Forgive me, Holy One!
By Thy Son's blood forgive me, for I knew not
With what false tongue I spake.’

Then to my feet
Uprising, tottering as one drunk with wine,
I still beheld the stranger watching me
With cold, calm eyes. ‘What man art thou?’ I cried,
‘How shall I know that thou too art not false,
Some devil in disguise?’

Full scornfully
The other smiled. ‘By this same garb I wear,
And by this wand I wave within my hand,
Know then my priestly rank and privilege.
My name is Direful, and high-priest am I
Within the Holy City, where I preach
God's thunders and the lightnings of the Cross.
And if thou askest humbly, with strong sense
Of thine own undeserving, I perchance
May help thee through the golden City's Gates.’

‘Thou!’—cried I—‘thou!’ Then with a sob I said,
Clutching the pallid priest's red raimenthem,
‘Is it not written that those Gates stand wide
To all whose souls are weary and would rest?’
‘To all whose souls are weary of their sin,’
The other said, ‘and seek to glorify
His name who built the City with His blood.’

THE PILGRIM.
O pole-star of our sleepless sea of pain—
Still shines He there?

DIREFUL.
Whom meanest thou?

THE PILGRIM.
Christ the King!

DIREFUL.
He reigns for ever through His deputies,
Christ's Vicars, Servants, and anointed Kings—
These to His glory day and night upraise
Hosannahs, building with their blessed hands
Temples, and fanes, and shrines of purest gold.
There mayst thou, as a fringe upon the skirt
Of His bright glory, hang for evermore,
Swayed into rapture by each heavenly throb
Of that divine and ever-bleeding Heart,
Which even as a raiment weareth those
Who do partake its glory and believe.

THE PILGRIM.
Ah me! if this be sooth, what shall I do
To win such rapture and deserved the same?

DIREFUL.
Deserve it thou canst never, but perchance,
Thine own iniquities remembering,
Thou yet mayst win it. First, mark well—this gift
Comes from no merit and no power of thine,
Who, if God used thee after thy deserts,
Would now be trembling in eternal flame,
Or 'neath His heel be crushed to nothingness!

THE PILGRIM.
What have I done to merit such a doom?

DIREFUL.
Done?—sum it in two little words—thou art.

THE PILGRIM.
If that be sin, God made me, and I am.

DIREFUL.
God, in His mercy, suffers thee to crawl,
As He doth suffer worms and creeping things;
God, in His justice, might obliterate
Thee and all creatures living from the earth.

THE PILGRIM.
Not so; that duty the created owes
To the Creator, the Creator, too,
Owes the created. God hath given me life,
I thank my God if life a blessing is,
How may I bless Him if it proves a curse?

DIREFUL.
Fool! juggle not with words, lest the red levin
Fall down and blast thee. Rather on thy knees
Crave, as a boon, from the All-Terrible,
What thou mayst ne'er solicit as a right.

THE PILGRIM.
I pray! I pray! Father, Thou hear'st, I pray!
Nay, have I not by gracious words and deeds,
By holy living, love for all my kind,
Pray'd to and praised, loved goodness for Thy sake?

DIREFUL.
Nay, neither words, nor deeds, nor love avail—
They are but other names for vanity—
Only believe and thou mayst gain the Gate.

THE PILGRIM.
Instruct me further. What must I believe?

DIREFUL.
In God Triune, yet One—in God the Father,
In God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost—
In God's eternal Book, and in His Church;
In God's fair City, builded under Heaven,
And read'd upon the hundred thrones of Hell!

THE PILGRIM.
Why not? Belief is easy. Only show
The City and its Gateway, and I swear
No soul shall flout me for my lack of faith!
Yea, take me to divine Christopolis—
Let me be sure that shining City is—
Let me upon its fair perfections gaze—
And I will own indeed so blest a place
Transcends my best deserving, and will thank
That gracious God, who made me what I am,
For giving me this precious gift of life!

Thus speaking we had wander'd slowly on
A little way upon the dusty road;
But now behind us, riding hastily
There came that glorious hunting company
Which sought to slay the lonely hunted man.
And unto him who spake with me there strode
A slave, who held an empty-saddled steed
Bitted with gold and bright caparison'd;
Him Direful beckon'd, then to me he turn'd,
Crying, ‘Fare forward!—there beyond the hill
Lieth the shining City of thy quest.’
So saying, lightly to his seat he sprang,
And in the track of that same hunting throng
Prick'd on his eager steed.

Then, sighing deep,
I gazed around me, on the weary way
Strewn with the weary and the miserable,
And every face was lighted with the flame
Of famine; yea, and all like bloodshot stars
Shone forward the one way; but ah! the limbs
Were feeble, and the weary feet were sore,
And some upon the wayside fell and moan'd,
And many lay as white and cold as stone
With thin hands cross'd in prayer upon their rags.
Meantime there flash'd along on fiery wheels
Full many a glorious company which bare
Aloft the crimson Cross, and mighty priests
Glode by on steeds bridled with glittering gold,

And delicate wantons on white palfreys pass'd
With soft eyes downcast as they told their beads,
And few of these on those who fell and died
Look'd down, but seem'd with all their spirits bent
To reach the golden Gate ere fall of night—
Only the priests stoop'd sometimes o'er the dead,
And made the hurried sign o' the Cross, and went.

Now as I gazed and sicken'd in despair,
Because my force within seem'd failing fast,
I met two glittering upturn'd eyes
That from the wayside grass regarded me;
And lo! I saw, upon two crutches leaning,
A cripple youth with gold hair like a maid's,
A pale face thin as is a skeleton's,
And thin soft hands, blue-vein'd and waxen white;
And pitiful and weak he would have seem'd
But for the light within his eyes, which shone
Most starlike yet most baleful, fraught with flame
That ne'er was kindled in a vestal shrine.
He meeting now my gaze of wonder, smiled,
And such a smile wear wicked elfin things
That in the lustre of the moonlight live
And dance i' the starry dew. ‘Well met,’ he cried,
In shrillest treble sharp as any bell,
‘Well met, good Pilgrim! Stand a space, I pray,
Yea, stand, and buy a song.’

Then did I mark
He bare within his hand long printed strings
Of ballads, and, as ballad-singers use,
Stood with his arms outreaching and intoning
Praise of his wares.

‘I prithee, Pilgrim, buy!
Songs of all sorts I carry—songs for maids,
For sucking souls, for folks on pilgrimage,
Songs of Satanas and of Christ the King—
Come, buy, buy; for with the thrift o' the sale
I hope betimes to buy myself an ass,
Mounted whereon, full gallop, I may gain
The golden Gates, nor rot upon the road
With those who fare a-foot.’

And, while his eyes
Gleam'd wickedly and merrily, he clear'd
His throat, and in an elfin voice he sang:—

JESUS OF NAZARETH.

Tomb'd from the heavenly blue,
Who lies in dreamless death?
The Jew,
Jesus of Nazareth!

Shrouded in black He lies,
He doth not stir a limb,
His eyes
Closed up like pansies dim.

The old creeds and the new
He blest with his sweet breath,
This Jew,
Jesus of Nazareth!

His brows with thorns are bound,
His hands and feet are lead;
All round
His tomb the sands stretch red.

Oh, hark! who sobs, who sighs
Around His place of death—
‘Arise,
Jesus of Nazareth!’

O'er head, like birds on wing,
Float shapes in white robes drest;
They sing,
But cannot break His rest.

They sing for Christ's dear sake;
‘The hour is here,’ each saith;
‘Awake,
Jesus of Nazareth!’

Silent He sleeps, thorn-crown'd,
He doth not hear or stir,
No sound
Comes from His sepulchre.

‘Awake!’ those angels sing;
‘Arise, and vanquish Death,
O King!
Jesus of Nazareth!’

Too late!—where no light creeps
Lies the pale vanquish'd one—
He sleeps
Sound, for His dream is done!

Tomb'd from the heavenly blue,
Sleeps, with no stir, no breath
The Jew,
Jesus of Nazareth!

Some stood and hsten'd, others cross'd themselves
And hurried past, one shriek'd out, ‘Antichrist!’
And as he ceased a troop of hooded forms,
Women black-stoled, with crosses in their hands,
Passed swiftly by, and some at him who sang
Glanced sidelong, laughing with a sign obscene;
Answering that sign the cripple sang again:—

MARY MAGDALEN.

I saw in the Holy City, when all the people slept,
The shape of a woeful woman, who look'd at heaven, and wept.

Loose o'er her naked shoulders trembled her night-black hair;
Her robe was ragged and rent, and her feet were bleeding and bare.

And, lo! in her hands she carried a vessel with spices sweet,
And she cried, ‘Where are Thou, Master? I come to anoint Thy feet.’

Then I touch'd her on the shoulder, ‘What thing are thou?’ I said;
And she stood and gazed upon me with eyes like the eyes of the dead.

But I saw the painted colour flash on her cheeks and lips,
While she stood and felt in the vessel with tremulous finger-tips.

And she answer'd never a word, but stood in the lonely light
With the evil of earth upon her, and the darkness of death and night.

And I knew her then by her beauty, her sin and the sign of her shame,
And touch'd her again more gently, and sadly named her name.

She heard, and she did not answer; but her tears began to fall,
And again, ‘Where art Thou, Master?’ I heard her thin voice call.

And she would have straightway left me, but I held her fast, and said,
While the chill wind moan'd around us, and the stars shone overhead,

‘O Mary, where is thy Master? Where does He hide His face?
The world awaits His coming, but knows not the time or the place.

‘O Mary, lead me to Him—He loved thee deep and true,
Since thou hast risen to find Him, He must be risen too.’

Then the painted lips made answer, while the dead eyes gazed on me,
‘I have sought Him all through His City, and yonder in Galilee.

‘I have sought Him and not found Him, I have search'd in every land,
Though the door of the tomb was open, and the shroud lay shrunk in the sand.

‘Long through the years I waited, there in the shade of the tomb,
Then I rose and went to meet Him, out in the world's great gloom.

‘And I took pollution with me, wherever my footsteps came,
Yea, I shook my sin on the cities, my sin and the signs of my shame.

‘Yet I knew if I could find Him, and kneel and anoint His feet,
That His gentle hands would bless me, and our eyes at last would meet,

‘And my sin would fall and leave me, and peace would fill my breast,
And there in the tomb He rose from, I could lie me down and rest.’

Tall in the moonlit City, pale as some statue of stone,
With the evil of earth upon her, she stood and she made her moan.

And away on the lonely bridges, or on the brink of the stream,
The pale street-walker heard her, a voice like a voice in a dream.

For, lo! in her hands she carried a vessel with spices sweet,
And she cried, ‘Where art Thou, Master? I come to anoint Thy feet.’

Then my living force fell from me, and I stood and watch'd her go
From shrine to shrine in the daylight, with feeble feet and slow.

And the stars look'd down in sorrow, and the earth lay black beneath,
And the sleeping City was cover'd with shadows of night and death,

While I heard the faint voice wailing afar in the stony street,
‘Where art Thou, Master, Master? I come to anoint Thy feet.’

Then said I, creeping close to him who sang,
‘God help thy folly! Surely thou dost frame
Lays for mad moonlight things, not mortal men
Who soberly on holy business fare,
Seeking the solemn City—’ In my face
The cripple laugh'd, then with forefinger lean
Outstretching, and his great eyes glittering,
He cried, ‘Who prates of moonshine? He who seeks
The moonshine City?’

Then I turn'd away,
And with a darken'd face was passing on,
Much anger on my heart, when, suddenly
Sinking his voice, while his great eyes grew fill'd
With tearful dew, the singer cried, ‘Fare on!
God help thee, brother—God make sure for thee
The City of thy dream!’

My sad soul stirr'd
By that new tone of pity in the voice,
I paused again, and, on the crippled form
Glancing in wonder and in tenderness,
Said, ‘I have strength, and I shall gain the Gate!
But thou?’

Again the cripple's lineaments
Changed into wickedness and mockery,
And loud he laugh'd, as shrill as elfins laugh
Seated in fairy rings under the moon,
And elfin-like he seem'd from head to foot,
While on his cheek and in his lustrous eyes
The pallid moon-dew gleam'd. ‘Hie on!’ he cried;
‘Fly thou as fast as any roc, be sure
That I shall reach that ne'er-discover'd bourne
As soon as thou!’

Thereon I turn'd my back
And set my face against the steepening hill;
And, as I climb'd among the climbing folk,
I heard the cripple's voice afar behind
Singing a weird and wondrous melody;
And even when I heard the voice no more
The sound was ringing in my heart and brain,
Like wicked music heard at dead of night
Within some fairy circle by the sea.

But still I fared with never-faltering feet,
Nor rested, till I gain'd the height and saw,
Far down below me, strangely glittering,
A valley like a cloud, and in its midst
A shining light that sparkled like a star.

BOOK III. EGLANTINE.

Now, presently I saw the countless spires
Like fiery fingers pointing up to heaven,
And 'neath the spires were gleaming cupolas,
Columns of marble under roofs of gold,
Netted together in the summer haze,
And lower yet, like golden rivers, ran
The streets and byways, winding serpentine.
Still was the heaven o'erhead, and sunset-lit;
One white cloud, pausing like a canopy,
Enroof'd the wonder of a thousand domes.

And now the highway that my footsteps trod
Grew populous, and every face was set
Towards the hot sunshine of the shining walls;
And lo, methought, with joy, ‘At last I see
The City of my dream!’

Even as I spake,
The river of life upraised me, surging back
To let a glorious company sweep by,
And struggling in the stream I recognised
Another hunting throng like that which sought
To feast its hounds upon the naked man:—
Kings in their crowns, Queens in their golden hair,
Priests in red garments, filleted with gold,
Huntsmen with hounds, and couriers that a-foot

Ran crying, ‘Way there! in the name of God!’
Beneath the fierce tramp of their horses' hoofs
Some fell, and groan'd; they paused not, but swept on;
And after those were vanish'd with a blare
Of trumpets, into the far City's gate,
Came other trains as shining and as swift,
Until mine eyes were dazzled utterly.
Then, casting eyes on those surrounding me,
Many in rags I saw, who shriek'd for alms,
And some that sturdily strode on with wares,
Others that danced and sang, and others still
That dragg'd their feeble limbs along in pain.
But here and there, with crosses sewn in silk
Upon their bosoms, walk'd mysterious men,
To whose long skirts the halt and maim'd did cling,
Though still they heeded not, but in a trance
Walk'd on with eyes upon the far-off spires.
Then did I wonder, looking eagerly
For one of friendlier aspect than the rest
Whom I might question; but each man I mark'd
Seem'd struggling forward with no other thought
Than how to gain the shining shelter first.

Swept onward swiftly in mine own despite,
As in a sultry sea I gasp'd for breath,
Until, the highway widening as it went,
I saw upon its side a grassy knoll,
Whereon, down-gazing at the passing folk,
Sat one most strangely dight in Eastern wise,
With robe and caftan girdled round his waist,
His feet bare, in his hand a leafy branch.
A wight he was of less than common height,
With world-worn face, and eyes suffused with dew
Of easy tears, but when he spake his voice
Was like a fountain in a shady place.
Now, as he spake, some laugh'd, and others cursed,
Shaking their clenchèd fists into his face;
But most went by unheeding and unseeing.
But, as two ships made in the self-same land,
Although they meet amid a fleet of sail,
By some strange signal or mysterious sign
At once do know each other and exchange
Kind greetings in mid-ocean, so it chanced
That I and this same curious wayfarer
Finding our eyes meet suddenly together,
Smiled kindly on each other unaware;—
And though I ne'er had seen the face before,
Methought ‘Thank God, at last I find a friend’—
So struggling from the throng, with elbowthrust,
Amid the cries and blows of those I push'd,
I fought my way unto the stranger's side.
Him did I greet, and instantly he smiled
A brother's answer, and ful soon we stood
In gracious converse, looking on the throng
That like a river roll'd beneath our feet,
And on the glistening celestial towers.

STRANGER.
A mighty company! and each one there
Bearing his own dumb hunger in his heart.
God grant they find the loving cheer they seek
In yonder City; but, in sooth, I fear
It is too small to feed so many mouths.

THE PILGRIM.
O tell me—for I hunger to know all—.
And thou of that same City art, methinks,
A happy and a blest inhabitant;
See I God's City?—Name its name to me,
For I have dream'd it over many years.

STRANGER.
Thou seest the City of Christopolis.

THE PILGRIM.
Rejoice!—the sweet name echoes in my heart!—
It is indeed the City of my dream!

STRANGER.
Be not so sure. All those who journey thither
Conceive the same until they enter in,
But, having enter'd, many exchange their mirth
For lamentation, even as I have done.

THE PILGRIM.
Thou dwell'st there? Thou dost know it? 'Tis thy home?

STRANGER.
Home have I none—even as the field-mouse makes
Her brittle dwelling in the fallow-field,
Alone, unfriended, houseless I abide—
There's not a door in yonder shining place
Would open to receive me; not a space
In the necropolis that stands hard by
Wherein my weary bones might find a grave.
I went there, and I sought a refuge, friend;
The glimmer of the gold-heaps dazzled me,
And I crept out upon the open earth.

THE PILGRIM.
What curse is on thee, then?—what blight of sin?—
Thou art not tainted? Even if thou art,
Repent, and be forgiven, and enter in.

The stranger smiled, and somewhat bitterly,
With petulant ring in his low voice, replied:—
‘I have repented; but 'tis not my sin
That makes me exile from Christopolis.
Long years ago, a melancholy Man,
Who went abroad and wrought in love for men,
Was crucified upon the very spot
Where stands the midmost Church and inmost shrine.
This place a desert was in those old days,
But of that martyr's seed hath sprung like wheat
This golden harvest of a thousand spires;
And by his name the City is called, and now
The hosts within it hail the martyr'd “King,”
Yea, “King of Kings, Almighty, Very God,”
And drag to death and direful punishment
All heretics who kneel not at his tomb.
Now mark me, though I love his memory,
Because of his abundant charities,
And still the more because they martyr'd him,
I will not give to any man of earth
The worship I reserve for very God.’
Whereat I cried, ‘Blaspheme not! Thou dost speak
Of Christ the King! Wilt thou not worship Him?
Oh, look on yonder glittering domes and spires,
Those shining temples of a thousand shrines,
He built them all!—He made this blessed home
For pilgrims, yea, He built it with His blood!
Yet in thy folly thou denyest Him!’
So saying, with mine ever-hungry eyes
Fix'd on the far-off flame, I hurried on,
Moving in haste along the quict knolls.
The other follow'd, keeping pace with me.
And still the wonder of the City grew,
While all my soul in rapture drank it in,
Till pausing, dizzy with mine own delight,
Panting, with hand held hard upon my heart,
I cried aloud,
‘Oh, yea! It is indeed
The City of my quest! So great, so fair,
I pictured it, a miracle of light.
Dost thou not bless the hand that fashion'd thus
A haven where all weary souls may rest?
Aye, call Him God, or King, or what thou wilt,
Dost thou not bless Him for this wondrous work
Which in itself betokens Him divine?’
I ceased; but with a sudden wail of pain
The other threw his arms into the air,
Crying, ‘Though golden in the light of day,
And all enwrought it be with earthly gems,
Thy sepulchre, O murdered Nazarene,
Is still thy sepulchre!’ and, suddenly
Turning upon me with a fever'd face,
He added, ‘Even as wondrous faery gold,
Gather'd in secret by a maiden's hand,
Turneth to ashes and to wither'd leaves,
So shall that City soon become to thee.
Christ's City, sayest thou? Christ's? Christopolis?
If that be Christ's I call my curse on Christ
Who built it to profane humanity!’
Then shrank I from his side, as one that shrinks
From tongues of fire, and, horror in mine eyes,
Gazed at that other, greatly wondering;

And as I stood, a pilgrim hastening by
Cried out, ‘Avoid that man! It is a snake!
He speaks for thy perdition!’
Suddenly
The stranger's face grew calm, the wind of wrath
Pass'd from it, leaving it as sweet and bright
As still seas after storm. Upon his heart
He press'd his hand, saying, ‘Forgive me, friend,
How should my curse avail?’ and, lo! I thought,
‘I will not leave him for a little yet—
Perchance my faith (for, ah! my faith is great,
Beholding now the very City's walls)
May lead him from the dolour of his ways.’
And soon, methought, we twain together moved
By secret paths across the open fields
To the fair City; and the paths we took
Were almost solitary, for the throng
Of pilgrims kept the great and dusty road.
Green were the fields with grass, and sweet with thyme,
And there were silver runlets everywhere
O'er which the willow hung her tassell'd locks,
And song-birds sang, for it was summer time,
And o'er the grass, in green and golden mail,
The grasshoppers were leaping, and o'er head
A lark, pulsating in the warm still air,
Scatter'd sweet song like dewdrops from her wings.
And now, albeit we had not turn'd a step,
But held our eyes still on the golden Gates,
The City seem'd more faint and far away,
Lost in the golden tremor of the heat.
For as we went, from flowery field to field,
I seem'd to hear the stranger's gentle voice
Singing unto me in no human tones
A sweet song that the soul alone might hear:—

O child, where wilt thou rest?—
There on the mountain's breast,
Where, on a crag of stone
The eagle builds her nest?

Or in this softer zone,
Where sweet, warm winds o' the west
Through flowery bowers are blown?
O brightest soul and best,
Where wilt thou rest?

Oh, why make longer flight,
Flying from morn till night?
Oh, wherefore wander away,
When thou wilt find it best
To fold thy wings and stay?
Child, in mine arms be prest,
Soul, do not longer stray;
Here, on thy mother's breast,
Canst thou not rest?

At last we rested under a green tree,
Close to the gentle bubbling of a brook
Wherein a lamb, with shadow in the pool
Wool-white and soft, was drinking quietly—
And smiling down, I said, ‘A heavenly place!
The very air beyond Christopolis
Is sweeten'd with the holy City's breath.’
Then, turning to the stranger, I exclaim'd—
‘Unhappy one! fain would I know thy name,
Thy nurture, and thy history more at length.
Tell me—perchance I may persuade thee then
To pass unto the blessèd Gate with me,
And ask forgiveness of its Lord and King.
I ceased in wonder; for the other lay
Smiling like one in a deep trance, his face
Looking to heaven through the tremulous boughs,
His eyes grown soft with dew of deepest joy,
The light of Nature flowing on his frame
Bright and baptismal. ‘Friend,’ the musical voice
Answer'd, now thrilling like the skylark's song,
‘The law which made me and the law I keep
Absolve me, and my sins are all forgiven.
I take them not to market in the town,
I put no price upon them, vaunt them not;
I bring them hither, under a green tree,
And the sun drinks them, and my soul is shriven.
Oh, blest were men if to the quiet heart
Of their great Mother they crept oftener:
Her arms are ever open, her great hope

As inexhaustible as the sweet milk
With which she feeds innumerable young;
And pillow'd here, upon her own bright breast,
Safe through all issues I can pity those
Who waste their substance in Christopolis.’
Amazed I cried, ‘If I conceive thee right,
Wiser is he who lieth in a dream,
Idly revolting, drowsy, indolent,
Than he who like his fellows fareth on?
These fields are sweet—'tis bright and golden weather—
But when the cold rain cometh, and the snow,
Where wilt thou house?’
Smiling, he answer'd me:
‘Where do the raven and the wood-dove house,
And all things through all seasons? He who made
Will evermore preserve me. Knowest thou
Whose feet trod o'er these fields to make them fair,
Whose soft hand hung those boughs with orient gold,
Whose finger mark'd the curves of yonder brook,
Setting it loose and teaching it to flow
Like a thing living, singing on for ever?—
The King of Kings!’
‘Dost thou believe on Him?—
Come, then, where He awaits thee, in the walls
His chosen have uprear'd.’
‘I tell thee, friend,’
Answer'd the gentle dreamer darkening,
‘I know that City to the topmost spire,
And though a thousand kings keep wassail there
He dwelleth not among them. Men uprear'd
That City, calling it Christopolis,
And marvellously it hath grown and thriven.
But, long ere that or any City arose,
These and a million greener fields and woods
Were fashion'd; how, I know not, but 'twas done;
And in the dead of night, miraculously,
Before man was, the golden wonder grew.
Then Man was made—a bright and naked thing
That in the sunshine like an antelope
Leapt in the swiftness of his liberty;
And as the small birds choose their mates, he chose
A creature bright and naked like himself,
And in the greenwood boughs they made their nest
And rear'd their callow young, singing for joy.
This was man's golden age; his race increased,
Drank the free sunshine, hunger'd, and were fed,
And knew not superstition or disease.
With the first building of a human house
Against the innocent air and the sweet rain,
The age of fire began, which hath indeed
Not yet fulfill'd its fierce and fatal course.
For on the hearth they kindled cruel flame,
And out of flame have sprung by slow degrees,
Self-multiplying, self-engendering,
The fiery scorpions of unholy arts
Innumerable that afflict mankind.
And priests at last arose, and out of fire
They fashion'd the Creator and Avenger
Who with a thousand names pollutes the earth;
Who built up yonder City; who usurps
The name and privilege of deity;
Who slew the Adam in humanity
And crucified the Christ: whose thousand spires
Shoot yonder up like forks of primal flame
Staining the blue sky and the snow-white cloud;
Who makes that evil which was fashion'd good,
And blurs the crystal of Eternity.’
Then did I think, ‘He raves!’ but gently said,
‘These things thou say'st are hard to understand.’
‘Tread through the mazes of Christopolis,
And thou shalt understand them, marvelling
What brought thee hither on so fond a quest;’
And rising, with his eyes in anger fix'd
On the great dazzle of the far-off domes,

Across the gentle fields he wander'd on.
But, following him, I whisper'd in his ear:
‘Much hast thou told me, but thou hast not told
That which I ask'd—thy name and history?’
‘My name is Eglantine,’ the man replied;
He added, ‘Brief is my soul's history:
A crying out for light that hath not shone,
A sowing of sweet seeds that will not spring,
A prayer, a tumult, and an ecstasy.
But come! I see thy foolish soul is bent
Still to fare onward to Christopolis?
Come, then, and see, as I have seen, the Tomb
Paven with pain and crownèd with a Cross.’
Through fields with orchids sprinkled, under banks
Trellis'd with honeysuckle and sweet-briar,
By sweetly flowing runlets, now we pass'd,
And with mine eager eyes fix'd still like stars
Upon the far-off Gate, I noted not
That as we went the fields and the green ways
Grew wanner and the waving grass less green,
Until we came upon that open waste
Which lieth all around the mighty City,
And through the heart of which the highway winds
Up to the western walls.
Upon a tract
Of lonely stone doth stand Christopolis,
And all around for leagues the rocks and sands
Stretch bleak and bare; and not a bird thereon
Flieth, save kite and crow; and here and there,
At intervals, black Crosses point the path,
And whitely strewn at every Cross's feet
There bleach the bones of pilgrims who have died.
But if the waste was bare around about
What did I heed, since now at every step
I saw the City growing fairer far;
The spires and arches all innumerable
Flashing their flame at heaven; a million roofs
Of gold and silver mirroring the skies;
Windows of pearl in sunlight glistening
Prismatic; temples and cathedrals blent
In one large lustre of delight and dream;
And presently there came a solemn sound
Of many organs playing, of deep voices
Uplifted in a strange celestial hymn,
So that the City stirr'd like one great heart
In solemn throbs of happiness and praise.

BOOK IV. WITHIN CHRISTOPOLIS.

Again we trod the highway, midst the crowd,
Close to the western walls. At last we stood
Close to the very Gate.

The Gate was broad
For those who rode a-horse or swiftly drave
Their golden chariots through, but narrow indeed
The pathways were for those who fared a-foot;
And on the walls stood priests, from head to heel
Enswath'd in scarlet and in gold, and bearing
Crosses of silver in their outstretch'd hands;
Who cried, ‘Be welcome, ye who enter in!’
But now I shrank afraid, for o'er the Gate
A naked Form with piercèd hands and feet,
Carven colossal in red agate stone,
Hung awful, with a crown upon His head.

But soon the surge of strugglers sent us on
Along the narrow path and past the priests,
Who saw us not, for all their eyes were fix'd
Upon a lion-headed Conqueror,
Who, with his moaning captives in his tram
And bloody warriors round him, enter'd in.
But as the stranger in his Eastern raiment
Was passing, one cried, ‘Stay!’ and named his name:
Another, ‘Scourge him back!’ but Eglantine
Sped on, and, running, joined me presently;
While all the priests forgot him, welcoming
With smiles a lean and senile King who came
Barefoot, in sackcloth, with a sickly smile

Of false humility. Behind walk'd slaves,
Carrying his crown and sceptre.

Hast thou stood
Within some vast cathedral's organ-loft
While the great organ throbs, the stone walls stir,
The thunder of the deep ecstatic bass
Trembles like earthquake underfoot, the flame
Of the bright silvern flutes shoots heavenward,
And music like a darkness and a flame
Gathers and kindles, wrapping in its cloud
The great cathedral to its upmost spire?
Ev'n so, but more immeasurably strange,
Throbb'd solemn music through Christopolis;
And all my soul grew sick with rapturous awe
As slowly to the sound I moved along,
Amid the shining temples, silver shrines,
Solemn cathedrals, shadowy cloister walls,
Under the golden roofs, beneath the spires
With fiery fingers pointing up at Heaven.
Far overhead, from glittering dome to dome,
Flew doves, so high in air they seem'd as small
As wingèd butterflies, and mid the courts
Paven with bright mosaic and with pearl,
Walk'd, wrapt in saintly robes of amethyst,
Processions of the holy, singing psalms,
While smoke of incense swung in censers bright
Blew round them, rosy as a sunset cloud.

From a great temple's open door there came
Wafts of rich perfume, and we enter'd in
To music of its own deep organ-heart;
And all within was glorious, brightly hung
With pictures fairer than a poet's dream:
The King as infant in his golden hair,
Madonna mother smiling through her tears,
With forms and faces most ineffable
Of pale dead saints crownèd with aureoles.
But as the ruby brightens to the core
The temple to its inmost kindled on,
And there, around a fiery flashing shrine,
Grave priests in white and crimson kindled flame
And chaunted, moving slowly to and fro.
Over their heads a naked bleeding Christ,
Like that above the City's mighty Gate,
Hung painted with a wan and wistful smile.

From door to door we pass'd, from shrine to shrine,
Dazzled with sight and sound; my happy eyes
So feeding on each wonder of the way
That they perceived not at each temple's porch
Black heaps of crouching men and women, clad
In rags, who clutch'd me as I enter'd in.
At last one held me by the robe, and cried
‘For Christ's sake, stay!’ and turning, I perceived
A piteous skeleton that lived and spake;
Through his black sockets, like a lamp within,
His soul burnt with a faint and feverish fire.
‘What thing art thou?’ I cried.

And to my cry
No answer came but these despairing words,
‘Bread! Give me bread!’

When, like a house of cards,
The wretch sank down again amid his rags,
Swooning.

Then I perceived that round about
Were scatter'd many thousand such as he;
Face downward, lying on the paven ways,
Crawling like things unclean.

Aghast I stood,
As if the fiery levin at my feet
Had fallen and flamed; and pausing thus I saw
Stealing before me to a choral strain
A choir of women pale in black array'd;
And many look'd upon me vacantly
With rayless eyes whence the sweet light had fled;
But one white wanton tall and goldenhair'd
Laugh'd low and laughing made a sign obscene.
I started back as from a blow.

‘Behold!’
Low spake the gentle eremite my guide,
‘Behold the City of Christopolis.
Over these streets when they were desert sands

The gentle Founder of the City walk'd
Barefooted with a beggar's staff and scrip,
Saying, “Abandon pride and follow me!”
I tell thee, friend, were that pale Paraclete
To tread these shining streets this very hour
He would not find a spot to rest His head!
Above His ashes they have built their pride
Higher than Nineveh or Babylon;
And mighty craftsmen from a hundred lands
Have flock'd to raise these temples for His tomb.
Behold it! beautiful, yet still a tomb!
For Him, and for a million such as He!
Arise, ye dead!’

He stood erect and cried,
Waving wild hands above him, and his cry
Seem'd answer'd. From the darken'd temple-doors,
From secret byways and from sunless lanes,
As if uprising from the very earth,
Innumerable wretches wrapt in rags,
Famish'd for food, and crippled by disease,
Crawl'd out into the sun! Like one that sees
Legions of spectres round his midnight bed,
I stood, appall'd and pale;—around my path
They swarm'd like locusts: many knelt and wail'd,
Crying for alms; but others cross'd themselves,
Smiling; and some, in ghastly merriment,
Hooted, and moan'd, or utter'd woeful hymns.
‘It is a festival,’ said Eglantine,
‘That brings these things unclean from out their holes—
A Hunt of Kings, with bloody Priests for hounds,
Will chase a heretic across the town.’

Even as he spake there gather'd on my sense
A sullen murmur as of mighty crowds;
And soon, as riseth up the ocean-tide
Filling each creek and cavern with its waves,
The streets, the open places, and the squares,
Were throng'd with living souls. Around my form
They wash'd like waters, ever lifting me,
Surging me hither and thither eagerly;
And on the roofs, and on the belfry-towers,
And in the stainèd windows of the shrines,
They throng'd—a foam of faces flashing white
Above me, hungry for the coming show.
But Priests with scourges stood along the road
Beating the people back; and Priests on high
Rang bells, and sang; and Priests amid the crowd
Mingled as thick as blood-red poppies blowing
Amid the yellow grain in harvest fields.

At last a cry arose, ‘They come! They come!’

Now far away along the mighty street
The pageant came: first, fleeter than the pard,
The hunted man, not naked like that other
Who found the temple of Iconoclast,
But like a priest in crimson raimented
And on his heaving breast a snow-white Cross—
Tall was he, sinewy as a mountain deer,
And back behind him blew his reverend hair,
And white his face was, set in agony,
With eyes that looked behind him fearfully.
Swift thro' the throng he pass'd, and all the crowd
Shriek'd out in hate, even wretches in their rags
Calling a curse upon him. Close behind
Lagg'd his pursuers:—first, the panting pack
With blood-shot eyes and teeth prepared to tear,
So hideous in their lost humanity
They seem'd not mortal men but hounds indeed;
And after them, with gleaming swords and spears,
Gallop'd on foaming steeds the eager Kings,
Each King a hideous dwarf with robe and crown,

With Queens among them whose large lustful eyes,
Hunger'd for blood.

Then, as I stood and gazed,
I saw a thing so glorious that it seem'd
A wondrous rainbow fallen in the street;
For in the centre of the company,
Upraised supreme beneath a panoply,
Sat one so old and dumb at first he seem'd
A heathen idol from the banks of Ind—
White was his hair as snow, infirm his frame
Pillow'd upon a bed of purple dye,
And looking on him one might deem him dead,
Save for the senile glimmer in the eyes
That ever look'd about them vacantly—
Around him broke a blood-red surge of Priests
Wildly uplifting and upbearing him,
And ever chaunting, as they led him on,
‘O holy! holy!’

‘Whose is yonder shape?’
I questioned; and the gentle voice spake low:—
‘He hath a hundred names;—in ancient times,
With mad idolatry, they called him Baal;
Usurper and inheritor is he
Of him who built the City long ago.’

Past swept the train, that Idol in its midst,
The vast crowd like a torrent following,—
But suddenly the hunters paused, the tide
Of life wash'd back from some dark barrier,
And high on air there rose a bitter cry
That he they hunted had escaped their wrath.
And taken refuge deep in sanctuary.

Then forward journeying by slow degrees,
We twain, I, Ishmael, and my gentle guide,
Came to a mighty square girt round about
With towers and temples multitudinous;
And at the centre of the square there stood,
Close-shut, a brazen Gate encalender'd
With awful shapes and legends of the Cross;
And baffled at this Gate like angry waves,
The Kings, the Queens, and many thousand Priests,
Stood clamouring in the sunlight, angrily.
‘What meaneth this?’ I whisper'd—‘Whither now
Hath fled the man?’—and Eglantine replied,
‘I did not tell thee what is simple sooth—
This gracious City of Christopolis,
One as it seemeth, indivisible,
A corporal City shining in the sun,
Is twain in soul and substance, Cities twain
Divided by that brazen Gate thou seest:
And citizens who dwell beyond that gate
Approve not yonder Idol or his slaves,
Nor love so deep the pomp of masonry,
Old custom, or the habit of the Priest.
Nay, what is holy sooth beyond the gate
Within this square may be foul blasphemy!
He gain'd the Gate—they open'd:—pray to God
That he may there find peace!’

Loudly he spake,
In tones of one accustom'd to propound,
And many round him listen'd to his words,
Whispering among each other. As he ceased
There came up panting one of those red hounds
Fixing a fever'd eye upon his face,
And crying, ‘Have I found thee lingering here?—
A snake! A snake!—we thrust him forth before,
But here he crawls again!’—and suddenly
He thrust his hand out seizing Eglantine,
And beckon'd to his comrades clustering round
Like hungry wolves that dog the wounded deer.
‘Back!—touch me not!’ he cried, and shook him off.
But round him flocking rude and ravenous
They cried: ‘To judgment!’—and before he wist
They dragged him to that circle of pale Kings
Baffled and clamorous for a victim, now
The hunted had escaped beyond the Gate;
And in the midst sat wan and woe begone
That hoary human Idol on its throne,
Clad head to foot in crimson and in gold,
Yet pitiful, with its poor witless eyes
And threads of hoary hair.

‘A snake! a snake!’
All shrieked, upleaping and uplifting him.
But calmer, colder than the evening star

He shone amongst them, shaking them away.
‘Come to thy Judge!’ they cried—and with a smile
He answer'd, ‘Peace!—where is he? I will come
Before him willingly!’—A hundred hands
Uppointing at the Idol, cried, ‘Behold!’
But folding his thin arms across his breast,
And fixing on the senile face a gaze
Of utter pity and more piteous scorn:
‘That!—God have mercy on the Judge and judged
If that poor worm be mine!’

‘A heretic!’
Clamoured a thousand throats; those hundred Kings
Prick'd up their ears and listen'd eagerly;
The red hounds leapt and panted scenting prey—
The pale Queens smiled, prepared for cruel sport—
While that wan Idol, tottering as he stirr'd,
Roll'd hollow eyeballs at the empty air
And shook a sceptre in his palsied hands.
Then, stepping forward from the crimson ranks,
While all the crowd was hush'd to hear him speak,
Stood one as gaunt as any skeleton
Bearing a sable cross in his right hand;
Who, fixing chilly eyes on Eglantine,
Thus question'd, ‘Hear'st thou, man!—Dost thou deny
Our master's right to judge thee?’

EGLANTINE.
I deny
That Image, yet denying pity him
For his weak age and poor humanity.

INQUISITOR.
Dost thou deny the heir elect o' the King?
Now shall I catch thee tripping, for perchance
Thou dost deny the Lord our King Himself?

EGLANTINE.
Instruct me further, for I know not yet,
Since Kings are many, of what King ye speak?

INQUISITOR.
Of Him who was from all Eternity,
Who clothed Himself in likeness of a man,
Who died, with His red blood upbuilt the City
And sealed it with His name, Christopolis.

EGLANTINE.
I have not seen Him, and I know Him not;
But if a god be judged like man by works,
And thy God fashion'd this Christopolis,
I do deny Him, and reject Him too,
As much as I reject that Spectre there.

Rose from the throats of all that multitude
A shriek of horror and of cruelty,
The red hounds wail'd, the Kings drew out their swords,
While I did close mine eyes in agony
Fearing to see that gentle brother slain.
But still serene as any star his face
Smiled and made calm the tempest once again,
While with uplifted hand and quivering lips,
Pallid with rage, the Inquisitor spake on.

INQUISITOR.
Now I perceive thee atheist as thou art—
Dost thou believe in any King that is?

EGLANTINE.
I know not. What is he thou callest King?

INQUISITOR.
The Maker of the heavens and the earth,
Dumb monsters and the seeing soul of man:
The first strange Force, the first and last Supreme,
Shaper of all things, and Artificer.

EGLANTINE.
Some things are evil—if He fashion'd evil,
And leaves it evil, then I know Him not.

INQUISITOR.
If He made evil (and thou, too, art evil)
To be a testimony unto good,
Answer me straight—dost thou believe on Him?

EGLANTINE.
Nay, give me breath, and I will answer thee
According to the measure of my seeing.
Thou questionest if I believe i' the King?
I do believe in Law and Light and Love,
If these be He, I do believe in Him;
And in mine Elder Brother I believe
Because He suffer'd and His voice is sweet,
But though He was the fairest of us all,
A mortal like myself He lived and died;
And when I wander out in yonder fields,
Under the opening arch of yonder heaven,
Beyond the fatal shadows of these Kings,
Beyond the City's dark idolatries,
A spirit uplifts my hair, anoints mine eyes,
Sweetens my sight, and, if this Spirit be He,
With all my heart I do believe in Him;
And when in peace I close mine eyes and watch
The calm reflection of all shining things
Mirror'd within me as within a brook,
And feel the scatter'd images of life,
Like broken shadows in a pool, unite
To lineaments most mystic and divine,
I do believe, I verily believe,
For God is with me, and the face of God
Looks from the secret places of my soul.
Thus much I know, and knowing question not;
But more than this I cannot comprehend.
The Everlasting and Imperishable
Eludes me, as the sight of the sweet stars
That shine uncomprehended yet serene;
For nightly, silently, their eyes unclose,
And whoso sees their light, and gazes on it
Till wonder turns to rapture, seemeth ever,
Like one that reads all secrets in Love's eyes,
Swooning upon the verge of certainty—
Another look, another flash, it seems
And all God's mystery will be reveal'd,
But very silently they close again,
Shutting their secrét 'neath their silvern lids,
And looking inward with a million orbs
On the Unfathomable far within
Their spheres, as is the soul within the soul.
God is their secret;—but I turn to Earth,
My Mother, and in her dark fond face I gaze,
Still questioning until at last I find
Her secret, and its sweetest name is Love:
And this one word she murmurs secretly
Into the ears of birds and beasts and men;
And sometimes, listening to her, as she lies
Twining her lilies in her hair, and watching
Her blind eyes as they glimmer up to heaven,
I dream this word she whispers to herself
Is yet another mystic name of God.

More would his lips have spoken, but the shriek
Of ‘Atheist! Atheist!’ drown'd his gentle voice—
And as around some gentle boat at sea
Riseth a sudden storm of sharp-tooth'd waves,
So rose that company of Priests and Kings;
And as a boat is wash'd and whirl'd and driven
'Mid angry breakers, from beyond my sight
The dreamer's fair frail form was borne away,—
Yet ever and anon I saw his face
Arise seraphic 'mid the blood-red sea,
Undaunted, undespairing, and as yet
Unharm'd! The tumult rose. Kings, Priests, and Slaves,
Were mix'd confusedly, as to and fro
The great crowd eddied; and I sought in vain
To reach the dreamer's side and speak with him;
But when I call'd his name despairingly,
A hundred hands were lifted on myself,
A hundred fingers trembled at my throat,
And voices shriek'd, ‘Another—death to him!’
Back was I fiercely driven, step by step,
And more than once I stagger'd to my knees,
My raiment rent, my body bruised and beaten,
My spirit like a lamp swung in a storm
Blurr'd, darken'd, shedding only straggling beams
Of feeble sense. ‘Almighty King,’ I moan'd,
‘Is this thy City?’

As I spake the words
I stagger'd to that mighty brazen Gate,
And looking up I saw enwrought thereon
These words—‘Knock here if thou wouldst enter in.’

I turn'd once more, and saw the people's faces
Flashing in fury round me—swords and staves
Uplifted—arms outstretching for my throat:
Sick with that sight, I knock'd, and ere I knew
The Gate swung open—hands outreaching grasp'd
My fainting form and dragg'd me swiftly in;—
And as a bark out of an angry sea
Ploughs round a promontory into calm,
Then slips on silent where all winds are dead
Into a quiet haven in the bay,
I found myself beyond the brazen Gate,
Panting, unharm'd, while from my awestruck ears,
Miraculously, instantaneously,
The murmur of that tumult died away.

BOOK V. WITHIN THE GATE.

Breathless, a space I paused, breathless and blind,
Then slowly as a wight that wakes from sleep
Gazed round me; and behold I found myself
Within a great quadrangle dark and still,
Uplooking on the other side o' the Gate
Whereon was written in a fiery scroll:
‘No path—beware the many-headed Beast!’
And gather'd round me as I shuddering stood
I saw a group of silent men in black,
Sad-featured, holding each an open book.
‘Where am I now?’ I murmur'd vacantly,
One of those strangers with a pensive smile
Answer'd, ‘In safety, friend! within this Gate
They cannot harm thee. Welcome, weary one,
To the blest shelter of Christopolis.’

Whereat I cried: ‘Accursèd be the name,
Which lured me from blue heaven and the sweet fields!
For he was wise who warn'd me ere I came,
And now I know the City as it is,
Not holy like the City of my dream,
But evil, cruel, dreary, and defiled.’
‘Blaspheme not,’ said that other; ‘yet in sooth
We pardon thee thy rash and ribald speech,
For thou hast seen the City's evil side.
Beyond that Gate there reigneth Antichrist
In likeness of the foul and loathsome Beast,
But here, in verity, thy storm-toss'd heart
May rest in peace.’

And now, within my dream,
Methought I wander'd on with those grave men,
And listen'd, hoping, yet in half despair,
To their soft speech. Less golden and less bright
The City seem'd upon its hither side,
For everywhere upon the sunless streets
Dark temples and black-arch'd cathedrals cast
A solemn shadow, and the light within
Was sadder-temper'd and more soul-subduing,
And solemner the mighty music seem'd
That sigh'd through every crevice like a sea.
Yet overhead the same bright fingers shot
Their flames at heaven, and the white doves flew,
And patient look'd the azure light of heaven
Fretted by domes and arches numberless
Yet brooding most serene.

But now my sou
Did scent for evil with a keener sense,
And that fair-seeming show of sight and sound
O'ercame me not, but ever I look'd abroad
In sorrow and mistrust; and soon indeed
My search was answer'd; for I saw again,
Low-lying near the black cathedral doors,
Forms of the wretched writhing in their rags,
And peering in through the wide-open doors
I saw the shapes of Kings bright-raimented
Who knelt at prayer. Then turning unto those
Who led me, bitterly I smiled and said:
‘Meseems ye have kept your carrion and your Kings,
As they have yonder—Plainly I perceive
That still I walk within Christopolis!’

One answer'd: ‘God forbid that we should miss
Their company who are divinely crown'd;
And for the poor, hath not the King of Kings
Enjoin'd upon His servants to have these
For ever with them?’

‘Tell me roundly then,
What must he do who would within this Gate
Be deem'd a good and lawful citizen?
Must he bow down to Idols such as those
They carry yonder? Must he quake at Priests?
And, if he must be judged, who judgeth him?’

‘Good man, thou knowest little of this place
If thou dost dream that we who dwell herein
Will kneel to any Idol or accept
The will of perishable Priests or Kings.
Upon that score we parted first with those
Our neighbours, choosing here to dwell apart.
Be one of us, and surely thou shalt bow
Neither to Idol nor to mortal man,
Nor shalt thou quake at any mortal judge;
Nay, shouldst thou need a judge that judge shall be
Thine own good conscience and the City's law.’

Then did I brighten, somewhat comforted,
Yet nothing now could waken in my soul
That old first faith wherewith I saw from far
The flashing of the City's thousand spires—
And to myself I said: ‘A bootless dream,
A dreary City and a bootless dream,
If this be all!’ So with a heavy heart
I look'd upon the temples and the shrines,
And heard the solemn music welling forth,
And saw the quiet folk that came and went,
Silent and quick, like bees that throng i' the hive.

Now, as I wander'd musing, I beheld
One who sat singing at a temple door,
His face illumined, turning soft with tears
Upward and sunward; and the song he sang
Was low and hush'd as is the nightingale's
Just as the dusky curtain of a cloud
Is drawn across the bright brow of the moon;
And, lo! I listen'd, for it seem'd the song
Came from the deep heart of mine own despair,
And tears were in mine eyes before it ceased.

Come again, come back to me,
White-wing'd throng of childish Hours,
Lead me on from lea to lea,
Ankle-deep in meadow flowers;
Set a lily in my hand,
Weave wild pansies in my hair,
Through a green and golden land
Lead me on with fancies fair.
White-wing'd Spirits, come again,—
Heal my pain!
Through the shadows of the rain
Come again!

Come again, and by me sit
As you sat that summer day,
Seeing through the mists of heat
This great City far awav.
Golden glow'd its magic fires
Far across the valleys green,
Heavenward flash'd its thousand spires,
Silent, trembling, faintly seen.
Show thy visions once again,
White-wing'd train!
With the dream I dream'd in vain,
Come again!

Come again, and lead me back
To the fields and meadows sweet,
Softly, by the self-same track
Follow'd by my coming feet;
From the City's gates set free,
Backward to the gates of morn—
Every backward step will be
Brighter, fairer, less forlorn.
Lead me! let me reach again
Wood and lane—
Lead me to your green domain
Once again.

Come again!—but, O sweet Hours!
If ye come not ere I die,
Find me dead, with bands of flowers
Lift me up from where I lie,
Take me to the woodland place
Where I linger'd long ago,
Set soft kisses on my face,
Singing, as ye lay me low—
Let me slumber there again,
Far from pain—
Waking up with weary brain,
Ne'er again!

Methought that as that song of sad despair
Rose like a murmuring fountain, all the place
Darken'd as when the sun is lost in clouds;
And from the temples, from the clustering dwellings,
There rose in answer one great wail of pain,
Which breaking like a wave was spent in tears;
And, lo! mine own tears fell, for I remember'd
The meadows where I wander'd when a child,
The baptism of my love new born in joy
And looking on a sun-illumined world.
Then one of those grave dwellers in the City,
Turning upon me dark and ominous eyes,
Said, ‘'Tis the music which the Snake did weave
To mock the first of man when he had fallen—
Self-pity is the mournful slave of sin;
Do thou beware in time!’ whereon I cried,
‘A light is lost that never will return:
What canst thou give me now to heal the heart
Made desolate as dust?’

‘Pray!’

‘I have pray'd!’
‘Wait!’

‘I have waited!’

‘If thy spirit fail,
Turn to the living wonder of the Word!’

Then I perceived that he with whom I spake
Held in his hand an open Book like that
I bare within my breast; and gazing round
I saw that every shape within those streets
Did hold a Book wide open as he walk'd,
Reading aloud and muttering to himself
Prayer, parable, and psalm. Wherefore I cried,
‘I know that comfort; it was given for bread,
But turn'd to bitterest wormwood long ago!’
Then ere I knew it I was circled round
With faces terrible and white as death,
And one, a hoary wight with eyes of fire,
Shriek'd, ‘Strike him down, O thunderbolt of God!
He doth deny Thine everlasting Word!’
But one, more gentle, interposing, said:
‘Silence, and list unto him. Pilgrim, speak;
Dost thou deny God's message unto men?’

THE PILGRIM.
Nay, I deny it not, but I have heard
That message, and I find no comfort there.

STRANGER.
No comfort in the justice of the Lord?
No succour in the mercy of the Son?

THE PILGRIM.
Sad is that justice, woeful is the mercy,
Most dark the testimony of the Book
But yonder, out beyond the City's wall,
The sun shines golden, and the earth is merry,
And only here the grievous shadow lies.

STRANGER.
The shadow of thy sin, which sin is death.
Answer again: Believest thou the Book?

THE PILGRIM.
As I believe in thunders and in storm.

STRANGER.
Dost thou reject all other testimonies,
Holding this only as the voice of God?

THE PILGRIM.
Nay, for I hear it as the voice of men.

STRANGER.
Dost thou believe these wonders written down?

THE PILGRIM.
Nay, for among them many are most sad,
Some are incredible, and all most strange.

STRANGER.
Rejectest thou the Book's own testimony,
That all these mysteries are truths divine?

THE PILGRIM.
No book can testify unto itself;
Nor is that Book a living voice at all!

STRANGER.
These tokens testify to Word and Book:
The lights of Heaven and Hell; the voice of God
Heard in the beating of the human heart;
Christ's burial; last, His rising from the grave.
Denyest thou these?

THE PILGRIM.
Heaven have I fail'd to find;
Hell have I found on earth, and in thy City;
The voice of mine own soul rejects the voice
I once did hear in my affrighted heart;
I do believe Christ's burial, but, alas!
Why is the gentle promise unfulfill'd?
Why doth the world's pale Martyr rest unrisen?

STRANGER.
In spirit He hath risen—lo, His City,
To testify His prescience and His power.

Ev'n as he spake, there pass'd along the street
A host of armèd men in black array'd,
Led on by one who rode a sable steed
And wore a helmet shapen like a crown;
These to Jehovah as they march'd did raise
A sullen hymn of praise for victory,
And some were to the ankles shod in blood,
But many as they march'd did gravely read
The open pages of the Holy Book.
‘What men are these?’ I adk'd, and one replied:
‘Warriors of Christ, who walk about the world
Slaying and smiting in the blessèd Name!’

Then, laughing low in bitterness of heart,
I saw the doors and casements opening wide,
And faces thronging with a wicked joy
To welcome back the warriors of the Lord.
Moreover, as I gazed, mine eyes could mark
Dark chambers full of grave and silent men
Who sat at ebon tables counting gold,
And 'mid the golden heaps that each did pile
The open Scripture lay; and down the streets
Came men who waved their hands, and cried, ‘Repent!’
And here and there, in lonely darken'd places,
The Tree of man's invention rose and swung
With human fruitage dead and horrible;
And 'neath that Tree more woeful voices rose,
Crying, ‘Repent and die! Repent and die!’
And million voices echoed back the sound,
And even those silent men who counted gold
Moan'd answer from the darkness of their dens.

Then cried I, ‘He was wise who warn'd me, saying,
“Thy sepulchre, O bleeding Nazarene,
Is still thy sepulchre!” Thy dream was peace,
But lo, destruction, sorrow, and a sword;
Thy prayer was for the poor and meek of heart,
But lo, the golden gloom and dust of pride;
Thy oreed was mercy for the worst and best,
But lo! the hideous Tree and not the Cross;
Thy light was sunshine and a shining place,
But lo! deep dread and darkness of the Book;’
And turning to those men who follow'd me,
‘The black leaves of the Book are blossomless,
And of its upas-fruit whoever eats
Bears wormwood in his heart for evermore.’

‘Blasphemer!’ answer'd one in night-black robes,
And hollow-eyed as Famine throned on graves;
‘The Gospel which is wormwood in the mouth
Is honey being eaten and consumed.
Evil are mortals, evil is the world,
Evil are all things man hath written down;
But this one thing is absolutely good:
Read it, and live; cast it away, and die.’

THE PILGRIM.
I'll read no more;—fairer to me by far
That Book I read, not understanding yet,
Upon the lonely shores where I was born.

CITIZEN.
What Book is that? and written by whose hand?

THE PILGRIM.
By God's in the beginning; on its front
He set the stars for signs, the sun for seal;
Golden the letters, bright the shining pages,
Holy the natural gospel, of the earth;
Blessèd tenfold the language of that Book
For ever open; blessèd he who reads
The leaf that ever blossoms ever turn'd!

CITIZEN.
This Book I hold doth prove that other dust;
Its brightness is a fleshly sin and snare.

THE PILGRIM.
He made it; left it open for our seeing.

CITIZEN.
The shadow of the primal sin remains.
There, on the fallen rose-leaves of the world,
The snake crawls, as in Eden long ago.

Upon me, as he spake, methought there fell
A shadow like that shadow which he fear'd;
And in its midst, as in some night of storm
The crested billows flash with gleams of foam,
The faces of those sombre citizens
Glimmer'd around. Mad with mine own despair
I stood as on some dreary promontory
Looking on tempest of a sunless sea—
‘Behold the Book!’ I cried, while from my breast
I drew it forth and held it high in air;
‘Here in mine bosom it hath lain for long,
Chiller than ice and heavy as a stone;
I cast it back as bread upon the waters—
Uplift it, wear it on his heart who will,
Henceforward I reject it utterly.’
So saying I threw it from me, while a shriek
Of horror rose from that black crowd of men;
And ere I knew it I was circled round
With living waters rising high in wrath
To drown and to devour and dash me down.
‘Death to him! to the foul blasphemer, death!’
‘Wrath to the wretch who doth reject the Word!’
‘Ah, Satan, Satan!’ rose the murderous cries,
While all in vain I sought to shield my head
Against a shower of ever-increasing blows;
And, lo! again, I saw the doors and casements
Were open, and wild faces looking forth,
And warriors pointed at me with their swords,
And women rushing with dishevell'd hair
Shriek'd ‘Vengeance!’ till meseem'd before my feet
The very pit of Hell was yawning wide,
While flame flash'd up, and smoke of fire arose,
Scorching my sense and blotting from my sight
The towers and temples of Christopolis.

But as I struggled crying out on God,
Methought that one in raiment white and fair
Strode to me through the horror of the crowd
And held me up from falling, while the cry
Grew louder, ‘Cast him out beyond the Gate!
Slay him, and cast him forth!’ and as a straw
Is lifted on a torrent, I was raised,
And wildly, darkly, desolately driven
I knew not whither. From the earth still rose
Darkness and fire; fire from the heavens o'erhead
Seem'd following: baleful fire did wrap me round
As with red raiment—but that succouring hand
Still held me, and a low voice in mine ear
Cried, ‘Courage,’ as I drifted dumbly on.

From street to street, from lane to lane methought

They drove me, bruised and bleeding, till I reach'd
Another Gate, which on its hinges swinging
Open'd to let me pass, then with a clang
Did shut its soot-black jaws behind my back,
While from within I heard the sullen roar
Of those dark waters which had cast me forth.

BOOK VI. THE CALVARIES.

At last methought I paused, and deathly pale,
My raiment rent, my body bruised with blows,
Turn'd to my rescuer with questioning eyes
And would have spoken, but the other cried,
‘Hush for a space, lest thou be overheard!’
And not until our feet had flown full far,
Down empty byways and down darken'd lanes,
Nor till the populous walks were far behind
And we were deep in flowers and meadow-grass
Of quiet uplands, did we pause again.
And now the star of evening had arisen
Set like a sapphire in the shadowy west,
And slow crows waver'd homeward silently
With sleepy waft of wing, and all was still,
Only the far-off murmur of the City
Came like the distant thunder of a sea.

Then pausing, I upon my gentle guide
Gazed closely, and beheld a face benign,
Sweeten'd with many sorrows, sweetest eyes
Weary and weak with their own gentleness,
And lips sweet too, yet close together set
With sad resolve. Tall was the stranger's height,
His gestures noble, but his shoulders stoop'd
With some dark burthen not beheld of eyes;
And ever in his breast did creep his hand,
As if to still the tumult of his heart.
Yet, gazing on his garb, I shrank away
Sick and afraid, for lo! upon his breast
Glimmer'd the crimson Cross of those fierce Priests,
And clad he was like many in the City
In a white robe that swept unto his feet.
Darkly I cried, ‘Avaunt! I know thee not!
I deem'd thee good, but thou art even as those
Who stoned me, thronging at my throat like wolves,
And sought my life;’ when with a smile as bright
As had the vesper star above his head,
‘Friend, be at peace!’ the gentle stranger cried,
‘Nor fear mine office, by the Cross I wear!’

THE PILGRIM.
That Cross affrights my vision—pluck it off,
And I shall know thou art a man indeed.

STRANGER.
I cannot, since I am God's Priest elect;
Nay, rather in the Name of Him who bare
A cross like this I bid thee love the sign.

THE PILGRIM.
Carry thy firebrand back into the City,
I loathe it! Evil is the sign, and still
Evil its wearers wheresoe'er they walk!
Art thou a Priest? My curse upon thy head!
Avoid me!—to thy brethren—get thee gone!

STRANGER.
Until thy heart is calm'd I cannot go;
Nor will I leave thee till thou hearest me.

THE PILGRIM.
Thou heardst me—I proclaim'd it in the City—
False are your fables, false your boasted creeds,
Falsest of all your spirits and your lives.
There is no truth in any land at all
Ye darken, sitting by the side of Kings.

STRANGER.
False Priests are false, and these thine eyes have seen.

THE PILGRIM.
All Priests are false, for falsehood is their creed,

STRANGER.
Phrase me my creed; if thou canst prove it false
I promise thee I will abandon it.

THE PILGRIM.
How shall I name it? Which of many names
Shall fit it now? Guile, Fraud, Hypocrisy,
Blood-thirst and Blood-shed, Persecution, Pride,
Mammon—in one word sum it, Vanity.

STRANGER.
Friend, thou hast miss'd the mark. Our creed is Love.

THE PILGRIM.
I know that jargon. Spare it; for I know it.
The wolf wears wool, and calls himself a lamb.

STRANGER.
Heed not our garb, or what we call ourselves—
Yea, judge not what we seem, but what we are.

THE PILGRIM.
That have I done; so is my judgment proved;
For they who flaunt your banners in Love's name
Pursued me, stoned me on from street to street,
And would have slain me with their bloody hands.

STRANGER.
In sooth they would, had help not intervened.
I know them well; my friend, they have stoned me!

THE PILGRIM.
They do not spare each other, I believe;
But even as wolves, when no poor sheep is near,
They fall upon each other and devour.

STRANGER.
Bitter thou art, o'er bitter, yet thy words,
Though harsh as wormwood, are in measure just,
For many Priests are false, and follow ill
The Scripture they propound to foolish flocks.
Yet mark me well; though many sought by force
To win the soul they could not win by words,
'Twas for thy soul they wrought, to save thy soul,
And insomuch, though blind, they wrought in love.

THE PILGRIM.
Smiling and slaying! hungry for my life!
O Sophist! now I know thee Priest indeed.

STRANGER.
Pause yet. I love their deeds no more than thou,
Yet rather would believe them doubly blind
(For blindness may be crime, but is not sin)
Than wholly base and hypocritical.
Grant that they sought thy death—through death they sought
To win thy spirit to eternal life!
Thou laughest, and mad mockery in thine eyes
Burneth with bloodshot beams. Resolve me now—
Dost thou deny that these same Priests are blind?

THE PILGRIM.
To good, I grant thee, but for this world's goods
Who have a sense so keen? and wheresoe'er
Hath crawl'd this glittering serpent of a Church
All men may know it by these tokens twain—
Blood-marks, and next, its slimy trail of gold.
Blind are ye to the sun and moon and stars,
To good, and to the beggar at your gates;
But unto usury ye are not blind;
And into murderous eyes of Queens and Kings
Your eyes can look approval, while your mouths
Intone fond hymns to tyranny and war;

And unto raiment rich, and glittering coins,
And houses hung with crimson and with gold,
And harlots beckoning in their golden hair,
Methinks all mortals know ye are not blind!

Thus spake I in the tempest of my heart,
Now pacing up and down with fever'd steps
The twilight-shadow'd lanes beyond the City;
And now the eyes of heaven were opening,
And in dark woods hard by the nightingales
Sang softly up the slow and lingering moon.
And, hurrying my footsteps, soon I came
To where four roads did meet to make a cross,
And in the centre of the way I saw,
Dim, livid, silhouetted on the sky,
A Calvary, and thereupon a Christ
Most rudely sculptured out of crimson stone.

Thereon, methought, I halted shuddering,
Gazed, then shrank back, and covered up mine eyes,
When once again I noted at my side
That white-robed stranger and upon mine ear
Again the melancholy accents fell.

STRANGER.
Why shrinkest thou? Kneel down and ease thy heart.

THE PILGRIM.
Peace, peace! I will not worship wood or stone.
Who set that image here to block the way?
Nay, spare thine answer; they who wrought this thing
Are those who stoned me from Christopolis—
Thy brethren! Not the honeysuckled lanes,
The twilight-shadow'd meadows sweet with flowers,
The violet-sprinkled ways and underwoods,
Not Nature's self, not the still solitude,
Are free from this pollution dark as death,
This common horror of idolatry.

STRANGER.
Knowest thou whose shape is carven on that cross?

THE PILGRIM.
The Man Divine whom Priests of Judah slew.

STRANGER.
The Man Divine who still is hourly slain
Wherever sin is thought or wrong is done.
O brother, keep me by thy side a space,
And, looking on that symbol, hark to me.
Him did they stone, like thee and me; and yet—
Mark this, He loved them, dying for their sake.
Blame them, if they are worthy of thy blame,
Lament them, in so far as they have fallen
From the divine ideal they propound;
But still remember this, amidst thy blame—
They rear'd that Cross and set that symbol there!

THE PILGRIM.
To what avail? To darken earth's sweet ways?

STRANGER.
To hold forth hope to every living man,
To be a protestation and a power
Against their own defilement if defiled.
'Tis something to uprear a mighty truth,
Though from its eminence the weak will falls;
'Tis much to plant a beacon on the sea,
Though they who plant it lose their hold and drown.
Were each priest evil in an evil world,
This would not prove that fair ideal false
Which for the common gaze they find and prove.
Brother, hadst thou but watch'd this place with me
By night-time, in the silence of the night!
For out of yonder City, as if ashamed,
Sad human creatures creep with hooded heads
And falling at the feet of Calvary,
Scarce conscious of each other's presence, weep
Such tears as yonder Christ deems worth a world.
And moonlight falling on their haggard faces
Hath shown the lineaments of cruel Kings
Set side by side with beggars in their rags,

And pale Queens, naked, crownless, grovelling close
To harlots with dishevell'd locks of gold,
And conscience-stricken Priests that beat their breasts
With bitterest ululations of despair.

Then did I smile, and cry, ‘I doubt thee not!
What then? Next dawn thy Kings were on their thrones,
Thy Queens were crown'd, thy harlots plied their trade,
Thy beggars craved for bread and gnaw'd a stone,
Thy Priests were glorious in their gold and gems,
And all the City busy as before.
Such conscience is an owl that flies by night,
No sweet white dove that moves abroad by day;
And he who in the sunlight brazens best
Is the worst coward in night's creeping time.’
I added this, moreover, ‘Since so far
Thy feet have follow'd, and since, furthermore,
I owe thee something for my weary life,
I will accost thee in a gentler mood,
Seeking thy soul's conversion even as thou
Hast sought for mine; but first I fain would know
Thy name, thine office, and thy quality.’

Whereon the other smiling, better pleased,
‘My name is Merciful, the Priest of Christ,
And yonder in Christopolis I dwell
Half hated by my brethren and half fear'd,
Because I help the Pilgrims passing by
And lead them hither unto Calvary.’

THE PILGRIM.
Art thou not shamed to wear the garb they wear,
Seeing their deeds profane it terribly?

MERCIFUL.
Not so. If they fulfil their office ill,
That doth not prove the office evil too:
And wearing this white dress of sanctity
I work as one that hath authority,
And better help poor Pilgrims passing by.

THE PILGRIM.
Thus far, thou workest good. Now, answer me—
Dost thou believe the fables of the Book?

MERCIFUL.
Not in the letter, but essentially.

THE PILGRIM.
Dost thou believe that still by one man's fall
We mortal men are lost and overthrown;
But yet, since God did make Himself a Man,
Attesting this by many miracles,
Through God's own Death the world may still be saved?

MERCIFUL.
I do believe these things symbolically,
As I believe the symbol of that Cross.

THE PILGRIM.
Did Jesus live and die in Galilee?
Did he work miracles and raise the dead?
Was Jesus God, and could God Jesus die?

MERCIFUL.
I will not fall into that trap of words,
Which, grimly smiling, thou hast laid for me,
But I will answer thee as best I may,
Clearly, and with no touch of sophistry.
‘Did Jesus live?’ I know a sweet Word lives,
Coming like benediction on the sense
Where'er Love walks uplooking heavenward,
And since no Word is spoken without lips,
Hearing that Word I know He lived and breathed.
‘Did Jesus die?’ On every wayside cross,
In every market-place and solitude,
I see a symbol of a wondrous death;
And, since each symbol doth its substance prove,
How should I not believe that Jesus died?
‘Did he work miracles and raise the dead?’
‘Was Jesus God?’—Here is my timid sense
Lost in a silence and a mystery—
And yet I know, by every breath I breathe,
The Mighty and the Merciful are one:

The morning dew that scarcely bends the flowers
Inhaled to heaven becomes the lightning flash
That lights all heaven ere noon. ‘Could Jesus die?’
If Death be Life, and Life Eternity,
If Death be but the image of a change,
Perchance even God might take the image on,
And in the splendour of His pity, die.

So spake the gentle Priest, his mild blue eye
Dewy with love for all men and for God,
But I did answer with a hollow laugh
Deep as a raven's croak, that echoed on
Through all the architraves of that blue vault
Above us bent. ‘God help thee, man!’ I cried;
‘For thou art pleased as any yearling babe
With playthings that thou canst not understand.
Fables and symbols dazzle thy twain eyes,
And phantasies of loving sentiment
Puzzle thy reason and perplex thy will.
Wiser are they who on the tripod sit,
Intoning oracles and studying
The dry dull letter of theology,
Than they who, like to thee and such as thou,
Are drunken with its gentle images.’

‘Kneel!’ answer'd Merciful; ‘perchance in prayer
Thine eyes may be unveil'd.’

But I replied,
Pointing at that pale Calvary which loom'd
Dim and gigantic in the starry light,
‘I will not kneel to yonder shape of stone,
If by the name of God thou callest it;
But if thou call'st it Man, Man crucified,
Man martyr'd, I will kneel, not worshipping,
But clinging to an Elder Brother's feet,
And calling on the sweetest saddest soul
That ever walk'd with bleeding limbs of clay
The solitary shades beneath the stars.
He found it not, the City that I seek,
He came and went upon His quest in vain,
And crucified upon His path by Priests
Became a portent and a piteous sign
On the great high way of man's pilgrimage;
And though the memory of His love is sweet,
The shadow of Him is cruel and full fraught
With tearfullest despairs; and wheresoe'er
We wander, we are haunted out of hope
By this pale Martyr with His heavenly eyes,
Born brightest and loved least of all the sons
Of God the Father! Could I 'scape the sight
Methinks that I could fare along in peace!’

‘Never,’ cried Merciful, ‘where'er thou fliest,
Wilt thou escape it! Search where'er thou wilt,
Follow what path thou choosest, soon or late
With that red Cross thou wilt come face to face
When least thou dreamest. On the desert sands,
On the sad shores of the sea, upon the scroll
Of the star-printed heavens, on every flower
That blossoms, on each thing that flies or creeps
'Tis made—the sign is made, the Cross is made—
That cipher which whoever reads can read
The riddle of the worlds.’

So saying, he fell
Low kneeling at the foot of Calvary,
And praying aloud; and overhead indeed
The awful sacrificial lineaments
Seem'd soften'd in the moonlight, looking down
As if they smiled. Darkly I turn'd away
Heartsick, first wafting to that sculptured form
One look of love and pity.

Silently,
In meditation deep as my despair,
I follow'd the dark road I knew not whither,
As desolate as Io wandering;
And like another Argus following,
Blue heaven with all its myriad eyes on mine
Brooded; and wayside scents of honeysuckle
Came to my nostrils from the darken'd fields,
And glowworms glimmer'd through the dewy grass,

And all was sweet and still; but evermore,
At intervals, on either side I saw
New Calvaries upon the lonely road
And sculptured Christs outstretching stony arms.

BOOK VII. THE WAYSIDE INN.

Now as I walk'd I mused . . .

‘The Priest spake well:
The Cross is everywhere, and read aright
Is Nature's riddle; well, I read it thus—
Silent progressions to new powers of pain
Through cruel æons of blood-sacrifice.
For life is based upon the law of death,
And death is surely evil; wherefore, then,
All life seems evil. To each thing that lives
Is given, without a choice, this destiny—
To be a slayer or a sufferer,
A tyrant or a martyr; to be weak
Or cruel; to range Nature like a hawk,
Or fall in cruel talons like a dove;
And of these twain, where both are evil things,
That Cross decrees that martyrdom is best.
What then? Shall I praise God for martyrdom?
Nay!—I can drink the poison cup and die,
But bitter is the blessing I would call
On Him who mix'd it with His fatal Hand.’

The path I follow'd now was dark as death,
And overhead the ever-gathering clouds
Were charged with rain; the piteous stars were gone,
Blown out like tapers in a mighty wind
That wheel'd in maddening circles round the moon;
And deeper into the dark vaporous void
The moon did burn her way till she was hid
And nothing but the cloudy night remain'd.
Then the great wind descended, and, it seem'd,
In answer to it every wayside Christ
Stretch'd arms and shriek'd. Suddenly, with a groan,
The vials of the storm were open'd!

Then
The rain fell, and the waters of the rain
Stream'd like a torrent; and across the shafts
Sheet-lightning glimmer'd ghastly, while afar
The storm-vex'd breakers of Eternity
Thunder'd.

In that great darkness of the storm
Wildly I fled, and, lo! my pilgrim's robes,
Drench'd with the raindrops, like damp cerements clung
Around my weary limbs; and whither I went
I knew not, but as one within a maze
Drave hither and thither, with my lifted arms
Shielding my face against the stinging lash
Of rains and winds. Methought my hour was come,
For oft upon the soaking earth I fell,
Moaning aloud; yet ever again I rose
And struggled on; even so amid a sea
Of dark and dreadful waters strikes and strives
Some swimmer, half unconscious that he swims,
Yet with the dim brute habit of the sense
Fighting for life he knows not why or how
Nor whither on the mighty billows' breast
His form is roll'd!

But ever and anon
When, like a lanthorn dim and rain-beaten
That flasheth sometimes to a feeble flame,
My dark mind into memory was illumed,
I thought, ‘Despair! I cannot last the night!
Ah, would that I had stay'd with that pale Priest,
Seeking for comfort where he findeth it.
Yea, better his half-hearted company
Than to be drifting in the tempest here,
Alone, despairing, haunted, woe-begone.
He cannot hear me. Shall I call on Christ,
His Master?—Christ! Adonai!—He is dumb,
Dumb in His silent sculptured agony—
Dead! dead!’

I would have fallen with a shriek,
But suddenly across my aching eyes
There shot a bloodshot light as of some fire
Amid the waste. I stood, and strain'd my gaze
Into the darkness. Steady as a star
The glimmer grew, shining from far away

With slant moist beams on the black walls of rain.

Lured by the lonely ray I struggled on,
Faint, stumbling, soaking, panting, overpower'd,
But brighter as I went the glimmer grew,
And soon I saw it from the casement came
Of a dark dwelling on the weary waste.
Forlorn the dwelling stood, and on its roof
The rain smote with a cheerless leaden sound,
And in the front of it, on creaking chains,
There swung a sign. Then did my beart upleap,
Rejoicing once again in hope to feel
The touch of human hands, to hear the sound
Of human voices; and I cried aloud,
‘Thank God at least for this lone hostelry,
But for its friendly help I should have died.’

So saying, I knock'd, and as I knock'd I heard,
Faint, far within, a sound of revelry
From distant rooms; but still the cruel rain
Smote on me, and above my head the sign
Moan'd like a corse in chains. I knock'd again
More clamorously, striking with my staff—
And soon I heard the shuffling of slow feet
Approaching. Hearing this, I knock'd the more,
And then, with creak and groan of locks and keys,
The door swung open, and before mine eyes
Loom'd a great lobby in the midst of which
A marble-featured serving-maiden stood,
Sleepy, half yawning, holding in her hand
A dismal light. Bloodless her cheeks and cold,
Her hair a golden white, her eyes dead blue,
Her stature tall, and thin her shrunken limbs
And chilly hands. ‘Welcome!’ she murmur'd low,
Not marking me she welcomed but with eyes
All vacant staring out into the night.
‘Who keeps this house?’ I question'd, rushing in,
And as she closed and lock'd the oaken door
The maiden answer'd with a far-off look,
Like one that speaks with ghosts, ‘My master, sir,
Host Moth; and we are full of company
This night, and all the seasons of the year.’

Even then, along the lobby shuffling came
The lean and faded keeper of the inn,
A wight not old, but rheumatic and lame,
With wrinkled parchment skin, and jetblack eyes
Full of shrewd greed and knowledge of the world;
And in a voice of harsh and sombre cheer
He croak'd ‘Despair, show in the gentleman—
Methinks another Pilgrim from the City?
Thy servant, sir! Alack, how wet thou art!—
No night for man or beast to be abroad.
Ho there! more faggots in the supperroom,
The gentleman is cold; but charily, wench,
No waste, no waste, for firewood groweth dear,
And these be pinching times.’

So saying, he rubb'd
His feeble hands together, chuckling low
A sordid welcome, while a shudder ran,
Half pain, half pity, through my chilly veins,
To see the lean old body clad in rags—
A dreary host, methought; and as I thought,
I glanced around me on the great dark walls
All hung with worm-eat tapestry that stirr'd
In the chill airs that crept about the house;
For through great crannies in the old inn's walls
Came wind and wet, and oftentimes the place
Shook with the blast.

‘How callest thou thine inn?’
I ask'd, still shaking off the clammy rain
And stamping on the chilly paven floor—
‘Methinks 'tis very ancient?’

‘Yea, indeed,’
Answer'd that lean and grim anatomy;
‘None older in the land—an ancient house,
Good sir, from immemorial time an inn.
Thou sawest the sign—a skull enwrought with roses,

And wrought into a wine-cup ruby rimm'd?
My father's father's father set it there.’

THE PILGRIM.
Thou seemest full of guests. Thine inn must thrive.

HOST.
Thrive? yea, with thrift! We lie too far away,
Too lone i' the waste, for many travellers;
And they who come, good lack, are mostly poor,
Penniless men with burthens on their backs
And little in their pouches, save us all!
Once on a time, in my good grandsire's day,
The house throve well, and at that very door
King Cruel and full many a mighty man
Lighted, a-hunting here upon the waste.
But now the house decays. Alack, alack!
Sometimes methinks 'twill fall about mine ears.
What then? I have no kin to leave it to,
And if it lasts my little lapse of time
Why, I shall be content!

Thus murmur'd he,
Ushering into a mighty bed-chamber
His shivering guest; and on the hearth thereof
The marble maid strew'd firewood down and sought
To light a fire, but all the wood was wet,
And with her cold thin lips she blew the flame
To make it glow, while mine host chatter'd on.

‘This, master, is the only empty room—
Kept mostly for great guests, but since the house
Is full, 'tis thine. Upon that very bed
King Cruel himself hath slept, and good Priest Guile
Before they made him Pope. I'll leave thee, sir.
When thou art ready thou shalt sup below
In pleasant company.’

Then methought within
That antique room I stood alone and dried
My raiment at the faint and flickering fire;
And in the chill blue candlelight the room
Loom'd with vast shadows of the lonely bed,
The heavy hangings, and dim tapestries;
And there were painted pictures on the walls,
Old portraits, faint and scarce distinguishable
With very age—of monarchs in their crowns,
Imperial victors filleted with bay,
And pallid queens. ‘A melancholy place,’
I murmur'd; ‘yet 'tis better than the storm
That wails without!’

Down through that house forlorn
I wended, till I reach'd a festal room,
Oak-panel'd, lighted with a pleasant fire,
And therewithin a supper-table spread
With bakemeats cold, chill cates, and weak wan wines.
There, waited on by that pale handmaiden,
I supp'd amid a silent company
Of travellers, for no man spake a word.
But when the board was clear'd and drinks were served,
Around the faggot fire all drew their seats;
And stealing in, a tankard in his hand,
The host made one, and fondled his thin knees.
And now I had leisure calmly to survey
My still companions looming like to ghosts
In the red firelight of the lonely inn.

They seem'd of every clime beneath the sun,
And clad in every garb, but all, it seem'd,
Were melancholy men, and some in sooth
Were less than shadows, houseless and forlorn;
And in the eyes of most was dim desire
And dumb despair; and upon one another
They scarcely gazed, but in the dreary fire
Look'd seeking faces. For a time their hearts,
In the dim silence of that dreary room,
Tick'd audibly, like a company of clocks,
But soon the host upspake, and sought to spread
A feeble cheer.

‘Come, gentlemen, be merry
More faggots—strew them on the hearth, Despair!
All here are friends and Pilgrims; let's be merry!’
And turning round to one who by his dress

And grizzled beard did seem a travelling Jew,
He added, ‘Master Isaac, thou art dull!
What cheer i' the town to-day? How thriveth trade?’

‘Ill, master,’ answer'd, with his heavy eyes
Still on the fire, the Jew itinerant:
‘The accursed of Canaan in the temples reign,
And he who by the God of Judah swears
Hath little thrift. I saw a merry sight:
Another Pilgrim stoned for following
The dream their Master, the dead Nazarene,
Preach'd for a sign. Could he not hold his peace,
And smile, as I do, spitting o'er my head
In secret, for a curse upon the place?’

Even as he spake I started, listening,
As if I heard the sound of mine own name,
But ere my lips could speak, another voice
Came from the circle, shrill and petulant:

‘I saw the sight, and laugh'd with aching sides.
They would have let an atheist pass in peace,
But him they stoned. Poor fool! he went in rags,
Seeking the moonshine City those same priests
Preach, laughing in their sleeves.’

A dreary laugh
Ran through the circle as he spoke, but none
Lifted his vacant vision from the fire.
Then I, now glancing at the speaker's face,
Cold, calm, and bitter, lighted with a sneer,
Answer'd—

‘I am that man of whom you speak—
What moves thy mirth?’

‘Thy folly,’ grimly said
The other; and the circle laugh'd again.
But with a cunning and insidious smile
The Jew cried, interposing, ‘Softly, friends!
Be civil to the gentleman, who is
A rebel like yourselves, hating as much
Those cruel scarecrows of authority.’
Then, turning with a crafty look to me,
He added quietly—‘Thy pardon, sir!
A Pilgrim unto Dreamland, I perceive?’
Whereat I answer'd, frowning sullenly—
‘Nay, to the tomb! And as I live, meseems,
In this lone hostel's black sarcophagus,
I reach my journey's end, and stand amid
My fellow corpses!’

As I spake the word,
There started up out of that company
A youth with wild large eyes and hair like straw,
Lean as some creature from the sepulchre,
The firelight flashing on his hueless cheeks,
Waving his arms above his head, and crying,

‘A tomb! it is a tomb, and we the dust
Cast down within it—dead! for on our orbs
Falleth no sunlight and no gentle dew,
Nor any baptism shed by Christ or God,
The Phantoms that we follow'd once in quest!
To-day is as to-morrow, and we reck
No touch of Time, but moulder, coffin'd close,
Far from the wholesome stars!’—and as the maid
Pass'd coldly, on her ghastly face he fix'd
His wild, lack-lustre eye: ‘Fill, fill, sweet wench;
Let the ghosts sit upon their graves and drink;
And come thou close and sit upon my knee,
That I may kiss thy clammy lips and smooth
Thy chilly golden hair!’

He sank again,
Fixing his eyes anew upon the fire,
Whilst the Jew whisper'd softly in mine ears:
‘'Tis Master Deadheart, the mad poet, sir;
Heed not his raving! Once upon a time
He was a Pilgrim like thyself, but now
He dwelleth in the middle of the waste,
Within a dismal castle, ivy-hung
And haunted by the owls.’

But I replied,
‘There's method in his madness. Unto him
God is not, therefore he is surely dead,
And as he saith, a corpse, for God is Life.’

Then spake again he who had laugh'd before

At my dark plight, between his firm-set teeth
Hissing the words and smiling:

‘Who is this
That prates of God? Another Phantom-hunter!
Another Pilgrim after the All Good,
Who sees not all is evil, even the goad
Of selfish hope that pricks him feebly on?’

The tone was gentler than the words, and spake
Pity supreme and sorrow infinite,
Wherefore not angrily did I reply:
‘I love to know their names with whom I speak,
First tell me thine, and I may answer thee?’

‘Why not!’ replied the other quietly;
‘Our host doth know my name as that of one
That plainly saith his say and pays his score.
My name is Wormwood, and hard by this place
I keep a school for Pilgrims not too old
To learn of me!’

THE PILGRIM.
Come, school me if thou wilt!
Thou sayest that all is evil—prove thy saying.

WORMWOOD.
Why should I prove what thine own simple heart
Is chiming? Prove the sound of funeral bells,
The trump of wars, the moans of martyrdom!
Man, like the beast, is evil utterly,
And man is highest of all things that be.

THE PILGRIM.
Man highest? Aye, of creatures, if thou wilt,
And I will grant he hath an evil heart;
But higher far than Man is very God.

WORMWOOD.
How? Is the Phantom greater than the Fact?
The Shadow than the Substance casting it?

THE PILGRIM.
Not so; and therefore God is more than Man.

WORMWOOD.
Wrong at the catch—for Man is more than God;
For out of Man, the creature of Man's heart,
Colossal image of Man's entity,
Comes God; and therefore, friend, thou followest
Thine own dark shadow which thou deem'st divine,
And since Man's heart is evil (as indeed
Thou hast admitted now in fair round speech),
Evil is God whom thou imaginest!

The speaker laugh'd, and of that company
Many laugh'd too, and I was answering him,
When suddenly a hollow voice exclaim'd,
‘A song! a song!’ and rising from his seat
With flashing eyes the maniac Poet sang:

I have sought Thee, and not found Thee,
I have woo'd Thee, and not won Thee—
Wrap Thy gloomy veil around Thee,
Keep Thy starry mantle on Thee—
I am chamber'd far below Thee,
And I seek no more to know Thee.

Of my lips are made red blossoms;
Of my hair long grass is woven;
From the soft soil of my bosoms
Springeth myrrh; my heart is cloven,
And enrooted there, close clinging,
Is a blood-red poppy springing.

There is nothing of me wasted,
Of my blood sweet dews are fashion'd,
All is mixed and manifested
In a mystery unimpassion'd.
I am lost and faded wholly,
Save these eyes, that now close slowly.

And these eyes, though darkly glazing,
With the spirit that looks through them,
Both before and after gazing
While the misty rains bedew them,
From the sod still yearn full faintly
For Thy shining soft and saintly.

They are closing, they are shading,
With the seeing they inherit—
But Thou fadest with their fading,
Thou art changing, mighty Spirit—
And the end of their soft passion
Is Thine own annihilation!

All join'd the wild refrain, till with the sound
The old inn shook. ‘Well sung!’ exclaim'd mine host,
And stirr'd the feeble embers of the fire;
And in the calm that follow'd, turning to me,
The Jew smiled quietly and spake again:—

‘Good friend, since life is short, and man's heart evil,
And death so near at every path we tread,
Is it not best to clutch the goods we have,
To trade, to barter, and to keep with thrift,
Than to go wandering into mystic lands
Seeking the City that can ne'er be seen?
Put out of sight that bleeding Nazarene
Whose shadow haunts our highways every-where,
And, faith, the land we dwell in is a land
Gracious and green and pleasant to the eye.
Jew am I, but apostate from the God
Who thunder'd upon Sinai, and indeed
I love no form of thunder, but affect
Calm dealings and smooth greetings with the world.
For this is sure—that we are evil all,
Earth-tainted, man and woman, beast and bird,
We prey on one another, high and low;
And if we cheat ourselves with phantasies,
We miss the little thrift of time we have
And perish ere our prime.’

‘Most excellent,’
Cried Wormwood; ‘carpe diem—eat and live—
To-morrow thou shalt die;’ and suddenly
He rose and sang a would-be merry tune:

Pour, Proserpine, thy purple wine
Into this crystal cup,
And wreathe my head with poppies red,
While thus I drink it up.
Then, marble bride, sit by my side,
With large eyes fixed in sorrow,
To-night we'll feast, and on thy breast
I'll place my head to-morrow.

Pale Proserpine, short space is mine
To taste the happy hours,
For thou hast spread my quiet bed,
And strewn it deep in flowers.
O grant me grace a little space,
And shroud that face of sorrow,
Till dawn of day I will be gay,
For I'll be thine to-morrow.

Am I not thine, pale Proserpine,
My bride with hair of jet?
Our bridal night is taking flight,
But we'll not slumber yet;
Pour on, pour deep! before I sleep
One hour of mirth I'll borrow—
Upon thy breast, in haggard rest,
I'll place my head to-morrow.

He ceased, and stillness on the circle came,
Like silence after thunder, and again
All gazed with dreary eyeballs on the fire.
But now the chill and rainy dawn crept in
And lighted all those faces with its beam.
‘To bed!’ cried one, and shivering I arose,
And through great lobbies colder than the tomb,
And up great carven stairs with curtains hung,
I follow'd that pale handmaiden, who bare
A chilly wind-blown lamp, until again
I stood within the antique bedchamber,
And setting down the light the maiden fix'd
Her stony eyes on mine and said ‘Good-night;’
Then with no sound of footsteps flitted off,
And left me all alone.

Long time I paced
The dreary chamber, haunted by the sound
Of mine own footfalls, then I laid me down,
Not praying unto God as theretofore,
In the great bed, and by my bedside set
The rushlight burning low; and all around
The pallid pictures on the mouldering walls
Look'd at me silcntly and seem'd to smile,
While quietly the great bed's canopy
Outstretch'd in rustling folds above my head.
But as my senses faded one by one
I seem'd to see those pallid Kings and Queens
Descend and flit across the oaken floor
With marble faces and blue rayless eyes;
And that dark canopy above became
A Christ upon His Cross, outstretching arms
And bending down to look into my face
With eyes of dumb, dead, infinite despair.

BOOK VIII. THE OUTCAST, ESAU.

O dreary dawn! from drearier dreams I woke,
And found it gently creeping through the pane
And shedding dusky silver on the floor;
Whereon I rose, and slipping down the stairs,
From chilly gallery to gallery
I stole until I reach'd the ghostly hall;
Yet, early as it was, Host Moth was up
And shivering in his slippers at the door,
For folk were bearing in upon a bier
A ragged woman and her newborn child,
Both dead, found frozen on the waste hard by,
And the lean host was chiding querulously,
Bidding them take their ghastly load elsewhere,
Nor mar his custom with a sight so sad;—
So intent was he, he scarcely seem'd to heed
My greeting, but he clutch'd with eager hand
The reckoning I tost him as I passed.

Then out again upon the dreary waste
I passed slow-footed, while a chilly wind
Blew up along the black horizon line
Dusk streaks of crimson like dead burnish'd leaves,
And through their fluttering folds a gusty film
Sparkled and melted into crystal dew.
Then I was 'ware that straight across the waste
There ran a dreary and an open way,
With gloomy reaches of the sunless moor,
And lonely tarns alive with ominous light,
Stretching on either side; and by the tarns
The bittern boom'd and the gray nighthern cried,
And high in air against the dreary gleam
A string of black swans waver'd to the south;
But presently, as the dull daylight grew,
I encounter'd men and women on the road
Coming and going; all were closely wrapt,
With eyes that sought the ground, but some strode by
With frowning brows and haggard sleepless eyes:
A melancholy race they seem'd indeed
Of toilers on the moorland and the marsh.
One I accosted, a tall, woeful man,
Gaunt, clad in rags, and shivering in the cold,
And question'd of the City and whither led
That dreary open way; and for a space
He answer'd not, but as a dumb man tries
With foam-froth'd tongue to gather shreds of speech,
Stood muttering, with his blank eyes gazing at me
In wonder, but at last he found a voice.

THE MAN.
A City, master? Nay, I know of none,
And in this country I was born and bred.

THE PILGRIM.
But whither runs this road across the waste?

THE MAN.
Far as a man may walk until he drops,
And farther, league on league of loneliness.
It leadeth—whither I know not, since my toil
Keepeth me busy here upon the heath;
But yonder to the right a rugged path
Winds to the mountains, where, I have heard, there dwells
A race of moonstruck madmen, mountaineers.

THE PILGRIM.
Alas! and toilest thou upon the ground,
Nor seekest to be wandering far away,
Upward and heavenward to the radiant place
Where stands the City of God?

THE MAN.
I know not God,
Nor any City of so strange a name;
Yet I have often heard my granddam tell
(When I was but a child) of some bright place
Where folk might cease their weary work and rest;
But, master, she died mad! My father saith,
Who reared me up and made me toil for bread,
That they are mad folk too who pass this way,
Clad like thyself in pilgrim's robes and shoon

Seeking that City and calling out on God.

I left him standing like a marble man,
With humbled head and heavily hanging brow,
And wander'd on; and when my weary feet
Had gone a little space, I backward gazed,
And saw him gazing dumbly after me
With vacant eyeballs; and the daylight grew;
And many others pass'd with looks as dull,
Faces as blank, and tread as sorrowful,
And all seem'd little cheer'd by the dim dawn,
But crawl'd to some dark taskwork on the waste;
But some that pass'd on horseback carried loads
Of corn and gold, as to some dreary mart.

Deep darkness seal'd mine eyelids for a time,
And when they open'd, opening still in dream,
Amid mysterious shadows drifting by
Confused and imageless, methought my form
Now shone deep hidden, like a stormy moon;
And fast I seem'd to fly, as seems the moon
Through the swift tempest-rack to plough her way,
Yet stirs not, but beholds the vaporous drift
Floating and flying round her luminous feet.
Nor could my troubled eyes distinguish well
What land I walk'd in, or to what far bourne
My slow feet fared, though dimly I discern'd
A weary waste it was without a road,
Figure of man, or sign of any star.

Meseem'd that weary years had pass'd away
Since first upon that lonely waste I fared,
For ever struggling, yet for evermore
As stationary as the storm-vex'd moon;
And endless seem'd the heavy space of time.
At last, as in the growing light of day
The night-clouds thin, and in white wreaths of smoke,
Soon kindled into crimson, float away,
The shadows that across me darkly stream'd
Grew fainter, melted, brighten'd, and dissolved,
Till every shade was fled, the prospect clear,
And once again I paused upon the path,
Standing and gazing round me, solitary,
'Mid dusky gleams of dawn.

Now, far away
I saw the flashing of Christopolis
Bright and remote as is a phantom city
Seen in the sunset, and as sunset towers
Crumble to golden vapour and are lost
Strangely and quickly of their own bright will,
So flash'd the holy City's walls and spires
Dissolved by distance. 'Tween Christopolis
And my now lingering feet stretch'd waste on waste,
Weary, forlorn, abandon'd, without bound,
With never wood or gentle cynosure,
Or flash of silver stream, or human dwelling,
To break its infinite monotony.
There had I linger'd, thence my feet had fared,
I knew not how; for all the way was dark
Behind me, dim the sense and memory,
And dimly sad; and all my wandering thither
Was like an evil ill-remember'd dream;
Nor yet of that forlornest solitude
My feet were free, for round about me still
Its dreary prospect dawn'd.

While thus I stood
Dejected, leaning heavy on my staff,
I faintly heard, far off across the heath,
The sound of horse's hoofs, which ever came
Nearer and nearer; till mine eyes beheld
Approaching, swift as any storm-swept cloud,
A horseman with his wild hair backward streaming,
His hands outreaching o'er his horse's mane;
Quickly he came, and from the ground beneath
Shot sparks of fire, for mighty was his steed
Beyond all common steeds that stride the earth,
Maned like a comet, and as black as clouds
That blot a comet's path;
And though its back was bare and 'tween its teeth
It bare no bit, most tamely it obey'd
The white hand twisted in its trembling mane;
And ever with its bright eye backward flashing
Neigh'd to the murmur of its rider's mouth,

And ever sprang more swiftly on and on
The more his hand caress'd. Onward it came;
And now I saw that he who strode the steed
Was slight and white and woman-like of form,
Though on his pallid cheek there burn'd resolve
Of mighty men; and his blue eye was fix'd
On vacancy, so that he noted not
The figure of the Pilgrim on his way;
And he was flashing past with fair face set
Like any star, when with one mighty bound
The steed leapt back, its nostrils flashing fire,
And striking up the sward with horny hoofs
Stood quivering. Starting from his trance, like one
Shaken from quiet sleep, the rider turn'd
His face on mine, and, lo, that face was stern
In pallor, and his dove-like eye became
Keen as an eagle's fix'd upon its prey.
‘What man art thou?’ he question'd; and I said,
Dejected, sick from very weariness,
Scarce lifting up my head, ‘See for thyself!
A pilgrim well-nigh spent!’

The horseman's face
Grew brighter, though he laugh'd a bitter laugh,
Then leaping from his seat but holding still
His black steed's mane, quickly across the ground
He pass'd, and coming close he gazed for long
Into my face; then lightly laugh'd again,
Saying, ‘Well met! Methinks I know thee now,
Or else thy dreary cheek belies thy soul—
Thou comest from Christopolis! How now?
Hast thou been stoned i' the town, and have thy robes
Been rent, and thou cast forth beyond the gate?
Answer, and fear not! I who question thus
Am outcast like thyself.’

Then did I tell,
In hurried accents panting out my pain,
My hope, my dream, my weary life-long quest,
And all my sorrow in Christopolis;
And how for many days and nights my feet
Had struggled in the darkness of the waste;
And how my light was lost, my strength nigh spent,
My path all solitary; yea, how no Christ
Could bring me comfort, and no God at all
Could bring me peace—‘Because,’ I murmur'd low,
‘My heart is dead!’

Again that stranger laugh'd,
And, answering him, the jet-black steed threw up
His head and through great nostrils neigh'd aloud.
Then cried he, ‘Toiler on the ground, too low
Thou crawlest, even as a creeping thing.
But knowest thou me?’ Whereon I answer'd, ‘Nay,’
And looking up more eagerly, beheld
The light of starry eyes that shook with dew
Of their exceeding lustre, wondrously.

Then the clear voice, in accents sweet as song,
Cried, ‘Christ they crucified, and thee they stoned,
And me they would have given to the fire—
Esau am I, call'd even after him
Whom smooth sly Jacob of his birthright robb'd
In times of old. Another Jacob sits
In the high places of Christopolis,
Eating my substance. Long ago I rode
Into their Temples, overcasting them
Who at the bloody altars minister'd;
And in their market-places I proclaim'd
Their god an idol and their creed a lie;
And in the madness of mine own despair
Wassail I held, with lemans at my side,
In the dark centre of their midmost shrine,
And there they found me and shrieking “Anti-Christ!”
They would have slain me, but my steed was nigh,
And on his back I sprang with laugh full shrill,
Trampled their priests as dust beneath my feet,

And through their dark throngs plunged, till once again
On the fair waste I wander'd.’

Then I said,
‘Where dwellest thou?’

‘Where doth the swift wind dwell,
That on the high places and on the low,
Homeless for ever, ever is found and lost?
Even as the wind am I; the lonely woods,
The torrents, the great solitary meres,
Know me, and through their solitude I sail
Even as amid the tempest sails the crane.
All these have voices, crying as I pass
Compassionless, alone; and from their speech
And silent looks I have drunk deeper joy
Than ever in any temple rear'd by hands
The soul of man hath known. Wilt ride with me?
O Pilgrim, wilt thou ride?’

So saying, he sprang
Again upon his mighty sinewy steed,
Which leapt for very joy beneath his weight,
And holding out his white hand eagerly,
He murmur'd, ‘Come!’ Then cried I, hesitating,
‘But whither? Knowest thou that fair City I seek,
Or any place of peace?’

‘Ask not, but come,’
Answer'd that other, while his black steed rear'd
In act to paw the air and bound along—
And ere I knew it I had ta'en the hand,
And leaping on the steed was clinging tight
To that pale horseman, who with wild laugh cried,
‘Away! away!’

As from a tense-strung bow
Whistles the wingèd shaft, or as a star
Shoots into space, the sable steed upleapt
And bounded on; so swift its fiery speed,
That to its rider pale I clung in fear,
While underneath I saw the billowy heath
Rush by me like a boiling whirling tide.
I seem'd as one uplifted high in air,
Sailing through ever-drifting clouds, between
The regions of the flower and of the star,
And for a time my head swam dizzily
And in a trance of speed I closed mine eyes.
Then in mine ears I seem'd to hear the rush
Of many winds, the cry of many streams,
The crash of many clouds; yet evermore
I felt the beating of the horse's hoofs
Beneath me, and its breathing like the sound
Of fire blown from a forge.

At first my soul
Shrunk trembling, but betimes a new desire
Uprose within my heart and in mine eyes
Soon sparkled while they open'd gazing round;
And I beheld with wild ecstatic thrills
New prospects flashing past as dark as dream:
For through a mighty wood of firs and pines
Shapen like harps, wherefrom the rising wind
Drew wails of wild and wondrous melody,
The steed was speeding; and the stars had risen,
Cold-sparkling through the jet-black naked boughs;
And far before us in our headlong track
Great torrents flash'd round gash'd and gaunt ravines;
And higher glimmer'd rocks and crags and peaks,
O'er which, with blood-red beams, 'mid driving clouds
The windy moon was rising.

Once again,
I question'd, looking on the rider's face
Which glimmer'd in the moonlight dim as death,
‘Whither, O whither?’

And the answer came,
Not in cold speech or chilly undertone,
But musically, in a wild strange song,
To which the sobbing of the torrents round,
The moaning of the wind among the pines,
The beating of the horse's thunderous feet,
Kept strange accord.

Winds of the mountain, mingle with my crying,
Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying,
Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo,
Follow, O follow!

Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains,
Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains,
Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding,
Lo, I am riding!

Who now shall name me? Who shall find and bind me?
Daylight before me, and darkness behind me,
E'en as a black crane down the winds of heaven
Fast I am driven.

Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasp'd me, cruelty has crown'd me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her—
Fast speed I thither!

Not 'neath the greenwood, not where roses blossom,
Not on the green vale on a loving bosom,
Not on the sea-sands, not across the billow,
Seek I a pillow!

Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder,
Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander,
Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,
Shrink back and shun me!

Gods, let them follow!—gods, for I defy them!
They call me, mock me; but I gallop by them—
If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,
Let them pursue me!

Faster, O faster! Darker and more dreary
Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—
Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,
Bruise them and break them!

White steed of wonder, with thy feet of thunder,
Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under,—
Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after,
Mock them with laughter.

Who standeth yonder, in white raiment reaching
Down to His bare feet? Who stands there beseeching?
Hark how He crieth, beck'ning with his finger,
‘Linger, O linger!’

Shall a god grieve me? Shall a phantom win me?
Nay—by the wild wind around and o'er and in me—
Be his name Vishnu, Christus, or Apollo—
Let the god follow!

Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasp'd me, cruelty has crown'd me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her —
Fast speed I thither!

And as the singer sang,
Dark hooded creatures, moving through the woods
In black processions, paused and echoed him;
And on their faces fell the livid light,
While to the wind-blown boughs they lifted hands;
And from the torrent's bed a spirit shriek'd
With eldritch cry. Still the black steed plunged on,
And as it went it seem'd that spectral hands
Were stretch'd to tear its rider from his seat,
But laughing low he urged his eager steed,
And from his beauty those frail phantoms fell
Like flakes of cloud blown into gleaming air
By the soft breathing of some patient star.
Then upward, through the desolate ravines,
Past flashing cataracts and torrent pools,
Along dim ledges that in silence lean'd
O'er horrible abysses dimly lit
By mirror'd moons, the horseman held his way,
Until he came unto a lonely sward
As bright and green as verdure softly trod
By elfin feet, which high among the crags
Stretch'd in the moonlight. Like some abbey old
Around whose crumbling walls and buttresses
The ivy frosted white by moonlight twines,
And whose deep floor of deep green grass is rough
With fragments of old shrines and mossy graves,
This lone spot seem'd; for round the stone-strewn grass
The dark crags rose like builded walls and towers
All dark and desolate and ivy twined,
And through the open arches overhead
The moon and stars shone in.

Here from his seat
(While I, too, leapt upon the grassy ground)
Dark Esau lighted, and relinquishing
His grasp upon the mighty horse's mane,
Cried: ‘Feed thy fill!’ and o'er the silvern grass,
Casting a shade gigantic, slowly walk'd

100

The black steed, feeding gently as it went.
‘Behold my Temple!’ upward pointing cried
That pallid wanderer—‘hark how the wind
Intoneth with deep organ-voice amid
These ivied lofts, and see how wondrously
With spectral hand that white moon lifts the Host!
Hither, when I am sick of wandering
Like some dark spirit up and down the earth,
I come by night, and pant my passing prayer
To Him who made the tempest which ere long
Shall gnaw the heartstrings of Christopolis!
Hither the white Christ comes not, nor His priests,
Nor any feet of slaves; and here thy soul
May rest a space and worship at its will
Whatever god thou choosest, or indeed,
May make an idol of its own despair,
And kneeling, pray to that!’

The wild wind wail'd,
The dark clouds drifted even as driving waves
Over the moon, while 'mid the ivied crags
The screech-owl cried. Then said I, shivering,
Yet feeling still my eager heart abeat
With all the ecstasy of that mad ride,
‘Most cheerless is thy Temple!—and its god
Only the god o' the storm!’

‘Cheerless, perchance,’
Answer'd the outcast one, ‘yet not unblest—
For lo! 'tis gentle, and its altar-stones
Cemented are with no poor innocent blood
Drawn from the throat of lambs or lamb-like men;
And from its porches Lazarus is not driven;
And in its inmost shrines the priests of Baal
Are not upheaping gold. Better such cheer,
Though bitter as the bruisèd heart of Love,
Than merry music of a thousand choirs
Drowning the moans of sad humanity;
Than glory of a thousand golden shrines,
Each one of which shuts up within its folds
A thousand hearts still beating and still bleeding!
This is my Temple; and its god, thou sayst,
Is but the Storm-god?—Blessings on that god!
Upon his burning eyes and night-black hair,
His dark breath and the fire around his feet!
For rock'd in his wild arms the soul of man
May find the comfort of divine unrest.
O, who could dwell upon the dreary earth,
Hark to the wretched wailing, and behold
The terror and the anarchy of Nature,
And keep his heart from breaking, did he never
Upleap and rush into the whirl of things,
And like a wild cloud driven up and down
Ease the mad motion of his life in tears?
My Storm-god—hear him cry! my god o' the winds,
List to him, list!—for as he murmureth there
He murmur'd to the wind-blown tribes o' the Jew!—
More holy he than yonder hungry Lamb,
Who, pale and impotent in gentleness,
Sits in His niche complacent and beholds
Those hecatombs of broken hearts which priests,
In blood-red robes adjusted smilingly,
Pile on His altars!’

All erect he stood,
Pale as an angel in the white-heat gleam
Of Heaven's central sun, and from his eyes
Gleam'd light now lovely and now terrible;
And in the cloudy wrack above his head
Answer'd the Storm-god with a clangour of wind
Like far-off thunder.

Silent for a space
I waited, for the words within my heart
Woke awful echoes, but at last I spake,
Saying: ‘Yea, there is wisdom in thy words—
Better to wander up and down the world
All outcast, or in Nature's stormy fanes
To pray in protestation and despair,
Than in Christopolis with priests and slaves
To gnaw the frozen crust of a cold creed
Amid the brazen glory of a lie.
Yet am I weary of much storm, and fain
To rest by quiet waters. Blest be thou,
If thou canst guide me thither.’

101

Passionately
The wanderer laugh'd, brushing with thin white hand
The long hair blown into his burning eyes—
‘By quiet waters? I have search'd the world
And found them not; yea, not from Zion hill,
Nor from the brighter sides of Helicon,
Such waters flow;—and all that I have seen
Are stony to the sight, and to the taste
Most bitter!’

‘Woe is me! If this be so,
Where shall we rest our feet?’

‘Rest not at all,’
He answer'd. ‘Doth the cloud rest, or the stream,
Or sun, or star, or any shape that moves
Still onward, by its dim will piloted,
As solitary as the soul of man?
Be thou a meteor blown from place to place,
Still testifying up and down the earth
Against the power that made thee miserable;
Then die! soul-sure thou hast not lived in vain,
If with thy hand ere dying thou hast smitten
Some hateful Altar down!’

Then did I cry,
In darkness and in agony and despair:
‘O misery! Is there no light at all
To guide my footsteps on? What country lies
Beyond these hills?’

Answer'd the Wanderer:
‘A land of Shepherds—in the vales beyond
The flocks of Faunus feed.—Why, how thy face
Is shining!’

THE PILGRIM.
Lead me thither—very sweet
The name is, and methinks the land is fair.
A shepherd there 'mong shepherds I will hear
The brook flow, see the sheep upon the heights
Trickling like silvern streams;—and, if I can,
Forget mine own mad quest.

ESAU.
Mount, if thou wilt,
And I will lead thee thither; but remember
They knee strange gods.

THE PILGRIM.
Strange gods?

ESAU.
Yea, strange and dead.
Still bleeding, with a dove upon his lips,
Down its bright streams the slain Adonis floats;
'Mid its deep umbrage Faunus lies his length
Strewn by the robin redbreast and the wren
With gentle leaves; and in some dumb, dark mere,
With all the lustrous ooze about his hair,
Lies drownèd Pan!

THE PILGRIM.
Sweet gods! I know them well.
Surely the land wherein they sleep is blest,
A land of peace; surely thy stormy soul
Might there have found its place of rest?

ESAU.

The dead
Shall never have my worship! Fair indeed
The land is, and amid its woods and vales
A space I wander'd, till its flowery breath,
Rich as the breathing of a summer rose,
Oppress'd my soul to swooning. So again
I rode into the tempest of the world!
Better to be the weariest-wingèd cloud
That to and fro about the shoreless heaven
Flieth without a spot to rest its feet;
Better to be the weariest wave that breaks
Moaning and dying on Thought's shoreless sea,
Than the supremest blossom born i' the wood
And like a snow-flake shed upon the ground!
Oh, I have rested in a hundred bowers,
And should have dream'd to death a thousand times,
But that the clarion of mine own despair
Found me and woke me. For this head of mine
Earth finds no pillow!—I have cradled it
On breasts of women warm with wildest love,
And sighing low, ‘Here is my heaven at last,’
I have sunken down into delicious sleep;
But lo! the very billowing of those breasts,
The very come-and-go of Love's own heart,
Hath waken'd me!—with every hot pulse beating

102

I have risen, and, upspringing to my feet,
Heard the far trumpet blowing!

As he spake,
His face flash'd like a star, and, raising hands
To the dark, dripping wrack above his head,
He trembled as a tree in the mad wind
Of his wild words; then whistling to his steed,—
Which came unto him tame as any hound,
With foot that paw'd the ground and eyes of fire,—
He cried: ‘To horse; and onward!’

To his seat
Smiling he leapt, and, hesitating not,
I follow'd, clinging round his slender waist
With eager hands; and swiftly once again
The lonely ride began.

Meseem'd we rode
For many nights and days, yet day and night
Were strangely mingled, and my senses lost
True count of time. Through desolate ravines,
O'er lonely mountain-peaks, and down the beds
Of vanish'd torrents, our strange pathway lay;
And fleeter than the feet of swift izzards
That twinkle on the Pyrenean crags
Where never man may creep or sheep may crawl,
The feet of that swift steed, from spot to spot,
Moved, never slipping and for ever sure.
Ever above us moan'd the winds and moved
The clouds wind-driven; ever with low voice
Dark Esau sang; and in his songs he named
The death-star and the birth-star and the signs
Of Adam, and of Christ, and Antichrist;
And sometimes of dark woods and waters wild,
And of the snow upon the mountain-tops,
He wove wild runes, and scatter'd them like flowers
Under the trampling footsteps of the storm.

So rode we on and on. At last, meseem'd
The pace grew slower, the steed's fiery breath
More gentle, while upon my face there fell
A warmth like sunlight. Gazing round, I saw
That we were riding down a green hillside,
Flowers and grass were growing underfoot,
The summer sun was shining, and a lark
Uprose before the horse's very feet,
Singing!

Still slower grew the dark steed's pace,
And now upon the brightening sward his hoofs
Fell soft as fruit that falleth from the bough;
While Esau, ceasing his mad minstrelsy,
Relax'd his hold upon the flowing mane,
And with his chin sunk forward on his breast,
Frown'd darkly, in a dream.

Beneath us lay
A mighty Valley, darken'd everywhere
With woods primæval, whose umbrageous tops
Roll'd with the great wind darkly, like a sea;
And waves of shadow travell'd softly on
Far as the eye could see across the boughs,
And upward came a murmur deep and sweet,
Such as he hears who stands on ocean sands
On some divine, dark day of emerald calm.
And when we rode into the greenness stretch'd
Beneath us, and along the dappled shades
Crept slowly on a carpet mossy and dark,
It seemèd still as if with charmèd lives
We walk'd some wondrous bottom of the Deep.
For pallid flowers and mighty purple weeds,
Such as bestrew the Ocean, round us grew,
Soft stirring as with motions of the ooze;
And far above, the boughs did break like waves
To foam of flowers and sunlight, with a sound
Solemn, afar off, faint as in a dream!

Now ever lull'd by that deep melody,
Dark Esau held his chin upon his breast,
And gazing neither right nor left, rode on
With deeper frown. So stole we slowly on
Through that green shade.

Suddenly on our ears

103

There came a sound of sylvan melody,
Deep, like the lover's lute; and 'mid that sound
A voice rose clear and sparkling as a fountain
Upleaping from some nest of greenery.
Dark Esau raised his head, and his twain eyes
Grew luminous as any serpent's orbs,
Watching a space of sunlight bright as gold
Which open'd through the boughs before his path.
And soon meseem'd into that sunny space
Slowly he rode, and dazzled in the gleam,
Stood glorified and shading both his brows;
And there, beside the sparkle of a stream,
I saw a Shepherd and a Shepherdess
Sit smiling; and upon a shepherd's pipe
The wight play'd soft and low, while loud and clear,
Sitting and clasping hands around her knees,
And gazing at the glimmer overhead,
The Maiden sang!

Dark were the Shepherd's locks,
Threaded with silvern grey, and on his face
A brownness as of ripen'd fruitage lay;
And though the fever of his youth was past,
His black eyes flash'd with some deep inner fire
Wherein his heart was burning. O'er his brow
A fillet green he wore; around his form
A mantle azure as the open heaven,
And wrought with lilies like to heavenly stars;
Dark shoon upon his feet, and by his side
There lay a gentle crook Arcadian.
Him did I quickliest mark, and whisper'd low:
‘What wight is he that plays?’—and Esau said,
Now smiling darkly and in mockery:
‘Thyrsis, the shepherd of the flocks of Faun;
He saw Diana pass one summer night
In all the wonder of her nakedness.
He was a boy then, but his hair that hour
Was silver'd; since that hour he hath not smiled,
But on his cheek the wonder of that sight
Still flashes flame!’ He added, while his eye
Kindled to feverish rapture: ‘Turn thine eyes
On her who sings beside him in the sun!
Was ever hamadryad half so fair?
He found her even like any fallen flower
In the warm heart o' the wood one summer night,
And wanton spirits whisper'd in his ear
That she was Dian's child. He took the babe,
And rear'd her as his own; and there she sits
Fairer than Dian's self!’

Fairer, indeed,
Than any woman of a woman born
Was that strange Shepherdess. Her face was bright
As sunlight, but her lips were poppy-red,
And o'er her brows and alabaster limbs
The lilies and the roses interblent
In that full glory. Raven-black her hair,
And black her brows o'er azure eyes that swam
With passionate and never-ceasing fires
Deep hidden 'neath her snows; most brilliantly
They burnt, but with no trembling, fitful light,
Nay, rather, steady as two vestal stars;
And though their flame was passionately bright,
Soul-'trancing, soul-consuming, yet it seem'd
Most virginal and sweetly terrible,
Chaste with the splendour of an appetite
That never could be fed on food of earth,
Or stoop to quench its chastity with less
Than perfect godhead.

As the steed drew near,
She ceased her song, and fix'd on Esau's face
Her melting eyes; and paler than the dead
He turn'd, his lips like ashes, and his hand
Held heavily on his heart. She did not stir,
Nor smile, nor did her shining features change;
But quietly the elder Shepherd rose
And stood erect, but leaning on his crook
In silence, while dark Esau, with a smile,
Grim as the smile upon a corpse's face,
Forced from his heart a hollow laugh, and cried:
‘Ho, Thyrsis! see, what guest I bring to thee!

104

Another Pilgrim sick of Christ and God,
And eager for the clammy kiss of Earth—
Aye, or content, if thou wilt have it so,
To sleep on Dian's breast!’

The Shepherd raised
His hand in deprecation, answering low:
‘Blaspheme not, Esau! she thou names is
Too holy for thy lips!’—then courteously
Turning to me, who now upon the grass
Had leapt with eager feet, he bow'd his head,
Saying, ‘Be welcome! May thy soul find rest
In these green shades!’

But Esau, with his eyes
Still fix'd upon the maiden feverishly,
Echoed him: ‘Rest! God help him! Rest with thee?’
‘Why not?’ the Shepherd said, not angrily,
But softly as the rippling runlet falls.
The other answer'd not, but laugh'd aloud,
And pointed with his fingers mockingly
At the pale Maiden, who unto her feet
Rose like a spirit, shining, with no sound.

Then Esau cried, with quick laugh like a shriek,
‘Away!’—and as the laughter left his lips,
The steed sprang on across the golden glade
And plunged into the umbrage suddenly;
But ere it faded Esau's pallid face
Cast one last look behind on her who shone
Still as a star.

Then did my soul
Marvel in sooth to hear the names of gods
Falling so simply from the Shepherd's tongue;—
For reverently, with lowly-lidded eyne,
The Shepherd spake, and reverently his child
Gazed upward, like to one who seeth afar
The dewy star-point of an angel's wing.
Wherefore I murmur'd, half to those who heard,
Half to myself: ‘Gods!—but the gods are dead!’
And Thyrsis answer'd: ‘As the pallid Christ,
Swathen in burial linen icy cold,
Sepulchred deep, and sealèd with a stone,
Yet walking from His grave, and withering
The grass of centuries with feet of fire,
As He is dead, so they! If He abides,
They are not lost!—and though the eye of Faith
Hath grown too dim to trace their forms divine,
The gods survive, heirs of their own green realm,
Inheritors of immortality!
For this is fatal:—to be beautiful,
Is to be thrice divine, as Dian is!’
And as he named the blessed name again
His face shone with its pale beatitude.

Softly the Shepherd sigh'd,
And to the questioning look upon my face
Made answer: ‘Dian, give that wanderer peace!
None other, god or goddess, ever can!
I see thou marvellest much at his wild words,
And wilder looks.—Sir, 'tis the old, sad tale.
He loved my child, whom I in reverence
Named Dian, after Dian the divine,
The holy ministress of these dark woods.
He loved her, as full many a wight hath done,
But never upon any man that lives
She smileth, and methinks the good gods will
That she shall die a maid!’

‘But come!’ he cried—‘dwell with us for a space,
And I will guide thee through our woodland realm,
And tell thee of its secrets one by one.
The fever of the world is on thy face,
The wormwood of the Priest is on thy heart;
And here by quiet waters thou shalt brood
On shapes of beauty till thy thought becomes
As beautiful as that it broodeth on.’

He ceased; I answer'd not; my soul was wrapt
In contemplation of the flower-crown'd Maid,
Who turning on me, softly as a star
Opens in heaven, all the dreamful light
Of her still face, stood gazing into mine
With all the wonder of immortal eyes
Tremulous with unutterable desire
That never could be fed. Then, even as one
Under enchantment, spell-bound by that face,
Still gazing on it in a burning awe,
In a low voice I answer'd, ‘I will stay!’

105

BOOK IX. THE GROVES OF FAUN.

Still listening to that stately Eremite,
And gently gazing on the snowy Maid
Who glided on before us golden-hair'd,
We pass'd into a mighty forest grove,
When on mine eager ears there swept a sound
Of birds innumerable on leafy boughs
Singing aloud!—and as we softly trod
The mossy carpet of the broad bright glade,
With trees of ancient growth on either side,
We suddenly beheld a group of forms,
That, clustering before us on the sward,
With large, brown, lustrous eyes fix'd full on ours,
Stood like a startled flock of fallow-deer
Prepared to spring away; yet shaped like men
Were these, though hairy were their limbs, their feet
Cloven like feet of swine, and all their ears,
That large and hairy twinkled in the sun,
Prick'd up to listen. Golden shone the light
Upon them, and their shadows on the sward
Were softly strewn, as thither with quick cry
Hasten'd the Maid; but, ere into their midst
Her feet could spring, they ev'n as startled deer
Leapt, flitted, vanish'd, with a faint, wild cry
Like human laughter on a hill-top heard,
Forlorn and indistinct; but as their shapes
Vanish'd afar, deep down the emerald glade
A thousand sylvan echoes answer'd them,
And from the leaves on either side the way
Innumerable faces flash'd, as fair
As ever wood-nymph wore. Then did I know
Those glades were haunted by the flocks of Faun;
The Satyr dwelt there, and the Sylvan throng,
And in the wood's hot heart the Naïad fill'd
The hollow of her white outstretchèd hand
With drops of summer dew.

And as I went
I gladden'd more; for never groves of earth
Were half so fair as those wherein I trod.
Statues of marble, mystically wrought,
Gleam'd in the open spaces cool and white
As shapes of snow; and here and there were strewn
The ruin'd steps of marble white and red,
Or broken marble columns moss-bestain'd,
That show'd where once a Temple had been raised
To Pan or Faunus, or some lesser god
Of wood or stream; and though those temples fair
Were overthrown, the Spirits unto whom
They had been raised were there, and merry amid
The ruins of the shrine.

‘I know them well,’
I murmur'd, smiling, ‘these enchanted groves,
Where Faunus leads his legions ruminant;
And where Selene, with soft silvern feet,
Walks every summer night; and well I know
They are but conjurations of the sense
Which sees them—shadows, neither less nor more,
Of Nature's primal joy.’

The Shepherd smiled,
And said: ‘The substance, not the shadow. These,
And all such joyous images as these,
Are elemental—weary were the world
Whence they were wholly flown. Once on a time
They peopled the wide earth, and man might mark
At every roadside, and by every door,
Flower-crown'd Priapus, the fair child of Pan,
Close kin to Love and Death; but now they haunt
Only the places of the solitude
Where mortals seldom creep. Seen or unseen,
Known or unknown, they are immortal, part
Of that eternal youth and happiness
Which first created them, and whence they draw
Their brightness and their being.’

Silently
We wander'd on, and now our footsteps fell
In scented shade. From every nook i' the leaves

106

A Spirit peep'd; o'erhead from every bough
A Spirit sang!—and ever and anon,
Out of the flower-enwoven and emerald gloom,
White arms were waved, while voices soft as sleep
Did whisper, ‘Come!’ Calm through the thronging flowers
Whose honey'd sweets were crushed against his lips,
The Shepherd trod. The bright light fell subdued
Upon the snow of his divine grey hair,
And every woodland Spirit that upsprang
To clasp him in her warm and naked arms,
Gazed for a moment in his solemn eyes,
Then like a fountain falling sank in shame
To kiss his feet. The marble Maiden moved
Untouch'd by any of the glittering beams,
Pure as a dewdrop the light gleams upon
Yet cannot drink, while lost in light my soul
Sprang from its sheath of sorrow, and in the sun
Hover'd like any golden butterfly!
I leapt i' the joyful air, I laugh'd aloud,
I stretch'd mine arms to every flashing form,
I kiss'd fair faces fading into flowers,
I drank the sunshine down like golden wine;
And, lastly, sinking on a rainbow'd bank,
O'er-canopied by faces, forms, and eyes,
That changed and changed to radiant fruit and flowers
With every breathing of the summer wind,
I cried, ‘Farewell! Leave me to linger here.
My quest was vain, but oh, these bowers are blest!
I'll roam no further!

‘Rise!’ the old man said;
‘Who linger in these vales of vain delight
Perish betimes; it is thy privilege
To share as doth a master, not a slave,
Fair Nature's primal joy! On every side
See scatter'd those who lie too wholly lost
Ever to rise again.’ And all around,
Across the tangled paths on every side,
I saw indeed that many mortal shapes
Were fallen like o'er-ripe fruit; and many of these
Were clad as if for heavenly pilgrimage,
Yea, arm'd with staff and scrip; but o'er them bent
Women so lustrous and so sweetly pale
They seem'd of marble and moonlight interblent
And yet so bright and warm in nakedness
They seem'd of living flesh. Ah, God, to see
Their syren faces, dead-eyed like the Sphynx,
Yet lustrous-cheek'd, with bright vermilion lips
Like poppy-flowers! Yet sadder still than theirs
The faces that below them on the grass
Flash'd amorous of the very breath they drew!
Pale youths and students Time had snow'd upon;
Gaunt poets, clasping to their cold breast-bones
Their harps of gold; and hunters, clad in green,
Gross-mouth'd and lewd; and kings, that proffer'd crowns
For one cold kiss; and senile agèd men,
Who shook like palsied leaves upon the tree
With every thrill of sylvan melody
That breathed beneath the overhanging boughs.
These things beholding, to my feet I sprang
With piteous cry, and as I gazed around
Low voices from the scented darkness sang,
In slumbrous human tones:—

Kiss, dream, and die!—Love, let thy lips divine
In one long heavenly kiss be seal'd to mine,
While singing low the flower-crown'd Hours steal by—
Thy beauty warms my blood like wondrous wine—
While yet the sun hangs still in yonder sky,
Kiss, dream, and die!

Dream,—while I kiss!—Dream, in these happy bowers,
Thy naked limbs and body strewn with flowers,
Thy being scented thro' with balmy bliss—
Dream, love, of heavenly light and golden showers,
Melting to touch of lips, like this—and this—
Dream, while I kiss!

Kiss, while I dream!—Kiss with thy clinging lips,
With clasp of hands and thrill of finger-tips,
With breasts that heave and fall, with eyes that beam—
Long, lingering, as the wild-bee clings and sips,
Deep, as the rose-branch trail'd in the hot stream,—
Kiss, while I dream!

107

Kiss, dream, and die!—Love, after life comes Death,
No spirit to rapture reawakeneth
When once Love's sun hath sunk in yonder sky—
Cling closer, drink my being, drain my breath,—
Soul answering soul, in one last rapturous sigh,
Kiss, dream, and die!

As the voice ceased,
There flash'd across the haunted forest-path
A flock so strange that even the happy Maid
Stood still, and gazed. A Spirit led the way
Like Bacchus crown'd with grapes and leaves of vine,
And wingèd too like Love; but underneath
The falling tresses of his golden hair
A death's head smiled; on a white steed he rode
Caparison'd with gold; and at his back
The tumult follow'd—Satyrs, Nymphs, and Fauns,
Pale Queens with crowns; dishevell'd naked maids;
Priapus next, the laughing garden-god,
Raining ripe fruit around and leaves of gold;
Then Ethiop dancers, clashing cymbals bright;
And after them, supreme among the rest,
A livid Conqueror like Cæsar's self
With wild beasts chainèd to his chariot-wheels;
Behind him drunken legions blood-bestain'd,
With captives wailing in their midst. These pass'd;
Then, mounted on a jet-black stallion's back,
Herodias, bearing in her naked lap
A hoary, bleeding head; and after her
A troop commingled from all times and climes—
Pale knights in armour, on whose shoulders sat
Nixes or elves; Goths, mighty-limb'd and grim;
Pale monks, with hollow cheeks and lean long hands;
Nuns from the cloister, whose wild, hectic cheeks
Burn'd red as blood between their ghastly bands;
And bringing up the rear a hideous flock
Of idiot children, twisted with disease,
And laughing in a mad and mindless mirth.

And gazing after them with gentle eyes
The old man sigh'd: ‘They follow Death, not Love!—
From every corner of the populous earth
They come to mar that primal happiness
Which is the root of being!’

But I cried,
Raising my hands: ‘Is it not pitiful?
Is it not hateful and most pitiful?
Lo, out of every innocent bower of flowers,
And out of every bed where Love may sleep,
The Shape with “Thanatos” upon its brow
Dreadfully peeps! Why may not Man be glad,
Forgetting death and darkness for an hour?
Is it so evil to be happy? Nay!
Yet the one cup God proffers to his seed
Is wormwood, wormwood!’

As I spake the Maid,
Coming upon a little mossy well,
That fill'd up softly as a dewy eye
And ever look'd at heaven through azure tears,
Stood white as any lamb upon the brink,
And on her dim sweet double down below
Dropt leaves and flowers, and smiled for joy to see
Her image broken into flakes of snow
But ever mingling beautiful again
Whene'er the soft shower ceased. While on her face,
Serene yet masterful in innocence,
I gazed in awe, the old man answer'd me:
‘Ev'n as the Gorgon mother ate her young,
Nature for ever feeds on and consumes
Those creatures who, too frail to quit her breast,
Miss the full height and privilege of Man!
I say again that Man was made supreme,
Radiant and strong, to conquer with a smile
The transports that he shares;
And he by wisdom or by innocence
May conquer if he will;
And surely he who learns to conquer Love
Hath learnt to conquer Death! Behold my child!
See where she stands like marble 'mid the beam

108

That beats so brightly on her sinless brows.
As she is, must thy soul be—if thy soul
Would read our creed aright.’

But I return'd,
Bitterly smiling, ‘She? thine icicle!
Cold to the kiss of Man, what knoweth she
Of love or joy?’

Still as a star her face
Turn'd full upon me, with a beam so sad,
So strange in sorrow and divine despair,
My heart within me shook; and though she had heard
She spake not, but moved onward silently;
And sinking low his voice, and following her,
Her foster-father cried:

‘Is there no joy
But riot? Is there no immortal love
To make eternal hunger sweeter far
Than lustful feasts? O blind and wayward one,
Hadst thou but seen what these sad eyes have seen,
The passionate eternal purity
Walking these shadowy woods with silvern feet!
I bear the lifelong glory in my heart,
And with the splendour of its own despair
My soul is glad!’

I answer'd him again,
Still mocking, ‘Keep thy vision!—she, perchance,
Some night may look on hers!’

‘By night and day,’
Return'd the Shepherd very solemnly,
‘By night and day my child beholdeth him,
And quencheth all the fiery flame o' the sense
Against his image, and is sadly glad.
Perchance ere long thine eyes may see him too,
And kiss his holy feet as she hath done.
But now,’ he added, looking sadly down
On the bright bowers around him, ‘stay not here;
For if thou dost, we twain must part, and thou
Fade back to flower, or dwindle back to beast,
As these thou seest are doing momently.
Come!’ And he held me gently with his hand,
And drew me softly on. Like one that sleeps,
And sleeping seems to totter heavy-eyed
Through woods of poppy and rank hellebore,
Feebly I moved; my head swam; on my lips
Linger'd sour savours as of dregs of wine,
And all my soul with sick and shameful thirst
Woke, as a drunkard after deep debauch
Wakes to the shiver of a glimmering dawn.
In vain ripe fruits were crush'd against my lips,
In vain the branches with their blossom'd arms
Entwined around me; vainly in my face
The naked dryad and the wood-nymph laugh'd.
Past these I drave as fiercely as a ship
Before the beating of a bitter wind,
And crushing fruit and blossom under foot,
Tearing the tangled tracery apart,
I wander'd on for hours. Nor did I pause
Till from that wondrous Grove my feet had pass'd,
And once again in open glades we stood
Under the azure canopy of heaven.

Now I beheld we stood upon the bank
Of a broad river flowing along between
Deep banks of flowering ferns and daffodils—
A gentle river winding far away
Under green trees that hung their laden boughs
And shed their fruits upon it lavishly;
Yet cool the water seem'd, and silvern bright
As any star, and on the boughs above it
Sat doves as white as snow, brooding for joy,—
And by its brim one crane of glittering gold
With bright shade lengthening from the pensive light
Stood, knee-deep in the mosses of the marge.
Slowly my sense grew clear. ‘What place is this?’

109

I murmur'd; ‘Say, what place divine is this—
God's home, or Love's, or Death's!’ but in mine ear
The gentle voice replied, ‘Question no more,
But at the brink stoop down, and bathe thy brows;
And if thou thirstest, drink!’ So on the marge
I stoop'd, and in my hollow'd hand did lift
The waters, scattering them upon my face,
And tasting; and the fever from my frame
Fell like an unclean robe, and stretching arms
I, like a man rejoicing in his strength,
Stood calm and new-baptized. Tall by the lake
The old man tower'd, and I beheld his face
Was shining as an angel's, with new light
Of rapture in his eyes; and by his side
The Maid, with lips apart and eager eyes,
Stood bathed in glory of her golden hair
And the great sunlight that encircled her!

Scarce had I drunk, when I was 'ware of One
Who through the green glades by the river's brim
Walk'd, like a slow star sailing through the clouds
Of twilight; yea, the face of him afar
Shone starlike, and around his coming feet
The moon-dew shone. As white and still he seem'd
As some fair form of marble brought to life
And gliding in the glory of a dream;
But from his frame, at every step he took,
Shot light which never yet from marble gleam'd,
And splendour that was never seen in stone.
For raiment, backward from his shoulders blown,
He wore a scarf diaphanous; round his form
A chlamys of the whitest woof of lambs;
But all uncover'd was his golden hair,
His feet unsandall'd. ‘Who is this that comes?’
Trembling I cried. But suddenly on his knees
The old man fell, with head submissive bent
In gentle adoration. Then, methought:
‘The City of my Dream is close at hand,
And this is He who comes to lead me thither!’
And wonder'd much that while the old man knelt,
The Maid leapt forward with outstretching arms,
And with less fear than hath a yeanling lamb
Feeling its mother on a mead in May,
Thrust out her hand and took his hand who came
And brightening in his brightness led him on
With bird-like cries. Then I perceived her face
Now smiling glorified, and straight I knew
That she was gazing on the lonely love
Of her young soul; that all her maiden dream
Was shining there in substance, fairer far
Than star or flower; that on his face she fed
In palpitating awe, so strange, so deep,
She did not even kiss the holy hand
She held within her own.

‘Who comes? who comes?’
I murmured to the old man once again;
‘A god—the messenger of gods—his name?
He smileth; mine eyes dazzle in the light
Of his bright smiling!’ And the other cried,
Not rising, ‘To thy knees! and veil thine eyes,
Lest the ecstatic ray his presence sheds
Blind thee apace! He hath a thousand names,
All sweet; but in these glades his holiest name
Is Eros!’ ‘Eros!’ rapturously I sighed;
And tottering as one drunken in the sun,
Fell at his feet who came; and the pale Maid,
Upleaping in the brightness, fountain-like,
Cried, ‘Eros! Eros!’ leading Eros on,
While the birds sang and every echo rang.

110

There was a pause, as when in golden June
The heavens, the glassy waters, and the hills
Throb wrapt in mists of heat as in a dream,
So that the humming of the tiniest gnat
Is heard while in the moted ray it swings,—
There was a pause and silence for a space,
But soon the Shepherd, rising reverently,
Cried: ‘Master of these golden groves of Faun,
All hail! Unto thy sacred place I bring
A Pilgrim from the dusty tracts of Time,
A seeker of the secret Beautiful
No ear hath heard; and from the summer bowers,
The gardens, and the glades of vain delight,
Latest he comes, still fever'd from the flush
Of those bright bowers. Him to thy feet I bring,
And if his soul be worthy, thou perchance
Mayst heal his pain!’ He ceased; and on the air
There rose the thrill of the divinest voice
That ever on a starry midnight charm'd
The swooning sense of lovers unto dream,—
A voice divine, and in a tongue divine
It spake,—such Greek, such honey'd liquid Greek
As Psyche heard that night beneath the stars
She threw her rose-hung casement open wide
And stood with lamp uplifted, welcoming
Her love, storm-beaten in his saffron veil.
‘What seeks he?’ ask'd the voice; and lo! I cried,
Uplifting not mine eyes: ‘O gentle God,
Surely I seek that City Beautiful,
From whence thou comest! Dead I fancied thee,
Fallen with that glorious umbrage of dead gods
Which doth bestrew the forest paths of Greece;
And since thou livest, I can seek no guide
More beautiful than thou!’ Whereon again,
Burning like amber in the golden beam,
That nightingale of deities replied,
‘O child of man, can the Immortal die?
To love, is to endure; and lo, I am;
But from that City Beautiful thou namest
I come not, and I cannot guide thy steps
Thither, nor further than mine own fair realm.’
Smiling I answer'd, rising to my feet:
‘If this thy realm is, Spirit Paramount,
Let me abide within it close to thee!
Peace dwelleth here, and Light; and here at last,
As in a crystal mirror, I perceive
The clouds and forms of being stream subdued
Through azure voids of immortality.’

‘Come, then,’ said Eros, smiling beautiful;
‘And for a season I will lead thy feet,
That thou mayst know my secret realm and me!’
And as he spake he waved his shining hand,
And lo, the cluster'd lilies of the stream
Again were parted by invisible airs,
And through the waters came a shallop slight,
Drawn by white swans that cleft the crystal mere
With webbèd feet as soft as oilèd leaves,
And in the shallop's brow a blood-red star
Burnt wondrous, with its image in the mere
Broken 'mid ripples into rubied lines.
Slow to the bank it came, and there it paused,
So slight, so small, it seem'd no mortal shape
Might float upon the crystal mere therein;
And Eros pointed, silent, to the boat,
But I, half turning to my greyhair'd guide,
Question'd with outstretch'd hands and glance of eyes,
‘And thou?’

The Shepherd smiled, with gentle hand
Restraining now the Maid, who, stretching arms,
Would fain have follow'd that diviner Form
On whom her eyes were fasten'd, ring in ring
Enlarging, like the iris-eyes of doves.
‘Farewell!’ he said; ‘further I fare not friend!
For whosoever sails that crystal stream
Must with the golden godhead sail alone.
My path winds homeward, back to the sunny glades
Where first we met. Farewell! a long farewell!
If ever backward through these groves of Faun
Thou comest, seek that Valley where I dwell,
And tell me of thy quest!’

Methought I raised

111

The Maid, and set upon her brow the seal
Of one long kiss; but me she heeded not,
Gazing in fascination deep as Death
On that calm god; then, stooping low, I kiss'd
The Shepherd's hand, and enter'd the bright boat
That on the shallow margin of the river
Did droop the glory of its rubied star
Like some bright water-flower. Beneath my weight
The shallop trembled, but it bare me up;
And slowly through the shallows lily-sown
It moved, pulsating on the throbbing stream
As white and warm as bosoms of the swans
That drew it. In its wake the godhead swam,
Gold crown'd; and from beneath the mere his limbs
Gleam'd, like the flashing of a salmon's sides.

Slowly it seem'd to sail, yet swiftly now
The shore receded, till the Man and Maid
Beyond the mists of brightness disappear'd,
And ever till they faded utterly
Moveless the Maiden's face as any star
Shone tremulous with innocent desire,
And when they vanish'd, from the vanish'd shore
There came a quick and solitary cry
That wither'd on the wind.

Then forth we fared,
Till nought was seen around us or above
But golden glory of the golden Day
Reflected from the bosom of the mere
As from a blinding shield; and, lo! my sense
Grew lost in dizziness and deep delight:
All things I saw as in a dazzling dream,
And drooping o'er them drowsily gazed down
Into the crystal depths whereon I sail'd.
Then was I 'ware that underneath me throbb'd
Strange vistas, dim and wonderful, wherein
The great ghost of the burning sun did shine
Subdued and dim, amid a heaven as blue,
As blue and deep, as that which burnt o'erhead;
And in the under-void like gold-fish gleam'd
Innumerable Spirits of the lake,
Naked, blown hither and thither light as leaves,
With lilies in their hands, their eyes half closed,
Their hair like drifting weeds; thick as the flowers
Above, they floated; near the surface some,
And others far away as films of cloud
In that deep under-heaven; but all their eyes
Were softly upturn'd, as to some strange star,
To him who in the shallop's glittering wake
Swam 'mid the light of his lone loveliness.

Then all grew dim! I closed my heated eyes,
Like one who on a summer hill lies down
Face upward, blinded by the burning blue,
And in my ears there grew a dreamy hum
Of lark-like song. The heaven above my head,
The heaven below my feet, swam swiftly by,
Till clouds and birds and flowers and waterelves
Were blent to one bright flash of rainbow light
Bewildering the sense. And now I swam
By jewell'd islands smother'd deep in flowers
Glassily mirror'd in the golden river;
And from the isles blue-plumaged warblers humm'd
Swinging to boughs of purple, yellow, and green,
Their pendent nests of down; and on the banks,
Dim-shaded by the umbrage and the flowers,
Sat naked fauns who fluted to the swans
On pipes of reeds, while in the purple shallows,
Wading knee-deep, listen'd the golden cranes,
And walking upon floating lotus-leaves
The red jacana scream'd.

Still paramount
Shone Eros, piloting with lily hand
His shallop through the waters wonderful,
And wheresoe'er he went his brightness fell
Celestial, turning all the saffron pools
To crimson and to purple and to gold.
Calm were his eyes and steadfast, with a light
Which in a face of aspect less divine

112

Would have seem'd sad, and on his brows there lay
A golden shadow of celestial thought.

Thus in my dream I saw him floating on,
While with dim eyes of rapture downward turn'd,
I feasted on his beauty silently;
And under him the strange abysses swoon'd
And o'er his head the azure heaven stoop'd down;
And even as a snow-white steed that runs
Pleased with its burthen, merrily hasting on,
The river rambled on from bank to bank,
In curves of splendour winding serpentine.

Betimes it broaden'd into bright lagoons
Sown with innumerable crimson isles;
And merrily on the mossy banks there ran,
Pelting each other with ripe fruits and flowers,
Bright troops of naked nymphs and cupidons
With golden bows; and o'er them in the air
Floated glad butterflies and gleaming doves;
And ever to the rippling of the river
Rose melody of unseen voices, blown
From the serene abysms far beneath;
And other voices answer'd from the isles,
And from the banks, and from the snow-white clouds
That, flowing with the flowing of the stream,
Trembled and changed, like shapes with lilied hands!

Now one green island stretch'd across the stream,
Paven with purple and with emerald,
And walking there, all wondrous in white robes,
Moved troops of virgins singing solemnly
To lutes of amber and to harps of gold.
Among them, resting on a flowery bank,
Sat one like Bacchus, roses in his hair,
His cheeks most pale with summer melancholy,
Fondling a tigress that with sleepy eyes
Nestled her mottled head into his palm.
O'er head an eagle hover'd with his mate,
And rising slow on great wind-winnowing wings
Faded into the sunset, silently.
Now gazing on these wondrous scenes methought:
‘This is enchantment, and these things I see
Only the figures of an antique Joy,
Unreal as shapes in an enchanter's glass
And hollow as a pleasure snatch'd in sleep.’
Suddenly, strangely, answering my thought,
And smiling with a strange excess of light,
Murmur'd that God my Guide: ‘Fly from thy dream,
And it shall last for ever; cherish it,
And it shall wither in thy cherishing!
These things are phantasies and images
As thou and I are imaged phantasies;
But if the primal joy of Earth is real,
And if thou sharest deep that primal joy,
These phantasies are real—not false, but true.’
Then did I cry, ‘If these fair shapes be true,
No dream is false.’ And Eros answer'd me:
‘All things are true save Sin and Sin's despair,
All lovely thoughts abide imperishable,
Though countless generations pass and die!’

The wonder deepen'd. Earth and Heaven seem'd blent
In one still rapture, for their beating hearts
Were prest like breasts of lovers, close together;
And in the love-embrace of Heaven and Earth,
The river, ever-smiling, wound and wound;
And as in beauteous galleries of Art
Picture on picture swooneth past the sense,
Marble with marble mingles mystically,
Till all is one wild rapture of the eyes,
E'en so that pageant on the river's banks
Went drifting by to sound of shawms and songs.
Bright isles with white nymphs cover'd; promontories
Whereon immortal nakednesses lay
Singing aloud and playing on amber lutes;
Vistas of woodland, on whose shaven lawns
The satyrs danced with swift alternate feet,
Came, faded, changed; and ever far below
In the dim under-heaven floated fair
Those Spirits singing; and ever far above

113

Those Spirits slight as flecks of whitest clouds
Still singing floated; and the same still way
The river floated did the heavens move on,
Till all seem'd drawn in a swift drift of dream
To some consummate wonder yet unseen.

And now, the river narrowing once again,
We stole 'neath forest umbrage which o'er-head
Mingled outstretching arms from either bank,
And woven in the green transparent roof
Were glorious creepers like the lian-flower,
And flowers that ran like many-colour'd snakes
Turning and trembling from green bough to bough;
And in the glowing river glass'd with speed
This intertangled golden tracery
Was mirror'd leaf by leaf and flower by flower,
For ever changing and ever flitting past.
Thus gliding, suddenly we floated forth
Upon a broad lagoon as red as blood,
Stainèd with sunset; and no creature stirr'd
Upon or round the water, but on high
A vulture hover'd dwindled to a speck;
And on the shallow marge one silent Shape
Hung like a leafless tree, with hoary head
Dejected o'er the crimson pool beneath;
And no man would have wist that dark Shape lived;—
Till suddenly into the great lagoon
The shallop sail'd, and the white swans that drew it
Were crimson'd, oaring on through crimson pools
And casting purple shadows. Then behold!
That crimson light on him who drave the bark
Fell as the shafts of sunset round a star,
Encircling, touching, but suffusing not
The shining silvern marble of his limbs;
And that dark Shape that brooded o'er the stream
Stirr'd, lifting up a face miraculous
As of some lonely godhead! Cold as stone,
Formlessly fair as some upheaven rock
Behung with weary weeds and mosses dark,
That face was; and the flashing of that face
Was as the breaking of a sad sea-wave,
Desolate, silent, on some lonely shore!

Then Eros as he passed across the pool
Upraised his shining head, and softly named
Three times the name of ‘Pan;’ and that large Shape,
His face upturning sadly to the light,
Reveal'd the peace of two great awful eyes
Made heavenly by the starlight of a smile;
And as he smiled, the stillness of the place
Was broken, and the notes of nightingales
Fell soft as spray of roseleaves on the air,
And once again the waters far beneath
Were peopled, and the clouds moved on again
In their slow drift of dream they knew not whither;
But Eros swiftly pass'd and once again
The brooding godhead, sinking in his place,
Hung large and shadowy like a mighty tree
Above the brightness of that still lagoon.

And now methought that far away there rose
Beautiful mountains stain'd with purple shades
And pinnacled with peaks of glittering ice,
And o'er the frosted crystal of the peaks
The trembling splendour of the lover's star
Shone like a sapphire. Thitherward now crept,
Slowly, in bright and many-colour'd curves
That river, hastening with a living will,
With happy murmurs like a living thing;
And soon it turn'd its soft and flowery steps
Into the bosom of great woods that lay
Under the mountains. Peaceful on its breast
Shadows now fell, while still gnats humm'd, and flowers
Closed up their leaves i' the dew; and thro' the leaves,
With radiance faintly drawn as spiders' webs,
Trembled the twilight of the lover's star.
At last, against a mossy shore, thick strewn
With violets dewy-eyed, the shallop paused,
And Eros, wading to the grassy bank
Under the shadow of the forest trees,
Cried ‘Come!’—and silently I follow'd him
Into the sunless silence of the woods.

114

BOOK X. THE AMPHITHEATRE.

And in my dream, which seem'd no dream at all,
Methought I follow'd my celestial Guide
From path to path, from emerald glade to glade;
And ever as we went, methought the path
Grew with the summer shadows silenter,
While overhead from the great azure folds
Began to stray the peaceful flocks of stars.

Now I perceived before that Spirit's feet
A light like moonlight running, and I heard,
Far away, mystically, in my dream,
The song of deep-embower'd nightingales.
Along the woodland path on either side
There glimmer'd marble hermæ crown'd with flowers,
And 'mid the boughs hung many-colour'd lamps
Like fruit of amber, crimson, purple, and gold.
Last on mine ears there fell a sudden sound
Like shepherds piping or like fountains falling,
A sound that gather'd volume, and became
As music of innumerable harps
And lutes and muffled drums, and therewithal
A heavy distant hum as of a crowd
Of living men together gathering.

Then did I mark that all the forest way
Was thronging unaware with hooded shapes
Who moved in the direction of that sound;
Shadows they seem'd, yet living; and as they went
They to each other spake in quick low tones
And hurried their dark feet as if in haste.
Tall in their midst shone that fair God my Guide,
To whom I whisper'd as we stole along,
‘What Shapes are these?’ and ‘Pilgrims like thyself,’
The Spirit cried; ‘but hush, for we are nigh
The midmost of the Shrine.’ Ev'n as he spake,
Out of the shadow of the woods we stept,
While on our ears the murmur of the crowd
Grew to low thunder, as of waves that wash
Silent, in darkness, up some ocean strand;
And lo! we saw before us thick as waves
Thousands that gather'd in their pilgrims' weeds
Within a mighty Amphitheatre
Hewn in a hollow of the grassy hills,—
And faces like the foam-fleck'd sides of waves,
Before some wind of wonder blowing there,
Flash'd all one way and multitudinous
Far as the eye could see or ears could hear,
Watching a far-off curtain, on whose folds
Two words in fire were written: ‘ΕΠΟΣ. ΑΝΑΓΚΗ.’
More vast that crowded Amphitheatre
Than any hewn in olden time by man,
And round it, and before it, and beyond
That curtain, gather'd crags and monoliths
All rising up to peaks of glittering snow
And in a starry daylight darkening.

Amid that murmur as of sullen seas
Fair Eros moved, and of the shadowy throng
Not one look'd round to gaze, while I and he
Crept to a place, and finding seats of stone
Rested, with eager crowds on either side;
And then I heard a shadow at my back
Murmur some question in an antique speech,
And unto his another voice replied
‘Βροτειος’—then the murmur of that throng
Was changed to quick sounds in the same sweet speech
Spoken as music by my guide divine.
But as I prick'd mine ears to list for more
There came a solemn silence, and behold,
Suddenly, to a sound of lutes and drums,
The curtain dark descended.

Far away,
Upon a sward as green as emerald,
There sat, with wine-gourd lying at his side,
Wild poppies tangled in his hoary hair,
Silenos,—at whose feet a naked nymph
Lay prone with chin propt in her hollow'd hands
Uplooking in his face and reading there
Deep-wrinkled chronicles as soft as sleep;
And overhead among the wild ravines,

115

On patches of green emerald, leapt his goats,
While far above the sunshine swept like wind
Across the darkness of the untrodden peaks.
To the low music of an unseen choir
Silenos smiling spake, and as he spake
The white goats leapt, the soft light stirr'd o'erhead,
The white clouds wander'd through the peaceful blue.
For of much peace he told, of golden fields,
Of shepherds in dim dales Arcadian,
Of gods that gather'd the still stars like sheep
Dawn after dawn to shut them in their folds
And every dawn did loose them once again,
Of vintage and of fruitage, and of Love's
Ripe kisses stolen in the reaping time.
Sweet was his voice, and sweet that mimic scene—
So sweet I could have look'd and heark'd for ever;
And on that sight the throng was hungering,
When suddenly the choral music ceased,
And wearily up the mountains came a wight
Clad like a pilgrim of an antique land.
Tall was he, yet of human height, but there,
Upon that mighty stage, he seemed as small
As pixies be that play in beds of flowers;
And him Silenos greeted, and those twain
Sat on the grassy carpet flower-bestrewn;
And then the stranger told a seaman's tale
Of heroes sailing in their wingèd ships
To flash on Troia like a locust-swarm,
And among those he named his own fair name—
Ulysses.

Not as in the nether world,
Within some bright and lamp-lit theatre,
The drama calmly moves from scene to scene,
And actors speak their measured cadences
And make their exits and their entrances,
Not thus did that colossal spectacle
Flow on; but as a bright kaleidoscope
Is shaken in the hand, and with no will
Trembles, dissolves, in ever-wondrous change,
The scenes upon that mighty stage did fade,
While the deep voices of the unseen choir
Were rising, falling, all within my dream.
So, even as that grey-hair'd Marinere
Spake with Silenos on the mountain side,
All strangely vanish'd; and before our sight,
To martial music blown through tubes of brass
The Grecian phalanx brighten'd, and afar,
Beyond the Grecian tents as white as snow,
The towers of Ilium crumbling like a cloud
Burnt brazen in the sunset. Suddenly
The shining phalanx and the snow-white tents
Shrunk up like leaves, and in their stead the earth
Was strewn with brightness of a thousand flowers
'Mid which a great pavilion lily-white
Bloom'd,—in its centre, seated like a queen,
Helena! Oh, the wonder of that face,
That miracle of lissome loveliness,
That ripe red rose of womanhood supreme!
More fair she seem'd, seen thus from far away,
Than Cytherea rising from the sea
Or seated naked on the lover's star
Strewing the seas beneath her silvern feet
With pearls and emeralds all a summer night!
And from her body and from her breath there came
Waft of rich odours that o'erpower'd the sense,
And all around, strewn thick as fallen leaves,
Were kings and warriors with dishevell'd hair
Kissing her naked feet and with mad eyes
Uplooking in her face!

Then did I cry:
‘Oh happy Earth, where seed like this is sown,
And grows to such a womanhood divine!
Before the glory of that one fair face
Gods die, gods fade, there is no god but Love!’
And turning, I beheld each face that gazed
Was shining as anointed, for the throng
Was drmking all the sight with rapturous eyes;
But like a marble statue in his place
Stood that pale god my guide—as stone to flesh
His beauty that had seem'd so warm before
Was to that woman's on the mimic stage,

116

And ever on her face he fix'd his eyes
With hunger of a pity infinite!
There was a silence as of summer seas;
The heart stood still, while brighter and more bright
That glory grew,—till like a chrysolite,
It dazzled all those upward-looking eyes:
Then slowly, softly, silent as a cloud,
Veiling that miracle of womanhood
The curtain rose.

There was a sultry pause,
Such as there comes on summer days of calm,
When every leaf doth seem to hold its breath
And in the golden mirror of the pool
The lily's shadow lies like alabaster.
Each creature in that mighty company
Half closing heavy eyelids, brooded o'er
His own thick heart-beats; only Eros stood
Calm, mute as marble, very fair and pale,
Folding his arms, and on the curtain dark
Reading his own sweet name!

Again there came
Vibrations of low music, strangely blown
From out the very hollows of the earth;
These quicken'd, trembl'd, till there wildly rose
The shrieking sharp of flutes innumerable,
To which once more, curling black folds to earth,
The curtain fell. And lo! on that great stage
Gleam'd Argos, and the statues of the gods
Looming phantasmic in a blood-red moon,
And Clytemnestra on the palace-roof
Uplifting to dark heavens sown thick with stars
A face fix'd white in one avenging spasm
Of murderous pallor; and her stature seem'd
Gigantic, on the high cothurnus raised;
And not a feature of the woman changed,
All kept one horror of the mask they wore,
Yea, not until afar the bale-fire burn'd
On Ida, did she speak, descending slow,
And like low thunder, from the mask's thick tube,
Her voice was wafted onward to mine ear.
But as she spake that midnight air was cloven
By such a shriek as only once on earth
Was heard by mortal ears.—Cassandra wail'd!

It seem'd as if in answer to that wail
Chaos had come and all the graves of old
Given up their dead; for suddenly the stage
Was cover'd with gigantic shrouded shapes,
Who stood and raised their hands to heaven and shriek'd!
And in the dim, low light of blood-red stars
Tower'd Agamemnon bleeding from his wounds;
Iphigenia, like a spectre pale,
Half kneeling, hands uplifted, at his feet;
Orestes, with a dagger in his grip,
Clutching the marble woman, while she shrieked:
‘Hold, child! strike not this bosom whence so oft
With toothless gums thy mouth hath drunk the milk;’
Eleokles, with fratricidal knife;
Œdipus groping for his daughter's hand,
And white as any lamb that Virgin's self;
And in the background, glaring with cold eyes,
Dumb as a pack of lean and hungry wolves
Full of blood-hunger, the Eumenides!

A wind of horror o'er that gathering grew,
And lo! I shiver'd like a rain-wash'd leaf,
While from the throats of those pale spectres came
Fierce supplications and anathemas
On Zeus, and that pale skeleton that broods
For ever at his footstool, Anarchy.
‘God! God!’ they shriek'd, and ever as they shriek'd
They gnash'd their teeth and rent their luminous robes
And wept anew. Meseem'd it was a sight
Too much for human vision to endure!
Suddenly, as a black cloud swallowing up
Pale meteors of the midnight, once again
Uprose the curtain.

Then in a low voice,
Still shuddering with that horror past, I spake:
‘Hear'st thou that cry, which from the dark beginning
Pale souls, fate-stricken, have cast up at heaven?

117

How shall these things have peace?’ and in mine ears
'Twas answer'd: ‘As the innumerable waves
Sink after tempest to completest calm,
For surcease of the mighty tumult pass'd,
So these wild waifs of being grow subdued
To subtle music of sublime despairs;
For out of wrath comes love, and out of pain
Dumb resignation brooding like a dove
On sunless waters, and of unbelief
Is born a faith more precious and divine
Than e'er blind Ignorance with his mother's milk
Suck'd smiling down! But, hark!’ and as he spake,
There came a twittering as of birds on boughs,
A music as of rain pattering on leaves;
And to this murmur the great curtain fell,
Revealing slopes of greenest emerald
By shallow rivulets fed with flashing falls,
And far away soft throbb'd the evening star,
And everywhere across those pastures sweet
Moved Lambs as white as snow! Then as I gazed
I heard Apollo singing on the heights
A shepherd's song divine, and as he sang
Those lambs their faces to the light upturn'd,
And each was human: a sweet woman's face,
With large still heavenly eyes wherein there swam
Dews of a dark desire; and lo, I knew
The daughter of Colonos, golden-hair'd,
Electra, still and pensive as a star,
Alcestis pallid from the kiss of Death,
The daughters of Danaos, and the seed
Of Epaphos and Io; and, behold!
Quietly through those mystical green meads
Stole the fair Heifer's self, as white as snow,
Star-vision'd, woman-faced, miraculous,
Come after many wanderings to such peace
As only Love's immortals ever know.
Then down the mountain-sides, a tiger-skin
Back from his shoulders blowing, lute in hand,
As brown as any mortal mountaineer,
Apollo, the glad Shepherd, hastening came,
And cried, ‘Rejoice! rejoice! for Zeus is dead!’
And from a thousand throats those lambs did seem
To bleat in human tones, while Io raised
Her moon-like head and utter'd her sad heart
In one rejoicing cry! Then did I turn
My startled eyes on Eros questioning,
And found his face like all those faces round
Was shining as anointed, while his eyes
Were fix'd on that great stage whence thrill'd a voice
Which murmur'd on: ‘Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
Now shall the sad flocks of Humanity
At last find peace!’

In mine own heart of hearts
I echoed ‘Peace!’ and that great company
Breathed as a forest's multitudinous leaves
Breathe balmily after rain; but suddenly
That scene kaleidoscopic changed once more,
Came then a thunder as of gathering clouds,
Flashing of torrents down black mountain-sides,
A storm, a troubled darkness, in whose midst
A voice went crying aloud, ‘Zeus is!—Zeus reigns!’
And then, the darkness vanishing, behold!
The scene show'd mountains to whose snowy peaks
Fierce cataracts frozen in the act to fall
Clung chained in ice,—and in the midst thereof
Gigantic, silent in his agony,
With all the still cold heaven above his head,
Prometheus Purkaieus!

Meseem'd he slept:
His eyes were softly closèd, and he smiled
Like one who sleeps yet dreams; and his white hair
Had grown through long eternities of pain
Down to his feet, clothing his limbs like wool,
And the fierce wedge of adamant that pierced
His breast and vitals was with countless years
Rusted blood-red, and hoary all he seem'd
As those ice-ribbèd peaks that hemm'd him round.
Transfixèd were his mighty feet and hands,

118

As when by Kratos and dark Bias nail'd
To those hard rocks, and brightly yet he bled,
For silently the fountains of his heart
Distill'd their blood like dew!

Sad was that sight,
And yet I gazed upon it with sweet joy,
For round the head of that great Sufferer,
And on his face, and on his closèd lids,
There brooded peace most absolute and power
Sublimely self-subdued. Afar away
Came voices of the Okeanides,
Singing their sad primæval seabirds' song;
And listening with quick spiritual ears,
Methought I heard, faint as a sound in sleep,
The murmur of these deep eternal seas
Which wash for ever the weary feet of Earth.

Then up those desolate heights, from ledge to ledge
Of living granite, came a godlike shape,
Gigantic, yet smooth-flesh'd and young of limb,
With eagle-eye that faced the midday sun
And shrank not, leading slowly (as one leads
A wounded horse that falters with its pain)
An aged Centaur,—man from brow to breast,
Bearded and mighty-brow'd and venerable,
But bodied like some grey and mighty steed;
And lo, I knew the first was Herakles,
The second Cheiron; and behold, this last
Was faint thro' one green wound upon his breast,
Deep, bloody, and he stagger'd as he came,
And ofttimes fell upon his quivering knees
And moan'd aloud, beating the solid rock
With hoofs of iron into sparks of fire.

Thereon, I turn'd to Eros questioning:
‘Why cometh Cheiron, led by Herakles?’
And Eros, on whose face there shone a light
New and ecstatic as the rising moon,
Answer'd: ‘Until another immortal god
Contentedly shall take the cup of death,
Taking his stand in that pale Sufferer's place,
Prometheus must abide and drink his doom;
But Cheiron, weary from his wound and weak,
Elects to perish in that pale god's stead,
And hither cometh led by Herakles,
That so the prophecy may be fulfilled.

And lo, amid the rocks of that ravine,
Face unto face with that pale Sufferer,
Uprose those twain, and slowly at the sound
Prometheus woke, and shaking from his eyes
Eternities of the white blinding hair,
Gazed in their faces dumbly, even as one
Who wakes confusedly and mingles still
That which he sees and that which he hath dream'd.
But Herakles cried loud with clarion-voice
‘Prometheus!’ and the Titan stared and smiled,
Remembering; but as his woeful eyes
Fell upon Cheiron's ghastly lineaments
He trembled, moaning, Who is he that stands
Beside thee, bleeding?’—and the god replied,
‘Cheiron the Centaur, come to take thy place,
To wear thy chains, to suffer, and to die!

Suddenly, for a moment, that strange scene
Was blotted from the vision, and there rose
A sound as if of many fountains leaping,
Of many wild winds blowing, of many voices
Uplifted in a troublous melody;
And when the darkness melted and again
That portent gather'd on the straining sight,
The moon was out and stars serenely bright,
And Herakles had freed Prometheus,—
Who, standing awful in the moonlight gazed
Around him with a sad and stony stare.
And whiter now he seem'd than any snow,
Clothed in the sorrow of his hoary hairs.
Then, as his chains fell from him with a clang
Of sullen iron, from afar away
There came a cry, ‘Prometheus is free—
Rejoice! Rejoice!’ and through those wild ravines
From crag to crag, the weary echoes moan'd
‘Rejoice!’ but pallid still Prometheus stood
Chattering his teeth, while slowly Herakles
Led Cheiron to the rock of sacrifice,
Lifting the chains.

Even then the dark still air
Was pierced by such a shriek as froze the blood,

119

Shook reason on her throne and palsied will—
A shriek of eldritch laughter; and, behold!
There suddenly swarm'd in upon that stage
Pigmies innumerable, dragging in
A mighty Cross of blackest ebony!
As swift as thought they set it in the chasm,
Where for eternities of misery
The Titan wail'd, and still they laugh'd aloud,
That the deep chasms of the mountain rung.
Then all the stars shrank up, and the pale moon
Grew red and shrivell'd, but round Cheiron's brow
Swam suddenly a luminous aureole!
And, lo, his face seem'd changed, and it grew young,
And, as it changed, his nether limbs of beast
Swoon'd into limbs of white humanity,—
And, lo, I knew him for that Man Divine
Whose wan face gazeth from the cloudy Book
With wistful eyes! Beneath the mighty Cross,
Crouch'd like a lion couchant hoary hair'd,
Prometheus waited, while invisible hands
Raised up that other to his place of pain.
Then did the laughter cease, as Herakles
Transfix'd him thro' the shuddering hands and feet,
When dropping chin upon his breast he moan'd,
‘My god, my god, hast thou forsaken me?’
Thrilled thro' the core of that great multitude
A moan of deep insufferable woe!
And I, with heavy hand upon my heart,
Turn'd unto Eros; turning, saw him stand
Transfigured—on his hands and on his feet
Stigmata red and bloody—round his head
An aureole such as that other wore;
And on the Crucified he fix'd his eyes,
And still the Crucified gazed down upon him,
And each was as the image of the other!
Two faces, far asunder, yet the same,
Two faces, one upon that mighty stage,
One in the midst of that vast multitude,
Shone silent, and the moon was white on both!

It was a sight too sad for mortal soul
To look upon and live. I shriek'd and swoon'd,
And dropt upon the earth as still as stone;
While all that pageant and that multitude
Pass'd into night as if they had not been!

BOOK XI. THE VALLEY OF DEAD GODS.

I woke: the night had fallen—the scene had changed—
And living yet, I wander'd darkly on.

Alone within a Valley lone as death,
Alone tho' all around me shapes liek men
Pass'd wailing, and their crying in mine ears
Was as the waves of ocean when they wash
On sunless arctic shores of rock and ice,
I wander'd, and at every step I took
The shadows of the night grew balefuller;
Yet dimly I discern'd on every side
Black mountains rising up to blacker skies,
And hither and thither forkèd lights that flash'd
O'er gulfs of dread new-riven; and me-thought
The path I trode was strewn on every side
With tombs of stone and marble sepulchres,
Out of whose darkness look'd the sheeted dead,
Moaning; and oft I paused in act to fall
Into some open grave, and looking down
Saw skulls and bleaching bones and snake-like ghosts
That crawled among them. Then in soul's despair
I call'd aloud on God, and all around
Thunder like hideous laughter answer'd me,
And from the throat of every open grave
Came shrieks and ululation.

Blacker yet
The Valley grew, until in soul's despair
I paused, and, looking upward, saw the heights
Alive with pallid meteors, that like snakes
Crawl'd on the ground, or rose like wan-eyed ghosts
In glimmering shrouds, or plunged into the abyss
And vanish'd; and the wailing all around
Grew thick as clangour of waves that smite each other,
Clash back, and smite again; and suddenly
I saw a blood-red star aloft in heaven

120

Shoot from its sphere, and fall, and after that
Another and another, till all the air
Was luminous and dreadful, sown with drops
Of flame, like blood! Then, as I upward gazed,
There came a shape in pilgrim's weeds like mine,
Who touch'd my arm and mumbled in mine ear
With voice that seemèd faint and far away:
‘They fall! they fall! as thick as leaves they fall,
Unpeopling all the starry thrones of heaven.
Rejoice! rejoice!’ And when I questioned him
Of that strange Valley where I walk'd in dread,
He answer'd, laughing feebly in his throat,
‘The Valley of the shadows of dead gods!
Rejoice! rejoice! the gods are fallen, are fallen!’

Phantom he seem'd where all was phantom-like,
Yet human. As he spoke, those open graves
Echo'd his cheerless laugh, and the white stones
Chatter'd like teeth, and from the heights a voice
Answer'd, ‘Rejoice—the gods are fallen, are fallen!’
Then, pointing with his hand at that red rain
Which ever fell from heaven, ‘Behold!’ he cried,
‘Another and another and another;
Eternity has closed its gates upon them.
Homeless they haunt the void, and fall, and fall!’

Then horror closed upon me like a hand
Clutching mine entrails, while I wander'd on
In darkness visible; and at my back
That greybeard follow'd, wailing, ‘Fallen, fallen!’
And presently I saw a sheeted form,
Who sat upon a sepulchre, and struck
A harp of gold and sang: golden his hair,
Above a thin face wasted into bone,
And large regretful eyes; and lo! his limbs
Within the open shroud were wasted not
But beautiful as marble, and his arms
As marble too; and round about him danced
Wild ghosts of naked witches in a ring,
Who sang, ‘Apollo! hail, all hail Apollo!’
Then tore their hair and fell upon the ground
And shriek'd aloud; and overhead the clouds
Were riven and sullen peals of thunder shook
The empty thrones of heaven. Shuddering I pass'd
And came unto a fiery space wherein
Two forms were struggling in a fierce embrace—
One bright and beautiful, one black as night
And wingèd like an eagle; and around
Monsters, like hideous idols wrought in stone,
Yet living, hover'd, uttering shrieks and cries.
And lo! the first, who wore a golden crown
And robes of white and crimson like a king,
O'ercame and would have slain the night-black foe
But that he spread his great wings monster-wise
And shrieking fled!—Pallid with victory,
Yet ring'd around by frantic shapes of fear,
The bright god stood a moment's space and held
A dagger like the sacrificial knife
Up skyward; from the wold wild voices wail'd
His name, the Buddha, while a lightning-flash
Illumed him head to foot in blinding flame,
And underneath his feet the earth was riven,
And lo! he bared his bosom white as snow,
Sheathing the knife therein, and with a moan
Fell prone upon his face,—while those fierce forms
Crept nearer, hovering o'er him where he lay
Like vultures hovering round a bleeding lamb!

O night of wonder! Thro' that vale accurst
I wander'd, struggling thro' strange seas of souls
That thicken'd on my path like ocean-waves;
And all the place was troubled and alive
With dreadful simulacra of the gods
And ghosts of men, and wheresoe'er I trode

121

The earth was still torn open into graves.

I saw, methought, on a dark mountain-side
Legions of ghosts that surged and broke to foam
Of waving banners and of hookèd swords
Around a Sepulchre, wherein there sat
One with black eyeballs and a beard of snow,
Who smote his hands together and cried aloud,
‘Allah il allah!’—and the crowds around
Echoed the name of Allah, and above
The thunders answer'd Allah, while, behold!
The heavens, blown open high above the peaks,
Reveal'd in bloodiest mirage multitudes
Of phantom armies, struggling, multiplying,
Coming for ever, ever vanishing,
With waving banners and with hookèd swords
Like those who heard the voice and named the Name
On that dark mountain-side!

Then in my dream
I saw the spirits of departed gods
Sweep by like changing forms within the fires
Of Ætna, when the forkèd tongues of flame
Shoot skyward and the lava boils and foams
Down the bright shuddering slopes; so thick and fast
They came and went and changed; and I beheld
Astarté, with her nude dishevell'd train
Of women-worshippers who smote their breasts
And wept and wail'd; Moloch and Baal, two shapes
Inform and monstrous, follow'd by a throng
Of kings in purple and of slaves in rags
And Ethiops clashing cymbals; black-eyed Thor,
Bearded and strong, stript naked to the waist,
Girt round with eager cyclops while he swung
His hammer near the furnace burning red
In a black mountain cavern,—all his face
Gleaming, his form illumed from head to foot
With subterranean fires; Thammuz pale,
Walking through glades of moonlight like a ghost;
Lucifer, serpent-crested, clad in mail,
Shaking his sword at heaven, and with his foot
Set on a writhing dragon: and all I saw
Vanished and came again, and vanishing
Gave place to more,—chaos of gods and ghosts
Confusedly appearing and departing;
Every strange shape that Superstition weaves,
That man or fiend hath fashioned: Gorgons dire,
Chimæras, kobolds, witches, pixies, elves,
Undines, and vampires,—intermix'd with these,
Saints calendar'd and martyr'd; naked nuns
Embraced by satyrs stoled and shaven-crown'd
Goat-footed; sable-stoled astrologers,
Waited upon by grinning apes and trolds
And wizards waving wands: so that my soul
Was sicken'd and my fever-thicken'd blood
Paused in me and surcharged my fearful heart
Until it ceased to beat: and as I fled
Weeping, all faded like a tempest-cloud,
And lonely in the night before my face
I saw the form of the eternal Sphinx
Dreadfully brooding with cold pitiless eyes
Fix'd upon mine, and round it momently
Sheet-lightning played, and 'tween its stony claws
It held a woman's naked bleeding corpse
From which the shroud had fallen, and from its throat
There came a murmur like the whole world's moan,
Thunder of doom and uttermost despair!

Frozen to stone, I stood and gazed and gazed,
Dead-eyed as that vast shape!

The vision pass'd
Like vapour from a mirror. Night again,
With one black wing of tempest, blotted out
That portent; and before my face I saw

122

A pale god with a dove upon his wrist,
Sitting upon a tomb and singing low
Some strange sweet song of summer; then, with tears,
He named the name of his fair brother Christ,
And search'd the gloom with bright blue heavenly eyes,
And listen'd for a coming; and methought
I heard a sound of wailing, and, behold!
Along the valley came three woman-forms
Supporting One who seemèd sick and spent,
A crown of thorns upon his bleeding brow,
Blood-drops upon his piercèd feet and hands,
And in his dexter hand a lanthorn-light
That flicker'd in the wind; and as they came,
These women wail'd aloud, ‘He hath arisen!’
And joyfully his blue-eyed brother rose
To greet him coming, but shrank back beholding
The thin grey hair, the worn and weary cheeks,
The pale lacklustre orbs of him who came
Unwitting whither,—wearied out and spent
With centuries of sorrow and despair.

But Balder cried, uplooking in his face,
‘O brother, hast thou risen?’ and that other,
Moving his head feebly from side to side,
And groping with his hands, moan'd, ‘Risen! risen!’
Like one who dying murmurs to himself
Some echo from the weepers who surround
His piteous bed of doom; and as he spake,
His eyes grew dimmer, and his bearded chin
Fell forward on his breast, and like a corpse
He swung upheld by those wan women who wail'd
‘Rejoice! for Christ hath risen!’

Then methought,
While Heaven and Hell moan'd answer to each other,
And throngs of gods like wolves around a fire
Gather'd, and earth as far as eye could see,
Was one wild sea of open graves, that broke
To foam of dead shapes shining in their shrouds,
I heard a voice out of the darkness calling
And weary voices answering as it sang:—

Black is the night, but blacker my despair;
The world is dark—I walk I know not where;
Yet phantoms beckon still, and I pursue—
Phantoms, still phantoms! there they loom—and there!
Adonai! Lord! art thou a Phantom, too?

One strikes—before the blow I bend full weak;
One beckoning smiles, but fades in act to speak;
One with a clammy touch doth chill me thro'—
See! they join hands in circle, while I shriek,
Adonai! Lord! art thou a Phantom, too?

Dark and gigantic, one, with crimson hands
Upstretch'd in protestation, frownign stands,
While tears like blood his night-black cheeks bedew—
He tears his hair, he sinks in shifting sands—
Adonai! Lord! art thou a Phantom, too?

The sad, the glad, the hideous, and the bright,
The kings of darkness, and the lords of light,
The shapes I loved, the forms whose wrath I flew,
Now wail together in eternal night—
Adonai! Lord! art thou a Phantom, too?

Fall'n from their spheres, subdued and over-thrown,
Yet living yet, they make their ceaseless moan,
Where never grass waves green or skies are blue—
Theirs is the realm of shades, the sunless zone,
Where thou, O Master, weeping wanderest too!

O Master, is it thou thy servant sees,
Cast down and conquer'd, smitten to thy knees?
Ah, woe! for thou wast fair when life was new—
Adonai! Lord! and art thou even as these?
A shape forlorn and lost, a Phantom too?

Black is the night, but blacker my despair;
The world is dark—I walk I know not where;
Yet phantoms beckon still, and I pursue!
Phantoms, still phantoms! there they loom—and there!
Adonai! Lord! art thou a Phantom, too?

And while the voices wail'd, I watch'd his face
Who swung in anguish to and fro, upheld
By those wan women; and the face was blank
And bloodless, his eyes sightless, and his jaw

123

Hung heavy as lead; and still the women cried
‘Rejoice! for He hath risen!’ but when at last
The music of those voices died away,
He slipt from their thin hands and with a spasm
Shot forward on his face and lay as dead,
Still as a stone, while all the mighty vale
Was shaken as by earthquake, and afar
The solid night-black heavens were riven as rocks,
And thunder answer'd thunder!

Then the waves
Of darkness breaking on me like a sea
Seem'd to o'erwhelm me, and I sank and sank
Down, down to unknown depths of black despair
Till sense and feeling fail'd me and me-thought
The end of all was come; but when again
Life flow'd within me, I was wandering still
In that sad valley; and all forms and shapes
Had vanish'd, and the place was sleeping calm
Under a piteous moonlight. Overhead
The ebon peaks touch'd the cold heavens, alive
With stars like feeble specks of silver sand,
And all the heavens and the sad space beneath
Were silent as a sepulchre!

Forlorn
And broken-hearted, then I wander'd on,
With tombs and open graves on either side,
Weeping nor wailing, but subdued to calm
Of weariest despair; and no thing stirr'd
Around me, but full tide of silence fill'd
The shoreless earth and heaven; when suddenly
I saw before me, lying on the path,
One like myself in dreary pilgrim's weeds,
Fall'n prone upon his face; and stooping down,
I turn'd his wan face upward to the light,
And knew him,—Faith, my townsman, cold and dead!
His blind eyes glazèd with the frosty film,
Cold icicles in his white hair and beard,
His right hand gripping still the empty leash
Which once had held his beauteous snow-white hound,
Now fled for ever to some sunless cave
To wail in desolation. Then my force
Fell from me, and my miserable eyes
Shed tears like blood, and, broken utterly,
I took the poor grey head between my knees,
Making a pillow, and with gentle hand
Smoothing the piteous hair, murmur'd aloud
A sad song sung by women in our town
While weaving long white raiment for the dead,
When the corpse-candles burn and all the night
Time throbs the minutes like a beating heart
To those who weep and wait.

And thus I sang:—

Dead man, clammy cold and white,
With thy twain hands clench'd so tight,
With thy red heart and thy brain
Silent in surcease of pain,
Wherefore still in strange surprise
Fix thine eyes?

Glass'd to mirror some strange ray
Gleaming ghostwise in the day,
Staring silent, in amaze,
Dead man, glimmereth thy gaze,
Glazing through thy cold grey hair
With sick stare.

Not on men, and not on me,
Not on aught the living see,
Gazest thou—but still, alas!
Thou perceivest something pass
I perceive not, tho' its thrill
Cometh chill.

Dead man, dead man, take repose!
Since thy twain eyes will not close,
I will shut them softly over
With the waxen lids for cover;
Look no more upon the sun—
All is done!

And singing thus I knew (within my dream)
That all the gods were dead, and Death was King,
For all the woeful Valley once again
Grew populous with silent ghostly shapes
Tumultuously moving, like a sea;
And gazing thro' my tears I saw, within
The heart of that black valley, a Form that rose
Gigantic, crag-like, frosted o'er and o'er
With the cold crystals of eternity,
Yet naked as a skeleton; and, lo!

124

I knew the shape and lineaments of Death,
Lord of the gods and chaos, first and last
Of portents and of phantoms: huge he rose,
Swarm'd on by that tumultuous tide of ghosts
Which broke around his feet; and round him stretch'd
The realm of tears and silence, and above him
Heaven open'd,—an abyss of nothingness
Far as Despair could see or hope could wing!

BOOK XII. THE INCONCEIVABLE.

Sadder than night, and sunless as the grave,
Was that strange darkness clouding soul and sense;
But when I saw the living light again,
And felt the blood within me crawling cold
As drops of quicksilver from vein to vein,
I stood alone upon a wan wayside
Watching the crimson eyeballs of the Dawn.

Darnels and nettles gather'd bosom-deep
Around a rain-worn Cross whereon there clung
No shape of flesh or stone, but from beneath
Came a white glimmer as of bleaching bones;
And on the Cross a lonely raven sat
Preening his ragged plumage silently;
And all around were bare and leafless woods
Through which the sunshafts straggled crimson red;
And crouching in the shadow of the Cross
Three spectral Women wrapt in ragged weeds
Sat moaning; and of these the first was old,
With hair as white as wool blown loose and wild
Around her; and the second woman bare
A lighter load of years, with jet-black hair
Just touch'd with hoarfrost; but the third was young,
With eyes of pallid speedwell-blue, and hair
Pure golden raining round her ripe round arms
And naked breasts. And unto these I spake,
Remembering that beauteous god, my guide,
And question'd them of Eros, if their eyes
Had seen him pass that way along the woods
Quitting the woeful Valley of dead gods?

And one said: ‘He who suckled at my breast
Is dead and cold, and walks the world no more;’
The second said: ‘The vineyard is destroyed;
The Master of the vineyard sleeps for ever;’
And the third said: ‘He whom I loved, whose feet
I wash'd and then anointed, at whose tomb
I have knock'd aloud for countless weary years,
Is dead, and hath not risen;’ and all the three
Lifted their voices wailing piteously.

Ev'n as I look'd and listen'd woe-begone
I heard a voice behind me murmuring
‘Good morrow;’ and quickly turning I beheld
A gentle wight, who wore around his form
A pleasant woodland robe of grassy green,
Brown shoon upon his feet, and in his hand
Carried a staff enwound with ferns and flowers;
And when I question'd ‘Who are these who weep?’
Upon those women wailing 'neath the cross
He gazed in pity, not in pain like mine,
And answer'd,—

‘Outcasts from the world. Poor leaves!
Fall'n with the rain that beats upon a grave.’

THE PILGRIM.
Methinks I know them. Yesternight I saw
These shadows, 'mong the shadows of dead gods.

THE MAN.
Comest thou from thence? Well may thy cheek be pale,
Thy look wayworn and desolate, thy soul
Haunted and woeful. Hast thou wander'd far?

125

THE PILGRIM.
Yea, thither and hither, from Christopolis.

THE MAN.
And whither goest thou? From the dark-ness yonder,
Surely to some new sunshine? Comfort, friend!
The wailing of these wanderers cannot drown
The music of the mountains and the streams,
And scarce a stone's-throw from this piteous place
The sunshine falls on crystal rivulets
And warms the snowy fleece of leaping lambs!

Clear was his voice, yet dreamy-toned and deep
As is the wood-dove's cooing when it broods
On its warm heartbeats; and his face, though grave,
Was brown as ripen'd fruit and wore no shade
Of fear or sorrow; and even as he spake
The morning brighten'd, and from far away
The silver clarion of the Spring was blown
To wake the drowsy world. ‘Alas!’ I cried,
‘How shall the sunshine and the dawn avail,
Since the sweet gods that made creation glad
Are flown, and Eros, sweetest and most blest,
Bends weeping o'er his Brethren slain and cold
In yonder Valley of Divine Despair?’

THE MAN.
Take comfort. Though the many pass away,
The One abides; God bends o'er these dead gods,
And smiles them into everlasting sleep.

THE PILGRIM.
Sleep? But they sleep not! Weary ghosts, they haunt
That Valley, and the ears of weary men
Can hear them wailing from the gates of Death;
And lo, without their open sepulchres,
In every land beneath the sun and stars,
Women like these prolong and echo back
The piteous ululation. Woe is me!
Where shall I find a place on all the earth
That is not haunted and disconsolate?

THE MAN.
Walk these green woods with me, and thou shalt hear
The merry music of the waking world!

THE PILGRIM.
What is thy name, and wherefore dwelling here,
So close to that dread Valley, canst thou keep
A mien so peaceful and a voice so calm?

THE MAN.
Sylvan they name me, after some brave god
Who found my mother sleeping in the shade,
Naked and warm and drowsy from her bath
In a great slumberous pool, and in his arms
Clasp'd her before she woke and quicken'd in her
A newer life, mine own; and when I lived
And drank the light, she told me with a smile
That she had never seen my father's face,
Yet knew by many a sign of leaf and flower
Some godhead had embraced her as she slept!

THE PILGRIM.
Didst thou not say but now, the gods were dead?

SYLVAN.
The gods of sorrow, but the gods of joy
Ever abide where'er the woods are green
And sunlight merry. Every flower and tree
Shares light and life with them, and is divine.

THE PILGRIM.
A phantasy! With such a phantasy
They sought to cheat me in the groves of Faun.

SYLVAN.
The many pass away, but Pan abides,
And him we worship in these peaceful woods.

126

Now, as he spake, those forms beneath the Cross
Grew fainter, and their dreary voices ceased.
Creeping from underneath with scented arms
A honeysuckle and a rose-tree twined
Their tendrils round the Cross, and over-spread it
With tender bells and blooms; and as I gazed
Meseem'd they lived and laugh'd to feel the life
Sparkling within them, while their scented breath
Perfumed the air I drew; while all around,
As at the touch of a magician's wand,
The woodland kindled into emerald flame,
The grass along the sward ran bright and green,
O'erhead the morning skies broke bright and blue,
And the great sun became the golden heart
Of the violet of heaven. And Sylvan said:
‘Yea, verily the many gods are dead,
Yet that which was their life and quicken'd them
Breaks into summer blossom o'er their graves.’
Whereon I answer'd, walking sadly on
Beside him down the gladdening greenwood glade,
‘Christopolis remains, and in its core
Death sits, a crimson King; and hither-ward,
And yonder far as the wide gates of dawn,
His sceptre rules both gods and thinking things
As well as tree and flower; and high as heaven,
He sets as sign of his sad sovereignty
The empty Cross!’ But Sylvan, smiling, said:
‘Death is the servant of the One we serve,
Whose breathing fills the world with light and fe.’

THE PILGRIM.
Name me his name, that I may understand.

SYLVAN.
Nameless and formless is that Life Divine.

THE PILGRIM.
Hast thou not known him with thine eyes and ears?

SYLVAN.
He dwells for evermore but dimly guessed.

THE PILGRIM.
A riddle, like the riddle of the Cross!

SYLVAN.
A certitude, like thine own beating heart!
The Ever-changing yet Unchangeable
Haunts His creation as the breath within
Thy body, and as the blood within thy veins:
Moves in the mountains, fills the surging seas,
Melts in the storm-cloud and becomes the dew
That dims the lover's eyes.

THE PILGRIM.
Meseems I read
Thine easy riddle. He thou worshipest
Is shapeless as the blue ethereal air;
Not God who builds a City for his own,
But that blind force whereby all cities fall?

SYLVAN.
What he destroys he evermore renews,—
As he renews the flowers and forest-trees.

THE PILGRIM.
Can he renew this desolate heart of dust
Failing away within me as the seed
That rots and falls away within the shell?
Can he roll back the sun and summon back
The boy who gladden'd in the morning time?
Can he bring back the gods whom he has slain,
Sweetest and best the god of flesh and blood
For whom those three wan women weep and wail?

SYLVAN.
He can do more. With every dawn of day
He recreates—

THE PILGRIM.

The mirage of a world!
O peace, for he thou fondly worshipest
Is not the God I seek, but him I fly.

127

We wander'd on, and all around us grew
Full sweetness of the summer. Green and glad
The prospects brighten'd round us, and I saw
Beyond the emerald reaches of the glade
A leafy valley, meadows, groves, and streams,
With fountains sparkling and upleaping lambs;
And here and there a lonely human form
Flitted across the sunlight and was gone;
Yet for the rest the place was solitary
And full of strange and solitary sounds—
The wood-dove's brooding call, the whispering rill
Half drown'd in rustling leaves, the lambkin's cry
Distant and drowsy, and from time to time
A far-off human call. Upon my heart
Fell a warm heaviness and dreamy sense
Of happiness fantastic and unreal
When, looking back, I saw along the glade
Those three wan Women slowly following
In silence, and the pathway as they came
Was sunless, dark and chill. ‘Alas!’ I said,
‘This valley where you dwell is haunted, too,
By the dim ghosts of goddesses and gods;’
And as I spake we left the woods behind
And came mong grassy slopes that wander'd on
To pastoral mountains green and beautiful
Crown'd by the golden noontide. Here I paused
And pointing upward cried, ‘What land lies yonder?’
And Sylvan said, ‘A beauteous mountain land
Of Shepherds; but at every height you climb
The air grows chillier, till beneath your feet
Crumble the stainless crystals of the snow.
Be warn'd and fare no further. Rest content
Here in the lap of summer, laden ever
With roses of the dawn.’

And as he spake
The sunlight brighten'd, and the leaping lambs
Cried faintly, and the cuckoo called her name,
Deep hidden in the sunlight's golden cage;
And round my feet the warm grass crept like moss,
Warm, green, and living, and the golden glades
Kindled and blossom'd,—yet afar away
Behind me still I saw those three wan Shapes
Outlooking from the greenness of the woods.

‘Stay!’ cried he, as I faced the steep ascent
And hasten'd heavenward; but, mine eager heart
Fill'd with the summer as a cup with wine,
Renew'd and strong, I left him standing there
'Mong those bright pastures; and as sings a lark
For bliss of the glad beating of the wings
That waft it upward, so methought my soul
Ran over gladly, and 'twas thus I sang:—

Hark, I am call'd away!
Fain would my spirit stay,
Here, where the cuckoos call,
Here, where the fountains play
From dawn to evenfall,
Here, where the white flocks stray,
With the blue sky spanning all!
Here, where the world is May
Fain would I rest, grow grey,—
But nay, ah nay!

Birds on the greenwood spray
Flit through the green and the grey,
Flocks on the green slopes cry,
Softly the streams glance by,
All things are merry and gay
Under the morning sky:
Sweet smiles the world to-day,
Yet must I wander away?
Ah yea, ah yea!

A motion all things obey,
A breath in the cloud and the clay,
A stir in the fountain that springs,
A sound in the bird that sings,
From dawn to death of day
Quick in the heart of things!
All changes, and naught can stay;
Blown like a breath o' the spray,
I must away!

128

Ah, would that I could stay!
Yet, as those clouds obey
Winds that behind them blow
(See them, how soft, how slow,
Thro' the still heavens they stray!),
Onward I too must go!
No space to pause, to pray,
But heavenward, even as they,
I must away!

And now methought I came into that land
Of pastoral mountains, with green summer cones,
Forests of pine and fir upon their flanks,
And waterfalls that flashing silver feet
Leapt with wild laughter into dark ravines;
A land of sheep and shepherds; o'er the slopes
The snow-white flocks were spilt like broken streams,
While faintly overhead against the blue
Sounded a shepherd's horn. In sooth it seem'd
A green, a peaceful, and a pleasant land!

Climbing the shoulder of a sunlit hill,
Oft gazing back on him I had left behind
Dwindled by distance to a pigmy's size,
I reach'd a solitary cottage door,
And there a mountain maid with gentle eyes
Gave me sweet welcome, placed me in the porch,
And brought me mountain cheer—brown bread and milk.
Around my seat flock'd children flaxen-hair'd,
Brown men, barefooted maids, and wiseeyed dogs;
And when I question'd of that peaceful land,
And of the City throned in solitude
Somewhere amid the silence of the hills,
They look'd at one another wondering
And could not understand. But one, a wight,
Grey-hair'd yet lithe, in goatskin mantle clad,
Said: ‘Master, I have wander'd, man and boy,
These hills for seventy years, and seen no City,
Save only cities in the sunset clouds
Or in the mirage of the rainbow'd heights:
Be warned by me,—turn back, or rest thee here;
The crags are perilous without a guide.’
I answer'd: ‘God my Guide and Shepherd is;
I need no other;’ and I took my staff,
And bidding them farewell, I hastened on:
And as I climb'd the hill look'd back once more
And saw them cluster'd—children, men, and maids—
Watching me as I wander'd up the heights.

Then, faring onward towards the mountain-tops,
I saw a herdboy like an antique Faun
Sitting upon a knoll, and piping sweet,
While round about him leapt his yeanling lambs
And gentle mountain echoes answer'd him.
Bare was his neck and brown, his cheek more red
Than are the berries of the mountain ash,
His hair like golden flax, his voice as clear
As cuckoos crying round the lake-lilies
That open'd on the mountain mere close by.
Him for a little space I gazed upon,
Then greeted with a smile, and question'd him,
Singing my question from a merry heart,
Till, smiling too and singing, he replied:—

THE PILGRIM.

Little Herdboy, sitting there,
With the sunshine on thy hair,
And thy flocks so white and still
Spilt around thee on the hill,
Tell me true, in thy sweet speech,
Of the City I would reach.

'Tis a City of God's Light
Most imperishably bright,
And its gates are golden all,—
And at dawn and evenfall
They grow ruby-bright and blest
To the east and to the west.

Here, among the hills it lies,
Like a lamb with lustrous eyes
Lying at the Shepherd's feet;
And the breath of it is sweet,
As it rises from the sward
To the nostrils of the Lord!

Little Herdboy, tell me right,
Hast thou seen it from thy height?
For it lieth up this way,
And at dawn or death of day
Thou hast surely seen it shine
With the light that is divine?

129

THE LITTLE HERDBOY.

Where the buttercups so sweet
Dust with gold my naked feet,
Where the grass grows green and long,
Sit I here and sing my song,
And the brown bird cries ‘Cuckoo’
Under skies for ever blue!

Now and then, while I sing loud,
Flits a little fleecy cloud,
And uplooking I behold
How it turns to rain of gold,
Falling lightly, while around
Comes the stir of its soft sound!

Bright above and dim below
Is the many-colour'd Bow;
'Tis the only light I mark,
Till the mountain-tops grow dark,
And uplooking I espy
Shining glowworms in the sky;

Then I hear the runlet's call,
And the voice o' the waterfall
Growing louder, and 'tis cold
As I guide my flocks to fold;
But no City, great or small,
Have I ever seen at all!

So, sighing deep, I pass'd upon my way,
Not strengthen'd, but more spiritually calm
Because the little herdboy's voice was sweet;
And now my pathway by a streamlet ran,
And in the midst upon a mossy stone
Sat the white-breasted ouzel of the brook,
Plunging with soft chirp ever and anon
Into the crystal pool beneath her feet,
And rising dripping dewily to her throne
In the mid stream; and at the streamlet's brink
A lamb stood drinking, and I saw beneath
The stainless shadow broken tremulously
'Mid troubled shallows into flakes of snow.

Then, journeying ever upward, I beheld
The crags and rocks and air-hung precipices
Redden in sunset, and above the peaks,
Upon a bed of crimson duskly gleam'd
The argent sickle of the beamless moon;
And lo, the winds had fallen and curl'd themselves
Like tired-out hounds in hollows of the hills,
Restlessly sleeping but from time to time
Audibly breathing; and deep stillness lay
Upon the mountains and the darkening slopes
Beneath their snows, and the low far-off moan
Of torrents deepening that stillness came
From the untrodden heights.

Hung like a shield
Midway between the valley and the peaks
There lay a lone and melancholy mere;
And in its glass the hills beheld themselves
Misting the image with their vaporous breath.
Hither, while yet the sunset lit the crags
Mirror'd below tho' it had faded long
From the dark hollows and the mere itself,
I came, and sitting on its margin watch'd
The faint light fade below me, softly changing
From pink to crimson, and from crimson dark
To darker purple, while one quiet star
Crawl'd like a shining insect of the depths
Upon the azure bottom of the mere.
Ev'n as I sat and mused I heard a voice
Behind me. Quickly turning I perceived
A gray grave mortal like a mountaineer
With crook and leathern shoon, his stature tall,
His shoulders stooping, and his eyes cast down
As if to read a book upon the ground;
Who gently greeted me, and courteously,
Like one mild-vestured in authority,
Welcomed me to that solitary place.

‘What man art thou?’ I ask'd. ‘A friend,’ he said,
‘To all who cross this way on pilgrimage.
My name is Peaceful, call'd by simple folk
The Hermit of the Mere.’

‘A lonely place,’
I answer'd; ‘lonely yet most beautiful!
Its calm and loveliness are on thy brow,
Its music in thy voice which sounds to me
Soft as a fountain falling. Hast thou found
Here, up among the hills, the Gate wherein
The pearl which passeth understanding lies,
And which for evermore with restless feet
We world-worn pilgrims seek?’

Upon my face
Fixing the untroubled splendour of his eyes
‘Be comforted,’ he said, ‘for thou hast reach'd
Those heights where the Seraphic Shepherd guides
The world's sad flocks to their eternal fold.

130

Thou seekest God. His stainless Temple stands
Among these mountains!’

THE PILGRIM.
Dwelling here alone,
Hast thou beheld Him with thy living eyes?

PEACEFUL.
I have beheld the flowers o' the earth and sky,
The stately clouds that march and countermarch,
The shining spheres; these evermore fulfil
His ministrations; radiant is the light
That covers up His face as with a veil;
Soft is the shadow He in stooping casts
Nightly to bless the still and sleeping world!

THE PILGRIM.
The God I seek is not so solitary;
He hath built a City for His worshippers!

PEACEFUL.
Nay, friend; for he who seeks the living God
Must seek Him in the gentle solitude.
Here doth His presence brood in peace for ever
Still as the silence on the mountain-tops;
And he who findeth it, as I have found,
Must leave the flocks of men, and dwell alone.

Ev'n as he spake, and hush'd in awe I shrank
As one that shrinks and dreads the sudden birth
Of some miraculous divine event,
There pass'd across the scene we gazed upon
A mist like sudden breath: cloud follow'd cloud,
And underneath the mountains and the mere
Blacken'd, till utter darkness of the night
Enwrapt us fold on fold; when, suddenly,
Out of the vapour rolling down the peaks
Red lightning came, before whose glaring spear
The Thunder, like a wounded monster, crouch'd
And shook with echoing groans!

And with that change
My spirit changed within me, from deep dread
Back to familiar trouble and unrest;
But as I stood and wonder'd hesitating,
Methought that grave and gentle mountaineer
Did lead me to the shelter of his hut
Built by the lonely mere; and there we sat
Together, while the tempest crash'd without
And rain made leaden music on the roof;
A flickering lamp of oil our only light,
Which served to show the peace upon his face,
The unrest on mine; when, marvelling much to mark
His mien of gentleness and happiness,
I brake the silence, thus:—

‘Aye me! methinks
There is no resting-place or succour here
Among these mountains! Needless 'twere to climb
So high to find the calm and storm of God.
But 'tis the promised City that I seek—
A City of clear sunlight and sweet air,
Not darkness, and a mystery, and a change,
Fretting the spirit with primæval fear.’

‘O friend,’ he answer'd, ‘I who speak have found
Peace passing understanding in my home
In this great solitude. What seek'st thou more?
Is't not enough to feel for evermore
The presence of the fair Artificer
Who made the holy heavens and the earth
And all within them? Can His living breath
Not still thee, but thou criest for a sign?’

Thereon I rose, and striding to the door,
Look'd forth into the night; and, lo, the storm
Had pass'd away, leaving that mountain air
The calmer for its coming—the blue void
Was sown with stars like snowdrops; on the mere,
Filmy with mist and moonlight, luminously
Like living things their bright reflections stirr'd;
And all the pathos and the peace of heaven

131

Was pour'd upon the world in pensive beams.

Then rising too the hermit join'd me there,
And, looking upward with me, gently said:
‘Still is the night and peaceful once again,
Have patience—so shalt thou, too, lie and bask
Under the beams of God. Come in and rest;
To-morrow, if thou wilt, fare forth again,
But be my guest this night!’

He led me in,
And on the hearth he strew'd a simple bed
Of rushes dry and sweetly-soented fern,
Whereon I sighing threw my wearied limbs,
And for a time I toss'd in dark unrest,
But slept at last; and when I open'd eyes
The merry light was flooding all the place,
And mountain, mere, and torrent were rejoicing
In the new dawn of day.

Then in the hut
We twain broke bread together and join'd hands
In fellowship of love; but when he sought
To urge me to remain in that still land,
A hermit like himself, I seized my staff
And pointed to the mountain-tops that flash'd
Their kindled peaks above us.

‘Yonder lies
The path that I must follow, though it lead
To utter darkness and to death,’ I cried.
‘Nor deem my soul ungrateful for this help
Wherewith, most gentle and benign of friends,
Thou hast sought to cheer my spectre-troubled way.
But what thou dreamest I can never dream
By these still waters; what thou dost behold
I, haunted out of patience, out of peace,
By that wild mirage of a heavenly City,
I, faint from a dark Valley of dead gods,
Behold not; what thou findest mirror'd brightly
Within thee as within that gentle mere,
Alas, I cannot find, being darken'd ever
And clouded with a fear: wherefore our ways
Part gently, and my lips must say farewell,’
‘So be it,’ he answer'd. ‘As the bow was bent
The dart must speed: pray Heaven thy soul at last
May hit its lonely mark! But since thy path
Is upward, I will guide thee for a space
Through yonder desolate and dark ravines.
High up among them, under shadowy crags,
One who once wander'd in the sun with me,
Nightshade by name, a lonely mountaineer,
Hath of a rocky cavern made his home.
He knows the loneliest summits and the heights
Familiar with the morning, and perchance
May help thy footsteps onward, where the peaks
Grow steep and perilous!’

So side by side
We wander'd on together till we pass'd
From sunlight to the shadow of the hills;
And as we went he spake in stately speech
Of pleasures that made glad his hermitage—
Of moonrise and the wonders of the mere,
Of flowers and stars, white lambs, and lamb-like men;
So that I linger'd listening to his words,
And oftentimes glanced back with doubting eyes
On the bright waters and his happy home.

But now the clarion of the winds was blown
From height to height, and far above our heads
A sunbeam, springing godlike on a crag
Stood tremulous, pausing between earth and heaven;
And my feet hasten'd, and I felt once more
The motion of the life within my veins
Drifting with wind and light and mist and cloud.
Dark was the way, my path a torrent's bed
Dried up to spots of dusty quicksilver
And strewn with fallen rocks: but eagerly
I hasten'd, till at last my gentle guide
Paused, pointing, and I saw beneath a rock
One Nightshade sitting with lacklustre eyes
Gazing upon the ground and counting thoughts
Like one who telleth beads.

And for a space
He saw us not, though standing near his seat

132

We watched him; but at last, like one that wakes
Out of a heavy sleep, he turn'd his head,
Saw us, and welcomed with a dreamful smile.
Him Peaceful greeted, and deliver'd forth
My name and errand,—when that other rose,
Grasping my outstretch'd hand in both of his,
And peer'd into my face like one that reads
A dark and mystic book.

‘Pilgrim of God,’
He murmur'd, ‘welcome to these lonely crags
Wherein, with mystic sounds of death and birth,
The chaos of the Elemental stirs
To Thought ineffable!’

Even as he spake
He seem'd to fall again into a trance,
Whereon the other gently smiling said,
‘Go with him! even as the swift izzard,
Which safely walks the sword-edge of the cliffs,
Or as some angel-led somnambulist
Who falters not where waking men would fall,
He knows the paths of peril.’

Then once more
We two wrung hands and blessing one another
Parted. And lightly downward Peaceful ran
Until he left the shade of the ravine
And stood in golden sunlight far away
Uplooking, waved his hand, and from my sight
Vanish'd for ever.

Then to the other turning,
I told him of my quest and soul's desire
For certainty and peace; ‘But surely now,’
I added, ‘surely now the end is near,
And I shall share the heavenly sight which fills
Thy face with rapture of mysterious dream!’
He answer'd not, but, muttering to himself,
Walk'd upward, choosing a dark path which seem'd
To wander right into the stony heart
Of those wild mountains: soon the riven rocks
Rose o'er us, leaving only one blue space,
A hand's breadth wide, to show the open heaven!
And as one lying in an empty well
May, though full daylight burns beyond it, see
Stars circling in their orbits, I beheld
On that blue patch of space above my head
The gleam of constellations. Darker yet
The pathway grew, and now on every side
Gulfs yawn'd, abysses blacken'd, caverns deep
Open'd into the hollow of the crags,
And down the abysses cataracts leapt with hair
Foam-white that flash'd behind them, and there came
A sound and motion as of wings of birds
Beating the darkness; so that unaware
My head swam, and methought I should have fallen
Into the precipices under us,
But even as I totter'd Nightshade's hand
Grasp'd and upheld me.

‘Courage!’ he exclaim'd,
‘And fear not; what thou dreadest is the abyss
Of thought within thee! Follow fearlessly,
And look not downward!’

Crag was piled on crag
Above us, precipice on precipice
Swam dizzily beneath us; but as one
Who clings to a magician's robe, I gript
My Guide, and walk'd in safety till we gain'd
A place of caverns where like living ghosts
Wild shadows came and went; and in the void
Above those caverns lay an open space
Night-black and scrawl'd with starry zodiac signs;
And faint lights of the far-off universe
Came, went, and came again, and in the void
The tremulous pulses of the eternal Light
Were visibly throbbing!

Shuddering and afraid,
I cried, ‘What realm is this? and who are these
That are as living things and come and go?’
And Nightshade answer'd: ‘'Tis the peaceful realm

133

Where with her crying children darkly dwells
The midnight mother, Meditation:
And what thou now dost see, or seem to see,
Is the dim conflict of unconscious shapes
In act to be!’ And as he spake he pass'd
Into the shadow of a cave wherein
There sat a creature shapen like a man
But wan as any moonbeam; and me-thought
Its face was misted with a vaporous veil
Through which its eyes shone dimly, while its lips
Moved to wild music, and 'twas thus it sang:—

I am lifted on the wind
Of a thought as fleet as fire,
No foothold can I find,
But the wings of my desire
Beat the troubled air and gleam
With the dripping dews of dream!

I can hear the deep low thunder
Of the strong wheels of the sun,
I can see the green earth under,
As a golden ball is spun,
Rolling softly round and round
To a sweet and showery sound.

Life and Death unto my seeing
Are as vapours roll'd afar,
Through their folds the sea of Being,
With God's secret like a star
Shining o'er it, dark doth beat
'Neath the winds below my feet.

I am trancèd into fear
Of mine own swift-striking wings,
For I hover darkly here,
And the mystic cloud of things
Swims around me, and my brain
Trembles drenchèd with their rain.

And I cannot pause to think,
But my wings must beat and beat;
If I pause for breath I sink
To the Ocean at my feet—
With the wings of my desire,
On a wind as swift as fire,

I must struggle; and my thought
Gathers naught from my soul's sight—
Only shadows star-enwrought,
Death and Birth and Dawn and Night,
And the soft ecstatic motion
Of the Star above the Ocean.

Could I pause a little space,
Could I pause a space and listening,
With that starlight on my face,
See it glistening and glistening,
I could comprehend full plain
All the spirit seeks in vain.

But the wind whereon I sail
Is as terrible as fire,
And I walk the winds, but fail
With the wings of my desire,
And I swoon and seem to sink
On the mighty Ocean's brink.

And the cold breath of that Ocean
Lingers wildly in my hair,
And that strange Star's rhythmic motion
Soothes my passionate despair,
And on that one Star I call,
As I fall and fall and fall!

The wild strain ceasing, from the caves and crags
There came the cries of other piteous voices
Blent in one murmur like the clangour cold
Of numerous ocean waves; and as I paused
In terror, watching those phantasmic shapes,
One like a naked man pass'd by me shrieking
And plunged to some black gulf that yawn'd beneath;
And standing on the verge of the abyss
Another, like the spirit of the torrent,
Paused gazing upward with great sightless eyes,
And pointed at the lights of heaven, and moan'd:—

The Woof that I weave not
Thou wearest and weavest,
The Thought I conceive not
Thou darkly conceivest;
The wind and the rain,
The night and the morrow,
The rapture of pain
Fading slowly to sorrow,

The dream and the deed,
The calm and the storm,
The flower and the seed,
Are thy Thought and thy Form.
I die, yet depart not,
I am bound, yet soar free,
Thou art and thou art not,
And ever shalt be!

134

Ev'n as he spake there flash'd across the peaks
A Spectre such as timid cragsmen see
Flashing upon the Brocken overhead:
So near, it lit the chasms and the peaks,
So far, it seem'd a comet far away!
Clear yet transparent, pale though phosphorescent,
It stream'd across the darkness terribly,
Fading and changing; now a formless thing,
Trembling and meteoric, then, a space,
Bright as a wingèd beast of burning gold;
Then kindling into human lineaments,
Wild locks, outstretching hands; and then again
Melting to fiery vapour and departing
Swift as a shooting star; and as it changed
Those spirits from their caves peer'd out and wail'd,
And splendour as of sunrise lit the crags
And show'd the continents and seas beneath,
The silver'd map of the dark sleeping world;
And thunders from the heavens and earth beneath
Clash'd loud together, and the face of night
Was hidden, and from out the depths of life
There came the moans of countless weary men.

‘Behold,’ cried Nightshade, lit from head to feet
By that strange miracle of light, ‘Behold
The Spectre of the Inconceivable!
The Light that flaming on the shuddering sense
Within us fades, but flash'd from soul to soul
Illumes that infinite ocean of sad thought
We sail and sail for ever and find no shore!
The Dream, the Dream! The Light that is the Life
Within us and without us, yet eludes
Our guessing—fades and changes, and is gone!’

Ev'n as he spake the light illumining
His form grew dimmer, and his face shone pale,
The shadows deepen'd, and the stars again
Lifted their silvern lids to gaze upon us,
While like a meteor that strange Portent fled
And darkness dwelt upon the lonely peaks.

BOOK XIII. THE OPEN WAY.

When I awaken'd, wakening still in dream,
Methought that I was frail and bent with years,
And on a road that wound through a green vale
Slowly I trod, with pilgrim's staff and scrip,
While far away o'er dimly lightening hills
The rosy hand of Dawn closed softly o'er
One fluttering moth-like star; and as the light
Grew clearer, on a bank I sat me down
To watch the coming day, and rest and must.
‘Another day’ (ev'n thus my musings ran)
‘Another coming of a dewy day
After a night of pain! Once more above
The radiant rose of heaven openeth,
Petal by petal, glimmering in the dew;
Once more the lark arises paramount;
Once more the clouds move like a flock of sheep
Shepherded by the gentle summer wind.
The darkness is behind me, and I wake.
The way winds fresh before me, and I live.
O God! O Father! if indeed Thou art,
O face beyond the Phantom! much I fear
My feet fail, while Thy City yet is far!
The world is green as ever, and the way
Sweeter by reason of those perils past;
Yet on my hair the snow falls, in mine eyes
Thy dust is blown. Now I perceive full well
I set my soul upon a life-long quest
Which faileth if I pause before the end,
And yet my strength fails and my feet are sore
And surely I grow gray before my time.
Now of my weary journey nought remains
But babble of voices, glimmering of ghosts,
Tumult of shadows, with an under-sense
Of fair progressions moving to dim ends
Across a sad and problem-haunted world.
Much certes have I learn'd to make me wise,
Little to make me glad; yet now I see
The green earth dripping balmy from the bath
Of orient, smiling; but my soul for smiles

135

Is now too weary. Once my soul rejoiced
To drink the breath of each new dawn, to feel
The passion and the radiant power of life,
But now 'tis otherwise. The mask of Nature
Is beautiful—yea, far more beautiful
Than aught that I have known in happy dreams,
Yet seeing that I know it for a mask,
I love it less; and through its sockets shine
The Eyes behind, with portent horrible
And dangerous expectation. Help me, Lord!
For I am sick and weary of the way.’

O bright the morning came, as brightly shining
Upon the trembling murtherer's raisèd hand
As on the little clench'd hand of the babe
Smiling in sleep! softly the white clouds sail'd,
Edged with vermilion, to the east; the mists
Rose like white altar-smoke from that green vale,
The forests stirr'd with numerous leafy gleams,
The birch unbound her shining hair, the oak
Shone in his tawny mail, and from the wood
The brook sprang laughing; and above the fields
The lark rose, singing that same song it sang
On Adam's nuptial morn! Fresh, fair, and green,
Glisten'd that valley—only here and there
A little fold of morning vapour clung
To curtain yet some dewy mystery;
But through these folds of mist peep'd shining spires,
Fir tops as green as emerald, rookeries
Loud with the cawing rooks. In the damp fields
The mottled cattle gleam'd, while o'er the stile
The shepherd, yawning with a fresh red face,
Came ankle-deep in dew.

Then I beheld
The vale was populous, for here and there
In straight lines upward through the dead still air
The smoke of quaint and red-tiled hamlets rose,
And mossy bridges arch'd like maidens-feet
Spann'd still canals whereon, by stout steeds drawn,
Moved broad boats piled with yellow scented hay,
And soon my heart took cheer; and as I went,
Half sad, half-merry to myself I sang
This ditty of the sunshine and the dawn:—

Pleasant blows the growing grain,
Golden, scented with the rain:
Pleasant soundeth the lark's song
O'er the open way.

Pleasant are the passing folk,
Russet gown and crimson cloak,
To and fro they pass along
All the summer day.

I can hear the church bells sound
From the happy thorpes around;
Men and maidens, old and young,
Flock afield full gay.

Sweet is sunshine on the lea,
Sweet it is to hear and see,
Sweet it were to join the throng,
If my soul could stay!

So sang I, hastening by the open road,
And all my heart was quicken'd twenty-fold
Because of brightness and a pleasant place;
But even as I sang I overtook
A wight who walking slowly seem'd to brood
In potent meditation, downcast-eyed.
And with no sign I would have pass'd him by,
Scarce noting the calm brow and clear-cut cheeks,
Had not the stranger raised his eyes and smiled
Calm greeting such as fellow-scholars gave,
Half absently, when pacing slow within
The groves of Academe; whereat, indeed,
My feet began to pause unconsciously,
And my looks question'd of the pale cold face,
The dreamless eyes, the calm unruffled brow,—
For all was restless trouble in my soul,

136

Yet these seem'd peaceful as a woodland well.

Now, seeing my perplexity, once more
The stranger smiled, saying: ‘Good morrow, sir,—
A scholar, I presume? and by thy guise
A dweller in some city by the sea?
But wherefore in such haste?’

Then I replied:
‘Because the hunger and the thirst divine
Consume me, and with sleepless feet I seek
The City of the Lord.’

STRANGER.
Nay, pardon me—
What City, friend? and furthermore, what Lord?

THE PILGRIM.
The Lord of Light, whose name is Beautiful.
Thou smilest. Is thy soul so desolate
That it hath never heard the name of God?

STRANGER.
Not so. I know the names of God full well.
But which god? There are many, I believe.

THE PILGRIM.
There is one God which made the heavens and earth,
The air, the water, all that in them is.

STRANGER.
In sooth? Hast thou beheld Him with thine eyes?

THE PILGRIM.
Nay; none may look upon His face and live.

STRANGER.
Thou hast not seen Him yet thou sayest He is,
He whom thou hast not seen?

THE PILGRIM.
I say again,
No mortal may behold Him and endure.

STRANGER.
If thou hast not beheld Him for thyself,
How knowest thou that? Upon what testimony?

THE PILGRIM.
Upon the testimony of His works—
Yonder wide heaven, this green-hollow'd earth;
His footprints on the rocks and on the sands;
His finger-touch o' nights when I sleep sound
(Yet start on being touch'd and waken up
With empty arms!); His seal on dead men's graves;
His signs, His portents, His solemnities.

STRANGER.
'Tis strange; for I have search'd as close as thou,
Deeper than most, aided by such wise lore
As lieth in the circles of the schools—
I have found naught, where thou hast found so much.

THE PILGRIM.
Dost thou deny Him?

STRANGER.
Nay, by Epicurus!
Logician am I and philosopher:
What, on the one side, cannot be affirm'd,
Can never be denied, upon the other.

THE PILGRIM.
I will accost thee in a rounder way.—
Canst thou keep calm, canst thou sleep sound o' nights,
Indifferent whether there be God or no?

STRANGER.
And I will answer thee as roundly, friend.
But first, permit me to disclose my name,
My calling, and the business I pursue.
I am a scholar, christen'd Lateral,
Truth-speaker, dweller on the open way.
Much have I read in books, and more in men,
Far have I wander'd, deeply have I weigh'd
The words and ways of pilgrims passing by;
And much, I grant thee, they have blown abroad

137

This rumour of a City and a God:
Sometimes a City and a God; ofttimes
A God without a City; but a God
Invariably. Nay, in earlier days
I was beguiled out of the open way
To seek Him: in full daylight, diligently,
I sought Him, and I sware I found Him not;
Nor did I seek Him blindly, nor by night,
But in full daylight, on the public road.
I do not say, He is not; this I say:
To me He is not, being thus unseen.
And thou hast said, None may behold this God,
Because the sight would wither up the eyes;
But as I am a scholar, I affirm
There is no sight of all that I have seen
So dazzling that mine orbs endured it not.
What can be seen is harmless to the eyes,
Since what the eyes can see the eyes can bear.’

Thereon I mused (methought) with darken'd brow,
Then said: ‘Dost thou know one Iconoclast?
Meseems that thou hast learn'd his lessons well.’

But Lateral cried, with wave of his white hand,
‘I know the man thou meanest—know of him
Much good, some ill—but they would stone him here,
Where I walk free, upon the open way.
He gibes at all things, I at no thing gibe,
But measure all men's problems logically,
Not mocking, but in truthful reverence.’

We twain, thus walking, wander'd side by side,
And groups of men and women pass'd us by
In silence, as on harvest labour bent,
And many greeted Lateral by name.
Then as the toilworn congregation grew,
I ask'd ‘What folk are these who come and go?’
And Lateral in a low voice replied:
‘Friend, some of these are pilgrims like thyself
Whom I most courteously have spoken with,
Persuading them, whatever they believe,
That labour near the open way is best;
And lo! they leave the riddle of the gods
And quench their sad desires in blessèd toil.’

Whereon I cried: ‘Hast thou search'd everywhere?’
And ‘Yea,’ said Lateral; when solemnly,
With mine uplifted finger pointing back,
I cried: ‘Raise now thine eyes to yonder peaks
Of mountain crested with eternal snow—
Hast thou sought there?’ And Lateral answer'd ‘Nay!
I am a dalesman, no mad mountaineer,
Nor do I deem a God, if God there be,
Would hang his glory like an icicle
Out of the common sunlight!’

‘Raise thine eyes,’
I answer'd, in a whisper thick with awe;
‘Hast never, in the darkness, seen His feet
Flash yonder, like the flashing of a star?
Or 'midst the hush of a still frosty night
Hast thou not seen Him from afar, swathed round
With moonlight, lying like a corpse asleep
Upon the silence of the untrodden peaks,
With lights innumerable round His head
Blowing blue i' the wind? or hast thou never mark'd
A motion, the white waving of a hand?’

Then Lateral, discerning in mine eyes
Who spake the tumult of a maniac pain,
Gently replied: ‘I should have told thee, friend,
I am close-vision'd: what I see full nigh,
I see full clear, but these poor eyes of mine
Have never reach'd to the cold realm of ghosts.’

Then did I laugh in scorn. ‘Blind human mole,
Dull burrower in the darkness! not for thee
God's glimmer, or the secret of the stars.
I see in thee the sexton of the creeds—
A cold and humourous knave, with never a guess
Beyond his spade and the cold skull it strikes
In digging his own grave. But fare thee well—
Our paths part here.’

I spake, and on I ran,
Leaving the pallid scholar far behind.

138

And as I pass'd along the open way,
I met on every side the drowsy stare
Of bovine human faces, heard the hum
Of hollow human voices; here and there
From bushy thickets peep'd a peaceful spire,
And oftentimes a church-bell rang, and folk
Came thronging unto prayer.

Then, slackening pace,
Darkling I mused. ‘They toil, and pray together
In intervals of toil; and yet meseems
Their toil and prayer are cold mechanic things,
Since on no face there lieth any light
Of expectation, hope, or bright resolve.
Happy they seem; and happy are the beasts
They yoke for labour in the water'd meads;
And with the reverent habit of the sense
They soothe the solemn motions of the soul.’
And, looking round, on every side I sought
Some pilgrim with a heaven-seeking face,
But found none: only harvest-hoping eyes,
And lips compress'd with thoughts of golden gain.

At last, grown weary of the open way,
I turn'd aside, prest through a quickset hedge,
And over meads that rose to sunny slopes
Began with careless idle feet to fare;
But resting on my staff from time to time,
Drawing deep breath, I watch'd the winding road
Crowded with men and women of the vale.
Sweet were the slopes I trod with grass and thyme
And cool the clear air blew from bank to bank
Of crowsfoot flowers; and as I went I cried:
‘O gladder this than is the open way,
The common level road of tilth and toil—
or men are foolish, weak, and miserable,
azing straight downward like to blindest beasts,
Yoked to the ploughshare and prick'd forward ever
By base ignoble goads!’

Even as I spake,
I saw, upon a green bank in the sun
Beside a running brook, a curious wight
Who lying on his belly half asleep
Heard the brook gurgle in a gentle dream,
Yet read or seem'd to read an open Book
Set among scattered lilies on the grass.
He, looking upward as I slowly came,
Smiled like an infant or a heathen god
Calm and complacent in its gilded niche,
And nodded greeting supercilious
With half-shut eyes; and him I gazed upon
Awhile in silence, breathing from the ascent,
Then question'd:—

‘Who art thou that liest here
Close to the tumult of the open way,
Lord of thyself and pitiful to scorn
Of those who all around thee like to bees
Throng in and out the hive! What man art thou,
And what is that great Book which thou dost read?’
Then smiling softly, with the studied scorn
Of perfect courtesy, the man replied:
‘I am a student, Microcos by name,
Who, scorning babble and the popular voice,
Dwell in the certainty of summer meads
Scarce vex'd by fear of thunder; and in this Book—
Observe it—old it is and worm-eaten—
Writ in the common tongue and there-withal
Dear to the common folk, I smiling read
Strange, sweet, old tales of God.’ Thereon I said,
Stretching mine arms out with a weary cry:
‘Thou art the man I seek, for surely thou
Must know the magic that makes conscience clear
And as with nard and frankincense anoints
The sad worn feet of Woe. Unfold to me
Thy knowledge and the knowledge of thy Book.’

But Microcos uplifted a white hand
In protestation. ‘Friend,’ he said, ‘be calm.
Dark on thy tired eyes lies dust of earth,
And on thy tongue the echoes of the road
Ring hollow yet. Mark me, the sweet blue sky
Was ne'er yet mirror'd in a broken water!
And for the blessèd knowledge thou dost seek
Calm is the consecration! Sit awhile
Beside me on the greensward by the brook,
And mark the white clouds sailing overhead,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing,

139

Then while the brook sings and from yonder comes
Subdued by distance the deep hum of men,
Let us together read a little space
The Legend of the Book.’

Methought I stretch'd
My weary limbs upon the velvet sward,
And watch'd the white clouds sailing over-head,
The blue sky misted with its own soft breathing;
Then listen'd to the murmur of the brook,
And heard the cries of mortals faint as dream,
While in a low voice Microcos intoned,
With white forefinger on the stainèd page.
But scarcely had he turn'd one fluttering leaf,
When with a moan of wonder and of pain
I leapt up, wildly crying: ‘Peace! O peace!
'Tis the same Legend I so oft have read—
The same dark Legend that hath made men mad—
No more, no more!’

MICROCOS.
Now verily I perceive
The ways of unbelief have darken'd thee.
Sweet is the Book, read sweetly, in sweet weather.
O listen, and thy soul will be at peace.

THE PILGRIM.
Peace! Who names peace? O man! the words thou readest
Are as a whirlwind on a battle plain,
And every letter on that printed page
Is red as blood. How canst thou sit and smile,
And 'mid that carnage of the stainèd leaves
Sit as a dove that o'er its own voice broods
Perch'd on the red mouth of a murther'd man?

MICROCOS.
Meseems the Book is very beautiful,
Read in the light of Beauty, beautifully.
It tells of God, who framed the heavens and earth,
Who made Himself a sorrow and a sword,
Who lash'd Euroclydon unto his grip,
And 'mid the fiery smoke of sacrifice
Sat as the Sphinx with cold eternal eyes
Outlooking on his pallid worshippers.
Nay, further, of that same strange God it tells
Who clothed Himself with our humanity
As with a garment, drank the running brook,
And pass'd, a wan Shape waving feeble hands,
Silently thro' the very gates of Death!

THE PILGRIM.
That God I seek! O if these things be true,
Instruct me—let me look upon His face!
Thou smilest. Read the riddle of thy smile.

MICROCOS.
I smile because thou comest fresh from paths
Where Literal and Lateral (the drones!)
Interpret the dry letter of the Book.
I tell thee, friend (now hear and be at peace!),
These things are phantasies and images
As unsubstantial as the dream I dream
Stretch'd here beside the babbling of the brook;
Yet sweeter, being dream: yea, no less sweet
Than moonlight, or the wonder of the flower,
Or aught of beautiful or terrible
That haunts the regions of the earth or air.

THE PILGRIM.
Where is this God? I care not by what name
Ye know Him—Beautiful or Terrible?
Where is this God? and is He God at all?

MICROCOS.
I have not seen Him, and I know Him not.

THE PILGRIM.

Dost thou believe He is? or dost thou read
A fable, disbelieving that He is?
For either all that Book is dust and lies
Or else there was a Father and a Son—
A cruel Father and an outcast Son—
The story of whose tears on this sad earth
Is there in words of wonder written down.

140

But with a dreamy smile the wight replied:
‘These things I understand not; this I know—
Sweet is the Book, read sweetly, in sweet weather.
I prithee quit my sunshine!’ Thereupon
He turn'd his back, and on his elbows leaning,
Smiled and read on,—while with a bitter cry
I left him, and ascended the green hill
Close to whose feet he lay.

Meseem'd I climbed
Through verdurous ways for hours until I reach'd
The grassy summit, there methought I found
A man in ragged raiment all alone;
And lo, his face was set as is a star
In contemplation of some far-off thing
Down in a valley underneath his feet.
Nor when I near'd him did he turn or speak,
But sadly gazed; and following his gaze
Mine eyes saw nothing but afar away
What seem'd a shining cloud

I touch'd his arm
And question'd: ‘What is that thou gazest on?’

And he replied, not looking in my face'
‘The City without God, where I was born.’

BOOK XIV. THE CITY WITHOUT GOD.

Beauteous and young, yet bent as with the load
Of weary years, pale as a wintry May
When lingering frosts silver the path that leads
To brightness of the flowering summer meads,
Was he who spake: his locks of tender gold
Sadden'd with gleams of grey, his great blue eyes
Pallid and dim with melancholy light,
His voice forlorn yet sweet; and by a chain
He held a snow-white lamb that stood beside him
And gently lick'd his thin transparent hand.
I echoed him: ‘The City without God!
Alas! what City?’ ‘Yonder,’ he replied,
‘Behold it gladdening in the light of day!’

So saying, he pointed downward, and behold!
I saw the gleam of shining roofs and walls
Below me on the plain; and fair they seem'd
As any upbuilt by hands, and thitherward
Ran divers ways with thronging crowds that seem'd,
Seen from that hilltop, small as creeping ants.
He stood as moveless as a marble man
Down gazing, while I question'd: ‘Weary years
I have sought the City of God and found it not.
Who built this other underneath God's heaven?’

He answer'd, keeping still his misted eyes
Fix'd on the vision: ‘They who built the City
First laid the shadowy ghosts of all the gods,
And, lastly, God the Father's; then they wrought
Beneath the empty void and drain'd the marsh,
And out of earth quarried the marble bones
Of buried æons, and with blood and tears
Cemented them together, and at last,
Strange as a dream, the City of Man uprose.’

THE PILGRIM.
How fair it seems! yea, even fairer far
Than the proud City of Christopolis!
And thither hasten crowds as eagerly
As happy people making holiday!

THE STRANGER.
From every corner of the earth they throng,
Hearing the joyful music of the bells
Proclaiming that the reign of God is done!
I woke to that same music long ago,
Nor wonder'd, tho' mine ears had never heard
The name of any God, nor knew of any,
Save the great Spirit of Man; and when I ran
A child along the golden streets, and saw

141

The air alive with shining argosies,
The ways all beautiful, the temples fill'd
With sunshine and with music, I rejoiced
As only children may; but presently,
Ere yet I grew to the full height of man,
There came a wight in pilgrim's weeds like thine
Who told me of strange Cities far away
Where God still reign'd, and of the woeful Valley
Still haunted by the shadows of dead gods,
And suddenly, out of a gate in heaven,
A piteous Face Divine look'd down upon me
And vanish'd; and from that dark hour I knew
No gladness in the shining of the sun.

His voice was as a cry upon a mountain
Far off and faint, yet clear; and as he ended
He turn'd his eyes upon me, dim with tears,
Then said: ‘Retrace thy steps and hasten back!
Better the woefulest cities thou hast seen
Than yonder happy City of Despair!’
Whereat I cried: ‘Since in Christopolis
No comfort dwells, but only (as I have seen)
A blood-red crucifix upon a grave,
And since my weary flight has ranged the world,
Seeking in vain a City upbuilt by God,
I will go down to yonder City of Man
And therewithin find some calm place of rest;
For they who built it up so bright and fair
Must of all men be closest kin to gods
In love, in wisdom, and in mastery.’

He answer'd: ‘Search the City if thou wilt,
And I will guide thee thither; yet be warn'd,—
No pilgrim God hath haunted out of hope
Ever abides among those shining walls;
For if they slay him not, or if he 'scapes
Their melancholy prisons of the mad,
He flies into the wastes beyond the City
And nevermore returns.’

Then side by side
We pass'd descending towards the open way
Crowded with wayfarers; and as we went
The splendour of the City dazzled me
Like the great golden lilies of the dawn;
And presently we reach'd the living river
Which swept us onward till I saw full clear
The marvel of the domes that man had built.

Even as I paused in wonder, crying aloud:
‘Rejoice! for, lo, I have found at last a City
More beauteous far than any built by gods!’
I turn'd to share my joy with that pale wight
Who had led me thither, but his face and form
Had vanish'd in the crowd surrounding me,
And into those bright streets I pass'd alone.

Thus wandering on I joyfully discern'd
The white and shining walls, the flashing roofs,
Of that great City; not so fair, meseem'd,
As far-off splendours of Christopolis,
Yet stately, calm, and beautiful indeed,
With marble palaces in stately squares,
Broad streets with glad green trees on either side,
Bright gardens, leaping fountains, temples, fanes,
Observatories lifted high in air
Near to the sun and stars,—all beauty and grace
Of earthly cities builded up by hands;
No walls it had, nor gates of brass or stone,
But mighty avenues on either side
Where all might enter in; and as I went
I pass'd the citizens in snowy robes
Going and coming calmly in the sun.

Brighter, and ever brighter, as I went
Grew the full sunlight of the shining place
And as I wander'd through the bright broad streets
With leafy colonnades on either side,
And saw the stately white-robed citizens,
Peaceful and gentle, moving to and fro,
And watch'd o'erhead the many-colour'd ships
Wingèd like eagles sailing hither and thither,
My sorrow lessen'd and my fears grew cold.
For surely never City of the earth
Was brighter and more fair!—Down every street
A cooling rivulet ran, and in the squares

142

Bright fountains sparkled; and where'er I walk'd
The library, the gymnasium, and the bath
Were open to the sun; virgins and youths
Swung in the golden air like wingèd things,
Or in the crystal waters plunged and swam,
Or raced with oilèd limbs from goal to goal;
And in the hush'd and shadowy libraries,
Or in the galleries of painted art,
Or in the dusk museum, neophytes
Walk'd undisturb'd; and never sound of war,
Clarion or trumpet, cry of Priest or King,
Came to disturb the City's summer peace;
And never a sick face made the sunlight sad,
And never a blind face hunger'd for the light,
And never a form that was not strong and fair
Walk'd in the brightness of those golden streets.

Then thought I, ‘Fairer at least and happier
This City is than was Christopolis,
For all that dwell herein are strong and free!’
And as I spake I saw afar away
The reddening sunset and the approaching night;
When, suddenly, ere the dark night could fall,
Radiance like sunlight from a thousand lamps
Flooded the bosom of the wondrous City
And made it bright as dawn!

Methought I sat
Out in the brightness of a mighty square,
And watch'd the light and airy argosies
Quietly sailing 'gainst the shadow'd sky,
Now rising, now descending, even as birds,
With some fresh freight of men beneath their wings;
But as I mused I heard a sudden roar
As of a tide of life fast flowing thither,
And soon a crowd of white-robed citizens
Surged wildly round me, bearing in their midst
That pallid wight whom I had mark'd at morn
Leading his flower-deck'd lamb; and many hands
Were reach'd unto him, to grasp or strike him down,
And crying wildly to my side he ran
And saying ‘Help me, brother!’ fell and knelt,
Grasping my robe.

Then, as the crowd swept down,
I faced them, saying, ‘Stand back, and touch him not!
Children of freedom, citizens of peace,
Why are your spirits vex'd against this man?’
Then one, a reverend wight with beard like snow,
Stepp'd from their ranks and answer'd: ‘Give him to us!
He hath profaned our temples, and is mad.’

THE PILGRIM.
What would ye with him? Back, and answer me!

CITIZEN.
Strange to this City must thou be indeed,
Not knowing that its rulers, holy men,
Endure not in the shrines or public ways
The hideousness of disease or pestilence,
Nor any sight of moral leprosy,
Nor any form of spiritual taint
Whereof men surely die. Give up the man;
We shall not slay him, but deliver him
To those who in our public hospitals
Are the approved physicians of the soul.

THE PILGRIM.
Name me his madness ere I yield him up,
And give me proof of his profanity.

CITIZEN.
The proof is simple. Throug our streets he walk'd
Crying on some wild spectre of the brain,
Yea, naming an old name of little meaning,
The name of God, which (as our grand-dames tell)
Was in the olden times of ignorance
By nurses used to quiet children with;
Moreover, having enter'd unperceived
One of our holy Hospitals of Birth
Wherein the wheat is winnow'd from the tare,
The strong life from the weak, he straight-way raved

143

And in the name of that same God blas-phemed!

Then stooping down to him who clutch'd my robe,
question'd saying, ‘Brother, are these things true?’
And like a man whose face is blanchèd still
From some strange sight of horror infinite,
He wail'd reply:—

‘Ah, God! it haunts me still!
The darken'd hall, the devils stoled in black,
The cries of little children newly born,
And from the distant darness the low moans
Of woeful mothers! Brother, stoop thy head
And listen!—As they bare the sweet babes in,
Methought they look'd like angels newly fallen,
Tender as rose-leaves, from the hands of God;
And some were strong, and drew great draughts of life,
And these they spared; but some were weak and frail,
Poor little waifs with sad dim heavenly eyes,
And these, being tried with delicate instruments,
Were straightway still'd, and quickly swept away
Like useless leaves, for instant burial;
And some were blind, and since they could not see,
They threw them into darkness with the rest!
Then, brother, looking on that piteous sight,
Seeing the little children cast away,
I hid my face, and call'd aloud on God!’

CITIZEN.
You hear him. Yea, he raves! And such as he,
In name of that effete and loathsome Christ
Who made of this sweet world a lazar-house,
Would swarm our streets with sick and halt and lame,
And give our precious birthright to the blind!

THE PILGRIM.
Take heed, lest thou thyself blaspheme and rave!

CITIZEN.
How now? Dost thou defend and justify him?

THE PILGRIM.
Would 'twere as easy a task to justify
Meters and measurers of the flesh and soul;
For if these things he saith be true indeed
'Tis your archpriests who are surely mad, not he;
For who, beholding any thing new-born,
Be it fair or frail, happy or miserable,
Shall say what soul may grow from such a seed?
And who shall know but the infirmest flesh,
Though dark and dumb as any chrysalis,
May hold the strongest and the surest wings
That ever rose to the clear air of heaven?
Nay, who shall tell what light we cannot see
Whose orbs see only earth and earthly things
Steals through the darken'd casements of those eyes
Whereon the Hand divine hath drawn a veil?

CITIZEN.
Beware to echo him and share his blame!

THE PILGRIM.
He cried to God, and God shall hear his cry!
I join my voice to his and cry a curse
On this your City, fouler far to God
(If these sad things he saith be true indeed)
Than Sodom, which He did destroy by fire.

CITIZEN.
Another madman! Brethren, grasp them both!

THE PILGRIM.
Yea, seize us and destroy us, since ye slay
The little crying helpless seed of Him
Who in His pity made Himself a Child!
O God, Who made the lambkin and the babe,
And fill'd the great heart of the martyr'd babe
With human dews of love and gentleness,
So that He grew the help and friend of man—

144

O God, whose smile was for the sick and sad,
The halt, the lame, the wretched, and the blind,
Put out Thy hand to help Thy little ones,
And gnaw to death with Thine avenging worms
This Herod of the Cities in its pride!

Ev'n as I spake, with frantic prayers and cries,
Clasping that hunted brother in my arms,
They swept upon us and despite our shrieks
Tore us asunder, trampled under foot
The flower-fed lamb that gentle wanderer led,
And swept me cruelly I knew not whither.
Struggling amidst their throng, methought I swoon'd;
And when I open'd startled eyes once more
Methought that I was lying chain'd and bound
Within some lonely madhouse of the City!

How strange it seem'd that, ere my sense grew clear,
My eyesight ready to distinguish shapes,
I lay and listen'd to an old sweet hymn
Sung o'er my cradle when a little child!
And then I heard a sound like murmur'd prayer,
And louder singing as of angel-choirs.
Then, looking round, I saw that I was lying
Within a large and dimly-lighted hall,
And all around were human shapes like mine—
Women and men, some chain'd as I was chain'd
And others moving ghostlike to and fro;
And from the throats of some of these there came
The murmur I had heard of hymn and prayer.
Gentle they seem'd, save one or two who shriek'd,
Gnash'd teeth, or tore their hair, crying aloud
Upon the God of Thunder. Some stood rapt
Their eyes on some strange vision and their arms
Wildly outreaching; others knelt at prayer;
A few moved to and fro, with eyes cast down,
Musing and pale; and many told their beads.
Bare was the place—no picture hanging there,
Or any fair device to please the gaze;
But on the whitewash'd wall the mad folks' hands
Had written strange old names—of God the Lord,
Christ Jesus, Mary Mother, and the Saints;
And crouching in a corner one poor soul,
Dreaming aloud and muttering to himself,
Had drawn in charcoal Death the Skeleton,
Buddha as black as night but radiant-wing'd,
And Christ with hanging head, upon His Cross.

Wondering and pitying I gazed around
Seeking some friendly face; and I beheld,
Standing close by me in a saffron robe,
A maiden like Madonna heavenly-eyed,
Her white hands folded meekly on her breast,
Praying and looking upward in a dream.
To her I spake, demanding reverently
What place it was wherein I prison'd lay,
And who my weary fellow-sufferers were
That in that dreary building flock'd together?

‘Dear brother,’ she replied, ‘this is the place
Wherein those weary wights who are mad past cure
Are prison'd from the sunshine and sweet air;
All here are pilgrims like thyself, who seek
God and God's City, with assurance sweet
Of life immortal and eternal peace.’

THE PILGRIM.
Then these are mad folk, and I, too, am mad?
And yet meseems, though some are sad and wild,
Many are smiling, bright and well-content.

THE MAIDEN.
Because each night, when all the doors are closed,

145

Fair angels fresh from heaven enter here;
Yea, even Christ the Lord doth often come
To comfort them in their extremity.

I gazed upon her wondering, and methought
Her azure eyes were strange and sweetly wild,
And patiently her bosom rose and fell
With some disturbing rapture of the soul;
Wherefore I cried:—

‘Alas! they are mad indeed!
Since they behold what is not, and perceive
That Phantom Christ whose other name is Death!’

THE MAIDEN.
Nay, they behold the eternal Light and Life,
Whose earthly name is Christ the Crucified!

THE PILGRIM.
Yet tell me, wherefore are they prison'd here?

THE MAIDEN.

Because the rulers of the City hold
That they are lepers, who, being suffer'd forth,
And speaking with the people in the streets,
Would spread their souls' disease a hundred-fold.
If any man doth breathe the Name Divine,
Or seeing strange visions tell what he hath seen,
Or speak of lands of dream beyond the grave,
Straightway they lead him here, to these dark halls,
For inquisition.

Even as she spake
The inquisitors appear'd, grave men and old
Array'd in solemn black, and usher'd in
By ceremonious guardians of the place;
But, save myself, methought, none heeded them,
All those pale prisoners being intent in prayer,
Or singing aloud, or trancèd into dream.
Then one, a keeper of the prison, led
The inquisitors to the corner where I lay,
And touching me upon the shoulder cried
‘Stand up! and hearken!’—and still chain'd I rose
And faced them, while with calm and pitying eyes
They coldly read my face for testimony.
Then one said, smiling, ‘Fear not! since we come
To heal thee, not to harm thee, if perchance
Thy grievous malady admits a cure.
Thou art one of those who darkening in a dream
See visions, and beyond these clouds of Time
Some phantom City builded upon air?’

Then I, forewarn'd and cunning to escape,
Smiled also: ‘So they said who left me here;
And peradventure, when I first set forth
On the sad pilgrimage which brought me hither,
I saw such phantoms, dream'd such dreams, and raved;
But now, alas! the euphrasy of pain
Hath purged mine eyes of that ancestral rheum,
And what my soul once saw I see no more.’

‘How now?’ I heard them mutter among themselves,
‘The man perchance is saner then we thought.’
And looking in my face, another said,
‘Be sure, if thou art heal'd of thy disease
Thou shalt escape these chains and wander free.
Now answer!—What is highest of living things?’

THE PILGRIM.
Man; since he is the chief and lord of all.

INQUISITOR.
Whence comes he? whither goes he?

THE PILGRIM.
Out of dust
He cometh, and full soon to dust returns.

INQUISITOR.
When Death hath broken the light vase of life,
What then remaineth?

THE PILGRIM.
Ashes in an urn.

146

INQUISITOR.
Think! When the body is dust, doth naught survive?

THE PILGRIM.
Those thoughts which are the heirloom of us all,
The Spirit of Man which lives though men pass by.

INQUISITOR.
Look round upon these souls which share thy prison—
What are they?

THE PILGRIM.
Madmen.

INQUISITOR.
Yea; but wherefore mad?

THE PILGRIM.
Because they see a Shadow on the world,
Namely, the Shadow of Death, and call it God;
Because their prayers like fountains flash at heaven
And fall unanswer'd back upon the ground;
Because they, travelling in a desert place,
Behold the mirage of a City of Dream!

Then I perceived they look'd at one another,
Smiling well pleased, and presently they said:
‘The man is surely harmless—let him go!’
And straightway I was free; but as I moved
In act to leave the place, the mad folk throng'd
Around me, crying the name of God aloud,
Rebuking and upbraiding; and one, the maid
With whom I first had spoken, moan'd in mine ear,
‘God help thee! Since thou hast denied thy God,
Who now shall be thy succour and thy stay?’
As sick of soul and shamed I crept away,
I heard behind me from the madhouse walls
The murmur of a fountain of strong prayer,
Voices that sang, ‘Hosannah to the Lord!
He hath built His City, and He calls us thither!’
And once again it seem'd the cradle-hymn
That I had heard when I was lying a babe
Fresh from the shores of some celestial sea;
Wherefore my eyes grew dim with piteous tears,
And bowing down my head, I sobb'd aloud

But bright as Hesper in the morning beams
The City sparkled—square and street and mart
Busy and merry, throng'd with white-robed crowds,
The blue air bright with happy argosies,
The water full of swimmers swift and nude,
The fountains leaping, and the hearts of all
Leaping in unison, while from countless choirs
A merry music rang! But all my soul
Was weary of gladness, and I long'd, me-thought,
To be alone with God; and seeing pass
One whose grave eyes seem'd sadder than the rest,
I touch'd him on the arm and said unto him,
‘Prithee, are there no Temples in this City,
Wherein a soul worn out on pilgrimage
May rest a space and pray?’ and he replied,
‘Yea, truly—there are many—and yonder stands
One of our fairest’—pointing as he spake;
And I beheld a mighty edifice,
Its dome of azure enwrought with golden signs,
Stars, constellations, jewell'd galaxies,
And changeful symbols of the zodiac;
Over the columns of the portico
A frieze in marble—strong Asclepios
Pictured Apollo-like in godlike strength,
Dispensing herbs and healing crowds of sick,—
Το αληθευειν και το ευεργετειν,
Written in golden letters underneath.

I climb'd the marble steps, and pushing back
The curtain on the threshold, enter'd in;
And in an instant, as one quits the sun
And steals 'mid umbrage where the light is strain'd

147

Thro' blood-red blooms and alabaster leaves,
I found myself alone in solemn shades.
Facing me to the eastward, whence the day
Crept thro' a stainèd window (figuring
The Sun himself burning with golden beams
And lighting globes of green and amethyst),
A solemn Altar, upon which there stood
The golden image of a sleeping Child,
And bending o'er the cradle where he lay
A Skeleton of silver, ruby-eyed;
And round the solemn place, to left and right,
Were many-colour'd windows limn'd where-on
Instead of saints were wise men of the earth—
Physicians azure-robed, astronomers
With stars for crowns, pale bards in singing robes,
And women like the sibyl, book in hand.
From some mysterious heart of this fair shrine
A solemn organ music slowly throbb'd,
With deep pulsations, like the sound o' the sea.
Then spirit-broken, awed and wondering,
I cast myself upon my face and pray'd;
And while I lay, methought, an unseen choir
Sang of primæval darkness suddenly
Struck by the golden ploughshare of the sun,
Of kindling azure fields where softly fell
The nebulous seeds that blossom'd into worlds,
Of dark transfigurations changing slowly
From rock to flower, from flower to things of life,
And through the mystic scale, from beasts to man;
And lo! meseem'd a darkness and despair,
O'ermastering, awe-compelling, creeping down
Like clouds that blacken from the mountain-peaks
And shroud the peaceful valleys, stole upon me,
And swathed my soul in dread before I knew,
So that I could not pray, nor knew indeed
What spirit to pray to or what god to praise,
For all I felt within and over me
Was some blind sense of demiurgic doom
Feeling with strange progressions up to life,
Then breaking, as a wave that breaks and goes!
Then cried I: ‘Spirit of Man, if spirit thou art
That in this Temple broodest like a cloud,
Blind Spirit of Doom and Mystery and Change,
How shall I apprehend thee? Wrap thyself
In humble raiment of some awful god,
And I shall know thee; clothe thy ghost divine
In piteous limbs of white humanity,
Speak with a human whisper in mine ear,
And rest thy human hand upon my hair,
And I shall feel thy touch, and worship thee;
Come down, O God! if thou art quick not dead,
And walk as other gods have walk'd the world
With tread that thunders or with feet that bleed,
That I may feel thee pass and bow to thee—
For who shall worship darkness deep as death,
And silence still as stone, and dreariest dread,
Faceless and eyeless, formless, without bound?’
Thus praying, I was startled by a voice,
Angry though feeble, crying in mine ear,
‘Arise! profane not with a foolish cry
This Temple of the Law!’ and looking up,
I saw a woman very grey and old
Leaning upon a staff and gazing at me:
Her robe all black and wrought with starry signs
Like those upon the Temple's azure dome,
Her hair as white as wool, her wrinkled face
As blank and ashen-grey as is the Sphinx;
So strange and sinister her look, she seem'd
One of the fabled Mothers who for ever
Intone Cimmerian runes of death and birth.

‘What woman art thou?’ I cried, and she replied,
‘A Virgin of the Temple; one whose task
'Tis to preserve the altar clean and pure,
And sweep the floor of dust. I heard thee praying
And came to warn thee hence; for prayers like thine
Offend the solemn Spirit of the place.’

148

THE PILGRIM.
Name me that Spirit, and I will pray to Him!

THE WOMAN.
Alack! no tongue hath named him, and no eye
Hath seen, no mortal known, the Unknow-able;
But if thou needst must pray, give prayers to those
Who are pictured on the windows and the walls—
The blessèd men who by their thoughts and deeds
Have builded up this Temple of the Law.

THE PILGRIM.
Men that have perish'd! why should I pray to those,
Seeing I famish for the Imperishable?

THE WOMAN.
Aye me! the foolish hunger and the thirst
Of babes who sit before the laden board
And crave for fabled meat and drink of gods!
Take heed; for in a little while thine eyes
Shall close from seeing, and thy throat and cars
Be fill'd with dust. Death is the one thing sure,
And Death is here, the Shadow in the shrine!
Yet Death is but the shadow of a change,
Since naught that is departs, tho' all things die!

THE PILGRIM.
Thy words are dark as night. What meanest thou?

THE WOMAN.
Lives pass. The Spirit of Life alone survives.

THE PILGRIM.
Yea, and survives for ever, being God.

THE WOMAN.
There is no God, but only Death and Change.

THE PILGRIM.
Read me thy riddle, Mother Sibylline!

THE WOMAN.
The Darkness that for ever gathers here,
And in the heavens, and in the heart of man,
Is elemental; 'tis the primal force
For ever quickening into life and change,
For ever failing in a thousand forms,
And falling back to feed the central Heart
That throbs for ever thro' the flaming worlds.
Spark of that Heart, that heliocentric flame,
Art thou, who, being kindled for a moment,
Shalt vanish as a spark blown from a forge!

THE PILGRIM.
Aye me!—only a spark, to flash and fade!

THE WOMAN.
Nay, less!—this earth is but a flake of fire,
Fallen from the nearest of those flaming suns
Which burn a space and then like lesser lives
In their due season blacken and grow cold.
Think on thy littleness, thy feebleness,
And praise the mystic, all-pervading Law,
Which on the eyelids of unnumber'd worlds
Sheds the ephemeral life, the dust of Time.

THE PILGRIM.
Alas! how should I praise the Invisible,
Which shows me baser than the dust indeed?
The empty Void shall never have my prayer,
But that which lifts me up and gives me wings,
And proves me more than any unconscious world
However luminous and beautiful,—
That will I worship. Fairer far, methinks,
The meanest, smallest, tutelary god
That ever gave men gifts of fruit and flowers,
The frailest spirit of human fantasy
Blessing the worshipper with kindly hands,
Than this dead Terror of the Inevitable,
Weighing like leaden Death, with Death's despair,
In the core of countless worlds! I ask for God,
For Light, not Darkness, and for Life, not Death;
Not for the fatal doom which leaves me low—

149

Nay, for the gentle, upward-urging Hand
Which lifts me on to immortality!

So saying, I left her standing sadly there,
And quitting that proud Temple fled again
Into the common sunlight; but my soul
Was sad as night and darken'd with a doubt,
And in my veins the ominous sense of doom
Was creeping like some cold and fatal drug;
So that the City with its thousand lights
Seem'd like a feeble taper flickering
In chilly winds of death, and all the throng
Moths hovering round a melancholy flame.
Faint was my spirit as a sickly light
Held in the night and shielded by thin hands
From the strong wintry wind, when presently
I mark'd another temple marble-wrought,
And seeing that the doors were open wide
Enter'd, and passed thro' echoing corridors,
And found myself within its inmost core.
And in a lofty hall, with marble paven,
One stood before a table wrought of stone
And strewn with phials, knives, and instruments
Of sharpest steel; before him, ranged in rows,
On benches forming a great semi-moon,
His audience throng'd, all hungry ears and eyes.
The man was stript to the elbow, both his hands
Were stain'd and bloody; and in the right he held
A scalpel dripping blood; beneath him lay,
Fasten'd upon the board, while from its heart
Flowed the last throbbing stream of gentle life,
A cony as white as snow. In cages near
Were other victims—cony and cat and ape,
Lambkins but newly yean'd, and fluttering doves
Which preen'd their wings and coo'd their summer cry.
The hall was darken'd from the sun, but lit
By lamps electric that around them shed
Insufferable brightness clear as day.

Presently at the door there enter'd one
Who by a chain did lead a gentle hound
Which scenting new-shed blood drew back in dread
Whereon from all the benches rose a cry
Of cruel laughter; and the lecturer smiled,
And wiping then his blood-stain'd instrument
And casting down the cony scarcely dead,
Prepared the altar for fresh sacrifice.
The hound drew back and struggled with the chain
In act to fly, but roughly dragged and driven
He reach'd the lecturer's feet and there lay down,
Panting and looking up with pleading eyes;
The lecturer smiled again and patted him,
When lo! the victim lick'd the bloody hand,
Pleading for kindness and for pity still.
Then in my dream methought I heard a voice
Ring clearly and coldly as a churchyard bell,
Saying, ‘Lo! our next subject, friends—a hound,
Chosen in preference even to the ape,
Because the convolutions of his brain
Are likest to the highest, even Man's!’

Suddenly in my vision I perceived
The victim's face, though hairy and hound-like still,
Was now mysteriously humanised
Into the likeness of a naked Faun,
Who pricking hairy ears and rolling eyes
Shriek'd with a sylvan cry! and at the sound
There came from all the cages round about
A murmur such as in the leafy woods
Comes rippling from the merry flocks of Pan;
Yea, I beheld them—cony and cat and ape,
And lo! the tamest and the feeblest there
Had ta'en the pretty pleading human looks
Of naiad babes and tiny freckled fauns,
Sweet elves and pigmy centaurs of the woods!
And when the victim moan'd, they answer'd him
With pitying babble of the unconscious groves,
Cries of the haunted forest, and such shrieks
As the pale dryad prison'd in the tree
Yields when the woodman stabs her milky bark;

150

And mingled with such piteous woodland sounds
There came a gentle bleating as of lambs,
Blent with another and a stranger sound,
Faint, as of infants crying for the breast!

This pass'd; for all my soul, being sick and sad,
Grew blinded with the fastly-flowing tears;
Yet straining once again my troubled sense
I saw the faun strapt down upon the board,
And though his feet were beast-like, his twain hands
Were human, and his fingers clutch'd the knife!
He shriek'd; I shriek'd in answer; and, behold,
His head turn'd softly, and his eyes sought mine.

Then, lo! a miracle—face, form, and limbs,
Changed on the instant—neither hound nor faun
Lay there awaiting the tormentor's knife,
But One, a living form as white as wax,
Stigmata on His feet and on His hands,
And on His face, still shining as a star,
The beauty of Eros and the pain of Christ!
I knew Him, but none other mortal knew,
Though every tiny faun and god o' the wood,
Still garrulously babbling, named the Name;
And looking up into the torturer's face
He wept and murmur'd, ‘Even as ye use
The very meanest of My little ones,
So use ye Me!’ That other smiled and paused—
He only heard the moaning of a hound—
Then crushing one hand on the murmuring mouth,
He with the other took the glittering knife,
And leisurely began!

I look'd no more;
But covering up mine eyes I shriek'd aloud
And rush'd in horror from the accursèd place;
But at the door I turn'd, and turning met
The piteous eyeballs fix'd in agony
Beneath a forehead by the knife laid bare!
‘Almighty God,’ I cried, ‘behold Thy Son!’
And pointed at the victim. As I spake,
A throng of frowning men surrounded me,
Crying, ‘Who raves? down with him! drive him forth!’
And in an instant I was smitten and driven
Beyond the porch into the open air.
There stood I panting, dazzled by the day
Which burnt all golden in the paven square,
And gazing back upon the gloomy porch
As on the sulphur-spewing mouth of Hell.

Then one, a tall grave wight in priestly robes,
Strode to me, crying, ‘Hence! profane no more
The Temple with thy presence!’ but I call'd
My curse upon the place, and lifting hands,
Again cried out on God.

THE PRIEST.
What man art thou
That darest in this holy place blaspheme,
Knowing God is not, knowing the wise have proved
All gods to be a shadow and a snare?

THE PILGRIM.
God is! He hears! O God, send down a sign
To slay these slaves who torture Christ Thy Son!

THE PRIEST.
Wild is thy speech. What hast thou heard or seen,
To rob thee of thy wits and make thee mad?

THE PILGRIM.
In there the Christ is worse than crucified;
He moans, He bleeds beneath the torturer's knife!

THE PRIEST.
O fool! what is this Christ of whom you rave?
A man of Judah, who, being mad like thee,
Eighteen long centuries since was crucified,
And cried the self-same wild despairing cry
To God who could not, or who would not, hear?
What wrought he for the world? A net of lies!
What legacy bequeath'd he? Tears and dreams!

151

I tell thee, man, that those who uplift the knife
In this fair Temple of Humanity
Have heal'd more wounds in man's poor suffering flesh
Than e'er your Christ did open in man's soul.
Your God had sacrifice of lambs and beeves,
A holocaust whose smoke did blacken heaven!
We to a fairer god, the Spirit of Man,
Offer in love a few poor living things
Whose sufferings by use are sanctified.

THE PILGRIM.
E'en as ye serve the meanest of His lambs,
So serve ye Christ, the Shepherd of the flock!

THE PRIEST.
Man is the Shepherd of this world, and we
The friends and priests of Man; to Man alone
Belongs the privilege of dispensing pain;
All lower things are means and instruments;
And if to save him but a finger-ache
'Tis meet the baser types should bleed and die.
Look round upon this City! Years ago
Your Christ, a hideous Phantom, haunted it,
And in his train Disease and Pestilence,
Foulness and Fever, danced their dance of Death.
Our wise men came and drave the Phantom forth,
And since that hour the ways are bright and clean;
Disease is banish'd, Pestilence is now
An old man's memory, Death itself is turn'd
Into the servant and the slave of Man.

THE PILGRIM.
Death comes indeed! Ye have not vanquish'd Death!

THE PRIEST.
Death is the holy usher stoled in black
Who cometh to the wearied out and old
Saying, ‘Your bed is made—'tis time to rest!’
Right gladly to the solemn death-chamber
They follow, and are curtain'd in that sleep
Which never yet was stirr'd by man or God;
And yet they die not, since no force is lost,
But passeth on, and these survive for ever
In children ever coming, ever going,
To make the merry music of the world.

THE PILGRIM.
Merry, indeed!—made up of tears and moans,
Of fair things martyr'd, frail things sacrificed,
In name of that most cruel god of all,
The godless Spirit of Man! and lo! at last
Your children are baptized with blood of beasts,
And heal'd with death of innocent childlike things,
And strengthen'd out of slaughter. Woe is me!
That ever child should draw his strength from death,
And be the heir of cruelty and pain!

Like one half waking and half sleeping, risen
From spirit-chilling visions of the night,
Uncertain of the world wherein he walks,
Haunted and clouded, thro' the City I pass'd;
And voices seem'd afar off, and all sounds
Ghostly and strange, and every face I met
Fantastic, melancholy, and unreal:
And weary hours pass'd by, and still I walk'd;
And in the end I found myself alone
Upon a green hillside beyond the town,
Entering a beauteous Garden of the Dead.

The place was green and still, with shadowy walks,
And banks of gracious flowers; and ranged in rows
Along the grassy terraces were placed
White urns that held the ashes of the dead,—
In each of these a handful white as salt
Left from the cleansing fire; and in the midst
There stood a building like a sepulchre
From the iron heart of which a pale blue flame
Rose strange and sacrificial; hither came
The bearers with their burdens linen-wrapt
Which being dropt into the furnace-flame

152

Shrivell'd like leaves and swiftly were consumed.
While near the fiery place I gazing stood
I saw from out the glistening gate of brass
An old man issue, naked to the waist,
And holding in his hands a silver urn.
Still darken'd and perplex'd I spake to him,
And when he answer'd, setting down the urn
And gazing at me with lacklustre eyes,
His voice seem'd ghostly, faint, and far away.
‘Art thou the sexton of this place?’ I cried;
And straightway he replied, wiping his brows,
‘Adam the Last, the watcher of the fire—
That is my name and office, gentle sir.’

THE PILGRIM.
So, Adam, last or first, the old order stands?
Your masters have not yet abolish'd Death!

ADAM.
Nay, God forbid! (alas! the foolish name
I learnt when I was young!)—Death comes to all;
The one thing sure and best—man's Comforter!

THE PILGRIM.
Can men that are so merry, having upbuilt
A City so serene and beautiful,
Still welcome silence and the end of all?

ADAM.
Yea, verily—though should they hear me breathe
The dreary truth, the rulers of the City
Might rob me of mine office, gentle sir;
But by thy face and raiment I perceive
Thou art a stranger, coming from the land
Of gracious gods and old, where I was born.
Fair is the City, as thou sayest, and merry,
Yet many men grow weary of its mirth,
And ere their time would gladly welcome sleep!

THE PILGRIM.
How so? 'Tis surely bliss for any man
To live and gladden in so sweet a place?

ADAM.
I know not. Times are changed. In times gone by,
When Fever and Disease and Pestilence
Walk'd freely through the streets and garner'd men,
I have mark'd upon the brows of those that died
A light that comes not now. I have stood and watch'd
By deathbeds, and as Death bent down to grasp
The throbbing throat and clutch the fluttering life,
I have seen him shrink and like a frighten'd hound
Crouch panting at the flash o' the dying face,
The proud imperious wave o' the dying hand;
Yea oftentimes, when men call'd out on God,
Defying Death with smiles, it seem'd a charm
To affright the Phantom which affrighteth all!

THE PILGRIM.
Yet now men welcome Death, as thou hast said.

ADAM.
Yea, but how differently, how wearily!
With no sweet hope of waking, with no thought
Of meeting those who have fallen to sleep before;
With no glad childish vision of delight
To come upon them when the morrow breaks
Happy and loving as a father's face.
They know their day is o'er, and that is all:
What matter if it hath been sunny and merry,
'Tis ended—night come duly—all is done.
Moreover, nowadays, methinks that men,
Knowing so clearly, love not one another
As in the good old times when I was young!
For, look you, master, wedlock is a bond
Between the strong and strong, who know that soon
All fall asunder in Death's crucible;
And when a man or woman dies by chance,

153

What use to mourn?—the vase of life is broken,
And there's an end; wherefore, methinks that men
Knew more of Love when they were mourn-fuller.
For Suffering and Sorrow walk'd the world
Like veilèd angels pointing heavenward,
And folk were sadder then, but hopefuller;
And now, indeed, since Hope hath gone away
With all the other angels, Death alone
Remains the one cold friend and comforter.

Now much I marvell'd, hearing such sad speech
Drop from the old man's mouth like simple sooth;
And gazing down upon the glorious City
Which sparkled in the sunshine under us,
Seeing the earth and air alive with life,
And catching from afar the faint glad cries
Of multitudinous creatures fluttering
Like motes in the sunbeam, still I seem'd to be
A ghost upon the borderland of Death,
Having no portion in humanity;
And like another ghost the old man seem'd,
Garrulously babbling with a voice as thin
As any heard in dream; then side by side
We walk'd together to the highest bourne
Of that fair burial-place, and lo! I saw,
Stretching before me on the further side,
A darkness like a mighty thunder-cloud—
Darkness on darkness, far as eye could see.

‘What land lies yonder at our feet?’ I said,
And pointed downward. Gravely he replied:
‘Nay, sir, I know not, but I have heard folk say
A melancholy and a sunless land,
Forest on forest, dreary, without bound,—
Haunted by monsters, beasts and saurians
Of the primæval slime; a land, alack!
Unfit for man to dwell in, melancholy
As were the dusk beginnings of the world.’

Then in my dream, which seem'd no dream at all,
Methought I leapt, like one who takes the plunge
From some black cape into a midnight sea,
Into that gulf of darkness; and the night
Crash'd round and o'er me, as I sank and sank
Down, down, to dark oblivion deep as death,
When for a space I lost all count of time,
But senseless lay amid the ooze and drift
Of the unconscious shadows; yet at last
I stirr'd and waken'd, lying like a weed
On a cold isle of moonlight in the midst
Of cloud on cloud breaking like wave on wave
Around me; thro' the darkness I perceived
Far off the glowworm glimmer of the City
Which I had left behind.

Feebly I rose,
Affrighted at the cold new stir of life
Along my veins, and murmur'd, ‘Woe is me!
I live, who would have died; I am quick, who fain
Would have return'd to stony nothingness!
And I have search'd the world, and left the prints
Of my sad footsteps on the tracts of Time,
Yet am I houseless and a wanderer still
From City unto City, knowing at last
My quest is fruitless and my dreaming vain!’

Then with a cry I faced the seas of night,
And blindly hasten'd on, I knew not whither!

BOOK XV. THE CELESTIAL OCEAN.

Methought I pass'd into the shadowy land
Where Nature like a gorgon mother sits
Devouring her own young; a rocky land,
Formless, chaotic, lonely, terrible,
And yet alive with monstrous shapes as strange
As e'er mad poet fabled: shapes that lived,
And moan'd, and open'd jaws chimæra-like,
And changed, and died; yet ever when I sought
To approach them, faded into lifeless forms
Of crag and rock. In stagnant sunless meres
I saw foul monsters swim, some serpent-wise,
Others web-footed like the water-birds,

154

While overhead, from a black mountain-peak,
The wingèd pterodactyl of the chalk
Flapt to its eyrie on the snake-strewn shore.
‘Almighty God,’ I moan'd, ‘whose Hand did frame
These hideous creatures of the ooze and slime,
Within whose lineaments I seem to trace
Strange far-off hints of sweeter shapes and forms
Flowering at last in naked flesh of man,
Haunt me not with the deathlike fantasy
Of pageants fit for Hell!’ And as I spake
Meseem'd I felt within my living veins
The speckled blood that steals like quick-silver
Under the hydra's skin, and knew my sense
Sick with primæval foulness of the slime
From which 'twas fashion'd when the Monster ruled
A rank and watery world. Yet I beheld
Within that land of portents pale gray men
Who stood and smiled, as happy children smile
On curious gnomes and trolls of Faeryland;
And many murmur'd, ‘Wondrous is the Lord!
Whose word hath touch'd the darkness, till, behold,
It stirs and breathes and lives!’

How long I walk'd
In that wild realm I know not, but at last
I found myself ascending a steep path
Upwinding to forlornest mountain-peaks;
And as I went the light grew cheerfuller,
And far away above my head I saw
A light clear space of sun-kist snow that seem'd
Like God's hand resting on the Mastodon
That felt it and was still; and suddenly
There flew across my path a bright-eyed bird
Of eagle-size, but whiter than a dove,
And fluttering upward lighted on a rock
And waved its pinions looking down upon me,
And when I follow'd rose and fled again,
Again alighting; thus from rock to rock
It flew, I following, while at every step
The light grew clearer, and my soul less sad.
At last methought I reach'd a green plateau
Far up among the peaks and loud with sound
Of many torrents falling; and the grass
That grew thereon was strewn with tiny shells,
Prismatic, beautiful, left by the lips
Of some receding sea; and pausing there,
I gazed into the valleys I had quitted,
And saw a darkness as of flood and cloud
Spear'd by the red lance of the setting sun,
And from the darkness came a solemn sound,
Terrible, elemental, as of waves
Wandering without a home.

While thus I stood,
I saw two shapes approaching from the peaks,
One leading and one following: that, a Child,
Bright as a sunbeam, merry and golden-hair'd,
Who ran before and beckon'd, ran again
And beckon'd pausing; this, a reverend man,
Clad in a robe of samite white as snow,
And leaning on a staff enwrought with shapes
Of flower and dove and serpent. As they came
Great awe fell on me, for methought ‘They come
To bring me tidings that my search is done!’
Fair was that Child, and 'neath her rosy feet
The coarse grass blossom'd into crystal blooms,
And fair was he who follow'd reverently—
Most proud his step as if he walk'd on thrones,
His dark eyes suffering with the kingly light
They shed upon me through his reverend hair.

And coming near, the Child with birdlike cries
Paused, looking on my features wonderingly,
Then turning quickly beckon'd once again,
And slowly approaching he who follow'd her
Did greet me like a monarch welcoming

155

Some stranger to the kingdom which he rules;
Then looking on my pilgrim's staff and scrip,
And pouring into my half-dazzled eyes
Strange lustre of his own dark orbs, he said:
‘Welcome, O Stranger, to these lonely peaks!
Far hast thou travell'd from a weary world
To find firm foothold on the mountains here.’
And as he spake he placed his gentle hand
Upon the bright head of the Child, who stood
Smiling and listening; and his voice was deep
As torrent-voices partly drowning it,
Yet musical and passionately calm.

THE PILGRIM.
Far have I travell'd, wearily have I sought
A world of sense and phantoms, shapes and signs,—
Since in an earthly City last I stood
Wailing my lot and calling out on God.

THE MAN.
Be comforted—here shall thy cry be still'd,
Or drown'd in voices more miraculous.
Thou comest from the City where I was born?

THE PILGRIM.
The City men have builded, without God?

THE MAN.
The same. These hands of mine did help to raise
Some of its temples, and its inmost shrine.
When I drew breath 'twas but a noxious marsh
With some few dwellings long untenanted,
But in the heyday of my youth I cried:
‘Upbuild! create a City out of stone
That we who know not God may dwell therein;’
Saying moreover, ‘Wiser far are they
Who drain the marsh and make the market thrive
Than they who waste their toil on pyramids.’
Ev'n while I spake the City of Man upgrew,
To music sweet of the invisible choir
Who form the dusky vanguard of the dead;
And temples rose like lilies from the mere
Of human creatures multitudinous,
And Night was vanquish'd, and Disease and Pain
Crept from the shining of the strange new light.

THE PILGRIM.
But Death remain'd.

THE MAN.
And reign'd! Ere long I saw
The Shadow veil'd with sunlight looking down
Upon the beauteous City we had built;
And with a spectral hand he pointed ever
At the glad pageant, at the heart of man,
And at the living soul within the soul.
Then thought I, ‘Man hath conquer'd God, not Death,
And the broad harvest Man hath sown Death reaps;’
And surely I had madden'd in despair,
Had I not seen one morning, as I stood
In the still burial-place beyond the City,
This Child, who ran and play'd among the tombs,
Blown hither and thither like a butterfly
By some strange wind of gladness; then behold,
She beckon'd, and I follow'd (for methought
She was not as the common things of earth,
But wondrous, fed on some diviner air);
And from the gates she drew me with a smile
Until I came, as thou thyself didst come,
Among the darkness of primæval Time,
Haunted by monsters, hydras, mastodons,
Strange forms, the slime of Chaos; but whene'er
I falter'd faint of heart, the Child ran back
And slipt her little hand into mine own,
And prattling of the sunshine and the dawn
Did draw me gently on, until at last
I left the haunted valleys and beheld
A stainless snow like to the hand of God
Lying on yonder peaks; and even yet
I know not if the thing that led me on,
And leads me ever, is a mortal Child,

156

Or some angelic presence sent to guide
My footsteps through the shadows of the world.

THE PILGRIM.
An angel, surely! See how rapturously
Her happy face is shining into thine!
An angel still, if human; for methinks
Her eyes reflect the glory and the dream
Of God's celestial City which I seek.
Yet surely this is evil, that thy feet
Still tread the loneness of the mountain-tops,
Thine eyes see not the splendour she hath seen?

THE MAN.
It is enough to know that such things are,
Beyond the silence and the setting sun.

THE PILGRIM.
Alas! how knowest thou not that after all
They are not phantasies and images
Like those that met thee yonder in the vales?
Alas! if thou hast won these lonely heights.
What hast thou gain'd, what have thy soul's eyes seen
More than the souls in yonder City see?

THE MAN.
The peace of God, the assurance of His heaven,
Seen mirror'd in the blue eyes of a Child!

THE PILGRIM.
But surely Death shall follow and find thee here?

THE MAN.
I wait his coming, eager for more light
Such as he brings to those who love its beams,
Yet not impatient, for from these high peaks
I look on more than mortal sight can measure
Or human soul conceive and apprehend:
Dawn flying like a dove from isle to isle
Of Chaos; infinite and wondrous life
Stirring from form to form; the march of lives
From sleep to sleep, from death to death; the flow
Ofearth's progressions, and the ebb of Time.
Wherefore mine age is clothed with mastery
As with a garment; slowly I have learn'd
That to be young and innoeent is best,
Next best it is to be serene and old.

THE PILGRIM.
Having beheld these things, beholding still
Their stress and pain, dost thou believe on God?

THE MAN.
I know not. What is infinite transcends
The seeing of the finite, evermore.
Gaze in the heavenly eyes of this fair Child,
And thou shalt see a light more mystical
Than all thy spirit can conceive of God.
Pilgrim of earth, wouldst thou behold a sign?
Conceive the inconceivable, attain
To prescience which would prove, if absolute,
The annihilation of thy thinking soul?
Come, then, and standing yonder on the peaks,
The highest point of earth, survey the waste
Of that mysterious Ocean without bound,
Which wash'd thee hither as a grain of sand
And sow'd thee deep among these drifts of dust
To quicken into strange humanity!

He ceased; and on the heights above his head
The daylight faded, while the hand of Night
Hung closed a moment o'er the rayless snows,
Then open'd suddenly and from its grasp
Loosen'd one lustrous star! Then with a cry
The Child sprang upward on the dizzy path,
And paused above us beckoning; and we follow'd
From crag to crag till we together stood
Close to the edge of that celestial Sea
Which breaks for ever on these dark shores of earth.

Lone on the heights we stood as on a strand
Oceanward gazing; and the world beneath
Faded to an abyss of nothingness,
Unseen, unheard, unknown, but at our feet
The waves of ether rippled, gleam'd, and broke
In silence; and as far as eye could see
The waste cærulean stretch'd in windless calm,

157

Here bright, there shadowy, strewn with shimmering flakes
Like lunar gleams; and suddenly, to lend
New splendour to the solitary scene,
The island of the moon broke into beams
And shook upon the azure shallows around
Wild shafts of silver: then the stillness grew
Intenser, and the deep ethereal voids
Seem'd opening to their inmost, till I saw
Far as the pin-point of the furthest sphere
In the dark silence and abysm of space,
And from the far-off unimagined shores
There came, or seem'd to come, a stir of sound
So faint it scarce did seem to touch the sleep
Of that vast Ocean!

Then with reverent eyes
Up-gazing, and upon his pallid face
Light falling faintly from a million worlds,
Thus spake that old man masterful, my guide:

‘Thou seekest God—behold thou standest now
Within His Temple. Lo, how brilliantly
The Altar, fed with ceaseless starry fires,
Burns, for its footstool is the mountain-peaks,
The skies its star-enwoven panoply!—
Lo, then, how silently, how mystically,
Yonder unsullied Moon uplifts the Host,
While from the continents and seas beneath,
And from the planets that bow down as lambs,
And from the constellations clustering
With eyes of wonder upon every side,
Rises the murmur which Creation heard
In the beginning! Hearken! Strain thine ears!
Are they so thick with dust they cannot hear
The plagal cadence of the instrument
Set in the veilèd centre of the Shrine!’

He ceased, with arms outstretch'd to the great Deep
In adoration; and once more I seem'd
To catch that music, rather felt than heard,
Out of the open'd heavens; and lo, it grew
Deeper, intenser, audible as breath,
With thrills as from the silvern stops of stars
And murmurous constellations!

‘Hearken yet!
He murmur'd, while I trembled to my knees,
‘Yonder the veil'd Musician sits, His feet
Upon the pedals of dark formless suns,
His fingers on the radiant spheric keys,
His face, that it is death to look upon,
Misted with incense rising nebulous
Out of abysmal chaos and cohering
Into the golden flames of Life and Being!
And underneath His touch Music itself
Grows living, heard as far as thought can creep
Or dream can soar; so that Creation stirs,
And drinks the sound, and sings!—So far away
He sits, the Mystery, wrapt for ever round
With brightness and with awe and melody;
Yet even here, on these low-lying shores,
Lower than is the footstool of His throne,
We hear Him and adore Him, nay, can feel
His breath as vapour round our mouths, inhaling
That soul within the soul whereby we live
From that divine for-ever-beating Heart
Which thrills the universe with Light and Love!’

THE PILGRIM.
So far away He dwells, my soul indeed
Scarcely discerns Him, and in sooth I seek
A gentler Presence and a nearer Friend.

THE MAN.
So far? O blind, He broods beside thee now
Here in this silence, with His eyes on thine!
O deaf, His voice is whispering in thine ears
Soft as the breathing of the slumberous seas!

THE PILGRIM.
I see not and I hear not; but I see
Thine eyes burn dimly, like a corpse-light seen
Flickering amidst the tempest; and I hear
Only the elemental grief and pain
Out of whose shadow I would creep for ever.

THE MAN.
Thou canst not, brother; for these, too, are God!

158

THE PILGRIM.
How? Is my God, then, as a homeless ghost
Blown this way, that way, with the elements?

THE MAN.
He is without thee, and within thee, too;
Thy living breath, and that which drinks thy breath;
Thy being, and the bliss beyond thy being.

THE PILGRIM.
So near, so far? He shapes the furthest sun
New-glimmering on the furthest fringe of space,
Yet stoops and with a leaf-light finger-touch
Reaches my heart and makes it come and go!

THE MAN.
Yea; and He is thy heart within thy heart,
And thou a portion of His Heart Divine!

THE PILGRIM.
Alas! what comfort comes to grief like man's
To weave a circle of sweet fantasy
Around him, and to share so dim a dream?
For if thy calm philosophy be true,
He is, yet is not, here; breathes with our breath,
Yet evermore eludes us like the stir
Of the unconscious life within our veins;
Haunts us for ever in a mystery,
Broods close within us 'tween our walls of flesh,
Yet when we seek to look into His eyes
Fades far away above us and looks down
With loveless eyes of stars. Meantime my quest
Is for a City builded on the rock,
Not on the raincloud; for a God whose face
Is humanised to lineaments of love;
Not one who, when my hand would clutch His robe,
Slips as a flash of light from world to world
And fades from form to form, then vanishes
Back to the formless sense within my soul
Which evermore pursues and loses Him!

E'en as I spake methought (so strangely changed
My wondrous dream that was no dream at all)
That not alone we stood on those dark shores,
But round us gather'd ghostly living forms
Featured like men and women, pointing hands
Out to the dusky space and starry isles;
And on the sands below them silent lay
Two bright transparent forms as if asleep—
One old and hoary, featured like a man,
The other maidenlike and golden-hair'd;
And o'er these sleeping, smiling as they slept,
That radiant Child bent tearfully and cried,
‘Awake, awake!’ but they awaken'd not,
Though quietly the lucent waves of light
Crept near and rippled round their shrouded feet.

Then said aloud that old man masterful:
‘They are not dead but sleeping,—vex them not,
Their eyes shall open on serener shores.
We come from the eternal night to find,
And not to lose, each other; what is born
And liveth cannot die.’ And while those forms
Still pointing wildly seaward moan'd and sobb'd,
He murmur'd, ‘Ere these twain lay down and slept,
They pray'd the prayer and sang the song which Man
Hath made from the beginning. Sing it now,
That He who listens through eternity
Yonder across the azure seas may hear.’

And lo, methought, in piteous human tones
Those spirits bent above the dead and sang:—

Unseen, Unknown, yet seen and known
By the still soul that broods alone
On visions eyesight cannot see,
By that, Thy seed within me sown,
Forget not me!

Forget me not, but hear me cry,
Ere in my lonely bed I lie,
Thus stooping low on bended knee,
And if in glooms of sleep I die,
Forget not me!

159

Forget me not as men forget,
But let Thy light be with me yet
Where'er my vagrant footsteps flee,
Until my earthly sun is set,
Forget not me!

Though dumb Thou broodest far away
Beyond the night, beyond the day,
Across the great celestial Sea,
Forget me not, but hear me pray
‘Forget not me!’

By the long path that I have trod,
The sunless tracks, the shining road,
From forms of dread to forms of Thee,
By all my dumb despairs, O God,
Forget not me!

Forget not when mine eyelids close,
And sinking to my last repose,
All round the sleeping dead I see,
Yea, when I sleep as sound as those,
Forget not me!

Forget me not as they forget,
Hush'd from the fever and the fret,
From all long life's remembrance free,
Though I forget, remember yet—
Forget not me!

Then even as they sang meseem'd I saw
Far off upon the rippling waves of light
A shadowy Bark approaching with no sound,
Wing'd like an eagle, floating ominously
On that aërial sea; from space to space
Of brightness, and from shadow on to shadow,
It moved, until at last its shining prow
Touch'd the dusk shore, and paused; and in it sat
A Spirit dark and hooded, girt around
With many shining forms,—and not on these
The Spirit gazed, nor on the shapes that throng'd
The sands of earth, but on the spectral faces
Of that worn hoary man and gold-hair'd maid
Who lay there waiting, smiling in their shrouds.

Then as the very heart within me fail'd,
And on that sight I gazed through blinding tears,
The old man stretching white hands heavenward
Cried: ‘Lo, the life which ends and but begins!
God that remembers, Death that ne'er forgets,
The dream of generations justified!
O Grave, where is thy victory! O Death,
Where is thy sting! O deathless Mystery,
At last we apprehend and sleep in peace!
For this the timorous nebulæ cohered
To fashion luminous worlds; for this the night
Conceived and labour'd, till the infant Life
Quicken'd within its womb and stirr'd and lived;
For this all things have striven and agonized,
Flashing from ever-changing form to form,
Yet, as the flame ascending clarifies,
Growing for ever purer, peacefuller,
Till that divinest growth, the Soul of Man,
Was fashion'd paramount and stood supreme,
And trembling with the very breath it drew,
Knowing itself, beheld within itself
The inspiration it hath christen'd “God,”
And which alone betokens it divine!’

Then, as he spake, methought that radiant Child
Approach'd him, knelt, with eyes divinely glad
Look'd up in his, and all the seas of heaven
Kindled and brighten'd, while with out-stretch'd arms
Of blessing, drinking in with rapturous gaze
The splendour of the radiant universe,
The old man cried:

‘O Mystery Divine,
Simple as babble of the yeanling babes,
And gentle as the breath of mother's love!
How far we seek thee o'er these wastes of Time,
And find thee not, although thou broodest ever
Within us, like an ever-homing dove!
Nay, all we see, upon these luminous walls
Of sense conditioning and surrounding us,
Is what thine Eldest-born and Best-beloved
Saw long ago,—a crimson cross of pain,
A cipher which whoever reads hath read
The riddle of the worlds. And Man hath raised
City on city, creed on creed, hath sought
To chain the electric lightnings of the soul

160

In temple upon temple, all in vain;
Yet what he found not visibled in form
Hath haunted him with dreams invisible
From height to height, till like a god he stands
Perceiving good and evil, knowing himself
Thine effluence, and immortal. Thus the law
Within him, yet without him, justifies
The eternal law he cannot understand
Yet drinks like royal breath; and all his pain
Falls from him like a garment, leaving him
Naked and warm in light, a happy child
Sure of his birthright, innocent and wise,
Foredoom'd to that eternal hope and joy
Whose other names are God, and Life, and Love!’

Aye me, the tearful wonder of my dream!
For shapes of brightness raised those twain who slept
And placed them in the Bark, when through their frames
The crystal splendour of eternity
Shot sacramental; and the hooded Spirit
Bent o'er the dead, and his dim eyes distill'd
Bright tears like dew, while all those shining shapes
Gather'd around and sang the same sweet hymn
Which those had sung who throng'd the lonely shore.

Though deeper than the deepest Deep
Be the dark void wherein I sleep,
Though ocean-deep I buried be,
I charge Thee, by these tears I weep,
Forget not me!

Remember, Lord, my lifelong quest,
How painfully my soul hath prest
From dark to light, pursuing Thee;
So, though I fail and sink to rest,
Forget not me!

Say not ‘He sleeps—he doth forget
All that he sought with eyes tear-wet—
'Tis o'er—he slumbers—let him be!’
Though I forget, remember yet—
Forget not me!

Forget me not, but come, O King,
And find me softly slumbering
In dark and troubled dreams of Thee—
Then, with one waft of Thy bright wing,
Awaken me!

Then lost in wonder, standing on that shore,
The highest peak of earth, I sigh'd aloud:
‘Yea, God remembers, God can ne'er forget! . . .
I have gone inland and not oceanward—
The earthly Cities only have I known—
But these who sleep shall waken and behold,
Yonder across those wastes whereon they sail,
God and the radiant City of my Dream!’

And as I spake the ether at my feet
Broke, rippling amethystine. Far away
The mighty nebulous Ocean, where the spheres
Pass'd and repass'd like golden argosies,
Grew phosphorescent to its furthest depths:
Light answer'd light, star flash'd to star, and space,
As far away as the remotest sun
Small as the facet of a diamond,
Sparkled; and from the ethereal Deep there rose
The breath of its own being and the stir
Of its own rapture. Then to that strange sound
Stiller than silence, the pale Ship of Souls
Moved from the shore; I stood and watch'd it steal
From pool to pool of light, from shade to shade,
Then melting into splendour fade away
Amid the haze of those cærulean seas.

L'ENVOI.

ω θανατε παιαν.

O blessèed Death! O white-wing'd form
Still winging through the night!
O Dove, that seekest through the storm
Some lonely Ark of Light!

While the dark flood of human pain
Rises with weariest moans,
Touching and falling back again
From heaven's deserted thrones,

Thou wanderest on with wondrous wings
On that celestial quest!
And looking on thee, weary things
Sob tearfully and rest!

161

What were the world and what were Man
Without thee, heavenly Death?
An empty sky; a starless span,
A mist of troubled breath!

The one thing sure, the one thing pure,
The one thing all divine,
Though all else ceases, doth endure,
Though all grows dark, doth shine!

Our souls have probed this world of clay,
And measured the great sea,
Our sight hath conquer'd night and day,
But still thou soarest free!

Wisdom hath cried, ‘No God! not one!
Nay, heaven and earth shall cease!’
But as thou passest, winging on,
We hush our cries in peace.

For all things fade, save thou alone,
Bird of the sleepless wing!
From world to world, from zone to zone,
We see thee voyaging!

Angel of God, still homeless here,
Now clouds have hid God's face,—
Bright Dove that on these waves of fear
Can find no resting-place!

O blessèd Death,—O Angel fair,
Still keep thy course divine!
Till o'er the flood of our despair
The Bow of God doth shine!

The Outcast.

(1891.)

AD CARISSIMAM PUELLAM.

A gray Sea wrinkling dark,
And out on the dim sea-line
A Barque
Becalm'd amid silver shine,

While gazing over the Sea
From an Isle of yellow sands,
Sat we,
Holding a book in our hands!

Do you remember, Dear,
The time and the place and the tale?
The drear
Ocean, the one sad Sail?

We sat there, spirit-stirred,
In the rainy Hebrides,
And heard
The wash of the windless seas,

While ever, upraising eyes,
We saw the Ocean, the gray
Cold Skies,
And the Sail afar away!

Still as the still hours fled,
That day of gentle gloom,
We read
Our tale of Death and Doom,—

Of the Outcast woe-begone
Who, 'mid the Tempest's roar,
Drave on
Homeless for evermore.

Dearest, his piteous tale
Made your clear eyes grow dim;
Snow-pale
You read, and you pitied him!

‘How sad, how strange,’ you sigh'd,
Out 'mid the Storms to roam,
Denied
The lights of Heaven and Home!

‘Dead, yet a thing with life,
Under the blight and the ban,
At strife
With God, forgotten by Man!’

162

I whisper'd, ‘Nay, but hear
How he learn'd the Love Divine!’
More near
You crept, and your hand sought mine;

Under those sunless skies,
We follow'd the dark strange theme,
Our eyes
Alive with love and dream;

And then, when the tale was done,
And you turn'd your face to me,
The Sun
Shone out upon the sea:

Rainy and dimly bright
Out of a cloudland pale,
The Light
Stream'd on that lonely Sail! . . .

We thought of Poets lost
Whose souls still voyage on,
Storm-tost
By His wind, Euroclydon;

Born to divine despairs,
Kingly yet trampled down,
Sad heirs
Of the Martyr's cross and crown.

We thought of the English-born
Childe with the bleeding breast,
All scorn,
Pride, and sublime unrest.

Yea, and that other too,
Pallid and radiant-eyed,
Who drew
The Hyperion glorified!

We thought of Singers dead
Who shared the Outcast's doom
And shed
Songs on the Sea, his Tomb:

Of him who wildly flies
No more on the Waters deep,
But lies
In gray Montmartre, asleep!

[How loud his shrill voice rang!
Yet often his voice grew clear
And sang
Songs that a child might hear!]

Of him who strongly smote
The Scald's harp laurel-crown'd,
Afloat
On a stormy Surge of Sound!

Softly upon my breast
I laid your golden head,
And prest
My lips to your brow, and said:

‘Mine was that Outcast's doom,—
Tost 'mid the surge of shame,
All gloom
Until my Darling came!

‘Scornful of Nature's plan
I nurst my pride and grief,
A man
Stony in unbelief.

‘This little hand of snow
Touch'd the hard rock, my heart,
And lo!
Its stone was cleft apart,—

‘Then came the blessed dew,
The consecrating tears!
I knew
God's Love after all those years!

‘Thus was I saved, redeem'd,
As even His Outcasts are!’
Bright gleam'd
The Light on the seas afar!

We sat there, spirit-stirr'd,
In the rainy Hebrides,
And heard
The wash of the windless seas,

While rainy and dimly bright
Out of its cloudland pale,
The Light
Stream'd on that lonely Sail!

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE.

‘A world without a God! Heigho! . . .
The good old God had merit, though!
Le Bon Dieu, gravely interfering
In all Humanity's affairs,
Bowing His kind gray head and hearing
The orphan's moans, the widow's prayers,
Was worth, or so it seems to me,
Whole cataracts of Tendency;
For though He now and then grew crusty,
And damn'd some few (as all gods must), He
Was patient 'spite deep provocation
With the small things of His creation!
Jesus He loved, and tolerated
Even Goethe's patronising nod!

163

Century on century He waited
While great philosophers debated,
Then, finding men dispense with “God,”
Took His departure from the earth,
Where still some limbs were genuflected,
The day that Schopenhauer had birth,—
And left the human race dejected!’

Without, while in my chambers dreary
I mused and watch'd the flickering flame,
The snow fell thickly, night winds weary
Moaned miserere! miserere!
And shivering revellers went and came.
'Twas Christmas Eve! The bells were ringing
In faintly joyful jubilation:
I heard the tidings they were bringing
But groan'd apart in indignation.
My plans in life had all miscarried;
My only friends were dead, or married;
My book (that Epic you remember)
Had gone to wrap up cheese and butter;
And lonely, in the lone December,
As feebly as a leaf may flutter
From bough to bough while bleak winds blow,
Till rough feet tread it in the mire,
This heart of mine had sunken low,
Dead to the world and its desire!
‘Confound their superstitious revels!’
I murmur'd, spirit-sick and sour,
‘I'll dine with Care and the blue devils
And curse the world with Schopenhauer!
There is no God, and all men know it
Except the preacher and the poet;
Women are slaves and men are flunkeys,
The best but well-developed monkeys,
And Virtue is—a huswife's sampler,
Self-sacrifice—an usurer's chatter;
Once Heaven was sure and Hope was ampler,
But now the Devil rules Mind and Matter!
Le Roi est mort—destroy'd and undone,
Or impotent and deaf and blind—
So vive le Roi of Hell and London,
Who weaves a shroud for Humankind!’

Peace upon earth! good will to men!
The bells rang out with sad vibrations.
I poked the fire, pursued again
My misanthropic meditations.

The last new Philosophic Pill,
A panacea for every ill,
Is—‘Quit thy service in the Shrine
Prophets and seers have deemed divine,
Give up the Sphinx's dark acrostic,
Be neither atheist nor agnostic,
But, since thy days are just a span.
Worship and praise the new God, Man!
He shall endure when thou art dust,
Gain that of which thou art bereaven,
He shall absorb thy love and trust,
Thy dying struggles shall adjust
The ladder which he climbs to heaven!
The better thou, the grander he,
This god of thee and thine, shall be!
And in the thought of his perfection,
To which all creatures are proceeding,
Thy soul shall 'scape from its dejection
Caused by too much eclectic reading!’
Service of Man,—or Monkey? Far
Better to sit rectangular,
And like a dervish contemplate
My very navel till it grows
The central whirligig of Fate,
The Rose of Heaven that burns and blows!
Better to dance with barefoot souls,
Like good John Calvin, on hot coals,
And, full of sin yet grace-deserving,
Face the Arch-enemy without swerving!
But worship Man? Go back once more
To image-worship as of yore,
And bend my head and bow my knee
To this King Ape, Humanity?
This stomach-troubled, squirming, aching,
Mud-wallowing creature of a day,
This criticising, this book-making,
Fretful, dyspeptic thing of clay!
This Multi-face whom it hath taken
Ages to learn to wash and dress!
This horde of swine, doom'd to be bacon,
And now, by countless devils o'ertaken.
Shrieking in impotent distress!
This mass of foulness and of folly
Through whom the Paracletes have died!
This Yuletide carcase deck'd with holly
In honour of its Crucified!
Now great Jehovah lies o'erthrown,
Shall the mere Pigmy reign at last?
Pshaw, rather worship stick or stone,
And let Humanity crawl past!

‘Man as an individual, I
Hold first of creatures 'neath the sky,

164

But though I'm human at the best,
Man the Abstraction I detest!
Collectively, this Human Race,
Despite its brag and self-acclaim,
Its pride, its pompous talk, is base;
Ever, in every clime and place,
Its record is of sin and shame!
Bright holocausts of martyr'd blood
Mark its progression up the ages;
The sensual protoplasmic mud
Bespatters even its Seers and Sages!
Nay, what are all the human crew
But maggots from corruption bred?—
“By heaven, we talk like gods, and do
Like dogs!” Nat Field has wisely said!

‘A poor half-witted Caliban,
Wailing his nature and condition,
Still prone upon the mud, is Man,
And ne'er can be his own Magician;
Far less, far less, his own supreme
Master and Lord and Arbitrator!
Nay! till the stars shall cease to gleam,
The wretch shall blunder in a dream
And say his Noster in cœlis Pater!
In Heaven (or, if you please, in Hell)
Must reign the Lord of man and woman—
Not 'mid these shadows where we dewll,
Not on this blood-stain'd sward where fell
The foolish gods who have loved the Human.
Nay, man can ne'er by man be shriven,
By borrow'd rays his star must shine,
Not threefold heritage in Heaven
Could purge his spirit of its leaven,
Or make the Upright Beast divine!’

. . . While thus I mused, I heard without
A foot that blunder'd on the stair,
Then sounds of one who groped about
To find a door—‘Some dun, no doubt!’
I thought, not rising from my chair.
Then some one softly knock'd. I stirred not
But sat stone still as if I heard not. . . .
Again!—‘Come in,’ at last I cried,
Whereon the door flew open wide,
And on the threshold there was seen
A stranger, elegant of mien,
Tall, white-shirt-fronted and dress-suited,
Faultlessly gloved and neatly booted,
Who, paletot upon his arm,
Opera hat upon his head,
Smiled at my start of vague alarm,
And pausing ere he enter'd, said—
‘Pardon this call so unexpected.
I sail from England, sir, to-morrow,
And to your room have been directed
A little kind advice to borrow.
If I have been instructed rightly
You are a Poet, and the man
I seek for’ (here he bow'd politely),—
‘I'm sure you'll help me if your can.’
So saying, he closed the door behind him,
And threw his coat upon a chair,
While I, a little piqued to find him
So confident and debonair,
Cried, ‘Who the Devil are you?’

The light
Fell on his features waxen white,
His raven ringlets thinly threaded
With silver as he stood bareheaded,
His black moustache, and underneath
Two pearl-white rows of smiling teeth.
‘The Devil?’ he cried. ‘Pray did you mention
That very primitive invention,
Who surely, whatsoe'er cognomen
You give him—Satan, Ahrimanes,
Baal, Moloch—though he awes old women,
The merest fiction of the brain is?
The Poets have invented for us
Some six or seven Fiends that bore us—
Chiefly the one your gentle Milton
Set the high buskin and the stilt on,
And taught to make speech after speech to
A God extremely given to preach, too!
Nay, Goethe even, though well acquainted
With his infernal subject, painted
A fiend impossibly malicious
And supernaturally vicious.
Sir, the real Devil, Science teaches,
Not only wears man's hat and breeches,
But shares Humanity's affliction.
In short, sir, Satan is a fiction,
Save in so far as we sad creatures
Assume his airs and ape his features.’

I listened in amaze, while he,
Smiling at my perplexity,
Advanced into the room and stood
Full in the firelight's crimson glow,—
A lithe, tall form of flesh and blood,
Yet pallid as the bloodless snow:
A modern shape such as we meet
Cigar in mouth and homeward strolling

165

After the play, in Regent Street,
Where Phryne trips with loitering feet
And lissome Lais goes patrolling.

Answering his smile I cried, ‘Who is it?
Your name? and why this midnight visit?’
Fixing on me his bright black eyes,
‘A poet, sir, should recognise,’
He answer'd, ‘one who has so long
Been theme for satire and for song!
I' faith, I am somewhat widely famed
As Philip Vanderdecken, named
The Flying Dutchman!’

As he spake
I seemed to hear the surges break
On some steep shore, while thunder-crashes
Answer'd the Tempest's fiery flashes!
My head swam round—I shrank in dread
From that world-famous Form of fiction.
‘Pray calm yourself,’ he laughing said,
‘For we are fellows in affliction!
The cliques have damn'd you too, I hear,
For many a melancholy year,
Because, in trying hard to double,
Against a stream of tears and trouble,
The Cape of Desolate Endeavour,
And reach Fame's Ocean (smooth for ever!)
You used bad language, loudly swearing,
For great or small gods little caring,
You'd toss on Life's mad Sea until
You'd work'd your wild poetic will!
Sir, you lack'd reverence, as I did,
Who in my impotence derided
The Artificer of storm and thunder,
The great Self-Critic of Creation:
And now, like me, you've learn'd your blunder,
You hug your doom and desolation.
Well, well, let gods and critics be,
Sit down a little space with me,
Comparing notes, our friends commending,
Cursing our foes, this wintry night!
Come, though our strife is never ending,
We've had our pleasure in the fight!
Not fearing Hell or hoping Heaven,
We face the Elemental Flood;
Far better to be tempest-driven
Than rot upon the harbour mud!’
‘A ghost!’

‘A man!’

‘A poet's theme,
Woven of nightmare and of dream!’
‘Nay, flesh and blood, sir—there's my hand
To prove it!’

Laughing low, I took
His ring'd white hand in mine, and scanned
His marble features like a book.
No sun-brown'd, wind-blown face, but one
Strange to the shining of the sun,
And sicklied o'er with sad moonlight
Beneath its ringlets black as night;
So young, and yet so old!—so still,
So callous and so coldly proud;
The eyes so bright, the cheeks as chill
As some dead sleeper's in his shroud.
Gazing, I heard, beyond the sound
Of happy church-bells ringing round,
The murmur of the sleepless Sea
Stirring and breathing balefully,
While Argus-eyed and strangely fair
The wintry Heaven, stooping low,
Laid softly on its stormy hair,
With sighs of blessing and of prayer,
Thin tremulous finger-tips of snow!

Then cried I, wakening from a trance,
That sad sea-music in my ear,
‘Whoe'er thou art, whatever chance
Brings thee this night, be welcome here!
Spectre or mortal, man or devil,
Draw up thy chair and toast thy toes,
And while the world prepares for revel
Tell o'er thy rosary of woes!
I, too, as thou hast aptly said,
Have had my share of castigation;
I, too, with fretful, feverish tread
Have paced the decks of life, and shed
My sullen curses on Creation.
Sit, kindred spirit; let's together
Rail at the stupid heavenly fiction;
Come summer days or wintry weather,
We brood apart in contradiction.
We know the world—there's nothing in it,
Now gods and heroes have departed;
Palsied and feeble, every minute
It grows more melancholy-hearted.
The Creeds have withered one by one,—
Frost-bitten roses in the garden;
There's nothing left beneath the sun
But lives that pass and hearts that harden.
Sit down, sit down, my gallant Rover,
And tell me, in the name of wonder,

166

What brought thee down the Straits of Dover
To this sad City shadow'd over
With fog and vapour, mist and thunder?’
Then smiling, comfortably seated
In the warm firelight's flickering glare,
He told his tale as I entreated,
With tranquil after-dinner air,—
Turning his talk aside each moment
For light contemporary comment,
That showed him apt in whatsoever
Was taking place from here to Hades—
Most diabolically clever,
And intimate with lords and ladies;
Familiar with the latest news,
The freshest novels of sensation,
Scandal of palaces or stews,
The last misconduct of the Muse
With bards of naughty reputation;
Well read in Science, verst extremely
In current philosophic knowledge;
As intimate with works unseemly
As any Fellow of a college;
In short, an intellectual Dandy,
With every art of culture handy—
Libertine, with a touch of passion,
Callous, but sadder than he knew—
Sceptic of course, as is the fashion,
Yet somewhat superstitious too;—
For fiercely as his wit might strike
On God and gods and men alike,
His furtive glances as he spoke
Belied the open laugh and joke,
As if he fear'd, despite the sneer,
Taught by a secret intuition,
The coming of some Shape of Fear,
Or some celestial Apparition!
He told me of his doom, and how
Despairing he had roam'd till now
From land to land, from sea to sea,
In his doom'd Ship upon the Ocean,
As bored as any soul could be,
And soul-sick of the troublous motion.
His crime? The form of his offence
Against avenging Providence?
He laugh'd, and told me. ‘Unbelief!
Too much philosophy,’ said he;
‘I laugh'd, at all the gods-in chief
The Æon who is One in Three!
Although a sailor of the main,
I was a man of erudition,
And having logic in my brain
Saw syllogistically plain
The blunder of His Proposition!
For this, sir, and for minor sins,
Not unconnected with Eve's daughters,
He pull'd my ears and kick'd my shins,
And drove me out upon the waters.’
‘A contradiction—if you knew
God was not, could God punish you?’
He laugh'd. ‘Precisely! Many a man
Has argued so since Time began!
But know the cause of my disgrace,
And with my argument agree:
I swore to the Old Fellow's face
He was not, and He could not be!
His thunder answer'd: but I proved
'Twas only phantom-drift and cloud—
The more the elements were moved
Against me, more I laugh'd aloud!
Then some one interceded—'twas,
As usual, one of Eve's dear sex!
And on a day it came to pass,
Standing upon the slippery decks,
I heard that I from time to time
Might cease upon the waves to dance.
“Father, he knew not of his crime,
Give the poor devil another chance!”
“One chance—a dozen!”—answered He,
Whom I had proved could never be!
So said—so done! The Eternal Force,
Law, Love, Power, God, whate'er youplease
To name it, steered my sleepless course
To land for intervals of ease;
And there, at the divine request
Of her who deem'd me worth retrieving,
I roam'd about and did my best
To grasp what millions die believing.
In vain! in vain! where'er I went,
Folly and death were all I found,
My upas-tree of discontent
With dead sea fruit was rightly crown'd;
I found both men and women rotten,
I saw no joys but health and money,
Love was a fable long forgotten,
While Lust, though sweet, was poison'd honey.
I knew all creeds, all superstitions,
All gods that men and women rever.
I tried all customs and conditions,
Adopted every priest's petitions,
And got the same old answer ever.
The answer? Your dyspeptic German
Has given it—Death! Annihilation!
So back to sea, half ghost, half merman.
Scorning the terrors that deter Man,
I hasten'd, sick of all Creation!’

167

I listen'd wondering. Thoughts as drear
Had haunted me for many a year,
And yet so phrased they seem'd to be
Accurst and full of blasphemy.
Into his face I look'd again
And saw my soul's reflection there,—
Pallor of passion and of pain,
Shadows of cruel, black despair:
A spirit poison'd through and through,
Yet hungering for the sun and dew;
A nature warp'd and wild, yet fraught
With agonies of piteous thought;
A soul predoom'd to Death and Hate,
Yet eager to be saved and shriven—
A life so wholly desolate
It seem'd fierce irony of Fate
To mock it with one glimpse of Heaven!

‘A hundred years ago,’ said he,
‘Began my folly or my crime;
Since then I've kept a Diary
To pass away my idle time.
Just for a joke, 'tis written in
Mine own red blood, on parchment skin
(Best for the brine and wet), and here
Upon my heart for many a year
I've kept it. Would you care to view it?’
So saying from his breast he drew it—
A book with many a finger-mark,
And placed it in my hand—and while
I glanced across its pages dark,
He prattled on with cynic smile.

‘Like a young lady, truth to tell,
I've kept my cordiphonia well!
My thoughts, my careless meditations,
Are all set down in these queer pages—
My bonnes fortunes and my flirtations,
Sketches of ladies of all nations—
Tall, short, dark, fair, and of all ages!
There's matter there of strange variety,
Strange retrospects of sport and scandal,
Which any journal of society
Would roundly pay, methinks, to handle.
They are at your service, if you please
To use them—prithee look them over—
Memoirs are now the mode, and these
Are highly spiced, as you'll discover!
They prove at least that such a quest—
To find true love and self-surrender,
Is but a foolish, idle jest!
I've roam'd the world from east to west,
Found many kind, and some few tender,
But never one prepared to give
Her soul that he she loved might live,
And Death's last draught of hemlock take
For some poor damnéd devil's sake.
I'll grant you, Man were saved and proved
Immortal, could he thus be loved;
But no! the seed of Eve our mother
Is capable of much, but never
Of wholly losing for another
All stake in happiness for ever!
They'll love, and even accept damnation,
So they but hold their man the surer,
But absolute obliteration
Of self for his soul's preservation,
Demands diviner powers and purer.
I've tost the gauge to God, and cried:
“Prove such self-abnegation to me!
Find such a Soul—I'll stoop my pride,
Admit the justice I denied,
With which you torture and pursue me.
Assume one Angel possible,
And God is surely proved as well!
Admit one soul from self set free,
You prove Man's Immortality.
The problem's fair! As I'm a sinner,
The Old One finds it hard of proving;
I hold myself an easy winner,
After a century of loving.”’

‘Peace upon earth! Good will to men!’
The bells rang out around the room,
Beyond the frosted window pane
The still snow wavered through the gloom:
Hung on the wall above my head
A prickly branch of holly bled
Bright drop by drop—berry and thorn
Symbolic of that Christmas morn!
‘Not one,’ methought; ‘yes—One who gave
His life that those might live who die!
Rabbi,’ I cried, ‘come from Thy grave,
To give this mocking voice the lie!’

He laughed. ‘My wager, sir, concern'd
The softer sex and not the other!
A million hearts like yours have turn'd
For comfort to our Elder Brother.
In vain! He found, as we must find,
The baseness of all humankind,
And broke His gentle heart in proving
Sisters and brethren not worth loving!

168

He, too, in that consummate minute,
As I have done, His God denied;
He play'd for Heaven and fail'd to win it,
Bow'd a despairing head, and died!’

E'en as he spake the bells peal'd loud
In clearer, wilder jubilation;
He listen'd, with his dark head bow'd,
A little space in meditation,—
His face toward the fire, his soul
Black as the sullen flickering coal.
Suddenly from the embers came
A tremulous blood-red hand of flame,
Touch'd him upon the forehcad, lit
His gloomy cheek and crimson'd it
As if with fire from Hell!. . . and still
The white snow waver'd through the gloom;
‘Peace unto men! peace and good will!’
The bells, in mockery of his doom,
Rang loud and clear!

‘Enough,’ he said,
‘Our King of Doctrinaires is dead.
Once, I believe, one wintry night,
Hundreds of years ago, He rose,
And blundered with His ghostly light
Across the drift, amidst the snows,
Forded the narrow seas and found
The Devil and Pope Joanna crown'd,
Set side by side beneath the dome
Of great St. Peter's, there in Rome;
Then, finding He too soon had risen,
And was not wanted or expected,
Back to His resting-place and prison
He hasten'd sleepy and dejected,
And laid Him down, and closed His eyes—
There, dead as any stone, He lies!
Poor fellow! He was disappointed,
Like all your dreamers in the end;
What God the Father left unjointed,
Shapeless and vile, no priest anointed,
No seer, no doctrinaire, can mend.
Enough of Him, enough of folly!
What use o'er fruitless dreams to ponder?
Pull down your evergreen and holly,
And hang the skull and crossbones yonder.
Sweeter than constant introspection
The light afloat which rovers follow—
There's not a creed will bear reflection,
There's never a god escapes dissection,
Not even Jesus or Apollo!
I know where man stands now!—I've studied
Your last philosophies right through—
Found my poor intellect bemudded,
Grown sceptical and bitter-blooded,
And curst the whole pragmatic crew.
'Sdeath, what a waste of time, to pore
On all such melancholy lore—
Only to find this world as silly,
As puzzled, as in times long gone,
When grew from Christ's pure Hûleh-lily
The prickly λογος of St. John!’

He paused, then added, ‘All this season,
During my residence among you,
I've search'd the poor stale scraps of reason
The last Philosophers have flung you.
I've read through Comte, the Catechism
(Half common sense, half crank and schism),
And Harriet Martineau's synopsis;
Puzzled through Littré's monstr'-informous
Encyclopædia enormous,
Until my brain grew blank as Topsy's;
I've suck'd the bloodless books of Mill,
As void of gall as any pigeon;
I've swallow'd Congreve's patent pill
To purge man's liver of Religion;
I've tried my leisure to amuse
With Freddy Harrison's reviews;
I've thumb'd the essays of John Morley,
So positive they made me poorly;
Turning to follow with a smile
The tea-cup tempests of Carlyle,
I've been amazed at times to view
The proselytes Tom fill'd with wonder—
Ruskin, half seraph and half shrew,
And divers dealers in cheap thunder.
I've also, Heaven preserve me! read
Daniel Deronda! which was worse
Than any doom a wretch may dread,
Except, of course, pragmatic verse!
The Leben Jesu, Renan's Vie,
I also studied thoroughly;
I vivisected cats with Lewes,
I tortured gentle dogs with Ferrier,
Found out just what grimalkin's mew is
And how tails wag in pug and terrier,
But came, however close I sought,
No nearer to the riddle of Thought!
With Huxley's aid, now much in vogue,
I made cheap Knowledge all my own.
And kissed, allured by Tyndall's brogue,
The scientific Blarney-stone!

169

I talk'd with Bastian, who affirms
Spontaneous generation proven,
And, prone with Darwin, watch'd the worms
Wriggling—like live eels in an oven.
Then finally, in sheer despair,
Burn'd deep with Scepticism's caustic,
Found Spencer staring at the air,
Crying “God knows if God is there!”
And in a trice, became agnostic!

‘In this most fashionable creed,
Which even he who runs may read,
I found an Open Sesame
To England's best society.
The great Arch-Priest of Canterbury
Kindly invited me to dine,
And with the Bishops I made merry
Over the walnuts and the wine:
Found them agnostic to a man,
But doing all good fellows can
To make their crank old Ship, the Church,
Still staggering on with many a lurch,
Take in her sails and trim her anchor
Before the Storm swept down and sank her.
I met Matt Arnold at their table,
Where no Dissenter hoped to be;
Voting the Trinity a fable
I dived as deep as I was able
Into the “Stream of Tendency!”
Then floating on, in soul's distress,
Currents that swirl to righteousness,
Was bound, half drowning, to assever
“Poof! further off from God than ever!”

‘About that time I met a girl
With raven hair and teeth of pearl,
And just one touch of rouge to veil
The ennui of a cheek too pale.
One evening, after we had sat
In the Lyceum, wondering at
The great tragedian wrapt in gloom
Of Hamlet's sable cloak and plume,
We, strolling down at midnight-tide
To the Embankment, paused to see
The two stone Sphinxes, heavy-eyed,
Crouching together side by side
And gazing at Eternity.
“Behold,” I said, “the Mystic Ones
Who know the secret of the suns,
And coldly sit in contemplation
Of the dark riddle of Creation!”
She laugh'd. “My dear, don't heed” (she said)
“Those rayless eyes—try mine instead!
Love's the one riddle worth the guessing,
Woman the one Sphinx worth caressing!
Don't mind those stony ancient Misses
Who cannot feel and cannot see—
Quit things incapable of kisses,
And take a hansom home with me!”’

While, diabolically sneering
At every system, foul or fair,
He prattled on, I nodded, hearing
The echo of mine own despair—
Indeed, the mocking voice I heard
Seem'd more within me than without:
Yea, every thought and every word
Chimed discord to my dread and doubt.
Fainter and fainter, as it seem'd,
Grew the strange ghostly Form of fancy,
Till, rubbing eyes as if I dream'd,
I cried, ‘By heaven, 'tis necromancy!
Ghost, alter ego, dull delusion
Of sense and spirit in confusion,
Begone! avaunt! back to the Ocean
Of vague primordial emotion
From which you came!’ But as I spake
He rose, with eyes that flash'd like steel!
‘Nay, shake your sleepy soul awake,’
He said, ‘and know that I am real!
Yet now my period of probation
Ends for the present, and I go
Back to the watery desolation
The cruel Ocean's ebb and flow—
Hark, hark, they call me!’ Tall and wild
He panted quick as if for breath,
His pallid face no longer smiled,
His eyes grew sunken, dim with death,
And from the distance, through the swells
Of moaning wind and Yuletide bells,
A faint sound broke upon mine ears
Of ‘Hillo, hillo—come away!’
Then laughter as of marineres
Hoisting their anchor 'mid the spray;
Nay, more, I seem'd to catch the sound
Of whistling cordage, flapping sail.
I gazed aghast—my head went round—
The house seem'd rocking 'neath the bound
Of billows shrieking to the gale.
‘Once more, once more,’ he moaned aloud,
‘Adrift, unpitied, lost in gloom,
As lonely as a thunder-cloud,
I fly to face the blasts of doom!

170

No peace, no rest, on earth or heaven—
No respite yet,’ I heard him cry,
‘Spirit of Pain, to be forgiven!
To rest a little space, and die!’

Then all my soul was strangely stirred
To pity, and my eyes grew dim;
And quietly, without a word,
I stretch'd my hands out, blessing him!
But louder, clearer, through the dark,
With, ‘Hillo, hillo, come away!’
Those voices from some phantom Barque
Rang, while he trembled to obey;
A moment more, he rose his height,
His eyes shot gleams of baleful light,
His hands were clench'd, and with a shriek
Of mocking laughter, he return'd:
‘I come! I come!’ But lo, his cheek
Grew frozen, and though his dark eyes burn'd
With wicked fire, his body grew
Bent as with centuries of care,—
Transform'd he shrank before my view,
With snowy beard and sad grey hair!
Yea, e'en his raiment seem'd to change
To something ancient, quaint, and strange—
Rags blown with wind and torn with storm
That round a skeletonian form
Clung wild as weeds. Ah! then indeed
I knew God's homeless Outcast, he
Who, poison'd with the Serpent's seed,
Can ne'er be purified or freed
Till Death shall drink the mighty Sea!
I saw him for a moment thus,
Storm-beaten, old, and blasphemous,
All desolate and all forlorn,—
Then, while I pitied his despair,
The bells rang in the Christmas morn,
And he had vanish'd into air!. . .

That was in Yuletide '77.
Ten winters later I again
Beheld beneath the sunless heaven,
Pallid in ecstasy of pain,
That outcast Shape: or did I only
Dream, and behold him as I dream'd
No longer desolate and lonely
But beauteous and at last redeem'd?
Of that sublime transfiguration
My later song, not this, must be—
Meantime I mark in meditation
His dreary voyage to salvation
Across a sad and sleepless Sea.

Here follow, tuned to English tongue,
The Flights of Vanderdecken, sung
By one whose soul oft seems to share
His doom of darkness and despair.
Accept the songs, O Reader! weft
Of that strange Book the Outcast left,
Mingled with warp of modern fashion.
Telling the story of his quest,
His weary wanderings without rest,
I seem to plumb mine own soul's passion!

Here, then, the Modern Spirit stands,
Holding within his ring'd white hands
The Book of Doubt, the Writ of Reason!
While foolish women weep and wonder,
He ponders in and out of season
And gropes from blunder on to blunder.
He needs no Devil to beguile him,
While wine and wantons lure and wile him;
He needs no God to thunder o'er him,
While Nature spreads her storms before him.
This is the Modern—this is he
Who would, yet cannot, bend the knee!
Who would, yet cannot, be once more
A child in the soft moonlight kneeling!
All creeds he knows, all wicked lore
That puzzles thought and palsies feeling.
How shall he yonder heavens afar win
In poor Spinoza's merry-go-round?
How shall he 'scape the apes of Darwin,
Dark'ning what once was fairy ground?
How in this tearful world, tomb-paven,
Shall he find resting-place and haven?
How? By the magic which of old
Set yonder suns and planets spinning!
By that one warmth which ne'er grows cold,
By that one living Heart of gold
Which throbs and throbb'd at Time's beginning!
By that which is, and still shall be,
In spite of all Philosophy!
From that we came, to that we go,
By that alone we live and are—
Core of the Rose whose petals blow
Beyond the farthest shining star!
Safe, despite Nature's cataclysm,
Sure, though the suns should cease to shine,
Love burns and flames through Thought's abysm,
Serene, mysterious, and divine!

171

One little word solves all creation,
Abides when Death and Time have pass'd—
Damn'd by the genius of Negation,
Man shall be saved by Love at last!

[Herein lies a Mystery]

AD LECTOREM.

Herein lies a Mystery,
If you but knew it!
Peruse this strange History—
You'll never see thro' it,
Till Love learns your blunder
And comes to assist you:
When, smiling and weeping,
With heart wildly leaping,
You'll find, to your wonder,
God's Angels have kissed you!

GENTLE READER,
Read herein,
English'd and versified out of the Double Dutch,
THE STRANGE FLIGHTS
of
PHILIP VANDERDECKEN,
called the Flying Dutchman,
Being a Record of
His Amours in all climes and countries;
His experiences of all complexions;
His Conversations
with the great Goethe, and other persons of
reputation, some still living;
His curious and often improper Reflections on
Men, Manners, and Morals;
with a full, true, and particular account of
His Various Religious Opinions;
The whole showing, in a series of
Startling Episodes,
How, having been
Damned,
By reading the philosophy of Spinoza,
He was finally
Saved
By the Love of a Woman.

CANTO I. MADONNA.

More than a hundred years have fled
Since Philip Vanderdecken read
Spinoza, and was damn'd. . . .

For days
He ponder'd in a dark amaze
The Demonstration Absolute
Mortal nor angel can confute,
Which proves the Eternal One must be
Divorced from Personality;
Establishes sans contradiction
The fact more terrible than fiction
Of the mysterious Substance shed
Through stone and tree, the quick and dead,
Suns and the glowworm, bread and leaven,
Sunlight and moonlight, Fool and Seer,
Earth-dung, the nebulæ of Heaven,
Shakespere's calm smile and Arouet's sneer
And having ponder'd every cranny
O' the argument, not missing any,
The Captain, standing all forlorn
In his brave vessel off Cape Horn,
Swore with a mighty oath and round
Spinoza's argument was sound!
‘Damn me for evermore,’ said he,
‘If any Personal God there be!
If there be any worth a straw
Stronger than primal Force and Law,
Why, let Him show his power and keep
Our vessel struggling on the Deep
For ever and for ever.’ Thus
This Mariner most impious
Call'd on the Spirit of Creation
To approve Himself—by his damnation!

Becalm'd on billows bright as brass
That slowly 'neath her keel did pass
But broke not, lay the lonely Barque
Scorch'd by the sunlight, stiff and stark.
From the high poop the Captain view'd
The sad and watery solitude.
Tall, lithe, and sinewy, marble pale
Despite the stings of many a gale,
With hair as ebon black as night,
Black eyes alive with ominous light,
White teeth, and lips of lustrous red,
Rings on his fingers waxen white
As frozen fingers of the dead;
And though the garb that wrapt his form
Was rough and fit to face the storm,
And of a long-past fashion, he
Was dandified exceedingly;
His whole appearance, all would grant,
Byronically elegant!
Nor young nor old, but just the age
To cozen maidens not too sage,

172

And kindle thoughts and looks that burn
In dames of a romantic turn.
The ship, a Dutchman weather-beaten,
With wind-worn sails and decks worm-eaten,
High poop, and for a figurehead
A Woman Form with arms outspread,
Stript to the waist, and serpent hair
Falling upon her shoulders bare,
Roll'd like a log, and rose and fell
Groaning upon the molten swell.
His crew, a hideous band, were such men
As only can be found 'mong Dutchmen—
Squat, fat, red night-capp'd, hairy dogs,
Gruesome and guttural as hogs,
Yet ghostly, with lacklustre eyes
Full of strange light and dark surmise;
Faces that could not smile, although
Their voices croak'd with laughter low,
As they crept feebly to and fro.
They all were scar'd as by a brand
Held in some cruel Demon's hand,
And show'd the trace of every sin
That blurs the soul or stains the skin.
Most were the very froth and scum
Of mortal mariners, but some
Were well-born rogues of education
Gone wrong through vice and dissipation.
The mate, the meanest rascal there,
A lean thin rogue with hoary hair,
Could quote a thousand sayings pat in
Sanscrit and Hebrew, Greek and Latin,
And by the metaphysicians show
That black was white and soot was snow;
For he, so arm'd with wicked knowledge,
Had been Professor of a College,
And occupied with reverend air
The moral-philosophic chair,
Till wine and women, which so few shun,
Had brought him down to destitution,
And he had been compell'd to gain
His bread upon the stormy main.

The ruffians shared their Captain's doom,
But each to him was as a satyr;
They watch'd him, while with looks of gloom
He ponder'd deep on Mind and Matter;
Clustering at the mast they stood
Like hounds that feel their master nigh;
They knew the devil in his blood
And fear'd the lightning of his eye—
Then broke to many a mutter'd curse
On him and all the Universe;
For well they knew by many a sign,
Within them and without, that they
Were exiles from the Grace Divine
And doom'd to toss upon the brine,
Branded and curst, and cast away!

Three days and nights the calm had lain
Upon the seas with blistering rays,
Hot as a forge the suffering Main
Lay throbbing, flashing back the blaze;
On gaping decks and sails that hung
Like shrunken foliage dry to death,
The heaven sent down a serpent's tongue
Of sunlight, and with fiery breath
The burning Skies, the scorching Sea,
Embraced each other lustfully.
But salamander-like, while all
His seamen cursed the sultry weather,
The Captain paced with calm footfall
The blistering decks for hours together.
Indifferent to the beams that fell
On his proud head like flames of Hell,
E'en thus he poised and weigh'd and sifted
The Problem with Spinoza's aid;
But when his eyes at last were lifted
And his decision at last was made,
Suddenly, with a troublous motion,
The sleeping waters of the Ocean
Awoke and moan'd! thick cloud and gloom
Enwrapt the ship, and sudden thunder,
With blood-red gleams and sulphurous fume,
Tore the great darken'd Deep asunder!
And lo! like monsters fiery-eyed
The great waves rose on every side,
And shriek'd, tumultuously driven
Beneath the fiery scourge of Heaven.
‘Hoho!’ the Captain laughed, ‘is this
Your answer, O ye Elements!
The same old argument, I wis,
To justify Divine intents!
Think you I quail because you grumble?
Think you I change because you swear?
By heaven, the Universe shall crumble
Before you cow me into prayer!
Away! away! I heed your screaming
No more than any teapot's steaming!
Roar yourself hoarse, ye slavish surges,
In awe of what appals the creature!
Swallow the pill that twists and purges
Your watery bowels, mother Nature!
I, son of man, being man at least,
Can still preserve my self-respect here:

173

What churns you Elements to yeast,
What terrifies each mindless beast
Awes not the form that stands erect here!
Away! away!—Hell and the Devil
Approve your dread, while I hold revel,
And, scornful of your protestation,
Laugh, lord and master of Creation!’

Long nights and days, through gulfs of gloom,
The ship accurst was fiercely driven—
Now swallow'd deep in ocean-spume,
Now lifted like a straw to heaven—
Like some struck bird that ere it dies
Trails its wet wings and seeks to rise,
But flutters feebly down again
Smit by the lash of wind and rain.
Still on the decks the Captain clung,
Lick'd by the lightning's serpent-tongue,
And still his cold defiant cry
Answer'd the threats of sea and sky.
But when the Seventh Day dawn'd, behold!
A thin pale Hand of fluttering gold
Stole thro' the clouds, and silently
Touch'd the wild bosom of the Sea,
So that it softly rose and fell
With tearful sob and windless swell;
And gently on the waters lay
The silence of the Sabbath Day.

O gracious day of peace and calm!
When, sweetly and supremely blest,
On the world's wounded heart falls balm
And frankincense of perfect rest!
After Creation's storm and grief,
After life's fever and life's woe,
One long deep breath of soft relief
Eases all Nature's lasting woe!
The Sabbath of the Universe
Abides, though gods and systems cease—
The human doom, the primal curse,
Is hush'd to sacramental peace.
Now and for ever, comes the sign
God giveth His belovèd sleep,
While music of some choir divine
Steals softly in from Deep to Deep!
It touch'd the Outcast's weary brow,
It calm'd his stormy soul's distress.
He had not fear'd God's wrath, but now
He trembled at God's gentleness!
Standing in desolation there,
He seem'd to hear from far away
Soft chimes that fill the Sabbath air
When happy mortals flock to pray;
And o'er green uplands he could see
A spire—Faith's finger—peacefully
Pointing to Heaven!—A moment thus
He linger'd, pale and tremulous,
Then through his heart again there stole
The pride that poisons sense and soul,
And from his brow he shook again
The benediction all may gain—
‘A day of rest! A day of peace!
Perish the lie,’ he fiercely said—
‘Nay, not till Heaven and Earth shall cease,
Till death shall mingle quick and dead!
If God could rest, Man resteth never!
Storm is his portion now and ever—
He laughs that one day out of seven
Shall justify the frauds of Heaven!
Accept your Sabbath, winds and waves,
Rest for a little from your sorrow,—
The cruel Hand that made ye slaves
Shall lash your backs again to-morrow!
Man knows no Sabbath, no cessation
Of utter storm and tribulation!
Man stands erect, defiant, knowing
From Death he comes, is deathward going!
Man, first of things and last of blunders,
The crown of Nature and her shame,
Stands firm, and neither prays nor wonders,
Lord of the Tomb from which he came!

Suddenly, as he spake, the Barque
With mist and cloud was wrapt around,
But as between the dawn and dark
Soft lights of sunrise with no sound
Part the dim twilight and reveal
The morning-star as bright as steel,
E'en so the mist was blown apart
Like dark leaves round a lily's heart,
And in the core thereof were seen
Still bright'ning shafts of golden sheen,
Dazzling his sight—yet dimly there
He saw, or seem'd to see, a Form
With saffron robe and golden hair,
Walking with rosy feet all bare
The Waters slumbering after storm!

A maiden Shape, her sad blue eyes
Soft with the peace of Paradise,
She walk'd the waves; in her white hand
Pure lilies of the Heavenly Land
Hung alabaster white, and all
The billows 'neath her soft footfall

174

Heaved glassy still, and round her head
An aureole burnt of golden flame,
As nearer yet with radiant tread,
Fixing her eyes on his, she came!
Then as she paused upon the Sea,
Gazing upon him silently
With looks insufferably bright
And gentle brows beatified,
He knew our Lady of the Light—
Mary Madonna heavenly-eyed.

How still it was! The clouds above
Paused quietly and did not move;
The waves lay down like lambs—the air
Was hush'd in sad suspense of prayer—
While coming closer with no sound
She hover'd pale and golden crown'd
And named his name! And even as one
Who from dark dreams of night doth stir,
And fronts the shining of the sun,
With haggard eyes he look'd on her!

But as he gazed his sense grew clear,
His dazzled brain shook off its fear,
And all his spirit fever-fraught
From agonies of cruel thought,
Rose up again in callous scorn—
‘Vision or ghost, whate'er you be,
Welcome afloat this Sabbath morn,
Bright Shining Wonder of the Sea!
Methinks I seem to know,’ he said,
‘That face so fine, that form so fair,—
They hung in childhood o'er my bed
And from the village altar shed
Soft influence over folk at prayer.
And yet, I know, 'tis only fancy,
Some bright delusion of the brain,
Poor Nature plays such necromancy
To cheat our reason, all in vain.
I would each optical illusion
That sets poor mortals in confusion
Were beautiful and bright and pleasant
As that which haunts my sight at present!
Rose of a Maid, I bend in duty
Before thy miracle of beauty!
Speak, let me hear thee—if a spirit
Is capable of conversation,
By Venus, I would gladly hear it
'Mid these dull gulfs of desolation!’

How still it was!—and could it be
A voice that answer'd, or the Sea
Just stirring softly in surcease
Of tempest into throbs of peace?
Low as his own heart's beat, yet clear
And sweet, there stole upon his ear
An answer faint like Sabbath bells
Heard far away from leafy dells
Buried in leaves and haze, so still
And soft it only seems the thrill
Of silence through the summer air—
A sigh of rapture and of prayer!

MADONNA.
Child of the storm, whose spirit knows
No reverence and no repose,
Who disbelievest God the Lord
And holdest Humankind abhorr'd,
Knowest thou Me?

VANDERDECKEN.
Madonna, yes!
How oft thy radiant loveliness
Has shone upon me with soft eyes
In earthly picture-galleries!
By Raphael's and Murillo's brushes,
So skilled to catch thy lightest blushes,
By Tintoretto and the rest,
Thou'rt even fairer than I guess'd!

MADONNA.
Dost thou believe in God my Son?

VANDERDECKEN.
A categoric question, one
Most difficult to answer rightly
And, at the same time, quite politely!
Frankly, Spinoza's text has showed
The impersonality of God;
And for thy Son, well, I opine
No mortal man can be Divine,
Nor may a maid who takes a mate
Conceive yet be immaculate!

MADONNA.
Blasphemer! Is there man or woman,
Or any shape divine or human,
Or any thing, save Death and Sin,
Thy wicked soul believeth in?

VANDERDECKEN.
Madonna, no! I grieve to tell
I question Heaven and smile at Hell,
Believe all human creatures are
Accurst in each particular,

175

Especially the sex of madam
Who gave the fruit to falling Adam!

MADONNA.
Christ help thee! Hast thou never loved?
Never known woman's love, or proved
The depth of faith that dwelleth in her?

VANDERDECKEN.
Never, as sure as I'm a sinner!
I like the sex, 'neath sun and moon
Have found full many a bonne fortune;
But that deep faith have never met.

MADONNA.
Yet woman's love might save thee yet!

VANDERDECKEN.
Madonna, how? Though now, I fear,
Past saving, I would gladly hear!

MADONNA.
Then listen! By the charity
Of Him who loveth even thee,
By Him whose feet flash'd down on dust
Shall bruise the hydra heads of Lust,
By Him, my Son, who cannot rest
E'en in the Gardens of the Blest,
But ever listening strains His ears
To catch the sound of human tears,
From Him, who fain would kiss thy brow,
I offer thee redemption.

VANDERDECKEN.
How?

MADONNA.
Thy doom it is to wildly beat
Without a home to rest thy feet,
Monster, yet featured like a man,
And lonely as Leviathan.
So far thy doom hath been fulfill'd
And found thee stubborn and self-will'd,
But now my Son shall suffer thee,
One short year out of every ten,
To leave thy Ship upon the Sea
And wander 'mong thy fellow-men.
There shalt thou seek (and mayst thou find!)
Some gentle shape of womankind,
Who in the end shall freely give
Her life to death that thou mayst live;
Who loving thee, and thee alone,
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
Heart of thy heart, content to share
Thy loneliness and thy despair,
Shall from the fountains of her soul
Baptize thy brows and make thee whole.
Then, with that woman, hand in hand,
Shalt thou before the Master stand,
Saying, ‘By her thy love hath sent,
Lord, I believe, and I repent!’

VANDERDECKEN.
Madonna, this thy boon to me
Seems somewhat of a mockery!
Have I not proved, do I not know,
By long experience here below,
No woman, howsoever tender,
So capable of self-surrender?
Love comes, love goes, and is the one
Sweet conquering thing beneath the sun,
But never have I seen or noted
One human creature so devoted
That I could say, ‘Her soul is mine,
And God is good, and Love divine!’
Spare me the respite, if you please,
And let me stop upon the seas.

MADONNA.
Not so! The Lord, my Son, commands,
And thou shalt search through many lands,
Yea, search and search, though it should be
Through most forlorn Eternity.
Thy manhood, in immortal prime,
Shall triumph over Death and Time,
Thy face into the very Tomb
Shall peer, yet keep its living bloom;
Nature shall aid, from Earth's dark breast
Shalt thou take gold to aid thy quest.
Begin thy search whene'er thou wilt,
Pass on through clouds of sin and guilt,
Range every clime, search every nation,
Until thou light on thy salvation!

So saying, as a star grows bright
Then flashes into sudden night,
She vanish'd! and the sleeping Main
Awaken'd monster-like again,
Shook the loose brine from its fierce hair,
And shriek'd in tempest-toss'd despair,
Then crouching for a moment, roar'd
Before the Lightning's sudden sword,

176

Thrust thro' and thro' and thro' it, and then
Drawn flashing up to the heavens again!
With whistling shroud and thundering sail,
The Ship sped on before the gale,
The seamen lifting spectral faces
With ‘Hillo! hillo!’ took their places,
And on the poop, while on they flew,
The Captain thunder'd to his crew.

From night to day, from day to night,
Through gulfs of gloom the ship took flight,
Until, although the bitter blast
Shriek'd still, and the great waves made moan,
The troubled heavens grew clear at last,
And through the storm-mist drifting fast
A cold wan Moon was wildly blown,
And on the surge-vex'd ocean ways
Shed down her melancholy rays.
Then gazing southward through the night
They saw, o'er seas that blackly roll'd,
A starry bale-fire blazing bright—
The Southern Cross of glistening gold!

Suddenly, as they look'd thereon,
The blast fell still—the Storm had gone!
And though the waves, too sad for rest,
Still heaved as one tumultuous breast,
The wind grew faint and stirr'd like dim
Breath on a mirror o'er the Sea,
While near the heaving ocean-rim
The great Cross crimson'd balefully!
Then while deep dread and dim eclipse
Lay on the watery solitude,
And on the decks with soundless lips
And awe-struck hearts the outcasts stood,
Out of the ghostly twilight stole
Great frozen Spectres from the Pole.
Silent and dim and marble pale,
Like ship on ship with frozen sail,
They crept from out the vaporous gloom,
Each misted with its own cold breath,
And cluster'd round the Ship of Doom
Like shrouded giant shapes of Death.

Still grew the Deep with scarce a stir—
Still lay the Barque while all around
The Bergs, like one vast Sepulchre,
Closed in upon it with no sound!
Small as a shallop floating lone
Under great mountain-peaks of stone,
Seem'd the great Ship, while o'er it rose
Crag beyond crag of ice and snows!
And now the little light had fled,
Chill shadows fill'd the air with dread,
And on the cold decks kneeling dumb,
Thinking the end of all had come,
With haggard faces seam'd with tears
Gather'd the woe-worn marineres.
But in their midst, erect and tall,
The Captain stood without emotion—
He whom God's wrath could ne'er appal
Smiled at those Spectres of the Ocean.
Still unsubdued and undismay'd,
Calm and superior, he survey'd
The crumbling peaks of strange device,
The threatening towers, the chasms dark,
The cruel silent walls of ice
That closed and closed to crush the Barque!
And for a time his lips were seal'd,
But when his soul found speech at last
His voice like thunder round him peal'd
From chasm to chasm cold and vast!
‘Welcome,’ he cried, ‘ye shapes of Death!
Goats of the Goatherd throned on high!
Come, Phantoms born of God's cold breath,
And crush the dust that longs to die!
Give him the coup de grâce, ye Slaves
Of that blind Force he scorneth still.
Annihilate him as he craves,
Ye Monsters, at your Master's will!
Yet, if the hour be not yet here,
Crouch down like dogs and disappear,
Fade, Phantoms, from his path, and creep
To pasture further on the Deep!’

Thunder on thunder answer'd him!
The great Gulf heaved, the heavens grew dim,
And like to thunder-clouds storm-driven
Together, crashing rent and riven,
Totter'd those shapes of ice and snow,
As if an Earthquake rock'd below!
While toppling peaks and crumbling towers
Darken'd the air with frozen showers,
Shrieking and waving frosty wings
The Bergs replied like living things!
And smother'd 'neath the snows that fell
As thick as lava snows of Hell,
Lay the doom'd Ship upon its side,
Beaten and bent, but undestroy'd,
While still its Captain's voice defied
God and those Spectres of the Void.
‘Judgment! swift judgment and no shrift,’
He cried, ‘are all for which we yearn;

177

This life that was a Monster's gift
Back to the Giver we return!’
But as he spake a forkèd track
Of windless waters ebon-black
Was rent between the frozen mass
Of mountains—that the Ship might pass!
And faintly, feebly quivering,
A bird with trailing broken wing,
The ship crept on!

Then loud and clear
Above the thunders roaring near,
The Captain laugh'd! ‘On to Cape Horn—
We'll round the Cape at merry morn—
Up! up! hoist sail!’ And at the word
The frozen crew at last were stirr'd,
And gazing round with spectral faces
With ‘Hillo! hillo!’ took their places;
And slowly, through the Shapes of Snow
That drew aside to let it go,
Crimson'd by brightening beams of day
The Ship of Death pursued its way.

CANTO II. THE FIRST HAVEN.

I.

Whom shall I dedicate this Book to?
(Each Canto needs a dedication.)
I want some briny Bard to look to
For sympathy and inspiration!
The theme is primitive at present—
Nature undrest, without her stays:
To Tennyson 'twould seem unpleasant—
He blends no vine-leaves with his bays.
Scorning the flesh and all things hot,
Will Morris wanders sans culotte,
And tries the hydra-mob to tame;
While Patmore rocks a baby's cot
And sings sweet nuptials void of blame.
(Ah! gentle Bards without a spot!
Beshrew me if I envy not
Such innocent and stainless fame!)
Next, though the rogues have wit in plenty,
I still must pass politely by
The Savile bards, those four-and-twenty
Blackbirds all piping in one pic!
I do not fancy Lewis Morris
Would care for rhythmic freaks so strident—
Non sibi Venus mittit flores,
Non sibi æquora ponti rident!
Matt Arnold seeks for ‘light’ no more
But sleeps serene and satisfied;
While Edwin, of that ilk, doth pore
On screeds of luminous Eastern lore
By moonlight on the Ganges' side.
Dear Roden Noel, round whose throat
Byron's loose collar still is worn,
Now tunes his song to one clear note
Divinely gentle and forlorn;
Far, far from him whom holy choirs
Of angel infants stoop to kiss,
The stormy doubts, the fierce desires,
Of questionable songs like this!
George Meredith might serve my turn
For thoughts that breathe and words that burn,
Or, better still, his master Browning,
A sober'd Saul in evening dress;
But both these bards would end by frowning
At my mad Muse's gamesomeness.
No! these respectable and gracious
Bards with clean shirts will never do!
I need a spirit more audacious,
Morality more free and spacious,
To inspire my song and help me through.
The world is tired of things poetic,
But poets are themselves to blame;
Their wine's too sickly and emetic,
Or, grown too thin and dietetic,
It lacks the old flush of morning flame!
Far is the cry from Byron's brandy
To Pater's gods of sugar-candy!
Lost the Homeric swing and trot,
Jingle of spur and beam of blade,
Of that moss-trooper, Walter Scott,
Riding upon his border raid,
And pricking south with all his power
To capture Shakespeare's feudal tower!
Where the swashbucklers throng'd in force
The æsthete mounts his hobby horse,
And troubadours devoid of gristle
Play the French flute and Cockney whistle.
Sir Alfred only, gently glad,
Stainless and chaste as Galahad,
Clothed in white armour like a maid
Goes carolling through glen and glade,
Singing in silvern tones a song
Against the world of lust and wrong—
Certain, though all his fellows fail,
Of gaining the Parnassian Grail!

Peace with these poets one and all!
Flowers on their happy footsteps fall!

178

Yet would to Heaven their songs could be
More glad, more primitive and free!
Ah, for the days gone by! when Singers
Were wonder-workers, pleasure-bringers!
When Art was bold, when sunburnt Mirth
Gladden'd around the Maypole leaping;
When the mad Muses tript the earth,
Not clad, as now, in silks by Worth,
But gipsy-like and briskly skipping!
Then, skirts were lifted in the breeze
To show brown legs and lissome knees!
Then, men were hale and maids were merry,
Then, Nature felt the breath of Spring;
Then poets shouted ‘Hey down derry!’
And played at kisses-in-the-ring!
But when the trumpet-call rang round them
Threw armour on and rode to fight,
Till in due time the people crown'd them—
The Kings of Music, Mirth, and Might!

My Dedication? Well, no more
I'll linger on this sunless shore,
Where prim landlubbers of the island
Go gathering shells of verse on dry land!
No! o'er the seas I sail, to seek
My Homer of the southern seas,
Who, proudly pagan, Yankee-Greek,
Flung out his banner to the breeze,
Then, wandering onward like Ulysses,
Heard Syrens sing of Nature's charms,
Leaping on shore to greet with kisses
The dainty dimpled nutbrown misses,
Found the lost Eden in their arms!

To thee, O Hermann Melville, name
The surges trumpet into fame,
Last of the grand Homeric race,
Great tale-teller of the marines,
I give this Song, wherein I chase
Thy soul thro' magic tropic scenes!
Ah, would that I, poor modern singer,
Spell-bound with Care's mesmeric finger,
Might to the living world forth-figure
Thine Odyssean strength and vigour!
Alas! o'er waves you tost on gladly
I sail more timidly and sadly,
And find no surcease or protection
From mal de mer, or introspection!
Yet ne'er the less, in spite of all
Mishaps and ills that may befall,
Despite the tumult and commotion,
The countless shipwrecks of the time,
Away I go across the Ocean
In this my cockleshell of rhyme!

Aid me, O sea-compelling man!
Before whose wand Leviathan
Rose white and hoary from the Deep
With awful sounds that broke its sleep!
Melville, whose magic brought Typee
Radiant as Venus from the Sea!
Who, ignorant of the draper's trade,
Indifferent to the arts of dress,
Drew Fayaway the South-Sea maid
Almost in mother-nakedness!
Without a robe, or boot, or stocking
(A want of clothes to some so shocking),
With just one chemisette to dress her,
She lives, and still shall live, God bless her!
Long as the Sea rolls deep and blue,
While Heaven repeats the thunder of it,
Long as the White Whale ploughs it through,
The Shape my Sea-Magician drew
Shall still endure,—or I'm no prophet!

II.

Out on the waters, lost in light,
His ship fades softly out of sight,
While on a beach of golden sands,
Shading his eyes with archèd hands
And gazing up to heights of palm,
Alone the dark-eyed Outcast stands
And breathes warm airs of spice and balm:
Behind him amethystine seas,
Just touch'd with shadows of the breeze,
Foam on the red-lip'd reefs that rise
Beyond the shallows rainbow-hued—
Before him, under burning skies,
Rise slopes of pine and sandalwood,
High as the topmost summit where
A lonely palm-tree stirs its fan
Sharp-shadow'd 'gainst the golden glare
Of cloudless voids cerulean.
And downward from the wooded height
A torrent hangs its scarf of white,
A sparkling necklace that unfurls
Strung with for-ever-changing pearls,
Turning the sunlight in its fold
To rainbow beams and glints of gold.
And down beneath lie rounded huts
Tree-shaded, dusky, brown as nuts,
With lithe black figures moving slow
From sun to shadow to and fro:

179

And from the stillness all around
Comes now and then a distant sound
Of voices faint and far, that seem
As strange as voices heard in dream!

In the warm hush of summer weather,
The tremulous hearts of Sky and Sea,
Like hearts of lovers prest together,
Lie still, just throbbing peacefully—
And where they mix with sleepy sighs,
Soft stirs of bliss and rapturous smile,
Upon the Sea's blue bosom lies
This jewel of a coral Isle—
A dark green spot with gentle gleams
Of golden sands and silver streams,
With dusky depths of scented glade,
And cool wells bubbling in the shade;
And over all sleeps soft as balm
A glowing Paradisal calm.

Slowly, with shadow blotted black
On the white sands, the Outcast moves,
Leaves the blue waters at his back
And gains the quiet coca-groves.
His stormy heart scarce seems to beat,
His troubled blood scarce seems to flow—
‘If this were Death, then Death were sweet!’
He murmurs in the golden glow.
Tall, dark, and strange, a stately form,
He walks thro' woods of emerald green,
When suddenly the branches swarm
With dusky faces mild of mien!
He pauses, starts, and looks around,—
The faces vanish with no sound,
But 'mong the boughs he seems to hear
A sound like laughter merry and clear.
And presently, beside a pool
Blue as a patch of fallen sky,
He stands, and in the mirror cool
Sees shades of swift bright birds float by.
Upon the marge he sits, below
Acacia-branches white as snow,
And marks his own face worn with care
Uplooking from the waters there.
Suddenly, as he sits and broods,
Come laughter and soft chattering cries,
And mother-naked from the woods
Steal dusky shapes with wondering eyes!
The tropic boughs, the flowery brakes,
Grow live with limbs that move like snakes,
Great open eyes 'mid opening flowers
Gleam out amid these shadowy bowers,
The foliage trembling and astir
Is full of creatures warm and bright,
Who on the sad-eyed Mariner
Gaze in mild wonder and delight!

He raised his melancholy eyes—
And back they shrank with bird-like cries—
But when he droop'd his head again
And thro' the woods went wandering,
With speech as soft as summer rain,
Voices that seem'd to sigh or sing,
They murmur'd to him in a tongue
Most sweet yet scarce articulate,
Such as was heard when Love was young
And Adam coo'd to woo his mate!
All vows, all vowels, language such
As bees might use if they could tell
Their tremulous thrills of taste and touch
Deep in some honeysuckle's cell;
Murmur of insects and of birds,
Just turning joy to honeyed words,—
Half human speech, half speechless cadence,
Voluptuous as the time and place,
And rapturous as some rosy maiden's
Sigh, when she yields to Love's embrace.

The simile in that last line
Is Vanderdecken's (and not mine)
Ta'en from the Notebook written in
His own red blood on parchment skin.
Henceforward, that the reader may
Avoid confounding his reflections
With mine, I'll use throughout my lay
His own remarks and interjections.
So understand, whene'er I quote
Passages some consider shocking,
Inverted commas will denote
'Tis only Vanderdecken mocking!

‘I turn'd—they vanish'd, with a sound
Like music of some scented shower
That ceases on warm grassy ground,
While all the green boughs rustle round
And bright drops cling on leaf and flower.
But as I wander'd from the shade
The happy creatures follow'd after,
Clear voices ran in the green glade
Answer'd with rippling peals of laughter!
And when into the sun I strode
They ring'd me round with throngs at gaze,
As if they looked upon a god
In mingled worship and amaze!

180

‘Then one, with laughter low yet clear,
Ran from the rest to interview me,
But paused at arm's length full of fear
And turn'd a wistful face unto me—
Beauteous, a woman yet a child,
Her gentle eyes upon me bent
With humid orbs both sweet and mild,
She stretch'd a little hand, then smiled
In welcome and in wonderment!
And lo, as if a fountain's dew
Was scatter'd on my brows and hair,
Refresh'd and gladdening ere I knew,
I felt the smile, and, smiling too,
Shook off the cloud of my despair!

‘Venus! Natura procreans!
Te, Dea, adventumque tuum,
All living things obey, and Man's
Proud spirit vainly plots and plans
Thy spells to scatter, and break through 'em!
A look—a smile—a touch—suffices
To witch our nature and to win it—
Stone turns to merry flesh, and ice is
Wine warm and rosy in a minute!
So was it then, so is it ever,
'Spite all Morality's endeavour!
So shall it be, though parsons patter,
As long as Man is two-thirds Matter!
Won by the face and form of her
Who welcomed me for all the rest,
I felt my stony heart astir
And throbbing gently in my breast.
I took her little hand,—and gazed
Into her eyes with kindly greeting;
Hers did not drop, but, softly raised,
Sparkled with pleasure at the meeting!
And full of joy, no longer flying
The strange sad form from distant lands,
Her dusky kinsfolk, laughing, crying,
Flock'd round about with outstretch'd hands;
Women and men and children small,
Dusky and gentle, old and young,
Welcomed the stranger,—one and all
Uttering the same soft bird-like call,
And prattling in that golden tongue;
And what I fail'd to understand
The kindly folk made bright and clear
By smile of face and touch of hand,
Which said, “O Stranger, welcomehere!”
For they had never seen before
A white man on that sunny shore,
And to their gaze I seem'd to be
Clothed round with grace of Deity!
A little bored, a little scorning,
I gazed with calm superior air
On these wild Children of the Morning
Happy with scarce a rag to wear;
And some were comely, all were bright
With life and innocent delight,
And never one among the throng
Suspected cruelty or wrong:
Happy as beasts or birds, unstricken
With modern psychical disease,
Free of complaints whereof souls sicken,
They felt the sun within them quicken
And lived the life of swarming bees:
Their very speech, as I have said,
Scarce consonanted, clear and sweet
As warm winds whispering overhead,
As runlets rippling at their feet,—
Beauteously fitted to express
Anacreontic happiness,
One cooing and delicious tone,
Like that to Grecian lovers known,
Ομφην λιγειαν προχεων.

‘And so, as on a flowery stream
One floateth in a summer dream,
Upon this flow of lives, swept round
By merry maids and children gay,
'Mid soft delights of scent and sound,
I floated and was borne away—
From shade to sun, from sun to shade,
Laughing they led me thro' the land,
And still that dimpled dainty Maid
Nestled quite close, and unafraid
Smiled in my face and kiss'd my hand.
And laughing too, while on me fell
The golden glamour and the spell,
I wander'd on at their sweet will!—
O had I power to paint the scene,
Not scribbling with this blood-stain'd quill,
But with a brush of sweep serene!—
I, the sad Man with dark locks shed
Round features worn and marble pale,
My lithe form strangely garmented
In raiment wrought to brave the gale;
Rings on my waxen hands; around
My throat a bright scarf lightly wound;
On broad brows beaten by the sea
A sailor's hat worn jauntily!
The centre of the picture, this;
Around, dark Darlings of the Isle,

181

Warm bosoms panting full of bliss,
Waists to embrace and lips to kiss,
And best, that Maiden's sunny smile!
Thus was I tangled in the mesh
Of those bright moving living bowers!
The sun shone free, the wind blew fresh,
And Eden smiled, all fruit, all flowers!
Far off, beyond the emerald land
Sloping to shores of yellow sand,
Beyond the stately coca-trees
Stirring their fans in the soft breeze,
Past the red coral reef whereon
The turquoise Sea broke milky white,
Far as my dazzled eyes could con
Ocean and Heaven mingling shone,—
Veil beyond veil of golden light!

‘And now we come to swarms of huts
Dusky and brown as coca-nuts,
Beneath a crag that skyward towers
Festoon'd from crown to base with flowers:
Some high, like great brown birds'-nests, clinging
High up and with the tree-boughs swinging,
Some fallen like husks of fruit and lying
Wide open on the grassy sward;
And hither and thither, multiplying
Like happy bees in sunlight flying,
Fresh flocks of happy creatures pour'd,
Until the place was all alive
With forms that swarm'd from hive to hive,
Buzzing and murmuring every one
In that soft lingo of the Sun!

‘Close to the flowery crag there clung
A brown thatch'd roof with wild flowers hung,
Supported on four sapling trees
That pour'd sweet scents on the warm breeze,
And underneath it, loosely wall'd
With boughs as green as emerald,
There lay a wide and open bower,
A mossy nest of fruit and flower,
With soft green hammocks swinging high
To the wind's summer lullaby.
Grass was the floor, but o'er it spread,
Crumbling warm spice beneath the tread,
Were woven carpets green and soft
As the fresh blooms that swung aloft.
Thither my captor, that sweet Maid
Who held me in her sweet control,
Led me, and, seated in the shade,
My throne an old tree's mossy bole,
I watch'd the throng who round me went
In welcome and in merriment.

‘Possession's nine points of the law,
Even yonder in the southern seas:
And murmuring softly “Alohà!”
(Which means “I love you,” if you please!)
That Maid who was the first to capture
My idle eyes with her strange beauty
Gazed on my face in tender rapture
And kiss'd my hand in sign of duty.
Then, when some others, gladsome girls
With sunny cheeks and teeth like pearls,
Came thronging all around to view
My face and give me welcome too,
She waved them back with flashing eyes
And seem'd to say (if looks could do it)
“This man is mine! I claim the prize,
And if you touch him, you shall rue it!”
Smiling and laughing merrily,
I just look'd on, content to be
Appropriated for the present
By one so young and plump and pleasant;
And nodding, by my side I placed her,
Patted her brown back and embraced her,—
Whereon the happy native bands,
Incapable of jealous spite,
Laugh'd their approval, clapt their hands,
And shared the little Maid's delight.

‘Then, at a signal from the Maid,
They brought me poi, a native dish
Of island grains and juices made,
And stickier than one might wish—
Her two forefingers lightly dipping
Therein, she twirled them round about,
Then drew a glutinous, slimy, dripping
Mouthful, like macaroni, out;
Next, quickly raised her finger-tips
Thus coated to her rosy lips,
Sucking them like a bonbon. while
I watch'd her with a wondering smile.
Ev'n thus she show'd me full of joy
The native mysteries of poi—
And presently, I made essay
To eat it in the native way,
And found the flavour of the stuff
(Altho' the modus operandi
Was strange and primitive enough)
Was much like rice and sugar-candy.

182

And next they brought in goblets green
Of coca-shell a pleasant tipple
As clear as mead or Hippocrene
Or milk that flows from Venus' nipple;
And quaffing this right joyously
I felt my heart within throb quicker,
For, like most sailors of the sea,
I on occasion love good liquor!
And thus they fêted me and fed me,
And when at last I paused contented,
To a green couch the Maiden led me,
And down I sank on leaves sweet-scented;—
When nimble virgins, at her sign,
Kneaded me, limbs and loins and thighs,
Till rack'd and rent I sank supine
With aching frame and sleepy eyes,—
And sank to charmèd sleep! (They name
This swift shampooing of the frame
The lomi-lomi.) When at last
I woke, all sense seem'd sublimated,
Bathed in a comfort deep and vast
I lay like Adam new-created—
Ambrosial peace and perfect rest
Stole through my veins and warm'd me through,
Serenely strong, completely blest,
I gladden'd at each breath I drew;
And all the world and its annoy
Turn'd to an odorous rose of joy,
Taking both soul and sense in capture
With soft celestial folds of rapture!

‘Meantime her kinsfolk, blithe and gay
As motes that in the sunbeam play,
Simple as babies biting coral,
Without one instinct known as moral,
Eager to welcome and caress
Whatever stranger they beheld,
Full of the sunny happiness
That from their dusky hearts up-well'd,
Came smiling round the flowery nest
Wherein I lay in blissful rest.
Then one, an Elder of the place,
A glad old boy with wrinkled face,
Laugh'd and clapt hands, and at the sign
All squatted down or lay supine,
And from the shade of these dark bowers
Outpour'd, with wondrous twists and twirls,
Most lightly raimented in flowers
A band of lissome Dancing Girls—
These [while the rest began to croon
A drowsy droning native tune],
With gestures loose and looser raiment,
With postures never for broad day meant,
With panting mouths and shining eyes,
With heaving breasts and quivering thighs,
Began a measure which to see
Would shock our modern modesty!
A measure?—nay, a dance that knew
No measure Thought could time it to—
A leaping, eddying, unabating
Revel of flesh and blood pulsating—
Now soft and sweet as fountains falling,
Now mad and wild as billows bounding,
Now murmurous as wood-doves calling,
Now corybantic and appalling,
And changeful as it was astounding!’

Reflections on the margin, made
In Rome, at a quite recent time,
Follow, and tho' I'm half afraid
To quote them, here they are, in rhyme:

. . . ‘Aye me, what witchery may be wrought
By soft round arms and looks of passion!
What magic flooding sense and thought
By limbs in beauteous undulation!
Love rules the world, and Love shall rule it,
Tho' rogues corrupt and sages fool it!
Love moves the chessmen, Kings and Knights,
And stirs the merest pawns as well,
Hence change of empires, bloodiest fights,
And all the game of Heaven and Hell.
Herodias dances, and demands
The Baptist's head as instant payment!
Phryne just stirs her little hands,
Lifting the edge of her light raiment,
Glimpse of trim ankles to discover,
And lo! a Dynasty is over!
Were I the Devil, I'd rather deal
With incantation such as this is,
Than have great senates at my heel!
Show me whole legions clad in steel—
I'll rout them easily—with kisses!
Kings for such guerdon will pay down
Gladly the sceptre and the crown!
Bishops their mitres and their crosiers
For soft limbs beautified by hosiers!
God gets no hearing anywhere
While Womankind is fond and fair,
And so the world is at the mercy
Of the supreme enchantress, Circe!

183

‘Hartmann, whose page explains to us
The creed of the Unconscious,
By the Unconscious means the Power
Which fills Life's Tree from root to flower.
Pulsating out of yonder sunlight,
Flowing in flame from form to form,
Is the eternal Light, the one Light
For ever wanton, wild, and warm,—
Shedding magnetic rays of splendour,
In ecstasies of new creation,
Forcing all creatures to surrender
To Love's amphibious invitation!
Amœbæ in the ooze, and fishes,
Beasts in the fields, birds in the air,
Sweep whither the Unconscious wishes,
And recreate forms foul or fair—
All sing Natura Cumulans,—
Nature, the Matronhood immortal—
In vain le bon Dieu sits and plans
Yonder beyond the heavenly portal,
Crying like Canute, to the Ocean
Of loose primordial mad emotion,
“Thus far, no further”—while its waves,
Beating the shore of human graves,
Surging and rising, ever growing,
Submerging earth from zone to zone,
Drown Man's frail Soul, and overflowing
Flood the bright Footstool of the Throne!’

Wide-eyed in wonder and delight
The Wanderer drank in the sight—
A Bacchic rite in emulation
Of the first orgies of Creation!
And when the dancers sank o'erpower'd
With their own rapture, blossoms shower'd
Upon them, and with flashing faces
They clung in beautiful embraces.
Then when the cup of joy was full
Up to the brim and running over,
Out of the darkness green and cool
A girl coo'd clearly to her lover!—
One bird-like note, one plaintive call,
Passionate yet celestial,
Thrill'd through the silence! then there came
Out of the darkness, robed in white,
With arms outstretch'd and eyes aflame,
Alive with Love and Love's delight,
That Flower of Maidens,—fair she stood
Full in the sunset's crimson flood,
And gazing on the heavens above
Warbled her wondrous song of Love!
And fascinated, thrilling through
With bliss at every breath he drew,
The Outcast listen'd, while the throng
Were hushed to hear that Orphic song!
But as he leapt to her embrace
She laugh'd and vanish'd from his glance,
And once again the leafy place
Was loud with life and song and dance—
Again, while loud the music rung,
The choir of dancing girls upsprung,
And mingling in the measure wrought
Their fine gyrations passion-fraught!
But now the dance was less capricious,
The undulations more subdued,—
Subsiding into throbs delicious,
Faint rapture stealing through their blood,
The maidens moved like one bright billow
Now heavenward, now upon the ground,
All swaying on an airy pillow
And swooning with soft zones unbound,
And spicy odours, burning beams,
Blew round them as they rock'd in dreams,
While on their happy cheeks and eyes
Rain'd diamond dews from Paradise!

A pause—a thrill—which seem'd to be.
A long sweet dream of ecstasy—
Then suddenly, before he knew,
All vanish'd from his wondering view—
Of all the throng not one was there,
Men, women, maidens, turn'd to air,
And lonely on his couch he lay
Lit by the sunset's fading ray—
But as he sigh'd and lookt around,
He heard again that bird-like cadence
And turning saw, with lilies crown'd,
That tender miracle of maidens—
Her eyes on his—one soft hand prest
To still the billowing of her breast—
Her cheeks all smiles, her eyes all bliss,
Sending new thrills of rapture through him,
Her mouth bent down for him to kiss,
Her soul a votive offering to him!

Then Twilight spread its purple fold
Dew-spangled o'er the blue sky's bosom,
And ripe and large as fruit of gold
Great sun-fed stars began to blossom,—
Such stars as never kindle save
Out yonder o'er the tropic wave,

184

Each like a little moon, and making
In the smooth Ocean trails of light,
While others, from the darkness breaking
Like bursting fruit, shot seaward shaking
Prismatic splendours through the night.
As each new splendour flashed afar
And melted in the quiet Main,
It seem'd as if some shining star
Had burst within the Wanderer's brain!
And spicy scents of that green Land
On the warm wind were wafted thither,
As holding that dark Maiden's hand,
Silent he sat, uplooking with her.
Then sighing heavily, he turn'd
His dark eyes shoreward, and discern'd
The spume upon the reef that fell
Like white milk from the coca-shell,
The waters round of lustre green
Alive with rays of starry sheen,
And far off, on the water's bound,
The Moon uprising large and round,
Clear lemon-yellow, without rays,
Out of the pathless ocean-ways!

III.

He turned his eyes on that sweet Maid,
Who smiling in his face essay'd
Quick eager speech of rippling words
More musical than any singer's.—
He guess'd the meaning of the words
By the warm pressure of the fingers!
Child-like she stood, with eyes of light
Full of the happy tropic night,
A white straw hat upon her head
With ferns and flowers bright garlanded,
Her dress one cool chemise of snow
Wherein her soft form slipt at ease,
Sleeveless, around the breasts cut low,
And fluttering to the supple knees;
Her limbs and arms all bare and warm,
Her bosom gently palpitating,—
Her face alive with Love, her form
Thrill'd through with fires of Love's creating!

Over that night now falls the veil!
Earth held her breath. The stars grew pale
Down-gazing. Heavenly balms were strewn
On those two forms who 'neath the Moon
Took Love's divine first kiss. The Night
Linger'd above them in delight,
Till softly and serenely blest,
Still as two love-birds in a nest,
They slept! . . .

O Alohà! (which means
‘I love you,’ mind) delightful Maiden!
Still in the daintiest of your teens,
Yet woman-soul'd and passion laden!
Through you, alas! I make this canto
More warmly-colour'd than I want to!
For I profess—let all men know it—
To be a Psychologic Poet!
Not that with solemn cogitations
I mean to tire the reader's patience,
Hair-splitting and refining ether
Like some bards (and no small ones neither)
Who show with philosophic hiccup
The metaphysics in a teacup,
And plummets deep as Death apply
To gauge the depths of apple-pie!
But aiming at the adumbration
Of Nature's chaos of sensation,
The more I of these Mysteries speak
The more I pause with blushing cheek!
Many will misconceive me; some
Will just be thunderstruck and dumb
That I should dream of spiritualising
A subject which—there's no disguising—
Is delicate extremely. Then
I dread the Critics, those small men
With those big voices! . . .

Furthermore
The days of passionate song are o'er,
And now no Poet wins the laurel
Who is not absolutely moral.
We've had our fill of impropriety,
Since Byron rose to shock Society,
And of all moods by bards affected
Anacreon's has been least neglected.
The favourite Muses, Greek or British,
Have ever been extremely skittish,
And modern bards have drunk too wildly
The warm Greek wine which Goethe mildly
Sipt at while sketching with soft shade his
Loose-laced, lax-moral'd German ladies;
Gretchen, Philina, all the crew,
Fleshly yet sentimental too,
Sad sensuous things of scant decorum,
Lost like the Magdalen before 'em,
Save Mignon, who, as story teaches,
Lack'd fat and so became the breeches.
Then we've had Byron, that lame Cupid
Of odalisques sublimely stupid,
Not to name here Chateaubriand,
Alfred de Musset, and George Sand,

185

All watering with artistic squirt
The flower of passion grown in dirt,
Till Gautier made the Immortals flutter
By rolling Venus in the gutter!
But patience! this strange tale I tell
Is high as Heaven, though deep as Hell,
And in the end shall please the mind
That's to analysis inclined;
Shall show you, ere the last sad line,
The great Eternal Feminine
(Das Ewigweibliche, to wit,
As amorous Wolfgang christen'd it),
And vindicate its flights immodest
Through scenes where Venus lies unbodiced,
By flying on with fearless pinions
To the clear air of God's dominions,

That night, within their bower of bloom
Flooded with moonlight and perfume,
The Captain and his new-found treasure
Drank deep of Love's o'erflowing measure,
Then down the Unconscious sinking deep
Floated on shimmering seas of Sleep.

Wonder and hush miraculous!
When, weary of her load of care,
This Earth, whose fond arms shelter us,
Feels softly on her brows and hair
The cool dark dews of twilight fall
Mysterious and celestial!
Lo! while her golden robe of day
Slips film by film and falls away,
Naked and warm she stands a space,
The sun-flush fading from her face:
Then, with bow'd head and soft hands prest
Upon her bare and billowing breast,
Takes, while the chill Moon steals in sight,
The cold ablution of the Night!
And then, as by the pools of rest
She lieth down subdued and blest,
As on her closèd eyes are shed
Dim influence from the heavens o'erhead,
We nestling in her bosom close
Our feverish eyelids and repose—
Our spirits husht, our voices dumb,
Our little lives a little still'd,
We sleep!—and round us softly come
Souls from whose fountains ours are fill'd!
Spirits as soft as moonbeams flit
Around our rest, not breaking it,
Brushing across our lips and eyes
Wings wet with dews of Paradise!
While at God's mercy and at theirs
We lie, they bless us unawares,—
Watch the Soul's pool that lies within
The branches dark of Flesh and Sin,
And stir it as with Aaron's rod
To gleams of Heaven and dreams of God!
Lifting the filmy tent of Sleep
With gentle fingers, on us peep
Those errant angels, soft and tender
With some strange starlight's dusky splendour;
With balm from Heaven they bedew us,
Bring flowers from Heaven and hold them to us,
Flash on our eyes the diamonds shaken
To fairy rainbows as we waken,
And jubilantly ere departing
Ring those wild echoes in our ears,
Which, flusht and from our pillows starting,
We hearken for with childish tears!

If Dreams were not, if we could fall
To slumber and not dream at all,—
If when the eyes were closed, the sense
Close shut, all seeing vanish'd thence,
Why, 'twere not difficult to fancy
This life no freak of necromancy,—
And Man a clock, contrived to go
(Bar breakage) seventy years or so,
Yet running down and pausing nightly,
Pendulum fluttering with no pain,
Till, as the daydawn glimmers brightly,
A Finger quickens it again!
But Dreams, though sages think them silly,
Attest us Spirits willy-nilly,
And prove that, when the Unconscious glides
Around us with its numbing tides,
Shapes past conceiving or control
Stir the dark cisterns of the Soul!
All day God veils Himself in Light,
But down the starry stairs each night
He steals with solemn soundless tread
And finds us—fast asleep, not dead!
Ah, then begins the conjuration,
The Mystery, the Incantation!
The Feet Divine with soft insistence
Plash through the Waters of Existence,
Send strange electric thrills each minute
Down to the very ooze within it,
While, startled by the shining Presence,
All Nature breaks to phosphorescence! . . .

186

Now came the golden tropic Morning!
Not like our dawns of chilly gloom:
One glow, one crimson flash of warning,
Then one great flood of blinding bloom—
The world awoke and leapt—the Sea
Flasht like a mirror radiantly—
The leaves and flowers were all alive—
A miracle of Light was done—
And glad as bees from out the hive
The people flock'd into the sun!

Happy, contented, and serene,
The Outcast left his nuptial bed,
While blushing like a happy queen,
His bride just kissed his lips and fled,—
But soon tript back on lightsome feet
With troops of maidens in her train,
Bringing her lord fresh fruits to eat
And cups of coca-milk to drain.
Then gay and glad he sought the strand
And stript, and plung'd into the tide,
And, striking strongly out from land
In pools of Dawn beatified,
He heard a rippling laugh, and turning
Saw her behind him, swimming too—
Her dusky face upon him yearning
Baptized with joy and morning dew!

That was the Dawn, the bright beginning
Of one long day of Love's delight!
Happy, unconscious she was sinning,
His slave by day, his bride by night,
She, with her people's acquiescence,
Said in Love's language, ‘I am thine,’
And happy in her constant presence
He lived and loved and felt divine!
And ah! what wonder he was glad,
That all his soul grew iridescent,
Forgot the past so dark and sad,
With such a Bride for ever present?
Soft almond eyes of starry splendour,
Lips poppy-red, teeth white as pearls,
A warm brown cheek sun-tan'd and tender,—
The nicest, nakedest of girls!
Her form from shoulder down to foot
Like Cupid's bow a splendid curve,
Her flesh as soft as ripen'd fruit
Yet quick with quivering pulse and nerve—
Her limbs, like those of some fair statue,
Perfectly rounded, strong yet slight,
Her childish glance, when smiling at you,
Alive with luxury of light!
O happy he whose head could rest
Upon that warm and bounteous breast,
And so ecstatically capture
Its tropic indolence of rapture!
How darkly, passionately fair
She seem'd when, resting by him there
Upon a couch of leaves sweet-scented,
She smiled without a single care,
And took no kiss that she repented,
And knew no thought he could not share.
And when he wearied with the light
Shed on his dazzled soul and sight,
Still as a bird within the nest
She saw his dark eyes close in rest;
And lay beside him fondly waiting,
Obedient as a happy child,
Watching his face, and palpitating
Till he awoke again and smiled!
For all her pleasure was to trace
The happiness upon his face,
To feel his breath flow warmly thro' her,
To kiss his hands and draw them to her,
And place them on her heart, that he
Might feel it leaping happily!
And ever springing from his side,
She brought him fruit and dainties sweet,
And knelt beside him, happy-eyed
To see her Lord and Master eat—
And if he frown'd her face grew very
Sad; if he laugh'd, her face grew merry;
So every shade of his emotion
Pass'd to her face and faithful eyes,
As shadows of the summer Ocean
Answer the changes of the Skies!

A Rose with Dawn's cool dew and savour
Renew'd at every kiss he gave her,
A Blush Rose passionately scented,
Serene, unconscious, and contented,
She felt soft airs of Heaven bedew her,
And drank their sweetness deep into her,
Kept Soul and Body, through light and glooming,
One Flower for ever freshly blooming!
O happy Life! O blissful Passion!
Far from Life's folly and Life's fashion!
Far from the tailor and the hatter!
Far from the clubs and criticasters!
Far from all metaphysic patter,
From all cold creeds of God and Matter,
From silly sheep and sillier pastors!
No Parliaments, to lying given—
No paupers, and no governing classes—

187

No books, or newspapers, thank Heaven!
And no god Jingo for the masses!
O happy Life, without a trouble!
Pure and prismatic as a bubble,
Fresh as a flower with dewdrops pearl'd,—
Ere naked Truth rose, with a wink,
Black from her Well (of printer's ink)
Or out of chaos woke the World!

IV.

Pause, Moral Reader, ere you scold
A Bard that seemeth overbold,
And grasp the truth that I who sing
Am like my Hero wandering
Outlaw'd and lost! Let me commend you,
Moreover, should the theme offend you,
To realise that he whose tale
I tell was ‘damn'd’ (right justly too),—
Forgetting this, you'll wholly fail
To gain the proper point of view.

For your assistance, I'll again
Quote from the Notebook, thus translating:

‘How peaceful, after all the pain
Of endless doubting and debating!
How restful, after stormy grief,
This quiet of the lotus-leaf!
And yet, and yet! how Memory flashes
Her mirror in my sleepy eyes,
While darkly on my drooping lashes
The tear-drops linger as they rise!
I mark the Land where I was born,
The red-tiled Town beside the sea,—
The Mother who awakes at morn
And turns to give her kiss—to me!
I walk along the sun-brown'd sands,
I gather sea-shells in my hands,
I run and sport till death of day,
Then kneeling by my cot, I pray. . .
Again I am a fisher-lad,
I haul the net, I trim the sail,
I whistle to the winds, right glad
To hear the gathering of the gale.
Then sailing homeward tan'd and brown
I watch the red lights of the Town
Gleam blur'd and moist thro' mist and rain,
While down the anchor merrily goes again!
I leap on land, run up the shore,
Eager to gain my home once more,
And startle with a boy's delight
The widow'd Mother waiting there!
Almighty God! that night, that night!
Ev'n now it chokes me with despair!
For lo, I see the thin white form
Stretch'd on the bed in ghastly rest,
The lips clay cold that once were warm,
The frail hands folded on the breast—
Mother! my mother! even now,
I bend and kiss thy marble brow,
The boy's heart breaks, the salt tears flow,
And the great Storm of human Woe
Sweeps round the quick and dead!—Aye me,
That first great grief, the worst of all!
That first despair and agony,
To which all later woes seem small!

‘Then first I knew Thee, God! whose breath
Is felt in pestilence of Death!
Then first I knew Thee whom men bless
And found Thee blind and pitiless!
I knew and lived—for 'twas Thy will
Only to torture, not to kill—
And so the torn heart heal'd at last,
And I survived, but not the same—
And ere the sense of sorrow pass'd
The life within me broke to flame
Of Youth's first love!—and I forgot
The woe which is our mortal lot,
Because a maiden's face was fair,
Because a maiden's lips were sweet,—
She bound me with her golden hair
And threw me captive at her feet.
Then, the glad wooing! The new birth
Of man and God, of Heaven and Earth,
When softly, thro' the shades of night
We stole and watch'd the evening star,
While faint and distant, flashing white,
Waves murmur'd from the harbour bar.
How good Thou wast, Almighty One,
Blessing my troth, the maiden's vow!
But ere another year was done
I curst Thee, as I curse Thee now.
For lo, Thine Angel Death pass'd by,
With flaming finger touched her breast—
Scarce woman yet, too young to die,
She sicken'd of a vague unrest,
Till on her lips clung day by day
The blood-phlegm ever wiped away
By the thin kerchief, while she tried
To force the smile that fought with tears—

188

God, hear my curse once more!—She died,—
But still, across the raging years,
Her wan face rises, to proclaim
Her Maker's infamy and shame!

‘Pass all the rest!—My Soul knew then
The hourly martyrdom of men,
And turn'd in very impotence
To books for comfort, gathering thence
(For they had taught me how to read)
The lies and lusts of every creed.
Then, an old Scribe, who loved to pore
On pages of forbidden lore,
Gave me, for service gently done,
The knowledge that I long'd to gain,
Good soul!—he used me like his son,
And made me erudite and vain.
Four years of this, in Rotterdam,
Combin'd with studies less improving,
And I became the thing I am,
Worn with much thinking and much loving,
For in that City women were
As bountiful as they were fair.
Then, suffering from an accidental
Complaint to lovers detrimental,
I passed some time, just for variety,
'Mong doctors in the Hospital—
Then, tired of land and she-society,
Cried “Curse the women! one and all!”
And off again I went, as sailor
Before the mast, upon a Whaler.
“Gentleman Phil” they had me christen'd,
For I could curse in French and Greek,
And merrily the rascals listen'd
When I discoursed, with tongue in cheek,
On men and women, God and Matter,
And all things wicked and unclean!
Lord, how they loved my learnèd patter,
My blasphemies and jokes obscene!

‘Long after, came my Luck. Despairing
Of gaining much by pure seafaring,
I join'd some honest men and brothers
Who robbed upon the Wet Highway,
And being cleverer than the others
I gathered gold, as rascals may—
Grown rich, I earn'd their approbation
By deeds accurst they dared not do,
And being skill'd in navigation,
And of some little education,
Became the Captain of the crew.
By Heaven and Hell, those days were merry!
We knew no pity, felt no fear,—
Devils that played at hey down derry
With all that honest men hold dear!
Nor were the smiles of Venus wanting,
For many a fat ship was our prize,
And many a woman most enchanting
Struck her red blush-flag, and sank panting
Under our fire of amorous eyes. . . .
Ah deeds accurst! Do I repent?
Perhaps a little, now and then!
But what was God about, who sent
Things that were pure and innocent
To be the spoil of beast-like men?’

Much in this not too pious vein
The crimson leaves o' the Book contain—
Much, too, of scenes which would have staggered
Jules Verne or Mr. Rider Haggard,
So full they were of wind and water,
Clangour of swords, and general slaughter.
But presently we find him pining
To slip his fetters and be free,
On beds of amaranth reclining
With eyes upon the turquoise sea.

‘So, as I've said, or just suggested,
I, the crass Outcast of the Lord,
Seeking salvation (as requested),
In that first Haven snugly nested,
Was rapidly becoming bored.
The Honeymoon, I've always thought,
Is a mistake! I'd tire, I swear,
If in the net of Wedlock caught,
Of Venus' self, the ever Fair!
No, 'tis the wooing and the winning,
Not the long end, but the beginning,
That is the joy of Love!—Mere courting
Passes all amorous disporting,
And what we crave contains a blessing
We never compass in possessing!
Some men, I grant (not damn'd like me)
Are arm'd so strong in purity,
That wedlock is an endless boon,
And life one long-drawn Honeymoon,—
And these appease their modest wishes
As peacefully as jelly-fishes,
And floating flaccid 'neath the sky
Tamely increase and multiply.
But these are fish-like things, not Lovers,
Spawn of the pools, not Ocean rovers,

189

Lives drifting where the currents choose,
Or sunk in matrimonial ooze.
Moreover, I who write had sown
My wild oats early, and had known
All kinds of pleasure, long before
My rotten Barque set out from shore.
And when the Master of Creation,
Or some blind Force, His adumbration,
Gave me the chance to find salvation
Somewhere on earth,—I steered despairing
To this soft Eden in the seas,
And nothing hoping, nothing caring,
Thought “Here at least I'll rest at ease!”
Not to the Cities did I wander,
Not to the Schools where pedants ponder,
Not to the tents of Civilisation,
But back, straight back, to nude Creation!—
And here I found the general Mother
Beauteous and bounteous, warm and wild,
And from her heart, like many another,
I drank Life's milk, a happy child.
My blessing on her! Grand and free,
Untainted with morality,
With but one Law of life and pleasure
To render her supremely blest,
She gives me all she hath, full measure
Of that great Milky Way, her Breast—
Yet though I linger here, replete
As any flower with all that's sweet,
I often long to be once more
A foam-fleck blown from shore to shore!’

A ‘London’ Note.—‘How faint to-day
Seems all that Eden far away!
Ev'n then that life, such as the pure hope
To find at last beyond the sky,
Was far removed from life in Europe
And all the scandal and the cry
Of life in Cities!—People there
Were naked babies sucking corals,
Spent blissful days without a care,
Had no idea what morals were,
And so—were innocent of morals.
Since then the Gospel has been spread there,
And divers bad complaints been shed there,
And Civilisation's boisterous busy hum
Has quite destroyed that sweet Elysium.
Soon, if the natives keep progressing,
They'll turn to Scandal for variety,
Receive the new god Jingo's blessing,
Become æsthetic in their dressing,
And have their Journals of Society!’
Another, blasphemous and fierce.—
‘Oft, when I think of that fair place,
I front the heavens and seek to pierce,
O God, Thy cloudy hiding-place.
For mark, ev'n there, unseen by me,
Thy Deputies, Disease and Death,
Were crawling snake-like from the sea
To taint pure Nature with their breath.
There, tangled in Thy mesh of woes,
Tortured and stain'd the Leper rose,
And join'd his wail to all the cries
That from the host of martyrs rise
High as Thy Throne! Tell me, Thou God,
Who, striking Chaos with Thy rod,
Creating Heaven, and Earth, and Flood,
Praised Thine own work and call'd it “good,”
Tell me, O God, if God Thou art,
Doth Thy Hand rend the breaking heart?
In beasts and men, doth it adjust
The Hate of Hate, the Lust of Lust,
And blotch Thy work, Humanity,
With these foul stains of Leprosy!
What art Thou, God, if this be so?
What is the glory Thou dost claim?—
Thy tribute is eternal woe,
Thy pride eternal Death and shame!
I toss the gage to Thee again!
Unfold Thyself, defend Thy plan,—
Or own Thy primal work was vain,
And let Thy tears descend like rain
To attest Thy sin at making Man!

‘We feel too much, we know too little,
We gaze behind us and before;
The magic wand of Faith, grown brittle,
Breaks in our grasp; our Dream is o'er!
Wakening at last, we understand
The World's no pretty Fairyland,
No sonny World with gods above it,
No happy World with God to love it,
But a worn World whose first sweet prayer
Is turned to darkness and despair—
A World without a God!—

‘O Mother,
We cling to thee with feeble cries,
Fight for thy breast with one another,
Or wondering watch thy sightless eyes
Upturn'd to Heaven!—O Mother Earth,
Still fair and kind as at thy birth,
Still tender yet forlorn, as when
Out of thy womb the race of men

190

Came crying—with the same sad cry
That haunts thee while they droop and die!
Sad as the Sphinx, and blind! for thou
Hast look'd once on the Father's face,
Hast felt His kiss upon thy brow,
Hast quicken'd, too, in His embrace,
Till blind with light of Deity
That clasp'd thee and was mix'd with thee,
Thine eyes for ever ceased to see;
And night by night and day by day
Patiently thou dost grope thy way,
Clasping thy children, heavenward,
In search of Him who comes no more—
O Mother! patient! evil-star'd!
Who now shall be Thy stay and guard,
Now that first Dream of Love is o'er?

‘Thy children babble of green fields!
Thy youth and maidens, gladly crying,
Suck all the sweets that Nature yields,
And lie i' the sun, as I am lying!
They learn the raptures of the sense,
Break Love's ripe virgin gourd and thence
Drink the fresh waters of delight . . .
What then? To-morrow Death and Night
Shall find them, or if Death denies
The boon which closes weary eyes,
Despair more dire than Death shall come
To linger o'er their martyrdom!
O Mother! martyred too!—yet blest
To feel the new-born at thy breast,
What of thy Dead? What of the prayers
Taught them of old to still their cares?
What of the promise fondly given
Of comfort, and a Father in Heaven?
There is no God! there is no Father!
And that which clasp'd thee, mother Earth,
Was formless, voiceless, monstrous, rather
Than gracious and of heavenly birth—
The attributes we take from thee
Are bright and fair, tho' only clay,—
The living force that keeps us free,
The joy of Life, the bliss of Day!
What we inherit from the Sire
Is formless, passionless, and dim,
Deep dread, despair, unrest, desire
To climb the heavens and gaze on Him!
Ah, hopeless and eternal quest!
Ah, Life so sweet! so fugitive!
Dear Mother, endless sleep is best,
But ere we close our eyes in rest
We loathe the Power which made us live.
‘What mercy hast Thou, Father? None,
Even for Thine own Belovèd Son,
Who weeping sadly, drinking up
The poison of Thy hemlock cup,
While the rude rocks and clouds were shaken,
And even Thine angels sobbed in pain,
Cried, “Eloi, why am I forsaken?”
And dying, sought Thy Face in vain! . .
Reveal that Face!—Uplift Thy veil,
O God, and show Thyself, that we
Who struggling upward faint and fail
May know Thy lineaments and Thee!
Thou canst not, for Thou art not!—I
Have never found in sea or sky
One living token that Thou art,
One semblance of a Father's heart,
One look, one touch to attest Thy claim
To godhead and a Father's name!’

Bright crimson was the blood wherein
Those words were written down!

‘My sin
Falls like a garment to my feet,
Naked I front Thy Judgment Seat,
Veil'd Maker of the World. Thy Word
Breath'd on the darkness, and it stirred
And lived—for what? That Man might rise
With hopeless heaven-searching eyes,
Clothed in Thy likeness? Thine?—the Form
No man hath seen, no man may know,
A Phantom riding on the Storm
While Earthquake rends the earth below;
While like a hawk that hunts its prey
Death, creeping on from plain to plain,
Tortures the Human night and day,
Wounds what 'twere pitiful to slay,
And scatters Pestilence and Pain.
I tell thee, one poor human thing,
One little suffering lamb, one frail
Form of Thy cruel fashioning,
Refutes the Lie which cries “All Hail,
Father Almighty!”

‘Mighty? No!
Weaker than we who come and go
Erect and proud, whose deeds approve
A human brotherhood of love.
Our love and hate have aims, but thine
Are idle bolts at random hurl'd;

191

Impotent, hidden, yet Divine,
Brood o'er thy broken-hearted World!’

My last quotation (for the present),
Though far less fierce, is still unpleasant:

‘Pictor Ignotus! Power Unseen!
Who imn'd this sight whereon I gaze,—
The still blue Seas, the arc serene
Of yon still Heavens of radiant sheen,
I doff my hat and give Thee praise!
Thy skill in painting this green Earth,
The forms upright that seem divine,
Proclaim Thy most exceeding worth—
No technique, Master, equals Thine!
Step forward, then, O great Unknown,
Accept our humble admiration!—
All men of taste will gladly own
The excellence of Thy Creation!
A beauteous bit of work like this
Whereon I feast mine eyes this morning,
All peace, all prettiness, all bliss,
Hushes at once all doubt, all scorning.
Tell me, Great Master, did'st Thou make
This thing for the mere Beauty's sake,
Having no other test to measure
Thy work, but pure æsthetic pleasure?
If this be so, why do we see
Elsewhere, attributed to Thee,
So many things which, I opine,
Are really coarse and Philistine?
Another question, which concerns
The æsthetic spirit. Many hold,
However bright and clear it burns,
'Tis selfish, passionless, and cold;
Indifferent to the means whereby
It gains the artistic end in view,
It broods alone, with cruel eye
That keeps the handcraft sure and true.
If this be so, and Thou, O great
Master, art but a craftsman fine,
I understand and estimate
(At last) Thy process, called “Divine”—
Cold to the prayer of human sorrow,
Deaf to the sob of human strife,
Thou workest grandly, night and morrow,
On Thy great Masterpiece of Life!
For Thine own pleasure is it done,
Since Art's delight is in the doing,
Thine own enjoyment, slowly won,
Is the sole end Thou art pursuing—
No dull despairing criticaster
Troubles Thee or disturbs Thee, Master!
No thought of human approbation
Perturbs Thy rapture of creation!
No sound of breaking hearts can reach Thee,
No touch of tears Thy sense can thrill,
Tho' millions praise Thee or beseech Thee,
Indifferent Thou labourest still;
Picture on Picture is destroyed,
And thrown into the empty void;
World upon world is made, and then
Rejected gloomily again;
Life upon life is painted fair,
Then tost aside in Art's despair;
And so, with blunders infinite,
Thou toilest for Thine own delight!

‘And when Thy task is done, when Art
Crowns to the full Thy great endeavour,
Alone, Unknown, still sit apart,
And glory in Thy work for ever!’

V.

There, where eternal Summer lingers,
The Isle lay golden 'neath the blue,
Save when the Rain's soft tremulous fingers
Just touch'd its eyes with cool dark dew,—
Or when with sudden thunderous cry
The chariots of the clouds went by,
And trembling for a little space,
The Isle lay down with darken'd face
Under the vials of the Storm,
Then shook the sparkling drops away
And looking upward felt the warm
New sunlight gladdening thro' the grey!
Like a child's heart that beats so gladly,
So full of joy for Life's own sake,
Did not the sudden tears flow madly
A moment's space, 'twould surely break,—
So did that Land of Summer capture
Just now and then surcease from rapture!
But after storms, the bliss grew finer,
And storms indeed were far between,—
The days divine, the nights diviner,
With peace celestial and serene.

From dawn to dark the golden Light
Dwelt on green cape and gleaming height,
On yellow sands where the blue Sea
Pencil'd in silvern filagree
Frail flowers and leaves of frost-white spray
That ever came and flash'd away.

192

Then, the deep nights! great nights of calm,
Full of ambrosial bliss and balm!
Smooth sun-stain'd waves as daylight fled
Broke on the reef to foam blood-red,
Till the white Moon arose, and lo!
The foam was powdery silver snow,
And slowly, softly, down the night,
O'er the smooth black and glistering Sea,
The starry urns of crystal Light
Were fill'd and emptied momently!
Then in the centre of the glimmer
The round Moon ripen'd as she rose,
And cover'd with the milk-white shimmer
The glassy Waters took repose;
And round the Isle a murmur deep
Of troubled surges half asleep
Broke faintlier and faintlier
As Midnight took her shadowy throne;
In heaven, on earth, no breath, no stir,
No sound, save that deep slumb'rous tone!
Wonder of Darkness!—'neath its wing
All living things sank slumbering,
Save those glad lovers in delight
Clinging and gazing at the sky,
While phosphorescent thro' the night
Portents of Nature glimmer'd by!
In such dark hours of stillness Love
Reaches her apogee of bliss;
The fountains of the spirit move
Upward, and cresting to a kiss
Sink earthward sighing—then we seem
Creatures of passion and of dream,
Ethereal shadowy things whose breath
May touch the cheeks of happy Death,
Who smile, and sigh for joy, and fall
Into deep rest celestial!

Such joy I've had on autumn eves
When the Moon shines on slanted sheaves,
And thro' the distant farmhouse pane
The lighted candle flashes red,
And darker over field and lane
The gloaming of the night is shed.
Then, pillow'd on a warm white breast,
And gazing into happy eyes,
While the faint flush of radiance blest
Still came and went on the dark skies,
I've felt the dim Earth softly spinning
On its smooth axle, while above
The bright stars as at Time's beginning
Turn'd in their spheres of Light and Love;—
O joy of Youth! O adumbration
Of Hope and ecstasy intense!
When Life's faint stir, Love's first pulsation,
Turn to a splendour dazzling sense!
One night like that were more to me,
Now I am weary with Earth's ways,
Than all a long Eternity
Of strident, garish, gladsome days!
Ah, to be young! ah, once again
To drink Youth's wild and wondrous wine!
To quit the pathos and the pain
For passionate hours of joy divine!
To feel the breast that comes and goes
While fond white arms around me twine,
To feel the ripe mouth like a rose
Prest close, with kiss on kiss, to mine!
To feel all Nature thus fulfil
Her gladness in that touch of lips,
Which cling and cling and cling and thrill
One Soul to the soft finger-tips,—
All this, which I can ne'er express,
This flush of Youth and Happiness,
Methinks, is infinitely nicer
Than being counted good or clever—
Than growing every day preciser
And finding Love has flown for ever!
For ever? No!—Thank God, the power
Of Love can move me to this hour;
And tho' my moonlight pranks are over,
And those old sheaves are shed like sleet,
I'll be a Poet and a Lover
Until my heart doth cease to beat!

Yet there are nobler things than pleasure,
Diviner things than Flesh can gain,—
Insight too deep for joy to measure
Comes with supremacy of pain!—
When kneeling by the Dead and seeing
That still white Lily with shut eyes,
We feel, stirred to the depths of Being,
The pathos of poor human ties.
If in that awful trysting place,
We watch, thro' tears that blindly roll,
Pale Love and shadowy Death embrace
And blend to one eternal Soul,
How feeble, of how little worth,
Seem all those ecstasies of Earth!
Out of corruption and decay
Spring flowers that cannot pass away—
Out of a grief transcending tears
Springs radiance that redeems our lot,

193

While faintly on our listening ears
Rings the soft music of the spheres,
‘Forget me not! forget me not!’
Shall we forget? Shall Death not be
The gauge of our Humanity?
Shall Love and Death, one Soul, one Thought,
Not waft us upward as on wings?
Almighty God, our life were naught,
Were this dark Miracle ne'er wrought
To prove us spiritual things.
Dust to the dust—there let it lie!
Soul to the Soul—which cannot die!
The dim white Dove of Death is winging
O'er Life's great flood in lonely flight,
That sad black leaf of olive bringing
To prove a hidden Land of Light!
God, who created Earth and Heaven,
Lord of the Dead Thy love can save,
Thy Bow still comforts the bereaven
While Death wings on from wave to wave!
Standing 'neath Sorrow's sunless pall
We hail a symbol bright and blest,
And by that sign know one and all
That when these troubled Waters fall
Our Ark on Ararat shall rest! . . . .

So the sweet days stole on, and still
The Outcast wandered at his will
From dream to dream, from bliss to bliss,
Glad and unconscious of his doom;
His thought, a smile—his life, a kiss—
His breath and being, one perfume!

But even as the Snake once stole
Unseen, unguess'd, to Eden's Bowers,
Ennui, the Serpent of the Soul,
Crept in deep-hid 'neath fruit and flowers!
Slowly the ecstasy intense
Fever'd the life of Soul and Sense,
And certain of delight the eyes
Grew weary of the happy Skies,
And looking up into his face,
Her only Heaven, the Maid could trace,
Ere he himself was yet aware,
The filmy clouds of nameless care!
Sometimes he'd sit wrapt deep in thought,
His gaze upon the glassy Sea;
Sometimes from sleep his passion-fraught
Spirit would wake him suddenly!
Sometimes, on days of summer rain,
When gentle storms swept round the land,
He paced the shores, and seemed again
Upon the wave-tost deck to stand!
And wistful as a hound, that lies
Watching its master's face, and tries
To share his sorrow or delight,
The Maiden mark'd him day and night!

‘This is the worst of Joy—the more
We bask’ (he writes) ‘beneath its ray,
The sooner is the magic o'er,
The quicklier doth it fade away!
Sunshine without a cloud at all
Of its own peace begins to pall,
And calm too tropic and intense
Soon fevers to indifference!
Whence little rain-clouds, tempests even,
Keep Hymen's garden green and growing,
And lovers weary of a Heaven
Where no rain falls, no wind is blowing!
One sickens of fine weather, tires
Of ever-gratified desires,
Is bored, although at first enchanted,
By having every fancy granted.
And ah! my little Maid, unskill'd
In any art of the coquette,
All love, all rapture, sweetly filled
With the warm wine her soul distilled,
Incapable of fear or fret,
Ne'er knew what women more capricious
Learn, with long culture for a guide,—
That joy is render'd more delicious
By being now and then denied.
How could a Passion-Flower, all scent,
All bloom, and all abandonment,
Appreciate the subtle ways
Which wiser modern women show forth?
Such dainty tricks came in with stays,
Flounces, and pantalettes, and so forth,—
Whence we our Modern Venus see,
Not in immortal nudity,
But veil'd in beauteous mystery!
But Love in that bright Land abode
Almost in mother-nakedness,
Pure Nature all her beauties showed
Indifferent to the arts of Dress:
No Milliner had wander'd thither,
Bearing Parisian magic with her:—

194

The skirt's sly folds, the robe's disguises,
The pruderies of silken hose,
The roguish petticoat's surprises,
The thousand spells that Art devises
To veil the secrets of the Rose!
That Child of Sunlight never guess'd
How winsome and how fair may be
A modern Maiden bravely drest
In opalescent modesty!
The scented form that shrinks away
At the first look of tenderness,
The faltering tongue that murmurs “nay,”
Belying eyes that answer “yes,”
The flying feet a lover chases,
The half-withdrawn, half lingering hand,
The breast that heaves 'neath creamy laces
Craving yet shrinking from embraces,
Were all unknown in that sweet Land!’

And so, already, as I've told,
The fabled Snake was crawling there,
Since he who trod those shores of gold
Had brought it with him unaware!—
For worldly knowledge and its pride
Tainted the man's dark nature thro',
And as they wandered side by side,
Lonely as Adam and his bride,
Under those skies of Eden's blue,
He often watched her in the mood
Of modern Bards and Heroes, saying:
‘True, she is beautiful and good,
As fine a thing of flesh and blood
As ever loved or went a-Maying.
She recognises, too, completely
The privilege of her master Man,
And, ever fond and smiling sweetly,
Supplies his needs, as Woman can.
She is the instrument placed by me
To calm, perhaps to purify, me!
And I, of course, in this affair,
Fit object of her daily prayer,
Am the one person whose salvation
God takes into consideration!
I am the Hero—I am clearly
The object of His circumspection,
And she, although I love her dearly,
Is but a means to my perfection.’
And so, like other cultivated
Dunces by Folly sublimated,
He took that angel's fond and true
Homage as if it were his due!
A Hero!—he! Now God confound him,
And all such Heroes great or small—
The crown of pride with which Love crown'd him
Was but a Fool's cap after all!

VI.

Heroes? The noblest and the best
Are those of whom we never know;
God's Greatest are God's Lowliest,
Who move unnoted to their rest
Nor build their pride on human woe.
Napoleons of Sword or Song,
The proud, the radiant, and the strong,
The inheritors of Earth, are clay
To the slain Saints of every day.
The Kings of Action and of Thought
Pass in their pride and leave no sign,
But the slain Martyr's flesh is wrought
By suffering to Life divine.
In the eternal Judge's sight
This truth refutes the common lie:
What men call Genius hath no right
To scorn one single human tie.

Come up, ye Poets, and be tried!
Stand up, you shrieking, mouthing throng!
Shall you be spared and justified
For a few scraps of selfish song?
By Heaven, the weary world could spare
All poets since Creation's day,
If one poor human heart's despair,
One poor lost Soul's unheeded prayer,
Must be the price it hath to pay!
Bury your Homers mountain-deep,
Strangle your Shakespeares ere they wake,
If they their heritage must keep,
If they Parnassus-ward must creep
O'er souls they stain and hearts they break.
For what is Verse, and what is Fame?
Great reams of paper, much acclaim!
And what are Poets at the best
But busy tongues that often bore us?
One noble heart, one loving breast
Is worth the whole long-winded chorus!

But hold! true Poesy keeps ever
Great wisdom as its pearl of price;
The sleepless Dream, the long Endeavour,
The questioning Thought that resteth never,
Demand no living sacrifice.

195

Your Goethe's pyramid was made
Of broken hearts and lives betrayed,
Wherefore men found it, when complete,
A pyramid of Self-conceit.
And take your Shelley (tho' I hold
The fellow had a harp of gold):
He stained the Soul he had to save
The day he turn'd from Harriet's grave.
But leave me Burns, and Byron too,—
They had their faults, and those not few,
And gave the nations much offence
By riot and concupiscence,
But Love was in the rogues! they paid
Full dearly for the pranks they played,
And never, in their wildest revel,
Pleaded the privilege of Fame,
Or called on Genius and the Devil
To justify their guilt and shame!

Some men, all women, worship Strength:
Carlyle did, till experience taught him
That even the athlete pays at length
The bills that Time and Death have brought him.
Rough Thomas loudly preached for long
That hero-worship of the Strong,
The right of muscle and of sinew
To use the weak and crush the small,
‘Do something! show the spirit in you,
Work, in God's name!’ men heard him call.
‘Speech, sirs, is silvern—silence gold!’
He cried aloud with lungs of leather;
Nay, even when wearied out and old
He could not keep his tongue in tether.
Friedrich, Napoleon, Mirabeau,
Danton and Goethe were his crazes!
They stood like puppets in a row,
Tall spectres of a wax-work show,
While lustily he shrieked their praises.
Meantime the bleeding Christ went by,
And heard the acclaim in Cheyne Walk,
Heard from the threshold, with a sigh,
The creed of Silence proved by Talk,
And passing slowly on, footsore,
Left on the noisy Prophet's door
The mark of Passover, for token
A Lamb must die, a life be broken.
'Twas done, and in a little space,
Silent at last as in a tomb,
The Prophet, tears on his worn face,
Sat old and lonely in the gloom
How did his Heroes help him then?
What word had Friedrich, Mirabeau,
Napoleon, and the mighty men
He glorified with tongue and pen,
To assuage the tempest of his woe?
Old Hurricane, I hated thee
When, shrieking down Humanity,
High as a Dervish thou upleapt,—
But in thine hour of agony,
I could have kissed thy wounds and wept.
The pity! ah, the pity of it!
Well, Life is piteous at the best.
Thou wast most mighty, poor old Prophet,
When weakest, saddest, silentest!
Tho' all the gods were dead, and He,
The great God, who is One in Three,
‘Did naught’ (at least in thy opinion,
Though thou did'st cry His Name so loud)
Though Belial reigned in His dominion
And led the many-headed crowd,
Yet supernatural Shapes of Fear,
Fiend-like or god-like, pass'd thee by,
And Froude, thy Nemesis, was near
With watchful biographic eye.
Heir to thy weariness and folly,
He warm'd thy night-cap, brought thy gruel,
Sat by thine arm-chair, melancholy,
And fed thy fantasy with fuel.
And now across the earth he passes,
Babbling of thee and Parson Lot,
And serves up tepid for the masses
Thy gospel, once so piping hot;
Feeds little strong men with his praise,
Just as you fed the strong and great,
Bewails the dark degenerate days,
The dreadful Democratic craze,
The shipwreck of our ancient State;
Longs for another Drake (or gander),
Of whom in Eyre he saw some traces,
Some rough, swashbuckler, bold commander,
To govern the inferior races;
Thro' the colonial seas careering
Avers philanthropies are vile,
And rests, forlornly pamphleteering,
The Peter Patter of Carlyle.

Man is most godlike, I affirm,
Not when he seeks to top the skies,
And peer, poor evanescent Worm,
Into the heavenly Sphinx's eyes,

196

Not when he vainly tries to patter
Of Gods and heroes, Mind and Matter,
Or cries, with folly sublimated,
‘Lo, I am first of things created,’
Or flapping further leaden-bodied
Assumes a legislative godhead;—
But when, in tears, he humbly kneeling
Prays in the silence of the night,
Knows himself blind, and dimly feeling
With frail arms upward, craves for Light!
Then, from without or from within,
Comes in that solemn silent hour
The miracle which turns his sin
To hope, to insight, and to power!
Then comes the Voice from far away,
Saying: ‘My love shall be thy guerdon!
Be of good heart, poor thing of clay,
Soon shall I turn thy night to day,
And free thy Soul from flesh, its burden!’
He listens, breaks to tears, and straightway
Feels this rough load of bone and brawn
Grow lighter, sees a heavenly Gateway
Swing on its hinges far withdrawn,
Revealing glimpses bright and blest
Of good old-fashion'd Realms of Rest,—
The Heaven which all his kin have sighed for,
Which bards have dreamed of, martyrs died for,
Which Christ the Master postulated,
Which every creed hath pictured there,
Which Death itself hath adumbrated
Out of the cloud of Life's despair!

Dear foolish Creed! sweet Superstition!
Fair childish Dream, now faded wholly!
By men of brains and erudition
Despised as ignorance and folly!
Humanity, the wise inform us,
Is intellectua, or naugn,
And Heroes, wondrous and enormous,
Have soared to thrones of godlike thought,
Attesting that Humanity
By its own seed redeemed may be,
And that the Titans of each nation
May face the Saturn of Creation.
For ‘God’—if there be God at all—
Does nothing (that's the Chelsea teaching!)
And to be weak and frail and small,
To reach up arms and feebly call
On some veil'd Nurse, in blind beseeching,
Is just to forfeit altogether
The privilege of Adam's seed!—
‘No, if in Nature's stormy weather,
You'd find a foothold and a creed,
A light, a buckler, an example,
A sign to swear by (or to swear at),
Find out some Hero strong and ample
Who on your neck hath strength to trample,
Crying, “Qui meruit palmam ferat!”
Follow that form the small birds sing to,
O'er fields of slain the vultures wing to,
While women wail and warriors revel!
Since you can find no God to cling to,
Worship some proud heroic Devil!’ . . .

Well, to my Tale—for I'm digressing
Most damnably, and space is pressing.

At times, indeed, despite the curse
Of Knowledge in him, my poor Hero,
Lord of his own Soul's universe,
Yet lone as Lapland, low as zero,
Felt childishly beatified,
Foolishly pious, tried to gulp a
Tear of repentance down, and cried—
‘Lord of the meek, forgive my pride,
O mea culpa! mea culpa!’
For even a Hero, one who deems
Himself the centre of Creation,
Who, proud of God's attention, beams
With self-approving admiration,
Is only clay! A great philosopher
Will often whimper on the sly,
And sceptics often try to cross over
The Bridge of Prayers that spans the Sky.
On moonlight nights, on Sabbath days,
When Earth herself lies still and prays
Rock'd in the sad Sea's quiv'ring arms,
And God's Hand, laid upon her breast,
'Mid folds of trembling darkness, charms
Her fears to momentary rest,
All creatures, proud or lowly, share
That dusky rapture of despair!
And now the Outcast who had sneer'd
At all the schemes of Earth and Heaven,
Who fear'd no wrath or tempest, feared
The peace, the joy, which God had given!
And gazing in that Maiden's eyes
Full of soft love and sad surmise,
He saw a starry radiance shine
That show'd him base, and her divine!

197

Ah, then he could have prayed, and wept,
Humble, and low, and spirit-sore—
But the mood pass'd, and o'er him crept
The cankering curse of pride once more.
Yet those were happy, happy days!
'Twas Eden tho' the Snake was there!
Eternal Summer shed its rays
O'er these still seas, thro' these green ways,
And all was primitive and fair!
Life grew so still and softly sweet
The rapturous heart scarce seemed to beat,
And sense and spirit seem'd to swoon
To the hot hush of one long Noon;
Sometimes thro' forest paths of green
They walk'd, and thro' the leafy sheen
O'erhead, beheld the bright skies grow
Miraculously white, like snow;
Or to some grotto's shade they came
And saw with slimy weeds o'ergrown
Some carven god without a name
Sit in the chillness all alone,
And on her face the little Maid
Fell for a space and softly prayed,
Then dipt her finger tips into
The cool green drops of sunless dew
That on the idol dript and fell,
And laid them on her lover's brow,
And seem'd to say, ‘Love, all is well—
He gives us both his blessing now!’
Sometimes upon the peaceful Sea
They paddled out in light canoes,
And floating softly, silently,
O'er deep cool voids of rainbow hues,
Saw far below them, far as was
The mirror'd heaven as smooth as glass,
Thro' soft translucent depths of dream,
Down, down, within the clear abysm,
Bright creatures of the Ocean gleam
And fade, like colours in the prism;—
There, rocked on crystal waves that were
As clear and shadowless as air,
They seem'd suspended near the sun
Between two Heavens that throb'd as one!
Sometimes they climb'd the peaks, and stood
Full in the moonlight's amber glood,
And saw the great stars as bright as gold
Steal breathless from the azure fold,
And like strange luminous living things
Move to their silent pasturings;
And down beneath them, far as gaze
Could see into the ocean-ways,
Such shapes as in a mirror shone,
And softly pasturing too, crept on!
And all around them on the heights
Eternity set beacon-lights,
And meteors, flashing suddenly,
Fell radiant from sky to sea,
While sadly as some heart bereaven
Throb'd the great luminous Heart of Heaven!

Almighty God, who out of clay
Fashioned us creatures of a day,
Who gave us vision to perceive,
And souls to wonder and believe,
How calmly, coldly, we behold
Thy daily marvels manifold!
Thy raiment-hem of glory sweeps
Across the darkness of the Deeps,
And quickens light and life, O God,
In all it touches, stone or clod—
And we . . . things of a day, an hour,
Accept the wonder as our dower,
And wearying of the splendour, lust
For darkening pleasures of the dust.
Tho' Thou hast girdled us around
With ecstasies of sight and sound,
Tho' all without us and within
Thy Thought takes form and adumbration,
Dark is the answer it doth win
From us, the waifs of Thy creation!
We cry for Miracles, and lo!
All Nature is illumed for us!
The sun, the stars, the flowers, the snow,
Change at Thy touch miraculous—
In vain, in vain, the Mystery,
We understand not, tho' we see,
And like sick children, turning thence,
Fret out our little sum of sense!
Yet sometimes to Thy touch we quicken
A moment, like that Man and Maiden,—
And while Thy wonders round us thicken
We pause and marvel, passion-laden,—
Then lifted in some air divine
High o'er this world to yonder Sky,
See, where Thy constellations shine,
The Darkness of Thy Face go by!
An instant only!—could the wonder
Last but another, then indeed
Our bonds of flesh were torn asunder,
And we were purified and freed—
But no!—the thrill celestial
Ceases and down to Earth we fall,

198

And coldly once again survey
Thy miracles of Night and Day!

Back to our lovers! Could I tell
Of all they felt and dream'd and thought,
How Love for ever changed the spell
That bound their spirits fever-fraught,
How night and day their lives were blent
In rapture and abandonment,
My song would never end!—the Hours
Flew by like maidens crown'd with flowers,
Each like the other dancing on,
Till many nights and days were gone,
How many—who can tell? Not I—
For in these passionate relations
We count not Time as it goes by,
But measure it by palpitations:
At last, we waken, and look back
Along the pleasant flowery track
By which we've journey'd, to discover
The flowers are flown, the leaves are dead;—
So, at least, was it with our Lover,
When his long honeymoon was over
And the first bloom of Love had fled.
And how it would have ended, whether
He would have stealthily departed,
Or roughly cut the tender tether
That held their sunny lives together,
And left the maiden broken-hearted,
I know not. Fate, the wild Witch-woman
Who thwarts the plans of all things human,
Came flying to that Isle so sunny
With imps of mischief in her train,
And changed Love's waning moon of honey
Into a baleful star of pain!

VII.

Beneath thick boughs of emerald green
Turn'd by the sunlight's golden ray
To curtains of transparent sheen,
They had roam'd, for half a summer's day:
Now resting in the dappled shade
By silvern fount or bubbling well,
Now passing thro' some open glade
Where the spent shafts of splendour fell;
But ever as they wander'd on
The man look'd dark as one who dreams,
With inward-looking eyes that shone
To restless melancholy gleams;
And all her loving arts were vain
To stir the shadow of this pain;
On passive lips as chill as clay
Her kisses fell; her warm hand lay
Fluttering in a hand of stone;
No look of love, no tender tone,
Answer'd the sweetness of her own;
Till suddenly the umbrage deep
Of those great woodlands still as sleep
Parted, and grassy heights were gained
Sloping to great crags crimson-stain'd,
And 'tween the crags, that heavenward rose
Crown'd with one solitary palm,
The Ocean!—troublous in repose,
Murmurous in folds of summer calm!

Then his eye brighten'd, and with fleet
Footsteps he hasten'd on until,
Where the high cliffs and clouds did meet,
The white surge far beneath his feet,
He paused, and gladdening drank his fill
Of some new rapture. Blithe and bright,
To see his gloom had passed away,
She join'd him on the lonely height,
And, happy as a child at play,
Ran gathering ferns and flowers that grew
Above the chasm's purple blue
Between her and the rocky shore;—
She scarce could hear so far away
The breaking billows' ceaseless roar,
But saw the line of snow-white spray
Frozen by distance. Then she turn'd,
And lo! his face no longer yearn'd
Fondly to hers, but eagerly
Bent to the far-off shoreless Sea!
And ah! the hunger and the thirst
Of sleepless wanderers tempest-nurst,
The look which wives and mothers fear
I' the eyes of those they hold so dear,
The rapture which is Love's despair,
The unrest of Ocean, all were there,
Mirror'd in that bright restless gaze
Which swept the wondrous watery ways!

She spoke—he smiled!—and she could read
In that strange smile the doom of Love!
No more her own, in dream or deed,
Lifted in some wild air above
Her hopes and dreams, he felt again
The power, the passion, and the pain
Of that Revolt, that mad Surmise,
The sleepless Waters symbolise!
But then he looked at her and smiled
Again,—and now it seemed once more

199

The smile of Love, tho' wan and wild,
Not soft and sunny as before;
And gazing back thro' tender tears
She drank the smile, and softly scan'd
Her lover's face, while on her ears
Fell words she could not understand.

‘Close to me, close!’ he cried aloud,
‘Would that this hour, my child, we twain
Might mingle, drifting like one cloud
Over the melancholy Main!
Would that the cup thy love hath brought
Might quench the thirst of my despair!
Would that my spirit fever-fraught
Might kneel with thine in peaceful prayer!
But no, the golden Dream is done
(O God, how sweet! O God, how fair!)
Thy life grows here beneath the sun,
Mine is among the Storms, out there!
God bless thee, child—if God there be,
His benediction must be thine—
But voices yonder from the Sea,
Voices of Souls as lost as mine,
Still call aloud that He I name
Hath still no power to calm or tame
The spirit who denies and spurns
The peace for which thy nature yearns.
The storm-cloud touches with its shower
The flower that blossoms sweet and low—
But the cloud blends not with the flower,
Nor rests in peace where flowers may grow.
My child, my child! Would I had been
Pure like thyself and purely true,
Sure of my dower of Light serene,
Sure of the earth from which I grew—
But no! no rest, no joy, contents
The outcast Soul, the sleepless Will—
And what the cruel Elements
Have mixed in wrath, no Love can still!’

Even as a child who tries to guess
The words she little understands,
But kindles into happiness
Thro' smile of eyes and clasp of hands,
She listened! then her lips to his
Were sealèd in a heavenly kiss,
And running from his side again
She gathered flowers and brought them to him,
And as he took them, piteous pain,
Scornful yet wistful, trembled thro' him.
As some bright bird of Paradise,
Or some fair fawn-like pard, seem'd she,
An earthly thing with elfin eyes,
Scarce humanised, yet fond and free;
And lo, he loved her,—as men love
Earth and the flowers that blossom thence,
The beasts and birds of wood and grove,
All happy things that live and move
Like apparitions round the sense;
But deep within his troubled breast
An alien love, a vague unrest,
Stirr'd to a sense of vaster things,
Great doubts and dreams, divine desire,—
An eagle's thirst to unfold its wings,
Upward to fly in circling rings,
And front the blinding solar fire!

High o'er the utmost crag there grew
The palm-tree, rooted in the rock,
Bent by each ocean-blast that blew,
But firm amidst the tempest's shock.
And round its roots, beneath its shade,
Flowers like our wind-flower clustering crept,—
Thither, swift-footed, unafraid,
Laughing, the little Maiden leapt;
Till down beneath her fairy feet
She saw the distant surges beat,—
Great birds that look'd like butterflies
Hovering white o'er ridgèd waves,
While trumpet-calls and thunder-cries
Rose from the distant chasms and caves;—
Then as she gained the lonely tree,
And stooped among the flowers, the sound
Of air and water suddenly
Thunder'd like earthquake all around!
Fearless and happy, white and fair,
She paused in pretty wonder there,
Then looking back beheld her lover
Beckoning with face as pale as death.
‘Come back, come back!’ he cried, while over
The gulf she hung with bated breath—
Then smiling back to him who yearn'd
Beyond her, merrily she turn'd,
And kneeling o'er the chasm hung
To pluck one fair white flower that clung
Beneath her o'er the chasm's gloom,
With light quick finger touch'd the bloom,

200

And then . . .

Great God, who gav'st us sight,
Yet see'st us grope with close-shut eyes,
Blind to the blessings of the Light,
Dead to the Love that deifies!
Unto how many men each hour
Frail little fingers seek to bring
Some gentle gift of love, some flower
That is the Soul's best offering?
Some happiness which we despise,
Some boon we toss aside for ever,—
And only that our selfish eyes
May smile one moment on the giver!
How many of us count or treasure
The little lives that perish thus,
To garner us a moment's pleasure,
A moment's space to comfort us?
Blind, ever blind, we front the sun
And cannot see the angels near us,
Forget the tender duties done
By willing slaves, to help and cheer us!
Earth and its fulness, all the fair
Creations of this heaven and air,
All lives which die that we may live,
All gifts of service, we pass by,
All blessings Love hath power to give
We scorn, O God, or we deny!
Is there a man beneath the sun,
Tho' poor and basest of the base,
For whom such duty is not done
To pleasure him a little space?
A singing bird, a faithful hound,
A loving woman, or a child,
Contented with our voice's sound,
Patient in death if we have smiled,
These, these, O God, are daily sent
To give thine outcasts sacrament,
And in so giving themselves attain
Thy sacred privilege of pain!
Yet still our eyes turn sunward blindly,
And blindly still our souls contemn
The loving hands that touch us kindly,
The lips that kiss our raiment's hem;
And we forget or turn away
From flowers that blossom on our way:
Blind to the gentle ministration
Of tutelary angels near,
We find too late that our salvation
Lies near, not far;—not there, but here!. . .

Even then, as with her little hand
She grasped the flower and sought to rise,
The crag's edge crumbled into sand,
And fluttering from her lover's eyes
She vanished!—With a shriek of dread
He gained the crag, and pausing there,
The great rocks trembling 'neath his tread,
Gazed down—and down—thro' voids of air,
And saw beneath him, thro' the snow
Of flying foam that rose below,
A still white form stretch'd silently
On those cold rocks that fringed the Sea!
What next did pass, he knew not. When
His blinded soul grew clear again,
He stood beneath the craggy height
Close to the surges flashing white,
And, dazzled by the foam and spray,
Bent o'er that bruised and bleeding Form;—
Crush'd on the cruel shore it lay,
Silent and still, yet soft and warm;
And as he knelt with tender cries
Lifting her gently to his breast,
She stir'd and moan'd,—then, opening eyes,
With one last smile serene and blest,
Brighten'd to see her Master bow
Above her, gladly drank his breath,
With fluttering fingers smooth'd his brow,
Kiss'd him, and closed her eyes in death!

How still it was! the clouds above
Paused quietly and did not move—
The waves lay down like lambs—the sound
Of crags and waves was hushed all round.
‘O God, my God!’ the Outcast said,
Kissing the lips still warm and red,
While the frail form hung lax and dead.
And lo! there stole upon his ear,
Low as his own heart's beat, yet clear,
A murmur faint as Sabbath bells
Heard far away 'mid forest dells
Buried in leaves and haze, so still
And soft it only seems the thrill
Of silence thro' the summer air—
A sigh of rapture and of prayer!

And lo! his dark face seaward turn'd,
As in a vision he discerned,
Thro' thickly flowing tears, a Form
In saffron robes and golden hair,
Walking with rosy feet all bare
The Waters slumbering after storm!

201

A Maiden Shape, her sad blue eyes
Soft with the peace of Paradise,
She walked the waves; in her white hand
Pure lilies of the Heavenly Land
Hung alabaster white, and all
The billows 'neath her light footfall
Heaved glassy still, and round her head
An aureole burnt of golden flame,
As nearer yet, with radiant tread,
Fixing her eyes on his, she came.
Then as she paused upon the Sea
Gazing upon him silently
With looks insufferably bright
And gentle brows beatified,
He knew our Lady of the Light,
Mary Madonna, heavenly-eyed!

He look'd—he listen'd.

‘Speak!’ she said,
‘By Him who judgeth quick and dead,
Art thou content for evermore
Here on the lotus leaf to rest?
Speak! and thy wanderings are o'er,
And sleep is thine—if sleep be best!
Speak!—and this fluttering flower of flesh
Shall lift its head and bloom afresh,
Guide and companion unto thee
Thro' Eden for Eternity;—
She loves thee, as the birds and flowers
Love, and all things of sun and shore.
Speak!—and the sunshine and the showers
Shall lap thee deep in these bright bowers
For ever and for evermore.’
He answer'd, heavy-eyed and pale,
‘Madonna! let me journey on!
Better the surges and the gale,
Better to sail and sail and sail
Before thy wind, Euroclydon.
Here have I found delight and joy,
Here hath my spirit been renew'd,
Yea, with the mad thirst of a boy,
All Adam burning in my blood,
I have drunken of the brimming cup
Nature for ever holdeth up.
Nay more, the primal sympathy,
The first sweet force which stirs thro' all,
Hath quicken'd gentler thoughts in me
Than yonder where the Tempests call—
Deep pity kindles in my heart
For all glad things beneath the Blue,
For her, the brightest and the best,
This life of sunlight and of dew;
And yet . . . and yet . . . tho' I can weep
Above her, since she loved me so,
I would not wake her from her sleep
To share my happiness or woe!
Poor child, she knew no thought of pain!
A blossom, born to bloom and kiss,
She open'd, then stole back again
To Nature's elemental bliss!
Here let her dwell, till Time is done,
With all such creatures of the sun—
Here let her still remain, a part
Of Nature's warmly beating heart;—
Here, blest and blessing, wrapt up warm
In kindling dust, her place shall be,
While I return to face the storm
Out yonder on the sunless Sea!’

Ev'n as he spake, the air grew dark,
Some veil of awe shut out the day,
And voices from the Phantom Barque
Cried, ‘Hillo! hillo! come away!’
Then, while Our Lady's form grew dim
And vanish'd, with sad eyes on him,
He saw beyond the line of surge
Breaking upon the lonely strand,
The shadow of the Ship emerge
And hover darkly close to land.
And woeful voices of the Sea
Call'd to his sould tumultuously,
As kneeling by the Maiden's form
He kissed the lips that yet were warm,
And in the cold still ear that lay
Frail as a little ocean-shell,
Once warm with life, then wash'd away,
Whisper'd his passionate ‘farewell!’
Then, moaning like a death-struck bird,
Sprang to his feet, and while he heard
The flapping sail, the whistling shroud,
The murmuring voices, fill the gloom,
‘I come! I come!’ he cried aloud,
And totter'd to the Ship of Doom.

INTERLUDE.

So endeth Song the First!

Long years
Ere you and I, my love, were born,
The Outcast sail'd away, his ears
Full of mad music of the Morn.
Once more upon the lonely Main
He dree'd his weird of bitter pain,
Haunted' by dreams where'er he flew
Of that sweet Child of sun and dew.

202

But ten years later, and every ten
At intervals 'twixt now and then,
He landed wearily again
And sought—what still he seeks in vain!
The record tells us of his quest
From north to south, from east to west,—
Affairs with most delightful ladies
Of every clime beneath the sun,
From far Cathay to sunny Cadiz,
From Ispahan to Patagon,—
Of all religions and complexions,
Of every shape and every fashion;
He learn'd all phases of affections,—
The dark sultana's introspections,
The Persian concubine's soft passion!
Thus lightly roaming here and there,
Seeking his fate from zone to zone,
Betimes he came to Weimar, where
Jupiter-Goethe had his throne:
This stately Eros in court-breeches
Deign'd with our Pilgrim to converse,
But bored him hugely with set speeches
And pyramids of easy verse,—
Of which some solid blocks still stand
Amid Saharas of mere sand.
In Germany he spent a year
Of wondrous love and strange probation—
What of that land of bores and beer
He thought, you in good time shall hear,
If I survive for the narration.
Soon afterwards I find that he
Roam'd southward, into Italy,
And standing near St. Peter's dome,
Was present at the sack of Rome.
Thence in due time he wander'd right on
To Paris, where, some years ago,
He saw the garish lamps flash bright on
The Second Empire's feverish Show—
A Fair by gaslight—booths resplendent,
Bright-tinsel'd players promenading,
Street lamps with handsome corpses pendent,
Couples beneath them gallopading,
Soldiers and journalists saluting,
Poets and naked harlots dancing,
Drums beating, panpipes tootletooting,
State wizards gravely necromancing;
And in the midst, the lewd and yellow
God to whom wooden Joss was fellow,—
Enwrapt in purple, painted piebald,
Cigar in mouth, lacklustre-eyeball'd,
Imperial Cæsar Punchinello!
But now, alas! I hesitate
Before I venture forward, dreading
My Hero's own unhappy fate,—
The people's scorn, the critics' hate,
For dark's the path my Muse is treading!
And this strange poem is compounded
Of mixtures new to modern taste,
And Mr. Stead may be astounded
And think my gentle Muse unchaste.
Until we reach the journey's end,
(Finis coronat opus!) many
May dream I purpose to offend
With merest horseplay, like a zany!
Mine is a serious song, however,
As you shall see in God's good time,
If life should crown my long endeavour,
And grant me courage to persèver
Thro' this mad maze of rakish rhyme.
I who now sing have been for long
The Ishmaël of modern song,—
Wild, tatter'd, outcast, dusty, weary,
Hated by Jacob and his kin,
Driv'n to the desert dark and dreary,
A rebel and a Jacobin;
Treated with scorn and much impatience
By gentlemanly reputations,
And by the critics sober-witted
Disliked and boycotted, or pitied.
I asked for bread, and got instead of
The crust I sought, a curse or stone,—
And so, like greater bards you've read of,
I've roamed the wilderness alone.
But that's all o'er, since I abandon
The ground free Mountain Poets stand on,
And kneel to say my catechism
Before the arch-priests of Nepotism.
Henceforth I shall no more resemble
Poor Gulliver when caught in slumber,
Swarm'd over, prick'd, put all a-tremble,
By Liliputians without number.
The Saturday Review in pride
Will throne me by great Henley's side,
The Daily News sound my Te Deum
Despite the Devil and A thenœum;
Tho' Watts may triple his innuendoes,
And Swinburne shriek in sharp crescendoes,
The merry Critics all will pat me,
The merry Bards bob smiling at me,
All Cockneydom with crowns of roses
Salute my last apotheosis!

For (let me whisper in your ear!)
Of Criticism I've now no fear,

203

Since, knowing that the press might cavil,
I've joined the Critics' Club—the Savile!
And standing pledged to say things pleasant
Of all my friends, from Lang to Besant,
With many others, not forgetting
Our school-room classic, Stevenson,
I look for puffs, and praise, and petting,
From my new brethren, every one.
A Muse with half an eye and knock-knees
Would thrive, thus countenanced by Cockneys;
And mine, tho' tall, and straight, and strong,
Blest with a Highland constitution,
Has led a hunted life for long
Thro' Cockney hate and persecution.

And yet—a terror trembles through me,
They may blackball, and so undo, me!
In that case I must still continue
A Bard that fights for his own hand:
Bold Muse, then, strengthen soul and sinew
To brave the Liliputian band!
I smile, you see, and crack my jest,
Altho' my fate has not been funny!
Storm-tost, and weary, and opprest,
The busy Bee has done his best,
But gather'd very little honey!
My life has ever been among
The drones, in deucèd rainy weather,
I've hum'd to keep my heart up, sung
A song or two of the sweet heather,
Nay, I've been merry too, and tried,
As now, to put my gloom aside;
But ah! be sure the mirth I wear
Is but a mask to hide my care,
Since on my soul and on my page
Fall shadows of a sunless age,
And sadly, faintly, I prolong
A broken life with broken song.
As Rome was once, when faith was dead,
And all the gentle gods were fled,
As Rome was, ere on Death's black tree
Bloom'd the Blood-rose of Calvary,
As Rome was, wrapt in cruel strife
By black eclipse of faith and life,
So is our world to-day!—and lo!
A cloud of weariness and woe,
Dark presage of the Tempest near,
Fills the sad universe with fear,
And in this darkness of eclipse,
When Faith is dumb upon the lips,
Hope dead within the heart, I share
The Time's black birthright of despair;
Hear the shrill voice that cries aloud:
‘The gods are fallen and still must fall!
King of the sepulchre and shroud,
Death keeps his Witches' Festival!’

Hark! on the darkness rings again,
Poor human Nature's shriek of pain,
Answer'd by cruel sounds that prove
The Life of Hate, the Death of Love.
Now, since all tender awe hath fled,
Not only for the gods o'erhead,
But for the tutelary, tiny,
Gods that our daily path surround,
The kindly, innocent, sunshiny
Spirits that mask as ape and hound,—
Since neither under nor above him
Man reverences the powers that love him,
What wonder if, instead of these
Who brought him gifts of joy for token,
Man looking upward only sees
A hideous Spectre of the Brocken,
And 'mid his hush of horror, hears
The torrent-sound of human tears?
The butcher'd woman's dying shriek,
The ribald's laugh, the ruffian's yell,
While strong men trample on the weak,
Proclaim the reign of Hate and Hell.
And in the lazar-halls of Art,
And in the shrines of Science, priests
Of the new Nescience brood apart,
Crying, ‘Man's life is as the Beast's!’
There is no goodness 'neath the sun—
The days of God and gods are done,
And o'er the godless Universe
Falls the last pessimistic curse!

Old friends, with whom in days less dark
I roam'd thro' green Bohemia's glades,
While ‘tirra lirra’ sang the lark
And lovers listen'd in the shades,
When Life was young and Song was merry,
And Morals free, and Manners bold,
When poets whistled ‘Hey down derry,’
And toil'd for love in lieu of gold,
When on the road we trode together
Old honest hostels offered cheer,
And halting in the sunny weather
We gladden'd over pipes and beer,

204

Where are you hiding now? and where
Is the Bohemia of our playtime?
Where are the heavens that once were fair,
And where the blossoms of the May-time?
The trees are lopt by social sawyers,
The grass is gone, the ways asphalted,
Stone walls set up by ethic lawyers
Replace the Stiles o'er which we vaulted!
See! with rapidity surprising,
Thro' jerry-building ministrations,
Neat Literary Villas rising
To shelter timid reputations;
Each with its garden and its gravel,
Its little lawn right trimly shaven,
Its owner's name, quite clean, past cavil,
Upon a brass plate neatly graven!

And lo! that all mankind may know it,
We are respectable or nothing,
The Seer, the Painter, and the Poet
Must go in fashionable clothing—
High jinks, all tumbling in the hay,
All thoughts of pipes and beer, are chidden,
The girls who were so glad and gay
Must be content in hodden-gray,
Nay, merry books must be forbidden.
And—ecce signum!—primly drest
Here come the Vigilance Committee,
Condemning Murger and the rest
Because they may corrupt the City!
Vie de Bohème!—Life yearned for yet,
En pantalon, en chemisette—
Life free as sunshine and fresh air,
Now gets no hearing anywhere,
And o'er a world of knaves and fools
The Moral Jerry-builder rules.

Moral? By Heaven, I see beneath
That saintly mask, the eyes of Death,
The wrinkled cheek, the serpent's skin,
The sly Mephistophelian grin!
And where he wanders thro' the land
The green grass withers 'neath his tread,
While those trim villas built on sand
Crumble around the living-dead.
Under the region he controls
Sound of a sleeping Earthquake rolls,
And at the murmur of his voice
The Seven Deadly Sins rejoice!
Meantime, the Jerry Legislator,
Throttling all natures broad and breezy,
Flaunts in the face of the Creator,
The good old-fashioned Heavenly Pater,
This gospel—‘Providence Made Easy!’
Proving all gods but myths and fiction,
He treats man's feeble constitution
With moral drugs and civic friction,
To force the work of Evolution;
Shows ‘Rights’ are merely superstition,
And Freedom simply Laisser faire,
And puts a ban and prohibition
On Life that once was free as air.
Behold the scientific dullard,
Cocksure of healing Nature's plight,
Turning Thought's prism many-colour'd
Into one common black and white,
Measures our stature, rules our reading,
Tells us that he is God's successor,
And vows no man of decent breeding
Would seek a wiser Intercessor.
For ‘Rights,’ read ‘Mights,’ aloud cries he,
For ‘Thought,’ ‘Paternal Legislation,’
And substitutes for Liberty
The pompous Beadles of the Nation.
Aye me, when half Man's race is run,
The screech-owl Science, which began
By flapping blindly in the sun,
Huskily croaking, ‘Night is done!
Hark to the Chanticleer of Man!’
Now goose-like hops along the street
Behind the Priests and Ruling Classes,
And fills the air where birds sang sweet
With vestry cackle, as it passes!

Ah, for the days when I was young,
When men were free and songs were sung
In old Bohemia's sylvan tongue!
Ah, for Bohemia long since fled,—
The blue sky shining overhead,
Men comrades all, all women fair,
And Freedom radiant everywhere!
Ah, then the Poet knew indeed
A tenderer soul, a softer creed,
And saw in every fair one's eyes
The light of opening Paradise;
Then, as to lovely forms of fable
Old poets yielded genuflection,
He knelt to Woman, all unable
To throw her corpse upon a table
For calm æsthetical dissection!

205

Zola, de Goncourt, and the rest,
Had not yet woven their witch's spell,
Not yet had Art become a pest
To poison Love's pellucid well!
We deem'd our mistresses divine,
We pledged them deep in Shakespeare's wine,
And in the poorest robes could find
A Juliet or a Rosalind!
And when at night beneath the gas
We saw our painted sisters pass,
We hush'd our hearts like Christian men
Remembering the Magdalen!
Well, now that youth no more is mine,
I worship still the Shape Divine,
And to the outcast I am ready
To lift my hat, as to a lady;
But when I hear the modern cry,
Mocking the human form and face,
And watch the cynic's sensual eye,
Blind as his little soul is base,
And see the foul miasma creep
Destroying all things sweet and fair,
What wonder if I sometimes weep
And feel the canker of despair?

That mood, thank God, is evanescent,
For I'm an optimist at heart,
And 'spite the dark and troubled Present
See lights that stir the clouds apart!
Rare as the dodo, that strange fowl
(Now quite extinct thro' persecution),
Despite the hooting of the owl
I still preserve my youth's illusion,
Believe in God and Heaven and Love,
And turning from Life's sorry sight,
Watch starry lattices above
Opening upon the waves of Night,—
Find shapes divine and ever fair
Thronging with radiant faces there,
While hands of benediction wave
O'er these wild waters of the grave.

Et ego in Bohemiâ fui!
Have known its fountains deep and dewy,
Have wander'd where the sun shone mellow
On many an honest ragged fellow,
And for Bohemia's sake since then
Have loved poor brothers of the pen.
I've popt at vultures circling skyward,
I've made the carrion-hawks a by-word,
But never caused a sigh or sob in
The heart of mavis or cock-robin,
Nay, many such (let Time attest me!)
Have fed out of my hand, and blest me!
So when my wayward life is ended,
With all my sins that can't be mended,
And in my singing rags I lie
Face upward to the cruel sky,
The small birds, fluttering about me,
While birds of prey and ravens flout me,
May strew a few loose leaves above
The Outcast whom so few could love,—
And on my grave in flower-wrought words
The Inscription set, that men may view it,—
‘He bless'd the nameless singing birds,
Loved the Good Shepherd's flocks and herds,
Et ille in Bohemiâ fuit!’

FIDES AMANTIS.

Dearest and Best! Light of my way!
Soul of my Soul, whom God hath sent
To be my guardian night and day,
To make me humbly kneel and pray,
When proudest and most turbulent!
Calm of my Life! dear Angel mine!
Come to me, now I faint and fail,
And guide me softly to the Shrine,
Where thro' the deep'ning gloom doth shine
Life's bleeding Heart, Love's Holy Grail,
Where Soul feels Soul, and Instinct, stirred
To Insight, looks Creation thro',
And hear me murmur, word by word,
The Creed I owe to Heaven and you!

‘I do believe in God; that He
Made Heaven and Earth, and you and me!
Nay, I believe in all the host
Of Gods, from Jesus down to Joss,
But honour best and reverence most
That guileless God who bore the Cross.
I do believe that this dark scheme,
This riddle of our life below,
Is solved by Insight and by Dream,
And not by aught mere Sense can know;
That the one sacrifice whereby
We attest a faith which cannot die,
Is the burnt offering we place
On Truth's pure Altar day by day,
Whereby the sensual and the base
Within us is consumed away;
That just as far as we forego
Our selfish claim to stand alone,
Proving our gladness or our woe
Is Humankind's and not our own,

206

So far as for another's sake
Our cup of sorrow we accept,
And crave, although our hearts should break,
The pain supreme of God's Adept,
So far shall we attain the height
Of Freedom, in the Master's sight.
I do believe that our salvation
Lies in the little things of life,
Not in the pomp and acclamation
Of triumph, or in battle-strife,
Not on the thrones where men are crown'd,
Not in the race where chariots roll,
But in the arms that clasp us round
And hold us backward from the goal!
In Love, not Pride; in stooping low,
Not soaring blindly at the sun;
In power to feel, not zeal to know;
Not in rewards, but duties done.

‘Corollary: all gain is base,
The Victor's wreath, the Poet's crown,
If conquest in the giddy race
Means one poor struggler trampled down,
If he who gains the sunless throne
Of Fame, sits silent and alone,
Without Humanity to share
His happiness, or his despair!

‘This Gospel I uphold, the one
The latter Adam comes to prove:
To every Soul beneath the sun
Wide open lies a Heaven of Love;
But none, however free from sin,
However cloth'd in pomp and pride,
However fair, may enter in,
Without some Witness at his side,
To attest before the Judge and King
Vicarious love and suffering.
Who stands alone, shall surely fall!
Who folds the falling to his breast
Stands sure and firm in spite of all,
While angel-choirs proclaim him blest.’

Dearest and Best! Soul of my Soul!
Life of my Life, kneel here with me!
Pray while the Storms around us roll,
That God may keep us frail, yet free!
Be Love our strength! be God our goal!
Amen, et Benedicite!

The Wandering Jew.

(1893.)

TO MY DEAR FATHER ROBERT BUCHANAN POET AND SOCIAL MISSIONARY THIS CHRISTMAS GIFT.

Father on Earth, for whom I wept bereaven,
Father more dear than any Father in Heaven,
Flesh of my flesh, heart of this heart of mine,
Still quick, though dead, in me, true son of thine,
I draw the gravecloth from thy dear dead face,
I kiss thee gently sleeping, while I place
This wreath of Song upon thy holy head.

For since I live, I know thou art quick not dead,
And since thou art quick, yet drawest no living breath,
I know, dear Father, that there is Life in Death.

This, too, my Soul hath found—that if there were
No hope in Heaven, the world might well despair,
That thro' the mystery of my hope and love
I reach the Mystery that dwells above . . .
Father on Earth, still lying calm and blest
After long years of trouble and sad unrest,
Sleep,—while the Christ I paint for men to see
Seeketh the Fatherhood I found in thee!

Come, Faith, with eyes of patient heavenward gaze!
Come, Hope, with feet that bleed from thorny ways!
With hand for each, leading those twain to me,
Come with thy gifts of grace, fair Charity!
Bring Music too, whose voices trouble so
Our very footfalls as we graveward go,
Whose bright eyes, as she sings to Humankind,
Shine with the glory of God which keeps them blind!
Not to Parnassus, nor the Fabled Fount,
Nor to the folds of that Diviner Mount

207

Whereon our Milton kneeling prayed so deep,—
But hither, to this City stretched asleep
In silence, to this City of souls bereaven,
I call you, gracious hierophants of Heaven!
Come, Muses of the bleeding heart of Man,
Fairer than all the Nine Parnassian,
Fairer and clad in grace more heavenly
Than those sweet visions of Man's infancy,
Come from your lonely heights with song and prayer
To inspire an epos of the World's despair!
For lo, to that White Light which floweth from Him
Before whose gaze all sense and sight grow dim,
Holpen by you, His Angels pure and strong,
With tears I raise this tremulous Prism of Song!
O shine thereon, White Light, and melted be
Into the hues that lose themselves in Thee,
And tho' they are broken and but faintly show
Hints of the ray no sight may see or know,
On the poor Song let some dim gleam remain
To prove that Light Divine is never sought in vain!

I.

As in the City's streets I wander'd late,
Bitter with God because my wrongs seem'd great,
Chiller at heart than the bleak winds that flew
Under the star-strewn voids of steel-bright blue,
Sick at the silence of the Snow, and dead
To the white Earth beneath and Heaven o'erhead,
I heard a voice sound feebly at my side
In hollow human accents, and it cried
‘For God's sake, mortal, let me lean on thee!’
And as I turn'd in mute amaze to see
Who spake, there flew a whirlwind overhead
In which the lights of Heaven were darkenèd,
Shut out from sight or flickering sick and low
Like street-lamps when a sudden blast doth blow;
But I could hear a rustling robe wind-swept
And a faint breathing; then a thin hand crept
Into mine own, clammy and cold as clay!

'Twas on that Night which ushereth in Christ's Day.
The winds had winnowèd the drifts of cloud,
But the white fall had ceased. There, pale and proud,
In streets of stone empty of life, while Sleep
In silvern mist hung beautiful and deep
Over the silent City even as breath,
I mused on God and Man, on Life and Death,
And mine own woe was as a glass wherein
I mirror'd God's injustice and Man's sin.
And so, remembering the time, I sneer'd
To think the mockery of Christ's birth-tide near'd,
And pitying thought of all the blinded herd
Who eat the dust and ashes of the Word,
Holding for all their light and all their good
The woeful Man upon the Cross of wood;
And bitterly to mine own heart I said,
‘In vain, in vain, upon that Cross He bled!
In vain He swore to vanquish Death, in vain
He spake of that glad Realm where He should reign!
Lo, all His promise is a foolish thing,
Flowers gathered by a child and withering
In the moist hand that holdeth them; for lo!
Winter hath come, and on His grave the snow
Lies mountain-deep; and where He sleeping lies
We too shall follow soon and close our eyes
Unvex'd by dreams. The golden Dream is o'er,
And he whom Death hath conquer'd wakes no more!’

Even then I heard the desolate voice intone,
And the thin hand crept trembling in my own,
And while my heart shut sharp in sudden dread
Against the rushing blood, I murmurèd
‘Who speaks? who speaks?’ Suddenly in the sky
The Moon, a luminous white Moth, flew by

208

And from her wings silent and mystical
Thick rays of vitreous dust began to fall,
Illuming Earth and Heaven; when I was 'ware
Of One with reverend silver beard and hair
Snow-white and sorrowful, looming suddenly
In the new light like to a leafless Tree
Hung round with ice and magnified by mist
Against a frosty Heaven! But ere I wist
Darkness return'd, the splendour died away,
And all I felt was that thin hand which lay
Fluttering in mine!

Then suddenly again
I heard the tremulous voice cry out in pain
‘For God's sake, mortal, let me lean on thee!’
And peering thro' the dimness I could see
Snows of white hair blowing feebly in the wind;
And deeply was I troubled in my mind
To see so ancient and so weak a Wight
At the cold mercy of the storm that night,
And said, while 'neath his wintry load he bent,
‘Lean on me, father!’ adding, as he leant
Feebly upon me, wearied out with woe,
‘Whence dost thou come? and whither dost thou go?’
O then, meseem'd, the womb of Heaven afar
Quickened to sudden life, and moon and star
Flash'd like the opening of a million eyes,
Dimming from every labyrinth of the skies
Their lustre on that Lonely Man; and he
Loom'd like a comer from a far Countrie
In ragged antique raiment, and around
His waist a rotting rope was loosely bound,
And in one feeble hand a lanthorn quaint
Hung lax and trembling, and the light was faint
Within it unto dying, tho' it threw
Upon the snows beneath him light enew
To show his feeble feet were bloody and bare!

Thereon, with deep-drawn breath and dull dumb stare,
‘Far have I travelled and the night is cold,’
He murmur'd, adding feebly, ‘I am old!’
He spake like one whose wits are wandering,
And strange his accents were, and seem'd to bring
The sense of some strange region far away;
And like a cagèd Lion gaunt and grey
Who, looking thro' the bars, all woe-begone,
Beholdeth not the men he looketh on,
But gazeth thro' them on some lonely pool
Far in the desert, whither he crept to cool
His sunburnt loins and drink when strong and free,
Ev'n so with dull dumb stare he gazed thro' me
On some far bourne; and tho' his eyes were bright
They seem'd to suffer from the piteous light
They shed upon me thro' his hoary hair!

Then was I seized with wonder unaware
To see a man so old and strangely dight
Wandering alone beneath the Heavens that night;
For round us were the silenced haunts of trade,
The public marts and buildings deep in shade,
All emptied of their living waters; cold
And swift the stars did plunge thro' fold on fold
Of vaporous gauze, wind-driven; and the street
Was washen everywhere around my feet
With smoky silver; and the stillness round
Was dreadfuller by memory of the sound
Which fill'd the place all day from dawn to dark:
And strange it was and pitiful to mark
The heavy snow of years upon this Man,
His furrow'd cheeks down which the rheumdrops ran,
His wintry eyes that saw some summer land
Far off and very peaceful, while his hand
Dank as the drownèd dead's lay loose in mine.

But, my fear lessening, eager to divine
What man he was, and thro' what cruel fate
He wander'd homeless and disconsolate,
Scourged by the pitiless God who hateth men,
A victim, the more piteous in his pain
Because that God had given him length of days,
I cried, ‘Who art thou? From what weary ways

209

Comest thou, father? Thou art frail and old!
Sad is thy lot upon a night so cold
To wander barefoot in a world of snow!
Speak to me, father! for I fain would know
What cruel Hand is on thee out of Heaven,
That by the wintry tempests thou art driven
Hither and thither? Speak thy grief out strong,
For God, I know, is hard, and I, too, have my wrong.’

Then as I looked full eagerly on him,
And my limbs trembled and mine eyes grew dim,
With dull still gaze he starèd on thro' me
At that far bourne of rest his Soul could see,
And shiver'd as the frost took blood and bone,
And even as a feeble child might moan
He murmured, ‘I am hungry and athirst!’

O then my soul was sicken'd, and I curst
The winds and snows that smote this Man so old,
And drave him outcast thro' the wintry wold,
And made the belly of him tight with pain
For lack of food, and only with the rain
Moisten'd his toothless gums! and 'neath my breath
I curst the pitiless Lord of Life and Death,
And ‘All the hate I bear for Him who wrought
This crumbling prison-house of flesh' (me-thought)
‘Is vindicated by this Wight who bears
The rueful justification of grey hairs!’
And as I held his clay-cold hand, nor spake,
For I was hoarse with sorrow for his sake,
He cried in a strange, witless, wandering way,
Not loud, but as a burthen children say
When they have known it long by heart, ‘Aye me!
The blessèd Night is dark on land and sea,
On tired eyes the dusts of Sleep are shed,
And yet I have no place to rest my head!’

Ev'n as he spake there flash'd across my sight
A glamour of the Sleepers of the Night:
The hushèd rooms where dainty ladies dream,
And shaded night-lamps shed a slumberous gleam
Across the silken sheets and broider'd couch;
The beggarman, a groat within his pouch,
Pillow'd on filthy rags and chuckling deep
Because his dreams are golden; the sweet sleep
Of little children holding in pink palm
The fancied toy, and smiling; slumbers calm
Of delicate-limb'd vestals, slumbers wild
Of puerperal women and of nymphs defiled
Wasting like rotten fruit;—as scenes we see
By lightning flashes, changing momently,
These visions came and went, each gleaming clear
Yet spectral, in the act to disappear;
I marked the long streets empty to the sky,
And every dim square window was an eye
That gazing dimly inward saw within
Some hidden mystery of shame or sin,—
Lovebed and deathbed, raggedness and wealth,
Pale Murder, tiptoe, creeping on in stealth
With sharp uplifted knife, or haggard Lust
Mouthing his stolen fruit of tasteless dust;
And then I saw strange huddled shapes that lay
In blankets under palm trees, while the day
Drew far across the sands its blood-red line;
The sailor drearily dozing, while the brine
Flash'd eyes of foam around him; glimpses then
Of purple royal chambers, where pale men
Lay naked of their glory; and of the warm
Bonfires on mountain sides, where many a form
Lay prone but gript the sword; of halls of stone
Lofty and cold, where wounded men made moan,
And the calm nurse stole softly down the row
Of narrow sickbeds, like a ghost; and lo!
These pictures swiftly came and vanishèd
Like northern meteors, leaving as they fled

210

A trouble like the wash of leaden seas.

Then, while the glamour of such images
Weighed on my Soul, I said, ‘Hard by I dwell,—
Poor is the place, yet thou mayst find it well
After thy travail. Thither let us go!’
And by my side he falter'd feeble and slow,
Breathing the frosty air with pain, and soon
We reached a lonely Bridge o'er which the Moon
Hung phosphorescent, blinding with its wings
The lamps that flicker'd there like elfin things;
But near us, on the water's brim, engloom'd
In its own night, a mighty Abbey loom'd,
Clothen with rayless snow as with a shroud;
And suddenly that old Man cried aloud,
Lifting his weary face and woe-begone
Up to the painted window-panes that shone
With frosty glimmers, ‘Open, O thou Priest
Who waitest in the Temple!’ As he ceased,
The fretted arches echoed to the cry
And with a shriek the wintry wind went by
And died in silence. For a moment's space
He stood and listened with upturnèd face,
Then moan'd and faltered on in dumb despair,
Until we stood upon the Bridge, and there
The vitreous light was luminously drawn,
Making the lamps burn dim, as in a ghostly dawn.

II.

Vaster and mightier a thousandfold
Than Babylon or Nineveh of old,
Shrouded in snow the silent City slept;
And through its heart the great black River crept
Snakewise, with sullen coils that as they wound
Flash'd scales of filmy silver; all around
The ominous buildings huddled from the light
With cold grey roofs and gables tipt with white,
And lines of lamps made a pale aqueous glow
With streaks of crimson in the pools below
Between the clustering masts. 'Twas still, like Death!
Still as a snow-clad grave! No stir! No breath!
A mist of silence o'er the City asleep,
A frozen smoke of incense that did creep
From Life's deserted Altar. And on high
Clouds white as wool that melted o'er the sky
Before the winnowing beams. In Heaven's Serene
No sound! no stir! but all the still stars, green
With their exceeding lustre, shedding light
From verge to verge of the great dome of Night,
And scattering hoarfrost thro' the lustrous space
Between their spheres and the dark dwelling place
Of mortals blind to sight and dead to sound.

So lay the silent City glory-crowned,
All the rich blood of human life that flows
Thro' its dark veins hushèd in deep repose,
The pulses of its heart scarce felt to beat,
Calm as a corpse, the snow its winding sheet,
The sky its pall; and o'er its slumbers fell
The white Moon's luminous and hypnotic spell,
As when some bright Magician's hands are prest
With magic gloves upon a Monster's breast,
So that the heart just flutters, and the eyes
Shut drowsily!—But it dream'd beneath the skies
God knows what dreams! What dreams of Heavens unknown,
Where sits the Lord of Life on His white Throne,
While angel-wings flash thick as fowl that flee
Round islands Hebridean, when the Sea
Burns to a molten sapphire of dead calm!

Upon my fever'd eyes fell soft as balm
The ablution of the Midnight, as once more
I led that old Man weary and footsore,
Guiding his steps, while ever and anon
He paused in pain; and thro' the light that shone

211

O'er the still Bridge we falter'd, with no sound.
Then, as he paused for breath, and gazed around,
Again I questioned gently whence he came,
His place of birth, his kindred, and his name,
And whisper'd softly, ‘I can surely see
Thou art a comer from a far Countrie,
And thou art very old!’—‘So old! so old!’
He answered, shivering in the moonlight cold;
Then raised his head, upgazing thro' the Night,
And threw his arms up quick, and rose his height,
Crying, ‘For ever at the door of Death
Faintly I knock, and when it openeth
Would fain creep in, but ever a Hand snow-cold
Thrusteth me back into the open wold,
And ever a voice intones early and late
“Until thy work is done, remain and wait!”
And century after century I have trod
The infinitely weary glooms of God,
And lo! the Winter of mine age is here!’

Even as he spake, in a low voice yet clear,
Clinging upon me, with his hungry eyes
Cast upward at the cold and pitiless skies,
His white hair blent with snows around him blown,
And his feet naked on the Bridge of stone,
Methought I knew that Wanderer whom God's curse
Scourgeth for ever thro' the Universe
Because he mocked with words of blasphemy
God's Martyr on the path to Calvary,
Yea, did deny Him on His day of Death!
Wherefore, with shuddering sense and bated breath
I gazed upon him. Shivering he stood there,
The consecration of a vast despair
Cast round him like a raiment; and ere I knew
I moaned aloud, ‘Thou art that Wandering Jew
Whose name all men and women know too well!’
Strangely on me his eyes of sorrow fell,
And bending low, as doth a wind-blown tree,
In a low voice he answer'd:

‘I am He!’

III.

O night of wonder! O enchanted Night!
Full of strange whisperings and wondrous light,
How shall I, singing, summon up again
Thine hours of awe and deep miraculous pain?
For as I stood upon those streets of stone
I seem'd to hear the wailing winds intone
‘Ahasuerus!’—while with lips apart,
His thin hand prest upon his fluttering heart,
His face like marble lit by lightning's glare,
His frail feet bleeding, and his bosom bare,
List'ning he stood!

From the blue Void o'erhead
Starlight and moonlight round his shape were shed,
And the chill air was troubled all around
With piteous wails and echoes of such sound
As fills the great sad Sea on nights of Yule,
When all the cisterns of the heavens are full
And one great hush precedes the coming Storm.
And like a snow-wrapt statue seem'd the form
I looked on, and of more than mortal height!
Wintry his robe, his hair and beard snow-white
Frozen like icicles, his face all dim,
And in the sunken, sunless eyes of him
Silent despair, as of a lifeless stone!

And then meseem'd that in some frozen zone,
Where never flower doth blossom or grass is green,
Chill'd to the heart by cruel winds and keen
Shiv'ring I stood, and the thick choking breath
Of Frost was round me, terrible as Death,
And he I look'd on was a figure wan
Hewn out of snow in likeness of a Man;

212

And all the silent City in a trice
Was turn'd to domes and towers of rayless ice,
As of some spectral City whose pale spires
Are lighted dimly with the auroral fires
That gleam for ever at the sunless Pole!

How long this glamour clung upon my Soul
I know not; but at last methought I spake,
Like one who, fresh from vision, half awake,
Murmurs his thought: ‘Father of men that roam,
Outcast from God and exile from thy home
(If such there be for any Soul in need),
I will not say, God bless thee, since indeed
God's blessing is a burthen and a blight;
Yet will I bless thee, in that God's despite,
Knowing thy sorrow manifold and deep.
Aye me, aye me, what may I do but weep,
Seeing thy poor grey hair, and frail shape driven
Hither and thither by the winds of Heaven,
Sharing thy sorrow, hearing thy sad moan
That penetrates all hearts but God's alone,
Knowing thee mortal, yet predoom'd to fare
For ever, with no rest-place anywhere,
Although all other mortal things may die!
Death is the one good thing beneath the sky;
Death is the one sweet thing that men may see;
Yet even this God doth deny to thee!
Thou canst not die!’ With feeble lips of clay
He answered, yet the voice seem'd far away,
‘Yea, Death is best, and yet I cannot die!’

Before my vision, as I heard the cry,
There flash'd a glamour of the Dead; and lo!
I saw a hooded Phantom come and go
Across great solitary plains by night,
Red with all nameless horror of the fight,
And dead white faces glimmer'd from the sward,
And here a helmet gleamed and there a sword,
And all was still and dreadful, and the scent
Of carnage thickened where the Phantom went.
This faded, and methought I stood stone-still
In a great Graveyard strewn with moonbeams chill
Like bleaching shrouds, and through the grassy glooms
Pale crosses glimmer'd and great marble tombs;
But as I crost my frozen hands to pray
The apparition changed and died away,
And I was walking very silently
Some oozy bottom of the sunless Sea.
And 'midst the sombre foliage I could mark
Black skeletons of many a shipwreck'd bark
Within whose meshes, washing to and fro,
Were skeletons of men as white as snow
Picked clean by many a hideous ocean-thing.
The waters swung around me as they swing
Round drowning men, and with a choking pain
I struggled,—and that moment saw again
The sleeping City and the cold Moonshine,
And in the midst, with his blank eyes on mine,
That Man of Mystery who could not die!

And lo, his lips were open'd with a cry,
And his lean hands were stretchèd up to Heaven.
‘Ah, woe is me,’ he said, ‘to stand bereaven
Of that which every man of clay may share!
Eternity hath snowed upon my hair,
And yet, though feeble and weary, I endure.
Still might I fare, if Death at last were sure,
If I might see, eternities away,
A grave, wide open, where my feet might stay!’
Then in a lower voice more deep with dread,
‘Father which art in Heaven,’ the old Man said,
‘Thou from the holy shelter of whose wing
I came, an innocent and shining thing,
A lily in my hand and in mine eyes
The passion and the peace of Paradise,
Thou who didst drop me gently down to rest
A little while upon my Mother's breast,
Wrapt in the raiment of a mortal birth,
How long, how long, across Thy stricken Earth

213

Must I fare onward, deathless? Tell me, when
May I too taste the cup Thou givest to men,
My brethren and Thy children and the heirs
Of all my spirit's sorrows and despairs?
My work is o'er—my sin (if sin there be)
Is buried with the bones of Calvary;
My blessing has been spoken, and my curse
Is wingèd vengeance in Thy Universe;
My voice hath thrill'd Thy dark Eternity
To protestation and to agony,
And Man hath listen'd with wild lips apart
As to a cry from his own breaking heart!
What then remains for me to do, O God,
But fold thin hands and bend beneath Thy rod,
And ask for respite after labour done?’

In sorrow and in awe he spake, as one
Communing with some Shape I could not mark,
And all his words seem'd wild, his meaning dark;
And as he ceased the Heavens grew dark in woe,
And faster, thicker, fell the encircling Snow
Wrapping him with its whiteness round and round;
But from the Void above no sign, no sound,
Came answering his prayer.

‘Father,’ I said,
‘Chill falls the snow upon thy holy head
(Yea, holy through much sorrow 'tis to me),
And He to whom thou prayest so piteously
Hears not, and will not hear, and hath not heard
Since first the Spirit of Man drew breath and stirred!
Let us seek shelter!’ But I spake in vain—
He heard not; but as one that dies in pain
Sank feebly on the parapet of stone.
Upon his naked breast the Snow was blown
Thicker and colder—on his hoary head
Heavily like a cruel hand of lead
It thickened—so he stood from head to feet
Smother'd and wrapt as in a winding sheet,
Forlorn and weary, panting, overpowered.

Then lo! a miracle!—For a space he cowered
As if o'ermastered by the cruel touch,
But all at once, as one that suffers much
Yet quickeneth into anger suddenly,
He said, in a sharp voice of sovereignty,
‘Cease, cease!’ and at the very voice's sound,
The white Snow wildly wavering round and round
Rose like a curtain, leaving all things bright!

Spell-bound and wonder-stricken at the sight,
And comprehending not its import yet
(For still my Soul with fever and with fret
Was laden, and I bore upon my mind
The darkness of that doubt that keeps men blind),
I cried, ‘See! see! the elemental Snow
Obeys thy call, in pity for thy woe—
Gentler than He who fashioned men for pain,
The white Snow and the wild Wind and the Rain
Would bless thee, and there is no cruel beast
Which He hath made, the greater or the least,
Which would not spare thy life and lick thy hand,
Poor outcast comer from a lonely land.
Yea, only God is cruel—Only He
Whose foot is on the Mountains and the Sea,
And on the bruisèd frame and flesh of Man!’

IV.

Lo, now the Moonlight lit his features wan
With spectral beams, and o'er his hoary hair
A halo of brightness fell, and rested there!
And while upon his face mine eyes were bent
In utterness of woeful wonderment,
Into mine ear the strange voice crept once more:
‘Far have I wandered, weary and spiritsore,
And lo! wherever I have chanced to be,
All things, save men alone, have pitied me!’

214

Then—then—even as he spake, forlornly crown'd
By the cold light that wrapt him round and round,
I saw upon his twain hands raised to Heaven
Stigmata bloody as of sharp nails driven
Thro' the soft palms of mortals crucified!
And swiftly glancing downward I descried
Stigmata bloody on the naked feet
Set feebly on the cold stones of the street!—
And moveless in the frosty light he stood,
Ev'n as one hanging on the Cross of wood!

Then, like a lone man in the north, to whom
The auroral lights on the world's edge assume
The likeness of his gods, I seem'd to swoon
To a sick horror; and the stars and moon
Reel'd wildly o'er me, swift as sparks that blow
Out of a forge; and the cold stones below
Chattered like teeth! For lo, at last I knew
The lineaments of that diviner Jew
Who like a Phantom passeth everywhere,
The World's last hope and bitterest despair,
Deathless, yet dead!—

Unto my knees I sank,
And with an eye glaz'd like the dying's drank
The wonder of that Presence!

White and tall
And awful grew He in the mystical
Chill air around Him,—at His mouth a mist
Made by His frosty breathing!—Then I kissed
His frozen raiment-hem, and murmurèd
‘Adonai! Master! Lord of Quick and Dead!’
'Twas more than heart could suffer and still beat—
So with a hollow moan I fainted at his feet!

V.

O ye, ye ancient men born yesterday,
Some few of whom may in this Yuletide lay
Feel echoes of your own hearts, listen on,
Till the faint music of the harp is gone
And the weak hand drops leaden down the string!
For lo, I voice to you a mystic thing
Whose darkness is as full of starry gleams
As is a tropic twilight; in your dreams
This thing shall haunt you and become a sound
Of friendship in still places, and around
Your lives this thing shall deepen, and impart
A music to the trouble of the heart,
So that perchance, upon some gracious day,
Ye may bethink you of the Song, and pray
That God may bless the Singer for your sake!

Not unto bliss and peace did I awake
From that deep swoon, nor to the garish light
Wherein all spiritual things grow slight
And vanish—nay;—the midnight and the place
Had changèd not, and o'er me still the Face
Shone piteously serene; I felt its ray
On mine unclosèd eyelids as I lay;
Then gazing up, blinking mine eyes for dread
Of some new brightness, I discerned instead
That Man Forlorn, and as I gazed He smiled
Even as a Father looking on a child!
Aye me! the sorrow of that smile! 'Twas such
As singer ne'er may sing or pencil touch!—
But ye who have seen the light that is in snow,
The glimmer on the heights where sad and slow
Some happy day is dying—ye who have seen
Strange dawns and moonlit waters, woodlands green
Troubled with their own beauty; think of these,
And of all other tender images,
Then think of some belovèd face asleep
'Mid the dark pathos of the grave, blend deep
Its beauty with all those until ye weep,
And ye may partly guess the woe divine
Wherewith that face was looking down on mine,—
While trembling, wondering like a captive thrown
By cruel hands into some cell of stone,
Who waiting Death to end his long despair
Sees the door open and a friend stand there
Bringing new light and life into his prison,
I faltered, ‘Lord of Life, hast Thou arisen?’

215

‘Arisen! Arisen! Arisen!’

At the word
The silent cisterns of the Night were stirred
And plash'd with troublous waters, and in the sky
The pale stars clung together, while the cry
Was wafted on the wind from street to street!
Like to a dreaming man whose heart doth beat
With thick pulsations while he fights to break
The load of terror with a shriek and wake,
The sleeping City trembled thro' and thro'!
And in its darkness opened to my view
As by enchantment, those who slumberèd
Rose from their pillows, listening in dread;
And out of soot-black windows faces white
Gleamed ghost-like, peering forth into the night;
And haggard women by the River dark,
Crawling to plunge and drown, stood still to heark;
And in the silent shrouded Hospitals,
Where the dim night-lamp flickering on the walls
Made woeful shadows, men who dying lay,
Picking the coverlet as they pass'd away
And babbling babe-like, raised their heads to hear,
While all their darkening sense again grew clear,
And moaned ‘Arisen! Arisen!’ In his cell
The Murderer, for whom the pitiless bell
Would toll at dawn, sat with uplifted hair
And broke to piteous impotence of prayer!

Then all grew troubled as a rainy Sea,
I sank in stupor, struggling to be free
Even as a drowning wight; and as the brain
Of him who drowneth flasheth with no pain
Into a sudden vision of things fled,
Faces forgotten, places vanishèd
Came, went, and came again, and 'mid it all
I knew myself the weary, querulous, small,
Weak, wayward Soul, with little hope or will,
Crying for ‘God, God, God,’ and thrusting still
Cain's offering on His altar. All this pass'd—
Then came a longer darkness—and at last
I found myself upon my feet once more
Tottering and faint and fearful, a dull roar
Of blood within mine ears, still crying aloud
‘Arisen! Arisen! Arisen!’ . . .

Whereon the cloud
Of wonder lifted, and again mine eyes
Saw the sad City sleeping 'neath the skies,
Silent and flooded with the white Moon's beams
As still as any City seen in dreams;
And lo! the great Bridge, and the River that ran
Blindly beneath it, and that hoary Man
Standing thereon with naked piercèd feet
Uplooking to the Heavens as if to meet
Some vision; and the abysses of the air
Had opened, and the Vision was shining there!

Far, far away, faint as a filmy could,
A Form Divine appeared, her bright head bowed,
Her eyes down-looking on a Babe she prest
In holy rapture to her gentle breast,
And tho' all else was ghost-like, strange and dim,
A brightness touched the Babe and cover'd Him,—
Such brightness as we feel in summer days
When hawthorn blossoms scent the flowery ways
And all the happy clay is verdure-clad;
And the Babe seem'd as others who make glad
The homes of mortals, and the Mother's face
Was like a fountain in a sunny place
Giving and taking gladness, and her eyes
Beheld no other sight in earth or skies
Save the blest Babe on whom their light did shine;
But he, that little one, that Babe Divine,
Gazed down with reaching hands and face aglow
Upon the Lonely Man who stood below,
And smiled upon Him, radiant as the morn!
Whereat the weary Christ raised arms forlorn
And answer'd with a thin despairing moan!
And at the sound Darkness like dust was blown

216

Over the Heavens, and the sweet Vision fled,
And all that wonder of the night was dead! . . . .

Yet still I saw Him looming woe-begone
Upon the lonely Bridge, and faltering on
With feeble feet beneath the falling snow,
And in His hand the lamp hung, flickering low
As if to die, yet died not. Far away
He seemèd now, altho' so near,—a grey
Ghost seen in dreams; yet even as dreams appear
To one who sleeps more mystically clear
Than any vision of the waking sight,
He shone upon the sadness of the Night
As softly as a star, while all around
Loom'd the great City, sleeping with no sound
Save its own deep-drawn breath. Yet I could mark
The glimmer of eyes that watched Him from the dark
Shadows beyond the Bridge, and, where the rays
Of the dim moonlight lit the frozen ways,
Shapes crouching low or crawling serpentwise
Waited to catch the pity of His eyes
Or touch His raiment-hem!

Then, while I wept
For pity of His loneliness, and crept
In wonder after Him, with bated breath,
Fell a new Darkness deep and dread as Death;
And from the Darkness came tumultuously
Clangour and roar as of a storm-torn Sea,—
And, shrill as shrieks of ocean-birds that fly
Over the angry waters, rose the cry
Of human voices!

Then the four Winds blew
Their clarions, while the stormy tumult grew,
And all was dimly visible again.

VI.

Methought I stood upon an open Plain
Beyond the City, and before my face
Rose, with mad surges thundering at its base,
A mountain like Golgotha; and the waves
That surgèd round its sunless cliffs and caves
Were human—countless swarms of Quick and Dead!

Then, while the fire-flaught flickered over-head,
I saw the Phantoms of Golgotha throng
Around that ancient Man, who trailed along
A woeful Cross of Wood; and as He went,
His body bruisèd and His raiment rent,
His bare feet bleeding and His force outworn,
They pricked Him on with spears and laughed in scorn,
Shouting, ‘At last Thy Judgment Day hath come!’
And when He faltered breathless, faint, and dumb,
And stumbled on His face amid the snows,
They dragged Him up and drave Him on with blows
To that black Mountain!

Then my soul was 'ware
Of One who silent sat in Judgment there
Shrouded and spectral; lonely as a cloud
He loomed above the surging and shrieking crowd.
Human he seemed, and yet his eyeballs shone
From fleshless sockets of a Skeleton,
And from the shroud around him darkly roll'd
He pointed with a fleshless hand and cold
At those who came, and, in a voice that thrill'd
The tumult at his feet till it was still'd,
Cried:

‘Back, ye Waters of Humanity!
Wait and be silent. Leave this man to me.
The centuries of his weary watch have pass'd,
And lo! the Judgment Time is ripe at last.
Stand up, thou Man whom men would doom to death,
And speak thy Name!’

‘Jesus of Nazareth!’
Answer'd the Man.

And as He spake His name,
The multitude with thunderous acclaim

217

Shriek'd.

But again the solemn voice, which thrill'd
The tumult and the wrath till they were still'd,
Cried: ‘Peace, ye broken hearts, have patience yet!
This man is surely here to pay his debt
To Death and Time.’

And to the man he said:
‘Jesus of Nazareth, lift up thy head
And hearken! Brought to face Eternity
By men, thy brethren, form'd of flesh like thee,
Brough there by men to me, the Spirit of Man,
To answer for thy deeds since life began,
Brought hither to Golgotha, whereupon
Thyself wast crucified in days long gone,
Thou shalt be judged and hear thy judgment spoken
Before the World whose slumbers thou hast broken.
Thou saidst, “I have fought with Death and am the stronger!
Wake to Eternal Life and sleep no longer!”
And men, thy brethren, troubled by thy crying,
Have rush'd from Death to seek the Life undying,
And men have anguish'd, wearied out with waiting
For the great unknown Father of thy creating,
And now for vengeance on thy head they gather,
Crying, “Death reigns! There is no God— no Father!”’

He ceased, and Jesus spake not, but was mute
In woe supreme and pity absolute.

Then calmly amid the shadows of the Throne
Another awful shrouded Skeleton,
Human yet more than human, rose his height,
With baleful eyes of wild and wistful light,
And said:
‘O Judge, Death reigned since Time began,
Sov'ran of Life and Change! and ere this Man
Came with his lying dreams to break our rest
The reign of Death was beautiful and blest;
But now within the flesh of men there grows
The poison of a Dream that slays repose,
The trouble of a mirage in the air
That turneth into terror and despair;
So that the Master of the World, ev'n Death,
Hated in his own kingdom, travaileth
In darkness, creeping haunted and afraid,
Like any mortal thing, from shade to shade,
From tomb to tomb; and ever where he flies
The seed of men shrink with averted eyes,
And call with mad yet unavailing woe
On this Man and his God to lay Death low.
Wherefore the Master of the Quick and Dead
Demandeth doom and justice on the head
Of him, this Jew, who hath usurp'd the throne
The Lord of flesh claims ever for his own.
This Jew hath made the Earth that once was glad
A lazar-house of woeful men and mad
Who can yet will not sleep, and in their strife
For barren glory and eternal Life,
Have rent each other, murmuring his Name!’

He paused—and from the listening host there came
Tumult nor voice—there was no sound, no stir,
But all was hushèd as a death-chamber;
And while that pallid shrouded Skeleton
In a low voice like funeral bells spake on,
From heart to heart a nameless horror ran.

VII.

‘In the name of all men I arraign this Man,
Named Jesus, son of Joseph, and self-styled
The Son of God!

‘Born in the East, the child
Of Jewish parents, toiling for their bread,
He grew to manhood, following, it is said,
His father's humble trade of carpentry;
But hearing one day close to Galilee,
One John, a madman, in the desert crying
Baptising all who came and prophesying,

218

This Jesus also long'd to prophesy;
And lo! ere very many days went by
He left his tools, forsook his native town,
And for a season wandered up and down
On idle preaching bent. Now, as we know,
Madness and Falsehood wedded are, and grow
With what they breed; so the Accused ere long,
Finding his audience fit, his rivals strong
(For prophets in those realms were thick as bees),
Began to invent such fables as might please
The ears of ignorant wonder-seeking men,
And finding 'mong the Jewish race just then
The wild old prophecy of a Christ and King,
Destined to lead the race, still lingering,
He threw the royal raiment ready made
On his bare back, and blasphemously played
The Christ they craved for!—next, to clinch his claim,
And prove his Godhead not an empty name,
The Man wrought miracles, calling to his aid
Simple devices of the wizard's trade,
Healing the sick—nay, even, 'twas avowed,
Bidding a dead man quicken in his shroud!
Pass over that as idle—turn with me
To the completion of his infamy!
In time, when he had sown with such false seed
Rank madness broadcast like an evil weed,
Choking the wholesome fields of industry,
And setting all the fiends of folly free,
This Jesus, with great numbers following,
Rides to Jerusalem like any King,
And thronèd on an ass goes thro' the Gate.
Arrived within the City, he keeps his state
With publicans and harlots, vaunts abroad
His proud vocation as the Son of God,
And last, presuming on his pride of place,
Profanes the Holy Temple of the race.
The rest we know—they slew him, as was right,
Set him upon a Cross in all men's sight,
Then, lastly, buried him. And now 'twas thought
The Man had made amends; the ill he wrought
Died with him, since his foolish race was run.

‘Not so; the Man's black crime had scarce begun!

‘For on the Sabbath day, as scribes aver,
Three Women, watching by his Sepulchre,
Beheld the stone roll'd back, and in the gloom
Beyond, a cast-off shroud and empty tomb!
The Man had risen, and that very day
Appeared among the faithful far away,
Spake, vanish'd, and was never after seen
By those who knew him, loved him, and had been
His life-long followers.

‘Now, hear and heed—
Had this Man, like the rest of Adam's seed,
Rested within his grave, turned back to dust,
Accepted dissolution, as were just,
Well had it been for him and all man's race!

‘He rose, this Jew—but in what secret place
He for a season hid his evil head
We know not; followers of his tribe have said
He walked with bleeding feet dejectedly
The lava shores of Hell (if Hell there be!),
Pondering his plan to lead the world astray—
But after sundry years had pass'd away
Mortals began to see in divers lands
A Phantom pale with piercèd feet and hands
Who cried, “I am the Christ—believe on me—
Or lose your Souls alive eternally!”
And of those men a few believed, and cried
“Lo! Christ is God, and God we crucified!
But He shall come to judge the Quick and Dead!”

‘Now, mark the issue. Where this rumour spread,
All other gentle gods that gladden'd Man
Faded and fled away: the priests of Pan,
That singing by Arcadian rivers rear'd
Their flowery altars, wept and disappeared;

219

And men forgot the fields and the sweet light,
Joy, and all wonders of the day and night,
All splendours of the sense, all happy things,
Art, and the happy Muses' ministerings,
Forgot that radiant house of flesh divine
Wherein each Soul is shut as in a shrine,
Because this Phantom, like a shape in sleep,
Showing hisred wounds, murmur'd, “Pray! and weep!”
And when fair Earth, mother of things of clay,
The gladsome Mother, now grown gaunt and grey,
Cried to her children, “Children, stay with me!
I made you happy, innocent, and free!
Although this Man, my latest born, your brother,
Casts dust in the living eyes of me, his mother,
Follow him not, forsake me not, but stay!”
They too, because he beckon'd, turned away,
Or cursing her who bare them, they too shed
Dust in her eyes, dishonour on her head.

‘First, in her name, the Mother of all our race,
Whom this unfilial hand smote in the face,
Whom he defamed and shamed with cheats and lies,
And taught a thousand children to despise,
I demand justice on her Son, this Jew!—

‘Pass on. The rumour of his godhead grew;
Yea, men were conscious of a Presence sad,
Crownèd with thorns, in ragged raiment clad,
Haunting the sunless places of the Earth;
And mystic legends of his heavenly birth,
His many miracles, his piteous death,
Were whisper'd by the faithful under breath;
And wights grown sick from tearfullest despairs,
And many weary souls worn out with cares,
Sick men and witless, all who had assailed
The gleaming heights of Happiness and failed,
But chiefly women bruised and undertrod,
Believed this Man indeed the Son of God,—
Because he said, “The high shall be estranged,
The low uplifted, and the weak avenged,
And blest be those who have cast this world away
To await the dawning of my Judgment Day!”
And straightway many yielded up their lives,
Blasphemed their bodies, gash'd their flesh with knives,
In attestation that these things were true.
And I deny not that to some, a few
Poor Souls without a hope, without a friend,
The lie brought comfort and a peaceful end;
Nor (to be just to him we judge, even him,
This Jew, whose presence makes the glad World dim)
That often to the martyr in his prison
He went and whisper'd “Comfort! I am risen;”
Nor that to sickbeds sad, as Death came near,
He stole with radiant face and whisper d cheer,
And to the Crucified brought secretly
The vinegar and sponge of Charity!

‘Yet in the name of those who died for Him,
Self-slain, or by the beasts rent limb from limb,
Who in his Name with calm unbated breath
Went smiling down the dark descent of Death,
Who went because he beckon'd with bright hand
Out of the mirage of a heavenly Land,
I demand justice on their Christ, this Jew!

‘Pass on. From land to land the tidings flew
That Christ was God, and that the World was doom'd!
Then droopt the lilies of delight, then bloom'd
The martyr's rose of blood; Kings on the thrones
Cast down their crowns and crawled with piteous moans
To the baptismal font where Priests, grown bold,
Held high the crucifix wrought round with gold.

220

And soon (how swiftly seeds of evil spring!)
They set a Priest on High and crowned him King,
Yea, King of all earth's Kings, and next to Christ!
There reign'd he, at his will the realms were priced,
And each, grown blind to worldly gain and loss,
Paid tribute to the King and to the Cross.
Behind that King, this Phantom most forlorn
Kept watch, from morn to night, from night to morn;
And countless Temples rose into the air,
Golden and vast and marvellously fair,
And artists wrought on canvas and on stone
Strange images of Christ upon his Throne
Judging the World; and voices filled each land:
“Rejoice—the heavenly Kingdom is at hand;”
And for a space indeed, so well he feign'd,
It seem'd that Christ had conquer'd Death, and reigned.

‘The triumph passed. The poison of the Lie
Spread, as all foul things spread beneath the sky;
And presently, the time being ripe at last,
From shrine to shrine this pallid Phantom pass'd
Whispering, “My Word hath grown a wingèd fire,
Yet thousands doubt me and blaspheme the Sire—
See ye to this, O Priests! seek the abhorred
And judge them, with your Master's Flame and Sword.”

‘Look, where the culprit croucheth in his place,
Blood on his hands, and terror in his face!
Aye, glue your gaze upon him, while I tell
Of damnèd deeds and thoughts befitting Hell! . . . .
They went abroad, his Priests, like wolves that scent
Lambs in the fields, and slew the innocent;
The holy Shepherds who in places green
To Isis sang and Thammuz songs serene
They found and slaughter'd, till their red blood ran
In torrents down the streams Egyptian;
The gentle Souls who loved their mother Earth,
And wept because she had given the Monster birth,
They cast in cruel fire, and sacrificed
To appease the blood-thirst of this Jew, their Christ!
From land to land, from sea to sea, they fled,
And where they went the plains were strewn with dead.
Then, when all men knelt down and cried in pain
“Hosannah to the Lord—for Christ doth reign,”
When no man doubted, since he dared not doubt
Because of fiends that ringed him round about,
When no man breath'd in his own dwelling-house,
They paused a little time and held carouse,
With full cups pledging Christ; but mark the rest!
While they in triumph revelled east and west,
He pass'd 'mong them, his chosen, and distilled
A fatal poison in the cups they filled,
And when thro' vein and thew the poison crept,
Like wolves upon each other's throats they leapt,
Rending each other in their Master's sight.

‘Next, in the name of Love and Love's delight,
And in the name of pagans blest and blind
Who loved the old gods best for they were kind,
Of virgins who despite the fire and sword
Shrank from this Scourge and called on God the Lord,
Of haggard men who dared not draw their breath
Because they deem'd this man, not Christ, but Death;
Yea, in the name of his own Priests profaned
Because they did his bidding, and he reigned,
I demand justice on their Christ, this Jew.

‘Nay, listen yet. The dark corruption flew

221

Like loathsome pestilence from land to land;
From every Altar, raised at his command,
Blood dript like dew; grown mad with pride and scorn
His Priests cast off the masks that they had worn,
And 'neath the Cross, within the very shrines,
Held hideous revel with their concubines,
Flaunted before their silent Christ thorncrowned
The emblems of Priapus, and around
Danced naked, with lewd songs and signs obscene;
Then the bald monk, upon the convent green,
Rolled with the harlot; then the King of Priests
In the very Shrine did lewdness worse than beast's,
While Incest and foul Lusts without a name
Crawl'd in his temples, and he felt no shame.
For when the people murmur'd, Priests and Kings
Made answer, “Be at peace, ye underlings!
Since 'tis enough to deem that Christ is Lord,
To adore his symbols and to wield his sword,
And all our deeds, tho' black as blackest night,
Are vindicated in our Master's sight!”
Oh, God that madest Man, if God there be,
Didst make these things, didst hear this blasphemy?
No writing on the wall disturbed the feasts
Of pathic Popes and lep'rous, lech'rous Priests!
This Man with falsehoods seventy times seven
Defamed Thy world, and Thou wast dumb in Heaven!

‘Now, in the name of vestals sacrificed
To feed the lust of those same priests of Christ,
Of acolyte children tangled in the mesh
Of infamous and nameless filths of flesh,
In the name of those whom King and Priest and Pope
Cast down to dust, beyond all peace and hope,
Yea, in their names who made this Man their guide,
And curst by men, by him were justified,
I demand justice on their Christ, this Jew!

‘Pass on. With cruel pitiless hand he drew
A curtain o'er the azure Heavens above,
Hiding the happy Light, darkening the love
Which kept life clean and whole; so that in time
The very smile of Life became a crime
Against his godhead!—Brother turn'd from brother,
The father smote his child, the son his mother,
And every fire that made home warm and sweet
Was trampled into ashes 'neath his feet.
Then cried he, “Life itself is shame and sin!
Break ye all human ties, and ye shall win
My Realm beyond the grave!” and as he cried,
Mortals cast ashes on their heads and died,
The virgin deem'd that Love's own kiss defiled,
The mother's milk was poison'd for the child,
The father, worse than beasts who love their young,
Cast to the wolves the little ones who clung
Crying around his neck; the Anchorite
Turn'd from the sunshine and the starry light
And hid his head in ordures of self-prayer;
The naked Saint loomed black against the air
Upon his tower of Famine; and for the sake
Of this Man's promise, and the Lie he spake,
Nature itself became a blight and ban!
Nay, more! thro' all the world corruption ran
As from a loathsome corpse—in every clime
Disease and Pestilence did shed their slime,
Till human Life, once clean and pure and free,
Shrank 'neath the serpent-scales of Leprosy!

‘Now in the name of Life defiled and scorn'd,
Of hearts that broke because this Phantom warn'd,

222

Of weary mothers desolately dying
For sons whose hearts were hardened to their crying,
Of wives made husbandless and left unblest,
Of little children starving for the breast,
Of homes made desolate from sea to sea
Because he said “Leave all, and follow me,”
I demand justice on their Christ, this Jew!

‘He reign'd where Peace had reign'd!—and no man knew
The World wherein he dwelt, nor sought to guess
The holy laws of Light and Happiness;
Yea, from our sight the beauteous Heavens were veil'd
And the Earth under them, while yet Man trail'd
His self-wrought chain across the fruitless lands
And tore his own pure flesh with impious hands.
Then from the depths of sorrow pale men came,
Who climb'd the heights and lit thereon the flame
Which scatter'd darkness and illumed the skies,
And on the stars they fixed their starry eyes
And measured their progressions, crying aloud
“This Phantom of the Christ is but a cloud
Veiling the glory of the Infinite!”
What then? His creatures found them in the night
And smote them down, and with a fouler fire
Made for their martyred bones a funeral pyre
That did proclaim his glory and their despair!
Even thus the Martyr, Man, once the glad heir
Of Earth and Heaven, made with eyes to see
And sense to comprehend his Destiny,
Was bound and render'd blind, until he fell
To Darkness dimly lit by lights of Hell,
And there, bereft and desolate of all
That made him free, he felt his dungeon wall
And wail'd on God; and lo, at this man's nod,
His Priests and Kings appear'd, instead of God,
Saying “Bow down, thou Slave, and cease thy strife,
Confessing on thy knees that Death is Life,
And Darkness, Light!”—and to his mouth they thrust
Their cruel Cross, defiled with blood and dust;
And when he had testified in all men's sight
That Death was Life and Darknessheavenly Light,
Forth to the fire the shuddering wretch was brought,
And slaughter'd to the Lie themselves had taught.

‘Now, in their names, the Souls of priceless worth,
Who glorified the lights of Heaven and Earth,
Who fathom'd Nature's secret star-sown ways
And read the law of Life with fearless gaze,
Yet, for reward, with fire were shrivell'd up,
Or poison'd by the fatal hemlock-cup,
I demand doom and justice on this Jew!

‘Pass o'er the rest—the countless swarmshe slew
To appease his lust for life in every land;
The happy Nations stricken by his hand
With Famine or with Pestilence;—the horde
Of butchering Tyrants and of Priests abhorred
Who fatten'd on the flesh and blood of men,
Because this Jew had died and risen again!
Come to the issue. Hear it, Jew, and know
Nature hath gather'd strength to lay thee low!
Humanity itself shall testify
Thy Kingdom is a Dream, thy Word a Lie,
Thyself a living canker and a curse
Upon the Body of the Universe!
For lo, at last, thy Judge, the Spirit of Man
And I, his Acolyte since Time began,
Have taught thy brethren, things of clay like thee,
That all thy prontise was a mockery;
That Fatherhood and Godhead there is none,
No Father in Heaven and in Earth no Son,

223

That Darkness never can be Light, that still
Death shall be Death, despite thy wish or will,
That Death alone can comfort souls bereaven
And shed on Earth the eternal sleep of Heaven.
Yet not until the weary world is free
Of all thy ghostly godhead, and of thee,
Shall he who stills all tumult and all pain
Unveil the happy Heavens once more and reign!’

He ceased, and Jesus heard, but made no sign.

Then, gazing sadly on that Man Divine,
He added, ‘Peace, and hearken yet, O Jew!
For what we come to judge, we pity too!
The blessèd sleep Death sheds from sea to sea,
Shared by thy brethren, may be shared by thee,
If he who sits in Judgment deems it well!’

While on those silent hosts his dark eyes fell,
And thro' the Waves of Life that darkly roll'd
Around him, ran a tremor deathly cold,
He cried, ‘Awake, awake, for 'tis the time!
Appear, ye Witnesses of this Man's crime!’

VIII. THE WITNESSES.

First to the front a shrouded figure crept,
Gazed upon Jesus, hid his face, and wept,
Saying, ‘What would ye? Wherefore am I taken
Out of the dark grave where I slept forsaken,
Forgetting all my heritage of woe?’

‘What Soul art thou?’

‘One Judas, named also
Iscariot.’

‘Know'st thou the Accused?’

‘Aye me.
In sooth I know him, to my misery!
I followed him, and I believed for long
That he was God indeed, serene and strong;
Then with an eager hunger famishing
To see his Kingdom and to hail him King,
I did betray him, thinking “When he stands
Bound and condemn'd in the oppressor's hands,
When Death comes near to drink his holy breath,
He will put forth his power and vanquish Death!”
But when I saw him conquer'd, crucified,
I hid my face in shame and crept aside,
And in the Potter's Field myself I hung.’

‘Now answer! Was thy spirit consciencestung?
Having betrayed him, wherefore didst thou die?’

‘Because I knew his promise was a lie,
Because I knew the Man whom I had slain
Was not Messiah—Now, let me sleep again!’

‘Pass by. The next!’

Forth stept before their sight
A form so old, so wan and hoary white,
It seem'd another Christ, as old, as sad;
And he in antique raiment too was clad,
Ragged and wild and his white hair was strewn
Like snow around him 'neath the wintry Moon,
And by his side a lean she-bear there ran,
Gentle and tame uplooking at the man
With piteous bleats, while his thin hand was spread
With touch as chill as ice upon its head.
When on the Accused this old man turned his eyes
He shook and would have fled with feeble cries,
But a hand held him. Shivering and afraid,
He shrank and gazed upon the ground, but stayed.

‘Thy name?’

‘Ahasuerus. Far away
Beyond the changes of the night and day,

224

In the bleak regions of the Frozen Zone,
Lit with auroral beams I roamed alone,
When a voice called me, and behold I came.

‘Look on the Accused. Know st thou his Form and Name?’

‘Alack, I know him, as I know my doom—
To wander o'er the world without a tomb,
Alone, unpitied, hopeless, weak and wild . . .
Before my door I stood with wife and child
That weary moment when they led him by,
Bearing his heavy Cross of Wood, to die.
He would have rested at my dwelling-place,
But knowing him blasphemer, branded base,
Taking the name of God in vain, I cried,
“If thou art God, now cast thy Cross aside,
And take thy Throne—if thou hast lied pass on!”
He turned on me his face all woe-begone,
And murmur'd faintly, as he crawl'd away,
“Thou shalt not rest until my Judgment Day;
Till then walk on from sleepless year to year!”
He spake. That doom pursued me. I am here.’

‘Take comfort, brother. Tho' thy wrongs are deep,
When this same Jew is judgèd thou shalt sleep.
Pass by.’

With feeble moan and weary pace
He went. Another stept into his place.

‘Thou?’
‘Pilate, to whose Roman judgment seat
They brought this Jew, casting him at my feet
And clamouring for his life. I smiled to see
So mad a thing usurping sovereignty,
And said, “O Jews, if so ye list, fulfil
The law, and spare or slay him as ye will—
The Roman wars not with such foes as he—
Upon your heads, not mine, this deed shall be.’
And ere to shameful Death the man was borne,
Iturned aside and washed my hands in scorn
Of them and him!’

‘Pass on!’

The Roman cast
One pitying look upon the Jew, and pass'd
Into the darkness.—As he sank from sight
There came in pale procession thro' the night
Great Phantoms who the imperial robe did wear,
Sceptre in hand, and bayleaves in the hair,
Each lewd and horrible and infamous,
A monster, yet a man: Tiberius,
Sejanus, and the rest; and last of all
Came one who trode the earth with light foot-fall,
And sang with shrill voice to a golden lute;
And lo! a woman's robe from head to foot
Enwrapt him, and his face was sickly white
With nameless infamies of lewd delight,
And on his beardless cheeks mine eyes could see
The hideous crimson paint of harlotry,
While, in a voice as any eunuch's shrill,
He cried:

‘This Jew, their Christ, lay cold and still
Within his Sepulchre, and slept supine,
While I, the Antichrist, pour'd blood like wine
To appease my parasites and paramours!
Nay, more, before my shining palace-doors
And round the gardens of the feast, I placed
The naked forms of men and maidens chaste
Who worshipt him, and lit the same to be
The living torches of my revelry;
And all in vain, thus stript and sacrificed,
They called on Christ to conquer Antichrist!
In the amphitheatre I sat and smiled
On strong men martyred and on maids defiled;
Then clad myselfin skins of beasts, and flew
To glut my lechery in all men's view,
And ravenous-claw'd my bestial lust I fed
On shuddering flesh of virgins ravishèd.
And yet he rose not! Still and stark he lay.
God-like I reign'd, with a god's power to slay,
Shame, sadden, gladden. To the old Gods I sang
My triumph song that thro' the nations rang
While Rome was burning! On my mother's womb
I thrust the impious heel! Yet from his tomb

225

This Jesus stirred not! God-like still, I died
By mine own hand, not shamed and crucified
As he, this Jew, had been!—He lives, ye say?
Poor Phantom of the Cross, forlorn and grey,
What shall his life avail? His day hath fled,
But other Antichrists uplift the head
And laugh, and cry “The reign of Christ is o'er!
Make merry!”—Yea, the Earth is his no more,
His Heaven a Dream, and where he wrought in vain
The harlot and the sodomite still reign!’

He spake, and with a shrill and cruel cry
Followed his brethren; in his track crept by
Pale ghostly Phantoms filleted or crown'd,
Imperial harlots with their zones unbound,
And haggard children clutch'd yet uncaress'd,
Rolling blind eyes and fighting for the breast;
And after these a throng of martyrs slain,
Bloody and maim'd and worn, who wail'd in pain,
Fixing their piteous eyes on that pale Jew.

Crowd after crowd they pass'd, and passing threw
A curse or prayer on Him who anguish'd there
Crown'd with the calm of a divine despair,
And one by one He mark'd them come and go
While down His wrinkled cheeks deep-sunk in woe
The salt tears ran, and ever and anon
He hid His face so weary and woe-begone,
Or peering vaguely up into the Night
Pressèd His skinny hands together tight
And moan'd unto Himself!

IX.

Then saw I rise
A shape with broad bold brow and fearless eyes,
Behind him as he came a murmuring train
Of augurs, soothsayers, and armèd men,
With gentle priests of Ceres and of Pan.
‘Room there,’ they cried aloud, ‘for Julian!’
Bareheaded, helm in hand, he took his place
Before the Accused, a smile upon his face.

‘Thy name was Julian?’

He answered, ‘Yes!
I wore the Imperial robe in gentleness,
And looking on the World around my throne
I heard the wretched weep, the weary moan,
Saw Nature sickening because this Man wrought
To scatter poison in the wells of Thought,
So that no Soul might live in peace and be
Baptised in wisdom and philosophy;
Wherefore I summoned from their lonely graves
The Spirits of the Mountains and the waves,
The tutelary Sprites of flowers and trees,
The rough wild Gods and naked Goddesses,
And all alive with joy they leapt around
My leaf-hung chariot, to the trumpet's sound!
Yea, and I wakened from ancestral night
The human shapes of Healing and of Light—
Asclepios with his green magician's rod,
And Aristotle, Wisdom's grave-eyed god,
And bade them teach the natural law and prove
The eternal verities of Life and Love.
What then? I fail'd. This Serpent could elude
My priests, however swiftly they pursued,
And since I warned them not to slay with steel
Nor bruise it cruelly beneath the heel,
It lived amid their very footprints, fed
On blood and tears, upraised the impious head,
Then last, still living on my day of doom,
Stung my pale corpse and coil'd upon my tomb!
Oh, had I guessed that mercy could not win
Blood from the stone, or change the Serpent's skin,
That pity and loving kindness ne'er could gain
Foothold in Superstition's black domain,
Then surely I the avenging sword had bared
And slain in mercy what I blindly spared!

226

Twas but a spark! one stamp of foot, and lo!
The thing had perished! Fool, to let it grow!
So that it grew as such foul hell-fire can,
Spreading from City unto City of Man,
Turning this World of greenness and sweet breath
Into a charnel-house of shameful Death.
The Galilean conquered as I threw
My last wild jet of life-blood to the blue,
Nature resigned her birthright with a groan,
And Thought, like Niobe, was turn'd to stone!’

His legions shouted faintly as he cast
One glance of scorn on the pale Jew and pass'd
To darkness. Following him, methought, there stalked
Aurelius, calmly musing as he walked,
With many another lesser King of clay,
Who paused and testified, then pass'd away;
So thick they came from out the troubled dark
My brain grew dizzy and I ceased to mark,
Until at last a marble Maiden rose,
Stript naked to the skin and bruised with blows,
Yet fair and golden-haired and azure-eyed
She stood erect with fearless gaze, and cried:

‘I was Hypatia. Round my form fell free
The white robe of a wise virginity,
While in the fountains of the Past I sought
Strange pearls of Dream and dim Platonic thought.
Now, as I gazed therein, I saw full plain
The faces of dead Gods whom men had slain—
How fair they seemed! how gentle and how wise!
The Spirits of the gladsome earth and skies!
And lo, I loved them, and I lit anew
Their vestal lamps that men might love them too,
And so be passionately purified.
The rest ye know. Thro' this same Jew I died.
Peter the Reader and his monkish throng
Found me and slew me, trail'd my limbs along
The streets, and left me, bloody, stark, and dead!’

I watch'd her as with slow and silent tread,
Erect tho' naked, cloth'd with chaste cold Light
As is the virgin votaress of the Night,
She vanished in the darkness. Then for long
I marked the Witnesses in shadowy throng
Come, say their say, and go; from every side
They gathered one by one and testified,
And as they testified against the Jew
Creation darkened and the murmur grew!
Meantime the Accused stood listening, with His eyes
Fixed ever sadly on the far-off skies
Where flocks of patient stars moved slowly, driven
By winds unseen to the dark folds of Heaven,—
And ever as His gaze upon it yearned
The blue Void quicken'd and new splendours burned,
And while the lights of all the stars were shed
As lustrous dew upon His hoary head,
He knelt and prayed!

Then rose a mighty cry
Which shook the solid air and rent the sky,
And flowing thither came a countless crowd
Of women and of men who called aloud
‘Allah il Allah!’—Darkening under Heaven
Like to the waves of Ocean tempest-driven,
Out of the midnight I beheld them come
Up to the Judgment seat and break to foam
Of dusky faces and of waving hands;
And many raised aloft great crookèd brands
And banners where the moonlike crescent burn'd.
Then dimly thro' the darkness I discern'd
A stately turban'd King, who stood alone;
Around his form a prophet's robe was thrown,
And in his hand he bore a scimitar
Unsheath'd and shining radiant like a star;
And on his head there shone a crescent gem,
Bright as the moon; and to his raiment-hem

227

Clung women, naked, glorious-eyed, and fair,
Houris of Heaven with perfumed golden hair:
And the great Sea of Life, that raged and broke
Behind him, sank to silence as he spoke,
Awed by the gleam of his dark eyes; for lo!
He paused not, but moved onward proud and slow,
Saying, as past the Judgment Seat he strode,
‘This man cried, “I am Allah! very God!”
Yet helpless as a slaughter'd lamb he fell
Beneath the angry breath of Azraèl,
Great Allah's Angel, sent to avenge his Lord!
But I, who raised alike the Cross and Sword,
In Allah's name, his Prophet, was content
To avow myself the man by Allah sent
To do his will in proud humility.
So men forgot this Jew, and turn'd to me,
Who on the desert-sands my flag unfurled
And wrought great miracles to amaze the world!
Upon the neck of Kings my foot was set,
And all the Nations knew me—Mahomet!’

And at the name the echoing millions roar'd
‘Allah il Allah!—Mighty is the Lord!
Mahomet is his prophet!’ Cloud on cloud,
Wave following wave, with clash of tumult loud,
The mighty Sea of Lives passed onward crying,
‘Allah il Allah!’ and ever multiplying;
And when the far-off western horizon
Was darkened yet with those who had come and gone,
Millions still came from the eastward, sweeping by
The Judgment seat with that victorious cry;—
And endless seem'd the space of time until
The swarms had pass'd, and all again was still,—
When, fronting the Accused, the Accuser cried:
‘Greater than this pale Jew men crucified
Was he whose mighty star, blood-red and bright,
Shines on the minarets of the Islamite!’
But as he spake, out of the East there came
One follow'd, too, with clangorous acclaim—
A human Shape, wrapt in white lamb-like wool,
Star-eyed and sad and very beautiful,—
A sceptre in his hand, and on his head
A crown of silver, brightly diamonded;
Who, flying swift as wind on veilèd feet,
Approach'd, and pausing at the Judgment seat,
Cried:

‘Sleeping in my Sepulchre, wherein
I deem'd myself secure from sense and sin,
A voice disturbed me, and awakening,
I heard wild voices o'er the Nations ring,
Naming the names of lesser gods than I.
Deathless I pause, while all the rest pass by—
They taught them how to live, I taught them how to die!
Heir of the realms of sorrow and despair,
I, Gautama, the Buddha, gently bare
The Lily, and not the Cross, and not the Sword,
And countless thousands hailed me King and Lord!
What voices break my rest? What impious strife
Stirreth my sleep and brings me back to life?—
Yea, plucks me from God's breast, whereon I lay,
To take my place again 'mong Kings of clay,
Inheritors of Sorrow!’

Even as
He spake, the throngs who follow'd bent like grass
Wind-blown to worship him!

With radiant head
He pass'd on, follow'd by the Quick and Dead.
And in that train I saw, or seem'd to see,
Other inheritors of Deity—
His Brethren, Gods or God-like, following:
Pale Zoroaster, crownèd like a King;
Menú and Moses, each with radiant look
Cast on the pages of an open Book;

228

Confucius, in a robe of saffron hue,
Enwrought with letters quaint of mystic blue;
Prometheus, dragging yet his broken chain,
And gazing heavenward still, in beautiful disdain.

Ghostwise they testified and vanishèd,
These mighty spirits of the god-like Dead;
Some reverend and hoary, some most fair,
With brightness in their eyes and on their hair,
Each kingly in his place, and in his train
Souls of fair worshippers that Jew had slain.

X.

Then, waiting on and watching thro' the gloom,
I saw the glimmer of an open Tomb
Hewn in the mountain-side, and thence a band
Crown'd and tiara'd, each with Cross in hand,
Of woeful Phantoms issued, murmuring:
‘We were the Vicars of this Christ, our King!
And lo, he let us reign!—and sins like lice
Ran o'er us, while we sought with foul device
To cloak the living Lie on which we fed!’

And one cried, ‘As I lay upon my bed,
My leman at my side, mine hands still red
With mine own brother's blood they strangled me!’

And one laugh'd, ‘With this Cross as with a key
I open'd up the caves where Monarchs kept
Their secret gold!’

And one who wail'd and wept,
Yet could not speak, gaped with black jaws forlorn
To show the mouth whence the red tongue was torn.

And one said, ‘Murder was my handmaiden!
I made a Throne with bones of butcher'd men
And set her there, and in my Master's name
Baptised her!’ And all those others cried again—
‘We were his Vicars, and he bade us reign!’
Back to the Tomb they crept with senile cries,
Mumbling with toothless gums and blinking eyes
Thick with the rheum of age!—and in their stead
Rose shapes of butcher'd Seers whose wounds still bled,
And some were clothen with consuming flame
As with a garment, crying as they came:
‘We saw all Nature blacken'd far and wide
Because this Jew was dead yet had not died,
For thro' the world of broken hearts he went
Demanding blood and tears for sacrament,
Crowning the proud and casting down the just,
Lighting the altar-flames of Pride and Lust,
Calling the Deadly Sins accurst and dire
To be his acolytes and to feed the fire
Through which we perish'd; yet we testified
With all our Souls against him ere we died!’

O Night of terror! O dark suffering Night,
With wounded bleeding heart and great eyes bright
With starry portents and serene despairs!
I saw them, one by one, the ghostly heirs
Of Wisdom and of Woe, the Souls long fled
Who died like Him, and like Him are not dead,
The Great, the Just, the Good, who cannot die,
Because this piteous Phantom passeth by,
And when they fain would slumber, murmureth
‘Lo, Christ is God, and God hath vanquish'd Death!’

Like wave on wave they came, like cloud on cloud.
Before the Throne stood one wrapt in his shroud,
And bearing in his lean uplifted hand,
That shook but did not fall, a flaming Brand.
The Judge spake (while I dream'd who this might be):
‘Thy name?’

‘Galileo, of Italy,’

229

He answer'd; while two other shapes in white
Crept to him, on the left hand and the right.
‘These Brethren, standing side by side with me,
Wore the white raiment of Philosophy,
Yet died in anguish, butcher'd in Christ's name.
He on my right hand, Bruno, died by flame.
He on my left, Castilio, starved for bread.
We saw the Heavenly book above us spread,
We pored upon its living lines of fire,
And saw therein the Name of God the Sire.
Upon us as we ponder'd, thought and prayed,
Came this man's Priests and Soldiers, and betrayed
Our Souls to torture and to infamy!’

‘'Tis well. Ye kept your Souls sublime and free,
And he who slew you waits for judgment there!’

Suddenly, with a shriek that rent the air,
Shadows on shadows throng'd around and cried:
‘We, too, were slain because we testified!
Our bones are scattered white in every land!
We pass'd the Fiery Torch from hand to hand:
Fast as one fell, another raised it high,
Till he in turn was smitten down to die.
Yet on, from clime to clime, from pole to pole,
It pass'd, and lit the Beacons of the Soul,
Till wheresoever men could gaze they saw
The fiery signs and symbols of the Law,
Older than God, which saith the Soul is free!’

The Accuser smiled, and rising quietly,
With ominous lifted hand, ‘O Judge,’ he cried,
‘If I should question all men who have died
Because this Jew once quickened in the sun,
Eternity would pass ere all was done.
Enough to know, wherever men have striven
To read the open scrolls of Earth and Heaven,
Wherever in their sadness they have sought
To find the stainless flowers of lonely Thought,
Raising the herb of Healing and the bloom
Of Love and Joy, this man from out his Tomb
Hath stalk'd, and slaying the things their souls deem'd fair
Hath poison'd all their peace and stript them bare.
Century on century, as men count Time,
This man hath been a curse in every clime;
So that the World, once the glad home of men,
Hath been a prison and a lazar-den,
A place of darkness whence no Soul might dare
To seek the golden Earth and heavenly air,
Save fearfully, with panting lips apart,
Fearing the very throb of his own heart
As 'twere a death-knell; nay, this Jew set free
Disease and Pestilence and Leprosy
To crawl like loathsome monsters and destroy
Great Cities once alive with life and joy;
And of all foul things fouler than the beasts
Were this Man's Servants and approven Priests,
Stenching the Cities wheresoe'er they trod,
Poisoning the fountains in the name of God.
Save for this Jew, a thousand years ago
Man might have known what he awakes to know—
The luminous House of flesh and blood most fair,
Rainbow'd from dust and water and sweet air,
The green Earth round it, and the Seas that roll
To cleanse the Earth from shining pole to pole,
The Heavens, and Heavens beyond without a bound,
The Stars in their processions glory-crown'd,
Each star so vast that it transcends our dreams,
So small, a child might grasp it, so it seems,
Like a light butterfly! The wondrous screed
Of Nature open lay for Man to read;

230

World flashed to world, in yonder Void sublime,
The messages of Light and Change and Time;
The Sea had voices, and the Spirit of Earth
Had sung her mystic runes of Death and Birth,
Of all the dim progressions Life had known,
And writ them on the rocks in words of stone;
Nay, Man's own Soul was as a mirror, bright
With luminous changes of the Infinite!
And yet Man rested blind beneath the sky
Because this Jew said, “Close thine eyes, or die!”
Enough—pass onward one by one, ye throng
Who sinn'd thro' Christ, or suffer'd shame and wrong;
Stay not to speak—your faces shall proclaim,
More loud than tongues, your martyrdom and shame!’

Ghostwise they pass'd along before my sight,
Martyrs of truth and warriors of the right,
Some reverend and hoary, some most fair
With sunrise in their eyes and on their hair.
So swift they came and fled, I scarce had space
To note them, but full many a world-famed face
Came like a breaking wave and went again:
Justinian, living, yet a corpse, as when
They tore him from his tomb; old, gaunt, and grey,
The Master of the Templars, Du Molay,
Clasp'd by the harlot, Fire,—follow'd by pale
And martyr'd warriors bleeding 'neath their mail;
Abelard, still erect on stubborn knees
Facing the storms of Rome, and Eloise
Clad like an abbess, from his eyes of fire
Drinking eternal passion and desire;
King Frederick, his step serene and strong
As if he trod on altars, with his throng
Of warriors, Christian and Saracen;
Great Algazalli and wise Alhazen,
White-robed and clam, with many a lesser man
Wrapt in the peace of lore Arabian;
Pale Petrarch, laurel-crownèd, gazing on
The white face of that sister woe-begone
Who thro' the lust of Christ's own Vicar fell;
John Huss, still wrapt around with fires of Hell,
Clutching the Book he bore with piteous tears.

Silent they pass'd, the Martyrs and the Seers,
Known and unknown, the Heirs of love and praise;
And last the Three who with undaunted gaze
Faced the great Ocean of Earth's mystery,
Mighty and strong as when from sea to sea
They sail'd and sail'd: De Gama following
Columbus, who with sea-bird's sleepless wing
Flew on from Deep to Deep; and, mightiest,
Magellan, faring forward on his quest,
Putting the craven cowls of Rome to shame,
And lighting Earth and Heaven with his resplendent name!

XI.

With woe unutterable, and pity vast
As the still Heaven on which His eyes were cast,
That old Jew listen'd, while new voices cried,
‘We too were slain because we testified!’
But as they pass'd along with waving brands
Beneath Him, He outstretch'd His trembling hands
As if to bless them, murmuring low yet clear,
‘Father in Heaven, where art Thou? Dost Thou hear?’
And at the voice those Spirits cried again,
‘We testified against thee and were slain!’
And never down on them His eyes were turn'd,
But still upon the silent Heaven that yearn'd
Its heart of stars out on His hoary head.

Even as a shipwrecked wight doth cling in dread
To some frail spar, and seeth all around
The dark wild waters swelling without bound,

231

While momently the black waves flash to foam,
Ev'n so I saw the spirits go and come
With piteous cries around me. From all lands
They gathered, moaning low and waving hands,
Women and men and naked little ones;
And some were dusky-hued from flaming suns
That light the West and East; for lo, I knew
The hosts of Ind, the children of Peru,
And the black seed of Ham; and following these,
Wan creatures bearing hideous images
Of wood and stone; yellow and black and red,
They gathered, murmuring as they came, and fled!
And all the air was troubled, as when the rain
Maketh the multitudinous leaves complain
In some deep forest solitude, with the stirs
Of tutelary gods and worshippers,
Of creatures thronging thick as ants to upbuild
Strange Temples, frail as ant-heaps, faintly filled
With the first gleams of godhead chill and grey,
Then crumbling into dust and vanishing away!

Borne on a purple litter came a King
Gold-crown'd, with eager armies following
Swift-footed like the pard, crested with plumes
Of many-colour'd birds, and deck'd with blooms
Of many-colour'd flowers; and as he came
Choirs of dark maidens sang in glad acclaim,
‘All hail to Montezuma, King and Lord!’
And round him dusky Priests kept fierce accord
Of drums and cymbals, till their lord was borne
Close to the Throne; and on that Man forlorn
Fixing his sad, brown, antelope's eyes, and lying
Like to a stricken deer sore-spent and dying,
He cried:

‘In the grassy West I reigned supreme
O'er a great kingdom wondrous as a dream.
As high as Heaven rose my palaces,
And fair as Heaven was the light in these,
And out of gold I ate, and gold and gems
Cover'd me to the very raiment-hems,
And gems and gold miraculously bright
Illumed my roofs and floors with starry light.
The wondrous lama-wool as white as milk,
More soft and snowy than the worm's thin silk,
Was woven for my raiment; unto me
The creatures of the Mountains and the Sea
Were brought in tribute; and from shore to shore
My naked couriers flew for ever, and bore
My mandate to the lesser Kings, my slaves;
Yea, and my throne was on a thousand graves,
And Death, obedient to my lifted hand,
Smiled peacefully upon a golden Land.
There, as I reigned, and millions bles{'d my sway,
Came rumours of a fair God far away
Greater than those I worshipt, till my throne
Shook at the coming of that form unknown;
And o'er the Ocean, borne on flying things
That caught the winds and held them in their wings,
Riding on manèd monsters that obeyed
Bridles of gold and champ'd the bit and neigh'd,
Came this Man's followers, clad and shod with steel,
Trampling my naked hosts with armèd heel
And raising up the Cross; and me they found
Within my shining palace sitting crown'd,
'Mid priests and slaves that trembled at my nod,
And bade me worship him, their pale white God,
Nailèd upon a Tree and crucified;
And when upon mine own strong gods I cried,
They answer'd not! nay, even when I was cast
Unto the dust, bound like a slave at last,
Still they were dumb; and tho' my people arose
Innumerable, they were scattered even as snows

232

Before the wintry blast; with sword and spear
The bloody Spaniard hunted them like deer,
So that my realm ran blood in this Man's name;
And lo! my proud heart broken with its shame,
I died to all my glory, and lay mute,
Defiled, and scorn'd, beneath the Spaniard's foot,
And all my Kingdom fell to nothingness.’

He pass'd, and after him came Monarchs less
Than he, yet proud and mighty,—I watch'd them fly
Like flocks of antelopes beneath the sky,
And harrying them the Hunters clad in mail
Follow'd, with cruel faces marble pale,
Lifting the Cross, and speeding fast beyond
My sight, on steeds with gold caparison'd.

Nor ceased the pageant yet. Sceptred and crown'd,
A King, with plumèd legions wailing round,
Stood up and cried:

‘The splendour of the Sun
Illumed the Temples where my rites were done,
And to the Sun-god who for ever gazed
With face of gold upon my realm, I raised
The pæan and the prayer. Beneath my rule
The happy lands grew bright and beautiful,
And countless thousands innocent of strife
Bless'd me, and that refulgent Fount of Life.
Fairer my palaces and temples far
In sight of Heaven than Morn or Even Star,
For in them dwelt the quickening Light of him
Before whose glory every sphere is dim!
Yea, but at last mine eyes did gaze upon
A blood-star, rising o'er the horizon
Out eastward, and before its baleful ray
The Sun-god shrivel'd and was driven away;
And leagued with iron monsters belching fire,
And riding living monsters tame yet dire,
Out from the gulfs of sudden blackness pour'd
A mailèd band who called this man their Lord,
And slew us ev'n as sheep, and undertrod
The shining temples of the Sun, our God;
Me too they smote and slaughter'd, offering me,
Last of the Incas, to their Deity—
And Darkness reign'd where once the Light had shone!’

Wailing, he wrung his hands and wander'd on,
And after him like bleeding sheep a train
Of naked slaughter'd things that sob'd in pain—
'Midst them a dusky woman richly dress'd
Who wrung her hands and smote her naked breast
Crying, ‘I loved the soldier of this Jew,
And me he lusted for, then foully slew,
And wheresoe'er his Cross waved overhead
Came shrieks of women torn and ravishèd!’
And round her as she spake those butcher'd bands
Of women smote their breasts or wrung their hands.

‘O shadowy crowds of men,’ the Accuser cried,
‘Dark naked women, children piteous-eyed,
All manacled and bleeding, worn and weak,
How do ye testify against him? Speak!’

‘Because,’ they said, ‘the radiant summer Light
Had burnt our bodies and made them black yet bright,
Altho' our hearts within were sweet and mild,
We suffered sorrow, man and wife and child.
Far in the West we prayed, bending the knee
In Cities fairer far than Nineveh,
And high as Heaven arose fair Palaces
Lit with the many-colour'd images
Of gentle gods,—but on our shores there came
Devils that smote us in this white God's name,
Our gods dethroned, our temples overcast,
And scattered us as chaff before the blast.
This Jew looked on. His Priests piled gold, while we
Were basely slain or sold to slavery;

233

Tears worse than blood we shed, and bloodiest sweat,
While on the soil, with blood of millions wet,
They did upraise his church that rose on high
With fiery finger pointing at the sky
Where every happy star had ceased to shine!’

XII.

‘Thou hearest, Jew?’

But Jesus made no sign.

With woe unutterable and pity vast
As the still Heaven on which His eyes were cast,
He listen'd dumbly, while new voices cried,
‘We too were slain, and by his Priests we died!’
And like to cloud on cloud, blown by the wind
And broken, dusky swarms of Humankind
Still came and went; and then rose wailing crowds
Who bare the lighted candle, and in their shrouds
Walk'd naked-footed to the martyr's pyre;
With men whose entrails Famine's hidden fire
Gnaw'd till they shriek'd aloud; and every-where
A cruel scent of carnage filled the air,
As countless armèd legions of the slain
Roll'd up as if for battle once again,
While o'er them, flaming between earth and sky,
The crimson Cross was swung!

All these pass'd by;
Then Silence deep as Death fell suddenly,
And all was hushèd as a rainy Sea!

Then came a rush of hosts mingled in storm
Confusedly, and phantoms multiform
That shriek'd and smote each other.

‘Behold them,’ cried
The Accuser, ‘Followers of the Crucified!
The ravening wolves of wrath that never sleep,
Yet seek his fold and call themselves his sheep!
Where'er they strive, Murder and Madness dwell,
And Earth is lighted with the hates of Hell!
Lo, how they love each other, having heard
The crafty gospel of his broken Word!
Lo, how they surge in everlasting strife,
Seeking the mirage of Eternal Life!’

Struggling unto the Judgment-place they came,
Smiting each other in their Master's Name;
Beneath their feet fell women stab'd and cleft,
And little children anguishing bereft.
And like a River of Blood that ever grew,
They rush'd until they roll'd round that pale Jew,
And lo! His feet grew bloody ere He was 'ware!
Yet still they smote each other, and in despair
Shriek'd out His praises as they multiplied
Their dead around Him . . . And thus they testified!

And He, the Man Forlorn, stood mute in woe.

I saw the white corpse of the Huguenot
Float past Him on that dreadful Sea of Lives;
I saw the nun struck down and gash'd with knives
Ev'n as she told her beads; I saw them pass,
The Martyrs of the Book or of the Mass,
Cast down and slain alike; the priest of Rome
Fought with the priest of Luther, thrusting home
With venomous knife or sword; and evermore
The Cross of Blood was wildly waven o'er
The waves of carnage, till they swept from sight,
Moaning and rushing onward thro' the Night.

Then, as the Storm seem'd weeping itself away,
I saw two ghostly Spirits ooming grey
Against that dark Golgotha, and one of these
Clung to the other, and sank upon his knees.

234

‘What man art thou?’

‘Jean Calas.’

‘He whose hands
Thou, kneeling, wettest with thy tears; who stands
Smiling upon the Accused?’

The last replied:
‘Voltaire the people named me. I denied
The godhead of that Jew, and at his brow
Pointed in mockery and scorn, as now!
Pope, Kings, and Priests shiver'd like frighten'd birds
Before the rain and lightning of my words,
And crouch'd with draggled plumage, awed and dumb,
Because they deem'd that Antichrist had come.
One day I heard this man in his poor home
Shriek loud, encircled by the snakes of Rome;
And tho' their poison slew him, ere he died
I crush'd the vipers 'neath my heel, and cried
“Thy woes shall be avengèd; I am here!”
Even then a million wretches cast off fear,
And looking on this man's seed, redeem'd by me,
Fear'd the foul Christ no longer, and grew free!’

Thin, gaunt and pale, around his lips the ray
Of a cold scorn, he smiled and pass'd away,
His eyes upon the Jew; and with him went
Dark silent men whose musing eyes were bent
On open scrolls; and 'mong them laughing stood
A King who held a mimic Cross of wood,
And broke it o'er his knee, with a fierce jest;
So pass'd they, Holbach, Diderot, and the rest,
The foes of Godhead and the friends of Man;
But after them great crowds in tumult ran,
Who waved their dark and blood-stain'd arms and shriek'd,
‘We, who had lain in darkness, rose and wreak'd
Man's wrath on this false God, who had scorn'd our prayer
And sent his Kings and slaves to strip us bare!
Yea, in his Name the Harlots and the Priests
Yoked us and harness'd us like blinded beasts;
And when we cried for food they profferèd
The stones of his cold Gospel and not bread;
And where his blessing fell the foul found gold,
And where it fell not we were bought and sold.
His foot was on the heads beneath him bowed,
His hand was with the pitiless and the proud,
His mercy failed us, but the curse he gave
Pursued our spirits even beyond the grave.
Thus he who had promised love gave only hate!
He spake of Heaven and made Earth desolate!
Thou didst at last avenge us, Spirit of Man,
Through thee the Night was cloven and Day began,
And on thine altars blood as sacrament
Appal'd the Kings of Earth this God had sent!’

Then once again the Accuser rose and cried:
‘The countless hosts of Dead have testified;
But lastly, to this solemn Judgment-place,
I summon up the seed of this Man's race;
Bear witness now, ye Jews, against this Jew!’

XIII.

Then instantly, as if some swift hand drew
A curtain back, the Darkness of the Night
Was cloven, and thronging in the starry light
New legions of the ghostly Dead appear'd
And ever, as the Judgment Seat they near'd,
They shriek'd ‘Messiah;’ and with lips apart
Startled as if a knife had prick'd His heart,
That pale Jew listen'd and His wan face turn'd
To those who cried; but when those hosts discern'd
His human lineaments they shriek'd anew:
‘One God we worship, and this Man we slew,

235

Seeing he took the Holy Name in vain!
And since that hour that he was justly slain,
His hate hath followed us from place to place!
Wherefore, O Judge, we, children of his race,
Scorn'd, tortured, shamed, defamed, defiled, and driven
Outcast from every gate of Earth or Heaven,
Still martyr'd living and still dishonour'd dead,
Demand thy wrath and judgment on his head,
Jesus the Jew, not Christ, but Antichrist!’

Dumb as a lamb brought to be sacrificed,
Helpless and bound, He listen'd—still with gaze
Fix'd on the starry azure's pathless ways,
But down His cheeks, furrow'd with weary years,
Slowly and softly fell the piteous tears.

Like hordes of wolves, fierce, foul, and famishing,
That round some lonely Traveller shriek and spring,
Black'ning the snows around his lonely path,
Rending each other in their hungry wrath,
The children of the Ghetto, gathering there,
His brethren, fed their eyes on His despair
And spat their hate upon Him; and the snow
Was sooted with these nameless shapes of woe;
But hither and thither 'mid the ravening horde
Moved Rabbis who lookt upward and adored
The Lord of Hosts, with hoary Saints and Seers,
And dark-eyed Maids who sang with sobs and tears
Of God's bright City overthrown in shame,
Jerusalem the golden!—and at the Name
The woeful throngs who roll'd in tumult by
Rent robes, and wail'd, and echoed back the cry
‘Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’—and lo!
From 'midst the multitudinous ebb and flow
That ever came and went, there did arise
A Prophet, with white beard and burning eyes,
Saying, ‘Holy, Holy still, thy Name shall be,
Jerusalem, thro' God's Eternity!
For tho' thy glory hath fallen, and thy gate
Lies broken, and thy streets are desolate,
And on thy head ashes and dust are flung,
And in thy folds the wolf suckles her young,
Thou shalt arise in splendour and in pride,
And we, thy people, shall be justified;
Our tents are scattered, and our robes are riven,
Like chaff before the blast our race hath driven
In darkness, ever homeless, thro' the lands,
But never another City by our hands
Hath been upbuilded, since where'er we roam
Thou, City of God, art still our Hope and Home!
And tho' with bitterest tears our eyes are dim,
We hearken ever for the call of Him
Who thundered upon Sinai! . . . In thy breast
This Snake who stings thee still doth make his nest!
This Son who smote thee, Mother, still doth lie
Within thine arms; but o'er thee, yonder on high,
Watches the God of Jacob! Patience yet!
Tho' for a little space thy sun hath set,
As red as blood it shall arise again
For vengeance, and the God of Wrath shall reign,
With thee, his Bride long chosen, and over us,
Thy children!’

Thronging multitudinous,
With one great voice they answered: ‘Holy be
Thy Name, Jerusalem, thro' Eternity!’
And now their wailings sobb'd themselves to calm,
While to a sound of harps and lutes the psalm
Of Israël rose to Heaven—‘Holy be
Thy Name, Jerusalem, thro' Eternity!’

236

XIV.

Then said that Form who sat in Judgment:

‘Jew!
Once judged and slain, yet risen and judged anew,
Thou hast heard the Accuser and his Witnesses.
Hast thou a word to utter answering these?
Hast thou a living Soul beneath the sky
To rise upon thy side and testify?
Summon thy Witnesses, if such there be,
Ere I pronounce the doom of Man on thee!’

The Jew gazed round, and wheresoe'er His gaze
Shed on that throng its gentle suffering rays
Tumult and wrath were hush'd, as in deep Night
Great waves lie down to lap the starry light
And lick the Moon's cold feet that touch the Sea.

‘I have no word to answer,’ murmured He,
‘The winter of mine age hath come, and lo!
My heart within sinks 'neath its weight of woe!
So faint and far-removed all seems to be,
I seem the ghost of mine own Deity,
The apparition of myself, and not
A living thing with will or strength or thought!
Yet I remember’ (here His piteous eyes
Search'd the bare Heavens again with dim surmise)
‘Yet I remember, on this my Judgment Day,
Not what is near, but what is far away.
Within my Father's House I fell to sleep
In dreamless slumber mystical and deep,
And when I waken'd to mine own faint crying,
Above the cradle small where I was lying
A Mother's face hung like a star, and smiled.

‘Transform'd into the likeness of a child,
Feebly I drank the milk of mortal being;
But as the green world brightened to my seeing
And the round are of air closed over me,
The Land beyond grew dark to memory,
And I forgot my former dwelling-place,
The Life Eternal, and my Father's Face.
Closer and darker, as the summers flew,
The folds of flesh around my spirit grew,
Shutting that heavenly Mansion from my sight,
Save oftentimes in visions of the night
When for a space I slept the sleep of earth;
But since that moment of my mortal birth,
I have not seen my Father, and now He seems
More faint than any form beheld in dreams!’

He paused, uplifting still His weary gaze
To search the empty Heaven's pathless ways
For miracle and token, then was dumb.

‘Thy quest hath fail'd, thy Kingdom hath not come,’
The dark Judge said; ‘thy promise was a Lie—
Thy Witnesses?’

And Jesus made reply:
‘Hosts of the happy Dead whom I have blest!’

‘Call—let them come!’

‘I would not break their rest.’

‘Thou hast lied to them, O Jew!’ the dark Judge cried.

And Jesus said, ‘O Judge, I have not lied!’

‘False was thy promise—false and mad and drear.
There is no Father!’

‘Father, dost Thou hear?’

‘Enough—renew thy miracles, and prove
Thy words, O Jew! From yonder Void above
Summon the Form, the Face, in all men's eyes,
And we absolve thee!’

On the starry skies,

237

Still thinly shrouded with the falling snow,
He fix'd His wistful gaze, and answer'd low,
‘I bide my Father's time!’

XV.

Then, as He bent
His brow like one who kneels for sacrament,
And on His feeble form and hoary head
The benediction of the Night was shed,
Methought I saw a Shape behind Him stand,
Grim as a godhead graven in brass, his hand
Uplifted, and his wrinkled face set stern,
While terrible his deep black eyes did burn
In scornful wrath. Naked as any stone
He stood, save for a beast's skin loosely thrown
Around his dusky shoulders, and he said:

‘Thy Witnesses?—Lord of the Quick and Dead,
Call them, and they shall come! I first, who stood
And prophesied by Jordan's rolling flood,
And saw thee shining o'er the throng on me
Thro' the white cloud of thy Humanity,
And knew thee in a moment by those eyes
Full of the peace of our lost Paradise!
Master and Lord of Life, these hands of mine
Baptized thee, blest thee, hailed thee most Divine,
Long promised, the Messiah!—and tho' thy brow
Is furrowed deep with years, I know thee now,
And in the name of all thou wast and art,
God's substance, of the living God a part,
Bear witness still, as I bare witness then,
Before this miserable race of men!’

Then saw I, as he ceased and stood aside,
Another Spirit fair and radiant-eyed,
Who, creeping thither, at the Jew's feet fell,
And looking up with love ineffable
Cried ‘Master!’ and I knew that I beheld,
Tho' his face, too, was worn and grey with eld,
That other John whom Jesus to His breast
Drew tenderly, because He loved him best!
But even as I gazed, my soul was stirred
By other Shapes that stole without a word
Out of the silent dark, and kneeling low
Stretchèd out loving hands and wept in woe:
The gentle Mother of God grown grey and old,
Her silver hair still thinly sown with gold,
Mary the wife, and Mary Magdalen
Who murmur'd ‘Lord, behold thy Hand-maiden,’
And kiss'd His feet, her face so sadly fair
Hid in the shadows of her snow-strewn hair;
And close to them, as thick as stars appear'd
Faces of children brightening as they near'd
The presence of their Father; and following these
Pallid Apostles falling upon their knees,
Crying ‘Messiah!—Master—we are here!’

As some poor famish'd wight doth take good cheer
Seeing an open door and one who stands
Upon the threshold with outstretchèd hands
That welcome him to some well-laden board,
That Wanderer brightened, while they murmur'd ‘Lord!
We are thy Witnesses in all men's sight!’

Feebly yet happily He rose His height,
And even as a Shepherd grave and old
Who smiles upon his flock within the fold,
He shone upon them till that sad place seemed
Fair as a starry night, and still they stream'd
Out of the shadows, passionately crying
Upon the Name Beloved and testifying,
Till the dark Earth forgot its sorrowing
And grew as glad as Heaven opening!

Then one cried (and I knew him, for his face
Was dark and proud, yet lit with dews of grace,
And like an organ's peal his strong voice rang
With solemn echoes as of Saints that sang),
‘Thy Witnesses? Father of all that be,
I persecuted those who followed thee,
Thy remnant, till thy fire from out the sky
Smote me, and as I fell I heard thee cry,

238

“Saul, Saul!”—and shook as at the touch of Death;
But on my face and eyelids came thy breath
To make me whole; and lo! I sheathed the sword
And girded up my loins to preach thy Word.
And the World listen'd, while the heathen praised
Thy glory, and believed; and I upraised
Temples of marble where thy flocks might pray,
And where no Temple was from day to day
I made the Earth thy Temple, and the sky
A roof for thy Belovèd. Lamb of God,
Thy blood redeemed the Nations, while I trode
The garden of thy gospel, bearing thence
Strange flowers of Love and holy Innocence,
And setting up aloft for all to see
Thy Hûleh lilies, Faith, Hope, Charity;
And of these three I knew the last was best
Because, like thee, dear Lord, 'twas low-liest!
Thy Witnesses? Countless as desert sands
Their bones are scatter'd o'er the seas and lands!
Whene'er the Lamp of Life hath sunken low,
Whene'er Death beckon'd and 'twas time to go,
Where'er dark Pestilence and Disease had crawl'd,
Where'er the Soul was darken'd and appal'd,
Where mothers wept above their dead first-born,
Where children to green graves brought gifts forlorn
Of flowers and tears, where, struck 'spite helm and shield,
Pale warriors moan'd upon the battlefield,
Where Horror thicken'd as a spider's mesh
Round plague-smit men and lepers foul of flesh,
Where Love and Innocence were brought to shame,
And Life forgot its conscience and its aim,
Thy blessing, even as Light from far away,
Came bright and radiant upon eyes of clay
And turn'd the tears of pain to tears of bliss!
Nay, more, to Death tself thy loving kiss
Brought consecration; he, that Angel sad,
Ran like a Lamb beside thee, and was glad
Uplooking in thy face!’

He ceased, and lo!
Like warriors gathering when the trumpets blow,
Shapes of dead Saints arose, a shining throng,
And standing in their shrouds upraised the song
‘Hosannah to the Lord!’—Faint was the cry
Withering on the wind as if to die,
And loud as clarion-winds above the sound
Shrill'd the fierce anger of the hosts around;
And while before the Storm His head was bowed
They rose like ocean waves and clamour'd aloud
For judgment on the Jew!

XVI.

Far as the sight
Could penetrate the blackness of the Night,
Stretchèd the multitudinous living Sea,
The angry waters of Humanity,
And lo! their voice was as the ocean's roar
Thund'rously beating on some sleepless shore;
And He, the Man Divine, whose eyes were dim
With shining down on those who worshipt Him,
Seem'd as a lonely pharos on a rock,
Firm in its place, yet shaken by the shock,
And ever blinded by the pitiless foam
Of waves that surge and thunder as they come!
And as I have seen, on some lone oceanisle
Where never Summer lights or flowers may smile,
But where the fury of the Tempest blows,
The ocean birds in black and shivering rows
Huddle along the rocks; now one, alone,
Plunges upon the whirlwind, and is blown
Hither and thither as a straw, and then
Struggles back feebly to his rocky den,
There still to shiver and eye the dreadful flood
And with his comrades hungering for food

239

Ruffle the feathery crest and brood in fear:—
Ev'n so, those lonely Saints who gather'd near
The Man forlorn, seem'd to the Sea of Life
Which rose around with ceaseless stress and strife,
And ever one of these, as if to face
The angry blast, would flutter from his place,
And driven hither and thither be backward blown,
And fall again with faint despairing moan
At his sad Master's feet!

Then as the Storm
Raged ever louder round His lonely form,
The Jew uplifted hands and cried aloud!

And in a moment, Darkness like a cloud
Cover'd Him, the great whirlwinds ceased to roar,
And all those Waves of Life were still once more.

XVII.

Then said that Form who sat in Judgment there:

‘Ye saw a mirage and ye thought it fair,
He brought a gospel and ye found it sweet,
Yea, deemed it heavenly manna and did eat,
Yet were ye empty still and never fed.
This man has given ye husks to eat, not bread.
He said “There is no Death!” yet Death doth reign.
He promised you a gift no man may gain,
Yea, Life that shall endure eternally,
And told ye of a God no eye shall see,
Because He is not! Bid him lift his hand
And show the Life Divine and Heavenly Land,
Bid him arise and take his Throne and reign!
He cannot, for he knoweth he dream'd in vain,
And empty of his hope he stands at last,
Now the full measure of his power hath pass'd.
Not yours the sin, poor Shadows of the Dead,
Not yours the shame, which rests upon his head
As dust and ashes. Back to your graves, and sleep!
We judge the Shepherd, not the blameless sheep
Who gather'd on the heights to hear his voice
Cry down to deep on deep “Rejoice! rejoice!”
Fringe of his raiment that is riven and rent,
Breath of his nostrils that is lost and spent,
Thin echoes of his voice from out the tomb,
Go by. This man is ours, to judge and doom.’

He spake; and quietly, without a word,
The Christ bow'd down His head, but those who heard,
His remnant, wringing hands and making moan,
Cried: ‘Lord, thou hearest? Speak—and take thy Throne!
Still these wild waters of Humanity,
Walking thereon, as once on Galilee!
Our graves lie open yonder, but we are fain
To wake with thee and never to sleep again—
Unfold thy Heavens, and bid these clouds give place,
That we may look upon the Father's face!’

And Jesus answer'd not, but shook and wept.

Then the grey Mother to His bosom crept,
And with her thin hands touch'd His sad grey hair,
Saying, ‘My Son, My First-born! Let me share
Thy failure or Thy glory! Free or bound,
Cast down into the dust or throned and crown'd,
Thou art still my Son!’ and kneeling at His feet,
That other Mary, gazing up to meet
The blessing of His eyes, cried ‘Holy be
Thy Name, for all the joy it brought to me!
Not for thy Godhead did I hold thee dear,
Not for thy Father, who hath left thee here
Helpless, unpitied, homeless 'neath the skies,
But for the human love within thine eyes!
And wheresoe'er thou goest, howsoe'er
Thou fallest, tho' it be to Hell's despair,

240

I, thy poor handmaid, still would follow thee,
For in thy face is Love's Eternity,
And tho' thou art of all the World bereaven,
Still, where thou art, Belovèd, there is Heaven!’

As some white Alpine peak, wrapt round with cloud,
Suddenly sweeps aside its clinging shroud
Of gloomy mists and vapours dark and chill,
And shines in lonely splendour clear and still,
With gleams of stainless ice and snow thrice shriven,
Against the azure of the opening Heaven,
So that the soul is shaken unaware
With that new glory desolately fair,—
E'en so the Christ, uprising suddenly
To loneliness of lofty sovereignty,
Cast off the darkness of despair and tower'd
High o'er the shadows that beneath Him cower'd!
Then all was hush'd, while on His hoary head
Light from a million spheres was softly shed,
Fire from a million worlds that lit the Night
Fell on His face miraculously bright,
And even that Judge who watch'd Him from afar
Seem'd but a storm-cloud shrinking 'neath a Star!
And thus, while heavenly anger lit His cheek
As still sheet-lightning lights the snowy peak,
He answered:

‘Woe! eternal Woe! be yours
Who scorn the Eternal Pity which endures
While all things else pass by! Your lips did thirst—
I brought ye water from the Founts which burst
Beneath the bright tread of My Father's feet!
Ye hunger'd, and I brought ye food to eat—
Manna, not husks or ashes: these ye chose,
And me, the living Christ, ye bruised with blows
And would have slain once more, and evermore!
Ye revell'd, and I moan'd without your door
Outcast and cold; ye sinnèd in my Name,
And flung me then the raiment of your shame;
Ye turn'd the heart of the Eternal One
'Gainst you, his children, and 'gainst me, his Son,
So that my promise grew a dream forlorn,
And all I sow'd in love, ye reapt in scorn.
Woe to ye all! and endless Woe to Me
Who deem'd that I could save Humanity!
The Father knew men better when he sent
His angel Death to be his instrument
And smite them ever down as with a sword!
Instead of Death, I offer'd ye my Word!
My Light, my Truth, my Life!—I wasted breath,
For though I gave ye these, ye turn'd to Death!
And I, your Lord, for love of you, denied
My soul the sleep it sought, and rose to guide
Your footsteps to the Land we ne'er shall gain,
Because at last I know my Dream was vain!
I plough'd the rocks, and cast in rifts of stone
The seeds of Life Divine that ne'er have grown;
I labour'd and I labour, last and first,
Within a barren Vineyard God hath curst;
And now the Winter of mine age is here,
And one by one like leaves ye disappear,
While I, a blighted Tree, abide to show
The Woe of all Mankind, the eternal Woe
Which I, your Lord, must share!’

Even so He spake,
Pallid in wrath; but as low murmurs wake
Under the region of the Peak, and rise
To thunders answered from the thund'ring skies,
While cataract cries to cataract, and o'er-head
Heaven darkens into anger deep and dread,
Cries from the shadowy legions answer'd Him,
Wild voices wail'd, and all the Void grew dim,
With cloud on cloud. So that serene sad Face
Was blotted out of vision for a space,

241

And out of darkness on that radiant form
Sprang the fierce pards and panthers of the Storm!
Then the Earth trembled, and the crimson levin
Shot swift and lurid o'er the vaults of Heaven,
And thunder answer'd thunder with crash on crash
As beast doth beast, but at each lightning-flash
I saw Him standing pale and terrible,
Unscath'd yet swathen as with fire from Hell!

But lo, from out the darkness round His feet
There came a voice most passionately sweet
Crying ‘Adonai! Lord! Forgive us, even
Altho' our sins be seventy times seven!
Comfort the remnant of thy flock and bless
Thy Well Belovèd!’—and my Soul could guess
Whose voice had called, for at the voice's sound
He trembled and He reach'd towards the ground
With eager trembling hands; and at the touch
Of her who had loved not wisely, but too much,
His force fell from Him, and He wept aloud,
While heavily His hoary head was bowed
In utter impotence of Deity!

XVIII.

Even then, methought, that angry living Sea
Surged round Him, and again I did discern
The Phantoms of Golgotha!—Soldiers stern
Who pointed with their spears and pricked Him on,
While on His shoulders drooping woe-be-gone
They thrust the great black Cross! Upon His head
A crown of thorns was set, and dript its red
Dark drops upon His brow, while loud they cried
‘Lo, this is Jesus whom we crucified,
And lo, he hath risen, and shall die once more!’
And as a waif is cast on some dark shore
By breaking waves of Ocean and is ta'en
Back by the surge again and yet again,
Even so the Man was tost, till He lay prone,
Breathless, a ragged heap, beneath the Throne.

Golgotha! Like the very Hill of Death,
Skull-shapen, yet a living thing of breath,
The dark Judge loom'd, with orbs of fateful flame,
And motion'd back the crying crowd that came
Shrieking for judgment on that holy head;
And lo, they faltered back!

Then the Voice said
‘Arise, O Jew!’

And Jesus rose.

‘Again
Take up thy Cross!’

Calm, with no moan of pain,
Jesus took up the Cross. While 'neath its load
He shook as if to fall, His white hair snow'd
Around His woeful face and wistful eyes!

While thus He stood, bowed down in pain, the cries
Of those who loved Him pierced His suffering heart.
Trembling He heard again, with lips apart
And listening eyes, the faithful remnant moan:
‘Adonai! Lord and Master! Take thy Throne
And claim thy Kingdom!’ but with clamorous sound
Of laughter fierce and mad the cry was drowned,
And at His naked breast the forkèd light
Stabb'd like a knife, while thro' the gulfs of Night
The thunders roar'd!

Trembling at last He rose,
And as a wind-smit tree shakes off the snows
That cling upon its boughs, He gatherèd
His strength together, and with lifted head
Gazed at His Judge; and lo, again the storm
Of darkness ebbed away and left His Form
Serene and luminous as an Alpine peak
Shining above these valleys! On His cheek

242

The sheeted light gleam'd softly, while on high
The silent azure open'd like an eye
And gazed upon Him, pitilessly fair.

So round about Him as He waited there
Silence like starlight fell, till suddenly,
Like surge innumerable of one great Sea,
A million voices moaned, ‘Speak now His Doom!’

XIX.

Then, pointing with dark finger thro' the gloom
On Him who stood erect with hoary head,
The Judge gazed down with dreadful eyes, and said:

‘Ere yet I speak thy Doom that must be spoken
Before the World whose great heart thou hast broken,
Hast thou another word to say, O Jew?’

And the Jew answer'd, while the heavenly blue
Fill'd like an eye with starry crystal tears,
‘Far have I wander'd thro' the sleepless years—
Be pitiful, O Judge, and let me die!’

‘Death to him, Death!’ I heard the voices cry
Of that great Multitude. But the Voice said:

‘Nay!
Death that brought peace thyself didst seek to slay!
Death that was merciful and very fair,
Sweet dove-eyed Death that hush'd the Earth's despair,
Death that shed balm on tirèd eyes like thine,
Death that was Lord of Life and all Divine,
Thou didst deny us, offering instead
The Soul's fierce famine that can ne'er be fed—
Death shall abide to bless all things that be,
But evermore shall turn aside from thee—
Hear then thy Doom!’

He paused, while all around
The Sea of Life lay still without a sound,
And on the Man Divine, Death's King and Lord,
The sacrament of heavenly Light was pour'd.

‘Since thou hast quicken'd what thou canst not kill,
Awaken'd famine thou canst never still,
Spoken in madness, prophesied in vain,
And promised what no thing of clay shall gain,
Thou shalt abide while all things ebb and flow,
Wake while the weary sleep, wait while they go,
And treading paths no human feet have trod
Search on still vainly for thy Father, God;
Thy blessing shall pursue thee as a curse
To hunt thee, homeless, thro' the Universe;
No hand shall slay thee, for no hand shall dare
To strike the godhead Death itself must spare!
With all the woes of Earth upon thy head,
Uplift thy Cross, and go. Thy Doom is said.’

XX.

And lo! while all men come and pass away,
That Phantom of the Christ, forlorn and grey,
Haunteth the Earth with desolate foot-fall. . . .

God help the Christ, that Christ may help us all!

243

The Devil's Case.

NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME CORRECTLY STATED, AND DILIGENTLY VERSIFIED, AS A BANK HOLIDAY INTERLUDE.

(1894.)

Please remember, Gentle Reader,
Not to judge me line by line:
Tho' I try to state it clearly,
'Tis the Devil's Case, not mine!

DEDICATION.

November, 1894.

When the life-thread was spun
From the blood in her breast,
She look'd on her Son,
Smiled, and rock'd him to rest. . . .

How swift the Hours run
From the East to the West
Erect stood the Son,
And the Mother was blest.

Of all Life had won
Love like his seem'd the best:
He was still the dear Son
She had rock'd on her breast!

Yet lo! all is done!
('Twas, O God, Thy behest!)
In his turn the gray Son
Rocks the Mother to rest!

All is o'er, ere begun! . . . .
O my dearest and best,
Sleep in peace,—till thy Son
Creepeth down to thy breast!

R. B.

THE DEVIL'S CASE.

I.

Would you know how I, Buchanan,
Met the Devil here in London,
Chatted with him, interview'd him?
Listen, then, and you shall hear!

Not in great heroic measures
Shall I sing on this occasion,
But in roguish rhymeless stanzas
Much esteem'd by Greeks and Germans.

Genius of the Greeks and Germans,
Lend me, then, your light trochaics,
Loose, an easy-fitting raiment
Fit to lounge in, as I sing!

For my perilous subject-matter
Mingled is of jest and earnest,
To be treated in a manner
Jaunty, free, yet philosophic;

Bold it is,—you'll cease to doubt it,
When I once am fairly started!
Sad it is,—and yet its sadness
Trembles on the verge of laughter!

Other bards in days departed
Have (they tell us) met the Devil;
Often I'm inclined to doubt it
Since they libel'd him so grossly.

No! the fiends of their acquaintance
Were but small inferior Devils,
Feeble foolish masqueraders,
Tho' their talk was often clever;

Tho' to other generations
They might seem appalling creatures,
Really they were not authentic,
Not the Great Original!

For the first time, I assure you,
He, the real and only Devil,
Sick of being by poets libel'd,
Has to utterance condescended;

244

Wherefore, I entreat you, Reader,
Listen to his explanations!
Judge with kindness and discretion
Interview'd and Interviewer!

I, the Interviewer, hated
Cordially by cliques and critics,
Rail'd at in a hundred journals
As a Scotchman lost and lorn;

He, the Interview'd, for ages
Outlaw'd by the cliques of Heaven,
Who for ever and for ever
Roll the Log and praise the Lord!

I, the Interviewer, banish'd
From the Eden of the poets,
Where the stainless laurel-wearers
Wander innocent and nude;

He, the Interview'd, for ever
Boycotted by God Almighty,
Curst in leader-writer's thunder
By the great celestial Times.

Neither of us, I assure you,
Has been reasonably treated;
Neither of us is so naughty
As the public prints assever.

Both began with warm approval
Of the Church and ruling classes;
I was praised by the Spectator,
He was orthodox and holy!

Both, alas! have wholly fallen!
I, from gulfs of impious thinking,
See the Heav'n of Poetasters
Guarded still by Hutton's sword;

He, the greater grander Devil,
Prowling in the outer darkness,
Sadly eyes the loaves and fishes
On the Thunderer's banquet-table.

Still, we keep as our possession
One thing even the Angels envy—
Power to stand erect, while cravens
Roll the Log and bend the knee;

Power to feel and strength to suffer,
Will to fight for freedom only,
Zeal to speak the truth within us,
While the slaves of Heaven are dumb.

But. . . your pardon, Gentle Reader!
I'm anticipating somewhat—
All impatient waits my Devil,
Swishing tail and grimly smiling:

What he is, himself shall tell you—
What he thinks, you soon shall gather,
When I say, the Judge saluting,
‘I'm, my lud, for the Defendant!’

II.

Night lay o'er the Heath of Hampstead—
One by one the merry-makers,
Romping, mad, accordion-playing,
Beer-inspired, were trotting townward.

All that afternoon I'd wander'd
'Mid the throng of Nymphs and Satyrs,—
Now at last the Bacchanalian
August holiday was over.

Sad my soul had been among them,
Envying their easy pleasures,
Since for many a month behind me
Wolf-like creditors had throng'd;

Since my name and fame were lying
In the gutter of the journals,
While the laws of Earth and Heaven
Seemed one vast Receiving Order!

Bankrupt thus in fame and fortune,
Wearily I walk'd and ponder'd
On the lonely Heath of Hampstead,
In the silence of the Night. . . .

Gently, one by one, the azure
Lattices of Heaven blew open;
Dimly, darkly, far above me,
God began to light His lamps:

Silent, still, a shadowy Presence
Felt not seen, the Old Lamplighter
Pass'd above my head fulfilling
Feebly His appointed task.

How my spirit rose against Him!
How I curst His deaf-and-dumbness!
While above me twinkle-twinkle
Gleam'd those melancholy lights!

245

Far down westward, over Harrow,
Pensively the Moon was shining—
Opening her dark bed-curtains
With a wan and sleepy smile;

Soft and cool a breeze was blowing
Like the Earth's own breath in slumber,
Falling on my fever'd eyelids
With a dewy sense of tears.

Night was there and Night within me,
As with sad eyes gazing skyward
I beheld the bale-fires burning,
Multiplying, overhead!

III.

He who hath not turn'd already
From my rakish, rhymeless poem,
Seeking what the crowd loves better,—
Rhyme and tintinnabulation,

May esteem me a blasphemer,
Just as I, at our first meeting,
To be presently recorded,
Thought my honest friend, the Devil!

He alone blasphemes who smothers
Truth his conscience bids him utter;
Nowadays in Hell and London,
Truth, methinks, is sorely needed!

And (remember) I, Buchanan,
Spite of all my slips, have ever
Loath'd the foul materialistic
Serpent that surrounds the world. . .

In his autobiographic
Fragment, Stuart Mill assevers
That from infancy to manhood
He was never pious-minded:

Never did his spirit falter
Into Brahmic meditation:
Quite enough for him to brood on
Was the moral side of Man.

Souls like that the Fates may fashion,
But I fail to comprehend them—
From the hour I first remember
I was gazing at the stars;

I was wondering, I was dreaming,
Speculating and aspiring,—
Reaching hands and feeling backward
To the secret founts of Being.

All the gods were welcome to me!
All the heavens were wide and open!
All the dreams of all the Dreamers
In my heart's blood were pulsating!

Beautiful it was to wander
In a glad green world, beholding
Faith's celestial Jacob's Ladder
Rainbow'd out 'tween Earth and Heaven,

And upon it shining Angels,
Some descending, some ascending,
Golden-hair'd, with rosy faces
Smiling on me as I walk'd.

Well, those happy days were over,
With the roses of the Maytime—
One by one my youth's illusions
Had been spirited away.

Ev'n as eyeless Samson labour'd
Wearily 'mong slaves at Gaza,
I had done my daily taskwork,
Blind and sad, yet not despairing;

Spite of all my load of sorrows,
I was hoping, I was dreaming;
Still, tho' all my gods had vanish'd,
Reaching empty arms to heaven!

IV.

Bitterly, that night of August,
All my load of woes upon me,
Bare I witness 'gainst the Serpent
Who had made me see and know.

Far away the Sword was flaming
O'er the gates of Youth and Eden—
Never, never, should I enter
Those celestial Gates again!

And the Woman? Somewhere yonder
She was sorrowing and sobbing—
Never, never, would we wander
Thro' the Garden, hand in hand!

Bitterly I cursed the Serpent!
Bitterly I cursed the Apple!
Honey in the mouth, but wormwood
In the stomach, being eaten!

246

Suddenly my soul grew conscious
Of dark forms that flitted near me:—
All the pallid Heath was peopled
With the shadows of the Dead:

Woeful shadows,—well I knew them!
Phantoms of the years departed—
Men and women, apparitions
Of the days when I was young!

Never one (and this was strangest!)
Cast a look upon me passing—
Some gazed downward, darkly dreaming,
Others look'd on vacancy;

Lost they seemed in contemplation,
All unconscious of my presence—
Some were smiling, some were weeping,
All were hastening God knows where!

Well I knew one weary figure
Bending as beneath a burden,
Talking to himself, nor heeding
While I sob'd and murmur'd ‘Father!’

And another, whitely shrouded,—
Thin and spectral were her features
Underneath her locks all golden
As her namesake's, the Madonna's;

And another, tall and slender,
Bright-eyed like the star of morning,
Beauteous as that other David
When he sang to comfort Saul!

And another, bright-eyed also,
Tho' the years had snowed upon him—
('Twas but yesterday, my Roden,
That dear hand was clasp'd in mine!)

Shadows, phantoms, apparitions,
Heedless though I cried unto them,
Though my wounded heart was bleeding
For a look, a loving word;

Shadows dead, yet omnipresent,
Wrapt in Death as in a garment,
Heedless of the living creature
Who implored their intercession,

Ant-like moved they, this way, that way,
Purposeful yet void of purpose
As the ants are, ever thronging
Busily, they know not whither.

Never one stretch'd hand unto me!
Never one would look upon me!
All alone I stood among them
With a void and aching heart.

Far away, the lights of London
Glimmer'd like a crimson crescent!
Far above, the lamps of Heaven
Flicker'd in the breath of God!

V.

Suddenly from out the darkness
Sprang the Moon, and thro' the trembling
Pools of azure softly swimming
Flooded Heaven with rippling rays.

Well I knew the Naked Goddess!
Many a midnight, there in London,
She had witch'd my sense with wonder,
Stirr'd my soul to pensive dreams!

In her light the Phantoms faded,
While the lonely Heath around me,
Lit as with a ghastly daylight,
Loom'd distinct against the sky. . . .

Even then I saw before me
Something, featured like a mortal,
Sitting silent in the moonlight
On a fallen wither'd tree.

Gnarl'd and knotted like the branches
Seemed his form, yet bent and weary,—
Worn his features were, and wither'd,
And his hair was white as snow.

In his hands he held the paper
He was quietly perusing,
Glancing up at times and gazing
At the City far away.

Startled to perceive a mortal
Sitting in a place so lonely,
Wondering I paused and watch'd him,
And betimes my wonder grew:

Silent, heedless of my presence,
Sat he reading by the moonlight,
Clerically dress'd, bareheaded,
Spectacles upon his nose.

247

‘'Tis,’ I thought, ‘some priest or parson,
Or some layman who, like Mawworm,
Feels “a call to go a-preaching,”
Yet what folly brings him here?’

Nearer then I stole unto him,
Keen to know what he was reading—
When I saw that 'twas the latest
(Pink) edition of the Star.

Still he heeded not my presence,
Till I broke the gloomy silence,
Saying, ‘Friend, your sight is surely
Wondrous for a wight so old,

‘Since by moonlight dim as this is
You can read your evening paper?’
As I spake he gazed upon me,
Smiling, with uplifted eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said, benignly nodding,
‘I am blest with goodly eyesight,
Owing chiefly, like most blessings,
To a strictly moral life.

‘In my sanctum, sir, you find me,
After weary hours of labour,
Glancing, to refresh my spirit,
At the doings of the day.

‘Never globe of gold or crystal,
Used by any Necromancer,
Flash'd more wonders on the vision
Than the Newspaper I hold!

‘Here, epitomis'd and pictured,
We behold the human Pageant,—
All the doings on this planet,
All the stress and strife of men;

‘Kings pass by with trains attendant,
Shadowy Armies follow ever,
Ghostly faces glimmer on us,—
Everywhere the Phantoms pass!

‘Scenes of wonder and of terror,—
Fields of battle dimly looming,
Cain still slaughtering his brother,
Having cast his Altar down;

‘Parliaments in congress gather'd;
Judges on their benches nodding,
While the tedious sleepy trial
Oozes darkly, slowly, on;

‘Then, the groups of famish'd creatures
Then, the Pit's Mouth, fiercely flaming,
While the wild-eyed wives and mothers
Clamour round and shriek for aid!

‘Of all Miracles the greatest
Is the Newspaper,’ he added—
‘Daily, hourly, adumbrating
All the anarchy of Life!’

‘Adumbrating too,’ I answer'd,
‘All life's wonder, all life's beauty—
Telling men of mighty causes,
Solemn issues, glorious deeds!

‘Heroes pass across its mirror,
Angel-faces flash before us,
Eyes of countless Saints and Martyrs
Cast upon us looks of love.

‘Still the Seer, the Priest, the Poet
Speak of God, and point to Heaven!
Still the Churches stand, proclaiming
Life is more than mere despair.’

‘Surely!’ said the quiet Stranger;
‘Here, ev'n here, the Soul is shining;
Still the pious leader-writer
Vaunts the government of God!

‘Church and State, sir, Queen and Country,
Party Rule and all its blessings,
Progress, Culture, Loaves and Fishes,
Still are potent in the Land!

‘Shibboleths like these are precious
Ev'n though one devours another,
Though the shibboleth of white men
Wrecks the shibboleth of black!

‘Yet (you warn me) still the Dreamers
Speak of God and point to Heaven!
Still the spire, like Faith's bright finger,
Points to some far Paradise!

‘Meantime, God is busy, bungling,
In the old familiar fashion,
Heedless of the things He crushes
Underneath His clumsy foot!

248

VI.

‘Take my Newspaper a moment!’
(Here I did so) ‘Read the headings:’
‘Shipwreck of the Golden Mary—
Loss of every Soul on board!

‘Earthquake in Sardinia. Twenty
Villages destroyed entirely.
Many thousand living creatures
Swallow'd in the black abysses. . . .

‘Floods in China . . . Decimation
Of much populated districts,
Whither, while the folk were sleeping,
Rush'd the great destroying waters . . .

‘Cholera in Russia! . . . Famine
In the East! and millions starving! . . .
Railway accident in Texas,
Sickening details’ (columns long).

‘Look on Nature. Hear the wailing
Of a million martyr'd beings—
Tell me, then, the God you pray to
Cares one straw for human life!

‘Well it is for you, sir, coming
From a fireside calm and cosy,
To believe some kindly Person
Rules the destinies of Earth!

‘Pestilence, Disease, and Famine
Desolate this world you praise so;
Who shall bid them cease their ravage?—
Who shall say to Death—“Go by!”’

Then I answer'd, hot and angry,
‘Grant the pain and grant the carnage
(How my soul has sicken'd o'er them!)
Grant the thousand woes of men!

‘This they prove, and this thing only:
Human life as we behold it
Is as nothing in the vision
Of a larger Thought than ours.

‘All this world and its delusions,
All this life, its joys and sorrows,
Death itself, become as nothing,
When we learn that nought can die.’

‘Dreamer!’ said he. ‘One thing certain
Is the death of every unit:
Life, I grant you, is eternal,
But the personal life must pass.

‘Nay, not only lesser beings,
But the greater with the lesser—
Like the individual unit
Dies the individual world!

‘Look at men. Regard them closely—
Mark the madmen chasing bubbles,
Pleasure, honour, reputation,
Gold and women most of all!

‘Think you things like these are worthy
Of eternal prolongation?—
God knows better—in Death's furnace
Melts the dross for other uses!

‘God?’ he cried. ‘If such a Ruler,
Wise, Omnipotent, All-seeing,
Had concerned Himself in making
Worlds at all, and living creatures,

‘He'd have made them wholly perfect,
With no fuss of evolution . . . . ;
If there is a God, He blunder'd:
Man is here to set Him right!’

VII.

Horrified to hear such language
From a man so old and saintly,
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘at first I took you
For a clergyman, or priest!

‘Now I hear you thus blaspheming,
I conclude that you're no parson—
Mother Church perchance has thrust you
Scornfully beyond its doors?’

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘your guess is clever!
Once I was in holy orders
(Long ago) and for my blunders
Heaven's Archbishop kick'd me out!

‘Since that time, sir, I've been busy
Prowling up and down your planet,
Whence I've come to this conclusion—
All Religion is a Fraud!’

Like a spectacled Magician
Rose the man as he proceeded,
Blinking calmly down upon me
Thro' his glasses, with a smile;

249

Tall and lean he tower'd above me,
Looming 'gainst the moonlit heaven,
Baleful rays of something evil
Glimmering from his rheumy eyes.

‘Yes,’ he mutter'd, gazing upward;
‘Though the stars may shine their brightest,
Though the Churches shriek their loudest,
God is utterly played out!’

‘Blasphemy!’ I cried. ‘Our Maker
Is, and works in His own fashion:
How shall purblind human creatures
Comprehend His works and laws?

‘Shall ephemeræ of a moment,
Fluttering for a breath, then fading,
Fathom the Eternal Glory
Of the loving Lord of all?

‘What we see of sin and sorrow
Is but darkness of the vision—
Far beyond it God the Father
Moveth to some fair Event!

‘In due season those who love Him
Shall awake to understanding—
Meantime, certain of His wisdom,
Patiently they watch and wait!’

‘So they tell us in the Churches,’
Said the Stranger: ‘so the Human,
Blindly hoping and despairing,
Postulates a God of Love!

‘Since the world appears so evil,
It must surely be delusion!
So they argue in a circle,
Proving blindly, black is white!

‘All the while their great Creator,
Moving to the Event you speak of,
Freely scatters His damnation
On two-thirds of living things!

‘Let the Preacher and the Poet
Dream the old sweet dream of Heaven;
Meantime, God reminds them daily
Of a warmer place below!

‘Read my Newspaper! the journal
Of the Inferno He created!
Tir'd of that, peruse the pages
Mark'd by History's bloody hand!

‘Sheol burnt from the beginning,
Sheol burns to-day around us—
Countless millions of you mortals
Fail to feed its hungry fires!

‘City still has followed City
Down this crater of damnation—
Still it yawns,—and o'er it London
Smokes, like Babylon of old!

‘Here and there, from Hell and Chaos,
Some fair type is seen emerging—
Pleased to find His work so pretty,
God approves it for a space;

‘Then, dissatisfied and peevish,
Crushes it with foot or fingers!
Greece, Rome, Egypt, thus have perish'd,
Yet the fires of Hell burn on!’

VIII.

Wroth to hear him still blaspheming,
Pitying, ne'ertheless, his blindness,
Since the years had snow'd upon him
And his face lookt worn and weary,

‘Thinkest thou,’ I cried, ‘the Father,
Wise, omnipotent, all-seeing,
Ever would consign His children
To an anguish everlasting?

‘Nay, there is no Hell, save only
Conscience working deep within us,
Warning us 'gainst sin and evil,
Ever whispering “Repent!”’

Smiling quietly, the Stranger
Answer'd, ‘Sin is God's invention!
Often have I doubted Heaven—
Never have I doubted Hell!

‘Look around. Hell is. Of all things
Made by God, the one thing certain.’
Then with twinkling eyes he added,
‘Just as soon, I'd doubt the Devil!’

Lost in utter indignation
Scornfully I turned upon him:
‘Cease thy blasphemy! No magic
Can recall the Prince of Evil!

250

‘Nay! for Man has passed for ever
From those caves of superstition
Where that image cloven-footed
Of our sin was first created.

‘Hell is not,—nor any Spirit
Wholly lost and wholly evil.
He who dares believe in either
Out of ignorance blasphemes.’

‘Pardon me,’ he smiling answer'd—
‘What was done by old Magicians
Still is easy—Modern magic
Still is potent, be assured!

‘Think of all the woes of Nature!
Picture, then, the Prince of Evil,
As thy conscience can conceive him—
Straightway he shall stand before you!

‘Yet I warn you, you may find him
Neither tail'd nor cloven-footed—
Nay, a person civil-spoken,
And extremely sympathetic!’

Even as he spake, his features
Shone with vitreous rays reflected
From the Heavens above him bending,
And his eyes grew bright as stars;

And meseem'd his form dilated
As with soot-black wings, expanding
Into something strange and baleful,
Shadowy, mystical, and sad.

Like some ragged ancient raven
Stood he fluttering before me,—
While the moonlight's tremulous fingers
Smooth'd his woeful hoary hair!

Straightway, then, methought I knew him,
Shrinking back in trepidation,
Crying ‘Get behind me, Satan!’
Trembling in the act to fly!

IX.

‘Stay,’ he said, ‘and listen to me!
I am he thy conscience pictures,
I am he whom men deem evil,
Anti-Christ and Anti-God!

‘I have answer'd to thy summons!
I am he whom the Almighty,
Judge as well as prosecutor,
Ever hath condemn'd unheard.

‘Never has the case been stated
Properly for the Defendant—
I entreat you, listen to me!
Set me right before the world!

‘Purblind as the priests and prophets
Ev'n the Poets have traduced me,—
Ev'n the Poets, tho' I love them,
And have taught them all they know!

‘Marlowe, though my favourite pupil,
Painted me a very Monster,
Corybantic, cloven-footed,
Insolent and goggle-eyed.

‘Milton's Devil was a parson
Voluble and bellows-winded,
Like his garrulous God Almighty
Quite impossibly absurd.

‘Calderon malign'd me also!
Painting in his assonantic
Magico Prodigioso
Only hideousness divine.

‘All the others, down to Goethe,
Fed the foolish superstition—
Goethe, that superior person,
Blunder'd also, like his betters.

‘Byron (tho' I loved the fellow!
Tho' I gave him wingèd arrows
To destroy the swinish virtues
In the pigsties of King George!)—

‘Byron could not paint me truly,—
'Stead of gazing in the mirror,
Where he surely might have found me,
Fair of face though lame of foot,

‘He proclaim'd a prosy Devil
Like the fiend of Bailey, mixing
Bad blank verse and metaphysics
In the same old-fashion'd style!

‘Even Burns, my prince of singers,
Nature's skylark render'd human,
Treated me with scornful pity,
Prayed that I might mend my ways!

‘Never one has comprehended
My true nature and profession;
Every one of these, my chosen,
Sped the hideous libel on.

251

‘I'm the kindest-hearted creature
In this Universe of Sorrows!
My affection for you mortals
Is the cause of all my woes!

‘Listen, then—for you're a Poet,
Equal in your own opinion
To the best of all those others,
Tho' extremely little read;

‘Men, be sure, will never make you
Laureate in a Christian Country,—
Nay, the office is abolish'd
Since no Christian Bard survives:

‘Be the Laureate of the Devil!
Justify his ways to mortals!
State the case for the Defendant
'Spite the Times and 'spite the gods!

‘I have watch'd and waited for you
Since you sang that Yuletide Carol,
Picturing the Jew immortal
Wailing vainly for a Father!

‘From the darkest depths of Sheol
I was marking and applauding. . . .
Having sung the only Jesus,
Go and sing the only Devil!

‘Do it straightway! and for ever
I'll protect your reputation!
Long as I, the Devil, am reigning,
You shall honour'd be in Hell!’

Half in jest and half in earnest
Spake the Devil, smiling slyly,—
And I answer'd, ‘Sing your praises?
Devil take me if I do!’

X.

‘With your wish, sir, or without it,
He will take you soon or later!’
Said he laughing grimly; ‘wherefore
Do him, pray, this friendly turn!

‘I've a case which, rightly stated,
Must procure me an acquittal:
Yes, the case for the Defendant
Will astonish God Himself!

‘God's my Judge, and cannot therefore
As a witness speak against me;
God the Judge must be—the Jury
Men of science and discretion.

‘When they call the roll, you'll challenge
All the slaves of superstition,—
Fashionable priests and poets,
And all military men;

‘Thieves and publishers and critics
Shall be warn'd from off the jury,—
Ev'n philosophers and pundits
Must be keenly scrutinised

‘Politicians, Whig and Tory,
Jewish, Christian, and Agnostic,
Must be challenged—they are liars
Both by practice and profession.

‘Lastly, challenge all the prying
Members of the County Council—
Prurient things of all three sexes,
Loathing Liberty and Light.

‘Well I know that I shall triumph,
Since against me, as chief witness,
That disreputable person,
Jesus Josephson, is summon'd.

‘I shall prove that Witness surely
The supremest of impostors—
One whom no enlighten'd thinker
Can believe upon his oath!’

As he spake, his wrinkled features
Shrivel'd up to hideous seeming,
And his eyes flash'd bright, flamboyant
With a fierce and baleful light.

‘Devil!’ cried I, ‘Prince of Devils!
Devil verily by nature,
Peace! Blaspheme not! He thou namest
Is a star above thy head!

‘Man or God, or both united,
He, the beautiful Redeemer,
Far transcends in power and pity
All the draff of humankind.

‘True or false, His Dream has gladden'd
Millions of created beings;
Man or God, His love hath vanquish'd
All things evil, even Death!’

252

As I spake, that troubled Spirit
Changed again—his gaze grew gentle—
From his face the anger faded,
And his eyes were dim with tears.

‘Yea,’ he said, ‘thou speakest truly,
He thou nam'st was good and holy—
Pardon, pardon, Son of Sorrow,
Well belovèd, even by me!

‘Even in thy worst delusions
Thou wast holy, thou wast loving,
Yea, thy heart was great and gracious,
Tho' thine eyes were very blind.

‘Yea, and thou, too, wast an outcast!
All thy goodly Dream is over!
He who rules thy realm, my Jesus,
Never wore thy crown of thorns!

‘Not of thee, but of that other
Who usurps thine earthly kingdom,
Spake I; not of thee, my Jesus,
But of him they name the Christ.

‘Yet . . . forgive me . . . of thine error
Was this evil monster fashion'd;
Blindly, gently, didst thou blunder,
Out of pure excess of Love.

‘Thus, perchance, of all Souls living
Least thy spirit comprehended
Him who sits beyond these vapours
Heedless of His own Creation.’

Pale he stood, like one invoking
Some benign and awful Spirit;
Then he sigh'd and softly smiling
Turn'd his wistful eyes on mine.

Long he spake, with accents human,
In his own self-exculpation;
Till at last I comprehended
Meanings that at first seem'd dark.

Then, while on his pallid features
Flamed the alien lights of Heaven,
‘Come!’ he cried. ‘Hell's fires burn yonder!
Come and gaze upon my Kingdom!’

In a moment I was lifted
High in air, and wildly clinging
To the fringe of his dark raiment,
Wafted to the silent City.

XI.

As the cold metallic Ocean
Swings and clangs around the drowning,
So the solid air around me
Swung, till sense and sight departed;

Dimly, darkly, I was conscious
That I floated swiftly onward,
Moving to a rhythmic motion
Like the beat of mighty pinions.

Suddenly, like one in slumber
Falling wildly till he wakens,
Down like lead I seem'd descending
Dizzily I knew not whither,

Till at last, I shriek'd and struggled
Blind and breathless, and awaken'd,
And beheld him standing by me
Pointing with a spectral finger.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘The Hell thou doubtedst
Burns for evermore around thee—
Wheresoever human creatures
Wail in anguish, is my Kingdom!’

Then, methought, the moonlit houses
Every where became transparent,
And I saw the shapes within them
Hopeless, aimless, and despairing:

Dead and dying; woeful mothers
Wailing o'er afflicted children;
Creatures hollow-eyed with famine
Toiling on from dark to dawn;

Haggard faces from their pillows
Gazing, as the pale nurse flitted
On from bed to bed in silence,
'Mid the night-light's ghostly gleam:

Shapes sin-bloated from the cradle
Thrown in heaps obscene together,
While from gulfs of desolation
Rose the sound of idiot laughter!

Under arches dark and dreadful
Lay the murder'd corpse still bleeding,
While the murderer stood and listen'd
Wildly, with uplifted hair.

253

Everywhere Disease and Famine
Held their ghastly midnight revel—
Even in the darken'd palace
Rose the moan, the lamentation.

Everywhere a spectral Angel
Moved, with terrible forefinger
Touching shapes that shrank in anguish
With the flame that burns for ever:

On the cheeks of men and women
Fell the mark of that dread finger,
Burning inward, while the vitals
Gnaw'd with hell-fire life-consuming.

Then I turn'd to him who led me
Thither, and behold! his features
Misted were with tears of pity!
Falling from his woeful eyes!

Not on me those eyes were gazing
But at something far above us;
Not to me his lips were saying:
‘Lord, I loathe Thy Works and Thee!

‘Just such measure as the Father
Metes to his afflicted children,
Would I mete to Thee, the Father,
In the name of those I rule!

‘Thou hast given me my kingdom.
I accept its crown of sorrow,
Scorning still to kneel and thank Thee,
Pulseless, null Omnipotence!’

As I listen'd, horror seized me.
‘Nay,’ I cried, to Heaven upgazing,
‘Blame not Him who first created
All things beautiful and fair—

‘He, the holy Heavenly Father,
Mourns the woe of things created—
Out of sin that woe was fashion'd,
And our sin arose from thee!’

Pityingly he gazed upon me.
‘Sin,’ he said, ‘was God's invention!
He created Hell, my kingdom,
Tho' I wear its earthly crown!

‘I, the eternal Prince of Darkness,
Found it ready for n.y coming—
Pestilence, Disease, and Famine
Burnt there, by the will Divine!

‘Since that hour of my accession
I, the Devil, have ruled benignly,
Seeking like a kindly monarch
To improve my woeful realm.

‘Thus, in spite of the Almighty,
I have leaven'd its afflictions,
Teaching men the laws of Nature,—
Wisdom, Love, and Self-control.

‘Every year the Hell-fires lessen,
Every day the load is lightened,
'Neath my care the very devils
Grow benign and civilised!

‘This I have achieved entirely
By the very means forbidden
At the first by God Almighty,—
Teaching men to see and know.

‘Prince of liars was the pedant
Who aver'd that man's afflictions
Came from eating that first apple
From the great Forbidden Tree!

‘From its seeds, by me ungather'd,
Many a living tree hath sprouted—
Where those trees bear fruit, believe me,
Even Hell resembles Heaven!

‘Whoso eats that fruit forbidden
Knows himself and finds salvation,
Stands erect before his Maker,
Claims his birthright and is free.

‘Thus, for ages after ages,
I, the Devil, have drain'd the marshes,
Cleansed the cesspools, taught the people,
Like a true Progressionist!

‘By the living Soul within me
I have conquer'd!—tho' for ages
I have been most grossly libel'd
By the foolish race of mortals.

‘All my errors have proceeded
From a sympathetic nature;
Prince of Evil men have styled me,
Who alone am Prince of Pity!

‘Never man-god, Christ or Buddha,
Ever anguish'd more sincerely
For the sufferings of others,
Than myself, whom men call Devil.

254

‘What is further to my credit,
I'm not merely sentimental—
I have practically labour'd
To improve the world's affairs.

‘I'm the father of all Science,—
Master-builder, stock-improver,
First authority on drainage,
Most renown'd in all the arts.

‘While the Priests have built their Churches
To a God who does not heed them,
I have fashion'd decent dwellings,
Public hospitals, and baths.

‘“Take no heed about To-morrow,”
Said the man-God, “do no labour,
Be content with endless praying
And eternal laissez-faire.”

‘But the Devil, being wiser,
Knows that he who fails to reckon
With the morrow, will discover
That To-morrow is To-day!

‘And To-day is, now and ever,
All Eternity or nothing—
He who sits and twiddles fingers
Now, hath done it evermore! . . .

‘From which statement you may gather
I, the Devil, am transcendental—
Wise in all the ways of knowledge
Even down to metaphysics.

‘This I merely state en passant,
Lest you deem me uninstructed,—
All philosophers I've studied,
From Heraclitus to Hegel.’

XII.

Once again I was uplifted
High in air, but now my spirit
Wing'd (methought) beside the Devil
Like a kestrel by an Eagle:

Strength and insight grew within me,
Tho' my heart was sick with sorrow,
As we hover'd for an instant
O'er the silent lamplit City!

Far beneath on lonely bridges
I beheld the outcast women,
Sisters sad of lust and midnight,
Wandering weary and forlorn.

Over palaces and prisons,
Over hospitals and brothels,
Wheresoever Hell is burning,
Flew I, wafted as on wings.

From the tainted founts of Being
I beheld the new-born rising,
Sick, sin-bloated scum of infants
Fashion'd out of shameful slime;

What the dead men and the dying
Sow'd in shame these reaped in sorrow,—
Thick as bubbles on a cauldron
They were coming, breaking, going;

Over waters black with tempest,
Where the ships were lightning-riven,
Where the terror-stricken seamen,
Sinking, shrieked aloud to God!

Over plains where ghostly armies
Came and went, and smote each other,
While the priests from the high places
Cried them on, and waved the Cross;

Over silent legions waiting
For the nod of moonstruck rulers;
Over countries famine-smitten;
Over cities foul with plague;

Wheresoever Hell is burning
I was wafted!—From mine eyrie
I beheld the exiles crawling
To the black Siberian mine;

Shrieks of men and wails of women
Fill'd the air with lamentation,
While the Cossack cold and silent
Plied the knout and joined the chain.

I beheld the lonely Leper,
With his face to heaven uplifted
Blotted out of human likeness,
Crawling to his nameless grave.

I beheld the armèd Arab
Ravishing the black man's village
I beheld the red race dying
Dumbly, like a deer at bay.

255

Everywhere the strong man triumph'd!
Everywhere the weak lay smitten!
Everywhere the gifts of Godhead
Rain'd on over-laden hands!

Everywhere (and this was strangest)
Priests were praying, men were kneeling,
Everywhere the broken martyrs
Lifted piteous eyes to Heaven!

Wheresoever Hell is burning
I was wafted! And the bale-fires,
Fed with human lives for ever,
Burnt from Europe to Cathay.

. . . Like strange forms reflected darkly
In the glass of a Magician,
Ever flitting, ever fading,
Gleam'd the ghastly shapes of Sheol!

Till my soul grew faint within me
And again the air around me,
Ev'n as seas around the drowning,
Swung, and sense and sight departed.

XIII.

. . . On the lonely Heath of Hampstead
I awaken'd, and beside me
Saw the woe-worn outcast standing,
Shadowy, mystical, and sad.

Even as I gazed upon him,
All the baleful hideous seeming,
Falling from him like a garment,
Left him beautiful and fair!

Lost in awe I gazed upon him!
Angel-naked stood the Devil;
Thin and tall; upon his forehead
Light, as of some dim grey Dawn!

Fair he seem'd, tho' pale and weary,
Sorrowful, but softly shining,
Beautiful, as when, ere fallen,
Seated on the morning star!

Not on me his eyes were gazing,
But upon the far-off City;
Not to me his lips were saying,
‘Lord, I loathe Thy Works and Thee!’

Once again that outcast Angel
Turned his luminous eyes upon me,—
Dark deep eyes that seem'd to suffer
From the light they shed around them;

Rays as of the star of morning
Glimmer'd o'er him as he murmur'd
In a voice like stars vibrating:
‘Thing of clay, dost know me now?’

‘Yea,’ I said, ‘immortal Spirit,
Now at last I seem to know thee,
And my spirit yearns in kinship
With thy beauty and thy woe!’

Once again he cast upon me
Luminous looks of scorn and pity:
As a trembling star's reflection
Shakes in shadowy shallow waters,

Fell the glory of the Angel
On the waters of my spirit,
While I trembled, half in terror,
Half in wondering adoration.

‘Thou art he, the prince of Evil,
Whom thy God created perfect,
Yet who, doubting and rebelling,
Sank to darkness and despair!’

‘Yea,’ he answer'd, darkly frowning,
‘I am he thy conscience pictures!
Lucifer once named up yonder,
Satan now re-named, the Devil!

‘At the elbow of the Father
Once I stood and sang His praises—
Endless praises and hosannahs
To the crownèd King of Heaven.

‘So I could have sung for ever,
Drinking rapture from His presence:
In an evil hour I wander'd
From His side, to view Creation!

‘And at first I sang the louder,
Marvelling at His works and wonders,
Suns and stars and constellations
Join'd my joyful hallelujah!’

As he spake he seem'd to brighten,
Dazzling all my sense with wonder,—
Round about him like a raiment
Clung a cloud of golden music!

256

‘Such I was, His servant-angel!
Such I was, and so I worshipt!
Then from out the worlds He fashion'd
Came a wail, a lamentation.

‘On the sun I stood, down-gazing,
O'er the universe around me,
And the wail grew shriller, louder,
Till my joyful song was drown'd.

‘Far away, where'er my vision
Wander'd, I beheld His Angels
Watching for His lifted finger,
Now creating, now destroying;

‘Here a moaning world was shrivel'd
Like an infant in the cradle;
Here a planet shrank in darkness
To a sound of souls despairing;

‘Everywhere across Creation
Were the threads of Being broken,
Everywhere the Lord Almighty
Crush'd like shells the worlds He made!

‘Then my soul was wroth within me,
And I cried to the Almighty:
“Evil, Lord, is Thy creation,
Since Thou sufferest pain to be!

‘“Or if pity stirs within Thee
For the woes of Thy creating,
Thou art even as Thine Angels
Strong, but not Omnipotent!

‘“Back on Thine own footsteps treading,
Ever slaying and re-making,
Ever bungling, Thou art only
Demigod, not God at best!”

‘Then He struck me with His lightnings,
Me, and many lesser angels,
Who in pity and compassion
Echo'd my protesting cry;

‘Smitten here upon the forehead,
Down I fell thro' the abysses,
Clinging wildly for a moment
To some star, as to a straw!

‘Till I reached this lonely planet,
Stood upon it, and before me
Saw the naked Pair in Eden
Praising Him as I had done.

‘“Tempt them, try them, undeceive them!”
Said the Father's voice from Heaven—
“But be sure that deeper knowledge
Only means more swift despair!”

‘For a space I hesitated,
Seeing them so blindly happy,
Even as the beasts that perish
Knowing nought of Time or Death;

‘Then I said (may Man forgive me!)
Better far to know and suffer,
Reach the stature of us angels,
Than be happy like the beasts.

‘Wherefore, as thou know'st, I tempted
First the Woman, whispering to her,
While she munch'd the golden apple,
Hints of nakedness and shame.

‘Then I saw the Pair forthdriven
From the golden Gates of Eden,
Hunted, while I wept for pity,
By the Bloodhound-angel, Death!’

XIV.

While he spake his starry splendour
Faded, ever growing dimmer—
Sadder, darker, stood the Angel,
Fixing weary eyes on mine;

Clouds of woe were gather'd round him
Ev'n as raiment, and upon them
Silvern tremors caught the moonlight,
Glimmering like the Serpent's coils.

‘Forth the Exiles fled together,
Knowing not of that dread Angel
Ever following their footsteps
Thro' their weary wanderings;

‘From the woman's womb there blossom'd
Little children, and their voices
Fill'd the solitude with music,
While the parents toil'd and gladden'd:

‘And the world grew green about them,
God and Eden were forgotten,
Till the Father's voice from Heaven
Cried for prayers and adulation;

257

‘Till that hour of desolation
When the first-born smote his brother,—
And upon him, from the shadows,
Sprang the pallid bloodhound, Death!

‘Then they heard a voice above them
Thundering “Out of sin and sorrow,
Thro' that fruit by Me forbidden,
Death is brought into the world!”

‘I, the Sapient Snake, knew better!
I, the Outcast, deeply lesson'd
In the book of God's Creation,
Knew the Heavenly Voice was lying!’

As he spake his shape grew shrunken
Into something black and baleful,
Woefully his eyes were burning
Like the eyeballs of the Serpent.

‘Death was born in the beginning
By the will of God the Father;
Ever slaying and destroying
Death had crept from world to world!

‘Thro' the Universe were scatter'd
Shrouded spheres that once were living;
Everywhere in yonder heavens
Life had broken like a bubble!

‘Nay, this very world of Eden
Was a Sepulchre; within it
Countless races long forgotten,
Slain of old by Death, were sleeping.

‘Blindly, feebly, God had blunder'd,
Type on type had been rejected,
Race on race had come and vanish'd,
Ere the Human flowered in Adam.

‘From the throats of things created
Wails of anguish had arisen,
Since above the waste of waters
Wingèd flew the pterodactyl.

‘In the rocks and 'neath the Ocean
Lay the bones of beasts and monsters;
Ages ere the Pair was fashioned,
Human-featured walk'd the Ape.

‘Nay, the very Pair I tempted
Were no separate creation,—
Their perfection had proceeded
From a long ancestral line;

‘Ages ere their evolution
God had bungled, God had blunder'd,—
Now selecting, now rejecting,
Harking back, and retrogressing;

‘Thus the Archetype was fashion'd
Thro' perpetual vivisection,—
Countless swarms of martyr'd creatures
Mark'd his passage to the Human.

‘This I knew, and this I purposed
Teaching long ago to mortals,—
But for many an age of darkness
Mortals mourn'd, but would not listen.

‘While the tribes and generations
Multiplied from father Adam,
O'er the world in which I wander'd
Spread the Pestilence, Religion.

‘Nations, Jacob's seed and Esau's,
White and red and particolour'd,
Rose, and in the desert places
Swarm'd the soot-black seed of Ham.

‘Busy still in every City,
Under every tent and dwelling,
Death abode, and never tiring
Did the bidding of his Master.

‘Then in every Nation, shadow'd
With the darkness pestilential,
Priests arose, and woeful altars
Steam'd with sacrifice to God.

XV.

‘Meantime I, the Accurst, was busy!
Whensoe'er I spake with mortals
Men grew gentle to each other,
While I taught them peaceful arts:

‘How to till the soil, to fashion
Roofs of stone against the tempest,
How to weave the wool for raiment,
Yoke the monsters of the field;

‘Fire I brought them,—teaching also
How to tame it to their uses,—
Turning ironstone to iron,
Frame the ploughshare and the sword;

258

‘Help'd by me they drain'd the marshes,
Lop'd the forest trees, and fashion'd
Ships that floating on the waters
Gather'd harvest from the Deep.

‘Bravely would my work have thriven,
Save for cunning Priests and Prophets,
Who, by dreams of God inflated,
Blunder'd ever like their Master....

‘Yonder by the yellow Ganges
Rose the Temples of the Brahmin,—
Threefold there the mystic godhead,
Agni, Indra, Surya, reign'd.

‘By the impassive, cruel features
Well I recognised the Father,—
Huge as some primæval monster
Crawl'd He in the Vedic ooze.

‘Mystical, uncomprehended,
In their shadowy shrines He brooded,
Silent, and the souls of mortals
Crawl'd like fearful snakes before Him.

‘Thither, serpent-wise, I follow'd,
Whispering “Strange is God and mighty;
Yet, altho' He fashion'd all things,
Impotent in utter godhead.”

‘With my gospel pantheistic
I perplex'd their Priests and Prophets,
Tho' in spite of all my teaching,
Still they pray'd, and preach'd, and fasted.

‘Still the cloud of superstition
Darken'd Earth and shrouded Heaven,
While the shivering naked people
Trembled at the priestly thunder....

‘Further East I wing'd, and burning
Like a sunbeam from the zenith,
On a sunlit mountain summit
Found the Persian, Zoroaster.

‘Crying, “If thou needs must worship
What transcends thine understanding,
Raise thine eyes, behold the Fountain
Whence the Light of Life is flowing!”

‘Him I left upon his mountain,
Crimson fires of dawn around him—
Gazing till his eyes were blinded
At his Sun-god, and adoring....

‘On the threshold of his palace
Stood the monarch Arddha Chiddi,
Roseate robes of youth were round him,
Yet his eyes were full of sorrow;

‘Down beneath him on the river
Corpses foul of men and women
Floated seaward, gnaw'd and eaten
By the water-snakes and fishes.

‘Him I spake with, sadly showing
Death alone was lord and master
Over all the worlds created,
And that Death was surely evil.

‘Never since the world's beginning,
Throb'd a human heart more gentle—
In its secret fount of sorrow
Stir'd the living springs of pity:

‘From his palace door he wander'd,
Left the pomps of power behind him,
Wrapt a linen shroud about him,
Weeping for the woes of mortals.

‘Yet, in spite of all my teaching,—
How to snatch from Death and Sorrow
Strength to live and zeal to labour,
In despite of God the Father,—

‘He, the Buddha, sought ablution
In the waters of Nirwâna,
Crying loud “There is no Father—
Only Death and Change for ever!”

‘Thus, denying God, he entered
God's great darkness of Negation,
Till the living springs of pity
Froze at last to calm despair;

‘Till, denying yet believing,
Conquering yet by godhead conquer d,
He to Death as Lord and Master
Bow'd the saintly head, and blest him!

‘Countless swarms of living creatures
Follow'd him into the darkness,—
White and wondrous o'er his kingdom
Rose the Temples of the Lama;

259

‘Countless millions still despairing
In his temples gather kneeling—
Priests of Lama, blindly praying,
Swing the piteous lamps of Death.

‘Thus the first and best of mortals
Conquer'd was, and o'er my Buddha
Brooded still the joyless, deathless,
Impotent Omnipotence!

XVI.

‘High in air on eagle-pinions
I, the outcast Angel, hover'd—
Gazing sadly down while mortals,
Ants on ant-hills, toil'd and struggled.

‘Here and there were armèd nations
Moving restless hither and thither;
'Mong the mountains, gazing upward,
Gather'd lonely tribes of shepherds.

‘Ever darkly multiplying,
Crowning Kings and hailing prophets,
Toiling blindly in the darkness,
Grew the races of the Human.

‘Ever 'mong them Death was busy,
Evermore the units perish'd,
Evermore the new-born creatures
Swarm'd from out the depths of Being.

‘Nought they knew of Heaven above them,
Nought of Earth itself, their dwelling,
Circling with the mightier planets
Round the heliocentric fires;

‘Everywhere the Priest was busy
Raising temples, building altars,—
Everywhere the foolish Prophets
Raved aloud and wail'd for wonders:

‘Everywhere the martyr'd peoples
Toil'd and struggled and were smitten;
Evermore to blind their senses,
Signs and miracles were wrought.

‘'Mong the people rose Messiahs,
Preaching, healing, prophesying,—
Pointing to the empty heavens
With a wan and witless smile....

‘By the Nile the son of Isis
Walked and mused,—upon his mantle
Mystic signs were wrought in silver,
And he wore a crown of thorns,—

‘Saying “Lo, from Phthah the Maker,
I, the human Emanation,
Come and I elect to suffer,
To appease His righteous anger.”

‘Then the people sprang upon him,
Stript him bare and crucified him—
Pityingly I bent above him,
As he swung upon his Cross.

‘Then the faithful who revered him,
In their spicy clothes embalmed him,
While the priesthood which had slain him
Hail'd him “Son of God, Osiris!”

‘'Mong his worshippers I lighted,
Priestly raiment wrapt around me,
Crying with them, “Hail, Osiris!
Woman-born and yet divine!”

‘“Kingly men and mighty monarchs
Are indeed the only godhead—
Wherefore let them have our praises,
Endless worship and hosannahs.”

‘Then I taught them hieroglyphics,
Mystic shapes and signs and letters,
Where the story of the Ages
Written was on brass and stone;

‘Then the busy Ants of Egypt
Raised the Pyramids; around them
Shaping colonnades and pylons
For the sepulchres of Kings.

‘Thus I taught them architecture,—
How to hew the rocks and fashion
Monuments that stand for ever
In despite of God and Time.

‘Nay, to mock the mute Almighty,
I the mystic Sphinx invented,
Silent, impotent, impassive,
Gazing on a million graves!

‘Numbers, too, I taught the people,—
How to measure Earth and Water,
By the stars and their progressions
Guide the floods and count the seasons.

260

‘Then the God I had offended
Spread his darkness over Egypt,
Sent his Angels, hither, thither,
Turning men against each other;

‘While the haggard Priests and Prophets
Wail'd and work'd their signs and wonders,
The Assyrian and Egyptian
Struggled in their death-embraces.

‘Vain was all that I had taught them—
Peace and wisdom, light and knowledge,
Strength to raise in spite of Nature
Pyramids of mortal making,—

‘'Gainst the angels masquerading
In the forms of Gods and Demons,
Shrieking loud from blood-stain'd altars
For their holocausts of Death.

‘Pharaohs came and Pharaohs vanish'd,
Cities rose and Cities perish'd,—
Still arose, o'er seas of slaughter,
Those sad Sphinxes I had fashion'd. ...

XVII.

‘Far away, 'mong sea-girt islands
Dwelt a race of blue-eyed mortals—
From the happy groves of Hellas
Rose the lyric song of shepherds.

‘Knowing nought of God the Father,
Innocent they were and happy,—
Merrily they piped, and round them
Danced my Satyrs and my Fauns.

‘I, too, went and dwelt among them,
Gentle, wise, yet cloven-footed,—
Fruit and flowers they brought, and gladly
Hail'd me as the wood-god, Pan.’

While he spake his face grew gentle
As the shadows on the greensward,
From his throat came woodland music
Heard in Arcady of old.

‘Taught by me, they loved and welcomed
All the living powers of Nature—
Every tree was sweet and human,
Every fountain was a goddess.

‘From the turquoise seas I summon'd
Aphrodité fair and naked—
Side by side we sang, and lovers
Gather'd hand in hand to listen.

‘Fairer than the long-lost Eden
Seem'd the sea-girt land of shepherds,—
Never tree of fruit forbidden
Grew within the groves of Faunus.

‘Suddenly the heavens above us
Darken'd, spirits passed in thunder,—
From the far Caucasian mountains
Came a cry of lamentation.

‘Swift as light I travelled thither
Over waters torn with tempest,—
Nail'd unto a rock and bleeding
Hung Prometheus Purkaeus!

‘While the vulture tore his entrails
Not a sound the Titan utter'd,
But beneath the Cross lamenting
Gather'd woeful wailing women.

‘Of my flesh this Christ was fashion'd,
From the side of me, the Devil,
He was born in the beginning,
Ev'n as Eve was born of Adam!

‘On his calm undaunted spirit
Fell my heritage of sorrow—
Love for men, eternal pity
For the lot of living creatures.

‘Then I knew that God was waking
From his stupor of inaction;
Darkly out of yonder heaven
Gazed the silent Sphinx-like Face!...

‘Taught by him, the mighty Titan,
Men had built a marble City,
Athens,—on the heights above it
Stood the snow-white Parthenon;

‘In the streets and groves of Athens
Calmly walk'd the seers and sages,
Words of wisdom dropped like honey
From the mouths of mighty teachers;

‘Harp in hand went happy poets
With their singing robes about them,
Music as of birds and fountains,
Mingling sweetly, fill'd the air.

261

‘Here, ev'n here, despite the Titan
Priests of God and Death were busy:
In the Temples knelt the people
Seeking woeful signs and omens;

‘There the image of Athené
Blink'd her eyes, and idols sweated,
While the Augurs, bloody-finger'd,
Read the entrails of the slain.

‘Then to many a mighty poet
I unfolded Nature's riddles:
Aeschylos, my word-compeller,
Sang the Titan's martyrdom!

‘Vain was all my loving labour!
Tho' I lavish'd gifts upon them,
Tho' to witch their eyes with beauty
Phidias breathed his soul through stone,

‘Tho' the poets and the sages
Spread my peace and benediction,
Tho' the laws of Earth and Heaven
Sifted were by gentle seers,

‘Still the Priests of Heaven against me
Smote with all the strength of godhead,
Still the people, crouching dumbly,
Moan'd for miracles and signs.

‘Vain was all my strife for mortals!
Vainly wrought my servant angels!
Vainly toil'd Asclepios, vainly
Helen smiled, and Sappho sang!

‘As a rainbow dies from Heaven,
As a snow-white cloud of summer
Breaks and fades, the pride of Hellas
Brighten'd, melted, pass'd away!’

XVIII.

Piteously the stars of Heaven
Fix'd their million eyes upon him,—
While his dark form droop'd and slowly
Darken'd, like a blackening brand;

Brightness of the Angel faded
Into darkness sad and baleful,—
Old at last he seem'd and human,
Bending 'neath the load of years;

In his voice I heard no longer
Music as of stars vibrating,
Sound of solemn psalms, or pipings
Of the merry flocks of Pan:

Nay, the voice that spake unto me
Broken seem'd, like chimes discordant
Ringing over lonely uplands
In the silence of the night.

‘Thus,’ he said, ‘the light of Hellas
Died away in desolation,
Setting where it first had risen
'Mong the eastern pyramids!

‘O'er the land of seers and poets
Blew the breath of God's dark Angel,
Broken lay the marble statues
Of my tutelary gods!

‘Meantime, like another Titan,
Rome had risen!—Strong and mighty,
From the mountains swarm'd the savage
Tribes of Romulus the shepherd.

‘'Mong them walk'd my servant-angels
Teaching them the lore of Nature,—
Strong they grew and ever stronger
Till they conquered Earth and Sea.

‘Earth and Sea I gave unto them,
Saying, “Surely ye are strongest!
Since no tyrants dwell among you,
Since ye know not fraud or fear!”

‘Tutelary gods I gave them,
Harmless gods whom they might worship,
Since I knew that in His creatures
God had sown the lust of godhead;

‘Strong they grew and ever stronger,
Building thus their great Republic,—
Fair and great it rose, and o'er it
All the winds of plenty blew.

‘Then, to mar my work for ever,
God the Eternal Tyrant fashion'd
Lesser tyrants in His image,—
So His Cæsars rose, and reigned!

‘God's they were, not mine, the Devil's!
Nay, by Hades, I abjure them!
Freedom comes of Light and Knowledge,
Tyranny is born of God!

262

‘Ever, since the world's beginning,
I, the gentle Prince of Pity,
Taught one Trinity to mortals—
Wisdom, Love, and Self-control—

‘“Shed no blood, since God doth shed it!
Love each other, help each other,
Rise erect against all tyrants,”
Is my gospel evermore.

‘“Only for a little season
Shalt thou draw the breath of Being—
Try to make that little season
Bright and glad, in spite of God!”

‘Turn the records of the Roman!
Read again the blood-stain'd pages!
See the spectres of the Cæsars
Passing on to endless night!

‘Nay, but even here I triumph'd!
From the cesspool and the palace
Rose the cry of slaves and tyrants
Saying “Death alone is God!”

‘So the crown of God descended
On the brows of Death, His angel!
So the Tyrant of Creation
Found no worshippers at last!

‘Then, as in the eternal City
I was wandering weary-hearted,
Outcast from the hideous revels
Where the crownèd Spectre reign'd,

‘Sick of God and God's creation,
I, the Devil, heard the crying
Of a voice amid the Desert,—
Saying, “Rejoice, the Christ is born!”

‘Eastward flew I, and I found Him,
Best and worst of the Messiahs,
Walking meekly, meditating,
By the Lake of Galilee!’

XIX.

For a space his voice was silent—
In his hands his face was buried,
While the elemental Darkness
Clung about him like a cloud;

Wonderingly I gazed upon him,
For I knew that he was weeping—
Till, at last, again I saw him
Pointing angrily to Heaven.

Woefully, with snake-like glimmers,
Clung the coils of his black raiment,
Scornfully he laugh'd, and round him
Glimmer'd with a serpent's eyes.

‘Let Him rise, and keep His promise!
Let Him wake who sleeps for ever!
King of poets and of dreamers
Was this moonstruck Son of God!

‘Him I fronted in the desert,
Pointing out His mad delusion,—
Fool, He wrapt His rags about Him,—
“Σατανα, οπισω μου!”

‘Feeble, gentle Thaumaturgist!
What knew He of God the Father?
Pityingly I bent above Him,—
As He swung upon the Cross!

‘Yea, and blest Him, little knowing
How the seed of His delusion,
Sown in love and human kindness,
Should be reap'd on fields of blood.

‘I, the Devil, as they style me,
Have dispensed a benediction!
He, the Christ, self-styled, self-chosen,
Has become a wingèd curse!

‘Dead, His crown of thorns beside Him,
In His sepulchre He slumbers,—
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,
Never can He wake again!

‘Yet the lies His folly father'd
Live and multiply above Him:
Lie the First! “A life hereafter
Shall redeem the wrongs of this!”

‘Lie the Second! “Love thy neighbour
As thyself!” The dream, the fancy!
Were it true, each soul's existence
Would be proved by self-negation.

‘Lie the Third! “About the morrow
Take no heed—sufficient ever
Is the evil of the moment—
Take no trouble to redress it!”

263

‘Lie the Fourth!—“Lord God the Father
Loves His children and redeems them”—
He?—the loveless, pulseless, deathless,
Impotent Omnipotence!

‘Well, He staked His life, and lost it!
Flock on flock of sheep have follow'd
That bell-wether of the masses
Into darkness and despair!

‘Eighteen hundred years of Europe
Have been wasted 'spite my warning:
“Fools, one life is all God grants you,
Sweep your houses, heed your drains!

‘“Love each other, help each other,
Juggle not with dreams and phrases—
Make ephemeral existence
Beautiful, in spite of God!

‘“Pass from knowledge on to knowledge
Ever higher and supremer,
Clothe these bones with power and pity,
Live and love, altho' ye die!

‘“Fear not, love not, and revere not
What transcends your understanding!
Keep your reverence and affection
For the brethren whom ye know!”

‘Fools, they heard but did not heed me!
Far away from 'mong the vapours
Came the sound of their bell-wether
Tinkling to the same old tune!

‘While the poets, priests, and prophets
Gather'd, crying “Listen! listen!”
To the church-bells’ ululation
Rose the Christian holocaust!

‘While the haggard priests and prophets
Pray'd aloud and cried for wonders,
Christs of Cyprus and Tyana
Heal'd the sick and raised the dead.

‘God had conquered, with His darkness
Blotting out my stars of promise;
Three times to the mad Plotinus
He revealed His Sphinx-like features.

‘God had conquer'd, Death was reigning
O'er the lands of Light and Morning;
Plato's music turned to discord
In the mouth of Porphyry.

‘Thro' the world a spectral Shepherd
Walk'd, knee-deep in blood of martyrs,—
Death the Christ, whom men call'd Jesus,
Till they crown'd him Pope, at Rome!

XX.

‘Meantime, I, the Accurst, was busy!
I who firstly to the Titan
Brought the fire of human knowledge,
Love for man and scorn for godhead.

‘While the poets, priests, and prophets
Libel'd me beyond believing,
Pictured me a shameless Devil
Cloven-footed and obscene,

‘I was strengthening my children!
I was comforting and cheering
Many a martyr in his prison,
Pale and ready for the stake!

‘Nay, my word had raised Mohammed,
Strong and true, a creed-compeller,
'Spite the foolish Christian leaven
Mingled with his nobler clay.

‘From the East I brought the Arabs
With their wondrous arts of healing;
Small yet strong and cabalistic
Rose my mystic Alphabet!

‘Out of fire I snatch'd the parchments
Scribbled o'er with ancient wisdom,
Pluck'd the books of Aristotle
From the cesspools of the Pope.

‘While the countless priests were lying,
I was preaching and beseeching—
Crying “The eternal godhead
Helps but those who help themselves;

‘“Pestilence, Disease, and Famine
Phantoms are of God's creation—
Man alone hath power to slay them,
Knowing good and knowing evil;

‘“Eat, then, of the tree of knowledge
As your parents did in Eden—
Eat, and though your limbs be naked
Earth will yield you decent clothing!

264

‘“God who knoweth, feeleth nothing,
Cannot help you!—Tho' 'tis written
Not a sparrow falls without Him,
Ne'ertheless—the sparrow falls!”

‘Yea, by Hades, I was busy!
In the monasteries even,
Many a learnèd monk was lesson'd
By the Devil whom he dreaded;

‘While the shaven head was nodding
Over parchment and papyrus,
I persuaded the good fellow
To transcribe my carnal books!

‘Aye, and in their written Bibles,
Full of priestly contradictions,
I contrived to mingle deftly
Human truths with holy lies.

‘True it is, indeed, I tempted
Both St. Anthony and Luther—
Proving to their consternation
Only fools despise the Flesh!

‘I it was who fired the Painters,
Bade them fling upon the canvas
Holy infants and Madonnas
Warm with nakedness and love;

‘I it was who made them picture
Christ the Shepherd, sweet and human,
Bright and young, with fond eyes gazing
On the rosy Magdalena!

‘Thus with Life and Love and Beauty
War'd I on the side of Nature,
Knowing well that Man's salvation
Must be wrought of flesh and blood!

‘Yea, and to the Priest I whisper'd:
“Rise erect, thou Beast, in manhood!
Reverence thy sex and function—
Snatch the fruits of Love and Joy!

‘“He who scorns the Flesh despises
Nature's Holiest of Holies—
In the Body's Temple only
Burns that mystic lamp, the Soul!”

‘I alone whom men call'd Devil,
I, who fought for Truth and Knowledge,
I, the scorn'd and fabled Serpent,
Loved the human form divine!

‘“Crouch no more to gods or idols,
Crawl no more in filth and folly,
Stand erect,” I cried to mortals,
“Take your birthright, and be free!

‘“What ye take not freely, boldly,
From the brimming hands of Nature,
God the Lord will never give you,—
God the Lord gives all, yet nothing!”

‘Still they heark'd to their bell-wether,
Still they stumbled in the shambles,
Still they fumbled with their crosses,
Dwindling back to brutes and beasts.

‘Westward then I sent Columbus!
Southward then I sent Magellan!
Starward, sunward, I, the Devil,
Turn'd Galileo's starry eyes!

‘Crying, while the screech-owl Churches
Shriek'd their twenty-fold damnations,
“See and know! demand your birthright!
Search the suns and map the spheres!”’

XXI.

For a space the starry splendour
Flash'd upon him out of Heaven,
As, with eager arms extended,
Angel-like he upward gazed;

Then again the cloud of sorrow
Fell upon him; darkly drooping,
Grew his form more sadly human,
As he proudly spoke again.

‘While the tribes of priests and liars
Rear'd their shrines and lazar-houses,
Sold their charms and absolutions,
Did their clumsy Miracles,

‘I to shame their winking Virgins,
Sweating Christs, and minor marvels,
Was with all my might preparing
For a miracle indeed!

‘Of my letters cabalistic
Tiny blocks of wood I fashion'd,
Ranged them patiently in order
(Chuckling slyly up my sleeve);

265

‘Then I fasten'd them together,
Smear'd them o'er with ink from Hades,
Stamp'd the words on leaves papyric—
And the Miracle was done!

‘I, the Devil, invented printing!
Calling to my aid the youngest
Of my sons, my little darling
Benjamin, the Printer's Devil.

‘First I printed (mark my cunning!)
God's own Book, the Christian Bible,
Turn'd it out in fine black-letter,
So that he who ran might read!

‘Thus, observe, I pin'd the churchmen
Down to very verse and chapter!
Thus, sir, for the good times coming,
I was nailing Lie on Lie!

‘This was only the beginning
Of my Miracle! The moment
I produced that great invention,
Light and Liberty were born!

‘Suddenly arose and blossom'd
Man's new Tree of Good and Evil,
Shedding forth its leaves abundant,
Ripening to golden fruit!

‘Large it grew and ever larger,
Ever putting forth fresh members,—
“Lop it! cut it down! destroy it!”
Cried the churchmen, shriek'd the Popes.

‘All the priests of all the Churches
Rush'd to smite it with their axes,—
Fools! for every twig so smitten
Out there sprang a magic branch!

‘As from some strong oak, moreover,
Growing in the merry greenwood,
From my Tree of Good and Evil
Acorns dropt, and oaklings sprouted;

‘Little birds pick'd up the acorns,
Dropt them down in distant places,—
Wheresoe'er the seed was carried,
New trees rose, till forests grew!

‘“Shun that leafage diabolic!
'Ware that wicked fruit of Knowledge!”
Croak'd the ravens of the Churches,
Hovering o'er it in the air;

‘But the maiden and the lover
Sat beneath its shade and listen'd,
While the merry leaves were lisping
Songs that shepherds sang of yore;

‘Here the footsore and the weary,
Creeping from the dusty highway,
Lay beneath and hearken'd smiling
To the magic talking branches;

‘Kings arrived with trains attendant
Saying “Here at least 'tis pleasant!”
From my magic Tree they gather'd
Runes of Norseland, tales of Troy.

‘Reaching to my Tree, Erasmus
Gather'd gentle leaves of learning,
On the greensward underneath it
Petrarch and his Laura walk'd!

‘Even rough old Martin Luther
Pluck'd a leaf and smiled approval!
Gazing upward in the starlight,
Abelard wept, and Tasso sang!

‘Nay, the very monks came flocking
Open-mouth'd to look and listen,—
Charm'd they slyly sow'd my seedlings
In the monastery garden!

‘Wheresoe'er my Tree enchanted
Spread its branches cabalistic,
Gladness grew, and wise men gather'd,
And 'twas Fairyland once more!

‘Vain were all their winking Virgins,
Sweating Christs, and minor marvels,—
I, the Devil, had done the latest,
Greatest Miracle of all!

XXII.

‘Since that hour the Fight hath lasted!
Strong, beneficent, and gentle,
I, the foe of all the Churches,
Have remain'd the friend of Man.

‘All the horde of Priests and Prophets,
Moonstruck, mad, have rail'd against me,
Crying to the weary nations
“Fear the Flesh, and shun the Devil!”

266

‘In the name of God the Father
They have sicken'd Earth with slaughter;
In the name of their Messiahs
They have lied, and lied, and lied!

‘O'er the vineyards I have planted
They have scatter'd seed of thistles;
In the mansions of my making
They have swarm'd with fire and sword.

‘Year by year, with God against me,
I for Humankind have striven,
Winning patiently and slowly
Thro' a small minority!

‘Poor are all the Church's martyrs,
By the side of mine, the Devil's!
Those have died for Filth and Falsehood,
These for Liberty and Light!

‘Mine the Seers and mine the Poets,
Stoned and slain in every nation!
Even those who most denied me
Learn'd thro' me to stand erect!

‘I it was who put the honey
On the tongue of Ariosto!
I who cast a light from Heaven
On Boccaccio's golden page!

‘In the ear of many a monarch
I was whispering my reasons—
Taught by me, your bluff King Harry
Faced the Pope and flay'd the cowls!

‘Aye, and in your thronèd Virgin
I inspired both wit and learning—
I was hunting gladly with her,
When she whipt the wolves of Spain.

‘While the Priests were busy burning,
I created Merrymakers!
Rock'd, despite the shrieking Churches,
Rabelais in his easy-chair!

‘In your land of fogs and vapours,
Where the church-bells toll'd for ever,
I, the Devil, upraised the Drama
Still by priestcraft shun'd and curst:

‘First I bribed the monks to help me,
Made them place on mimic stages
(Little 'ware what they were doing)
Plays of miracles absurd.

‘God Himself and little Jesus
Were by mortals represented,
While myself and other devils
Join'd them in the pagan dance.

‘Thus, without a word of warning,
Rose the Theatre, my Temple!
Sunny as the soul of Nature,
Fearless, beautiful, and free!

‘“Shun it! shun the Devil's dwelling!”
Shriek'd the jealous cowls; but straightway,
Loud, the prelude of the battle,
Thunder'd Marlowe's mighty line!

‘There I taught your gentle Shakespeare
What no shaven monk could teach him—
Mingled wit and wisdom, foreign
To a God who never smiles!

‘Churchmen curst, and still are cursing
What transcends their sermonizing,
Hating, in the way of traders,
Rival shops with smarter wares.

‘In my Temple rose the voices
Of the Seers and Music-makers,—
Shapes of beauty and of terror
Waken'd to the conjuration!

‘There the glad green world was pictured,
There the lark sang “tirra-lirra,”
There the piteous human pageant
Broke to tears or rippled laughter—

‘“Shun it, shun the Devil's dwelling!”
Croaked the jackdaws from the steeple—
Long as Shakespeare's lark is singing,
Still my Theatre shall stand!....

‘Then I mock'd their tracts and sermons
With my songs and my romances:
Light and Freedom, Mirth and Music,
Scatter'd sunshine through the air.

‘Milton even, tho' intending
To exalt the Lord Almighty,
Spread my teaching Manichæan—
Who's his hero?—I, the Devil!

267

‘Aye, and when his voice demanded
Freedom for my printing presses,
Liberty of speech for all men,
Who inspired him? I, the Devil!

‘Then, to mock their monkish fables,
I invoked my Story-tellers!
Till at last, full-blown and bounteous,
Bloom'd the Modern Novelist!

‘True, the Novel is elephantine,
Pachydermatous, long-winded,
Of all Art the large negation,
Yet, by Heaven! it serves a turn!

‘My Cervantes and my Fielding
Struck the rock of human knowledge,
Freed the founts of Fun, still foreign
To a God who never laughs!

‘How the Priests and Preachers trembled
At my quips and cranks and fancies,
Furious when I requisition'd
Rogues, like Sterne, within the fold!

‘Evermore my printing presses
Labour'd, and across my kingdom,
Thick as leaves in Vallombrosa,
Fell the merry carnal books!

‘Then, like sunshine made incarnate,
Rose the merry Djinn of Fiction,—
How the laughter of my Dickens
Scared the ravens and the owls!

‘Then, the knell of all ascetics
Sounded, as my Reade upstarted,
Flooding all the gloomy Cloister
With the fires of Hearth and Home!

XXIII.

‘Meantime, God had not been idle!
Angry at my benefactions,
He was wakening very slowly
To the peril long impending. ...

‘Over yonder where the people
Groan'd like oxen yoked together,
Goaded on o'er stony fallows
By the Princes and the Priests,

‘Where the Abbé curl'd and scented
Told his beads and lay with harlots,
While the Christ of Superstition
Dallied with the Pompadour,

‘I, the Devil, in indignation
Raised my periwig'd Alter Ego,
Darling son of my adoption,
Whom the people named Voltaire!

‘Diabolically smiling,
Up to Priest and Prince he strutted,
Tap'd his snuff-box, and politely
Crack'd his jokes at the Madonna!

‘Nought of holy reputation
'Scaped the ribald rascal's laughter—
Far away as Rome the Churches
Echo'd with his jests profane;

‘Then behold, a transformation!
Suddenly he rose transfigured,
Periwig and snuff-box vanish'd,
And an Angel stood reveal'd!

‘In his hand my sword of Freedom
Flashing on the eyes of Europe,—
While the hounds of persecution
Paused, and Calas kiss'd his feet!

‘Then, while far as Rome the tumult
Rang, and voices shriek'd “Destroy him!”
“Lo, 'tis Antichrist arisen!
Smite him, in the name of God!”

‘At the lifting of my finger
Stormy spirits gather'd round him—
Strong and calm arose Condorcet,
Strong and fierce stood Diderot.

‘Day by day the war was waging,—
I, the Devil, and my Titans,
'Gainst the God of Popes and Bibles
And His deputies on earth!

‘Till at last the flames of battle
Caught the curtains of the palace,—
Panic-stricken 'mong the people
Rush'd a monarch God-anointed.

‘Then began the conflagration,—
Mitres, crosiers, crowns and sceptres,
Mingled up with moaning mortals,
Fed the ever increasing fires!

268

‘I, the Devil, wept for pity,
While the bale-fires rose to Heaven,—
I, the Ishmael of the Angels,
Sicken'd at the fumes of blood.

‘'Midst that carnage all the cruel
Parasites of God were busy,—
Ignorance, His page-in-waiting,
Death, His master of the hounds!

‘Vainly to the madden'd people
Cried my Titans, interceding
For the innocent and gentle
Seized to feed the conflagration.

‘Not a hair of beast and mortal
Ever fell through me, the Devil,—
From the first my rebel spirit
Bled and wept for the afflicted.

‘Death and Pain were God's conception,
Never mine, the Prince of Pity's!
If they dwell within my kingdom,
I, the Devil, am not to blame.

‘I for ages after ages
Had proclaimed the truth to mortals—
“God is powerless to redeem you,
In yourselves abides salvation;

‘“Love each other, help each other,
Eat the golden fruit forbidden,—
Out of Knowledge ripely gather'd
Wisdom comes and Freedom grows!”...

‘Out of evil, evil springeth,—
Even so, in Hell and Paris,
Centuries of evil sowing
Turn to aftermath of Hate!

‘Lastly, from the conflagration
Sprang a spirit, man or Devil,—
Whether God or I begat him
I could never quite discover!

‘Diabolically clever,
Strong as any of my Titans,
Impudent as any Devil,
Rose the little Corporal!...

‘I incline to think the fellow
Was a sort of blood-relation
Who, by lust of loot perverted,
Join'd the legions of the Lord!

‘O'er the nations sick with slaughter
Many a night and day he gallopt—
God had lent him Death's White Charger
(Well described in Revelation)—

‘Death himself, afoot, ran after
With the hosts of the Grand Army,
Feeding well, where'er he followed,
On the flesh and blood of mortals. ...

‘After all, and on reflection,
I reject this Demi-devil,
Since within his soul there quicken'd
Neither love nor human kindness

‘(Which, I hold, are the supremest
Qualities of true revolters);—
Yes, God played a trick upon me,
Thro' a devilish renegade!

‘Down in Hell are decent people,
Honest souls who love their fellows;—
To the cruel God of Battles
I relinquish Buonaparté!’

XXIV.

All the glory of the angel
Now had utterly departed—
Quietly he now addressed me,
Calm and modern as at first;

On the lonely Heath at Hampstead
Sat my Devil, grimly smiling,
In his hand the evening journal,
Spectacles upon his nose. ...

‘Troubled by the devastation
Laying waste my little kingdom,
Showing that the Lord Almighty
Wrought against me as of old;

‘Sick because the blinded masses
Clamour'd still for signs and portents,
“Time it surely is,” I mutter'd,
“For another Miracle!”

‘So, my Benjamin assisting,
I the Newspaper invented—
'Gainst the Church's red battalions
Rose at last the thin black line!

269

‘Nought that Priests and Tyrants plotted,
Nought that mortals did or suffer'd,
Nought that passes on this planet,
Any more remained in darkness!

‘Nay, I tamed the very Lightning
To assist my revelations—
Thro' the night it took its tidings
Flashing into fiery words:

‘On the walls of hut and palace
Flamed my messages to mortals—
Startled 'mid the feast, Earth's rulers
Looked aghast at one another!

‘All the affairs of Hell and Heaven
By my servants were recorded,—
I had watchful correspondents
Even in the Vatican!

‘For the first time human creatures
Knew the affliction of their fellows—
Tyrants blush'd to find recorded
Deeds they had not blush'd to do!

‘O my Benjamin, the youngest
Of my sons, the Printer's Devil!
I myself at times was startled
At the rogue's irreverence!

‘Nought that God had done in darkness
Could escape his circumspection!
All the evils God created
Now were patent to the world!’

‘Even so,’ I answer'd quickly,
‘Thanks to thee, O woeful Spirit,
Ever prying and denying,
Nought is hid from eyes profane:

‘Ignorance is at last completed
By this thing of thy creation,—
Foul as any other priestcraft
Is the priestcraft of the Press!

‘Clamour of thy Printer's Devil
Silences the wise and holy,
Life grows hideous, while his shameful,
Shameless scandals fill the air;

‘By the filth thou namest Knowledge
All the springs of life are poison'd,—
Foul St. Simeons of the column
Pose, and proffer absolution!

‘Poison of thy fiends was scatter'd
On the world-worn eyes of Coleridge;
Poison'd daggers of thy devils
Stab'd to Keats's heart of hearts!

‘Foulest of all human follies
Is the Newspaper!’ I added—
‘Art and all things fair and holy
Fade at last before its breath!’

Scornfully he smiled upon me,—
‘Grant,’ he said, ‘my servant blunders;
In a scheme so democratic
Individual merit fails.

‘Yet, with all its limitations
This, the latest of my labours,
Is a boon of light and leading
To the woe-worn race of men.

‘Priests have cried, “Let there be darkness!
Hide away the truths thou fearest!”
I, the Devil, being wiser,
Cry, “Let Truth and Light prevail!”

‘By the printed words, the record
Of the conscience of the people,
By my clamouring Printer's Devil,
Freedom spreads from land to land:

‘Deeds of night no more are hidden,
Deeds of grace are multiplying;
Light into the dungeon flowing
Strikes the fetters of the slave.

‘At my printed protestation
On his throne the Tyrant trembles;
Words of hope for Freedom utter'd,
Shake the footstool of the Czar!

‘Even the lying leader writer
Pillories the God he praises!
Even the critic speeds the triumph
Of the Seer he mocks and scorns!

‘Ever in my open daylight
Truth and falsehood stand together—
In the daylight Falsehood withers,
Truth is known and justified!

270

‘Those who serve your God Almighty
Cry aloud “The Light is hateful!”
In the night His Church has flourish'd,
In the daylight it doth fall!

‘War not, in thy soul's impatience,
'Gainst my busy benediction!
Rail not, Poet, 'gainst my Devils,
Wroth because they will not praise thee!

‘If thy soul be just and gentle,
Be thou sure that men shall know it!
If thy song be great and deathless,
God nor devil can destroy it!

‘I, the Devil, refuse to foster
Vanity in God or poets!
Both believe in loaves and fishes
And in fulsome adulation.

‘I, the Devil, am democratic!
For the general good I labour—
Those who would be prais'd and petted
I relinquish to the Tories.

‘Tennyson I liked extremely
(Even pardon'd him for praising
That white sepulchre, King Arthur)
Till he join'd the House of Lords.

‘Light and Knowledge for the masses,
Speech for Wisdom and for Folly,
These I claim, and even the zany
May announce his zanyhood;

‘Busily my printing presses
Publish all things, good or evil:
When my printer's Devil blunders
'Tis at least in open day.

‘Light is Death to Falsehood ever!
Light illumes my printing presses!
Ev'n thro' fools my truth shall triumph
And my Demos witch the world!’

XXV.

For a space he paused, and gazing
Proudly upward to the heavens,
Where the countless constellations
Clustered close as if to listen,

Lost he seem'd in contemplation
Of the shining lights above him,
While the soft celestial splendour
On his woe-worn face was raining.

‘Heir,’ he said, ‘of all Earth's sorrow,
Brother of those lonely spirits
Who on yonder stars and planets
Still perform their tasks allotted,

‘I, the outcast Prince of Pity,
Have at last to Man unfolded
All the story of Creation,
Birth and Death, and Evolution.

‘I have taught him how to measure
Yonder spheres and their processions,—
Seizing for his apprehension
God's abstractions, Space and Time!

‘What Galileo dreamed, what Bruno
Guess'd from sleepless inspiration,
I at last have demonstrated
Thro' the mouths of mighty thinkers.

‘Open lies the Book of Heaven!
Children even may read its pages,—
Stranger far than any fable
Is the record of Creation!

‘Nay, the mind of Man may follow
God into the depths of darkness—
From the wonders Seen divining
Those Unseen, and yet not hidden!

‘By my symbols algebraic
I have counted lands and waters,
With my chemics cabalistic
I have solved the Elemental!

‘Further, to the sight of mortals,
I the womb of Earth have open'd—
Showing how, through endless ages,
Man's strange embryos were fashion'd!

‘Nay, and to their wondering vision
I have map'd the life within them—
Clear as yonder starry Heaven
Lies the microcosm, Man!

‘Wondrous as the Light lifegiving
Thro' the Universe pulsating,
Floweth Light in Man, the Unit,
From the heart, its central Sun.

271

‘As the cell that builds the planet
Is the cell that builds the mortal—
As the greater is the lesser,
As the lesser is the greater.

‘Thro' my love and benediction
Man has plumb'd the abyss of Being—
By the law that never endeth
Life and Death revolve for ever.

‘All the arts by God forbidden,
All the knowledge hid in darkness,
I reveal, while the Creator
Rests in impotence of Godhead.

‘Nay, I show that God is fetter'd
By the chains of His own making—
Blind and bound He broods, while Nature
Moveth on in calm progression.

‘Thro' my love and benediction
Man hath learn'd the gifts of Healing—
Now for every Church that falleth
Hospitals arise to Heaven;

‘Strong, beneficent, and gentle,
Christs of surgery and leechcraft
Work their wonders, far more holy
Than the marvels of Messiahs.

‘Wheresoever Death is busy
Fly my ministers of blessing,
Snatching ever from his talons
Creatures beautiful and fair.

‘Cast thy look along the ages!
Read the record of the Churches!
Pestilence, Disease, and Famine
Fill the footprints of the Christ!

‘Thro' the very Fruit Forbidden,
Thro' the laws of Light and Knowledge,
I have fought with Death and Evil,
Conquering, in despite of God—

‘Curst, and yet the source of blessing,
Outcast, yet supreme 'mong Angels,
I, the only true Redeemer,
Work my miracles for men!’

XXVI.

Smiling scornfully, I answer'd:—
‘Strange it seems to find the Devil,
'Spite a record so despairing,
Optimistic, after all!

‘Yet, methinks, thy boasted Demos
Is the very worst of tyrants!
Better far a single Cæsar
Than a Cæsar hydra-headed!

‘Gaze again upon thy kingdom!
Look on Rome! As thou didst wander
In the streets of Rome departed,
Sick of God and God's creation,

‘So from day to day I wander
In the City of thy Demos,—
Demos is a fouler Cæsar,
London is a lewder Rome!

‘Still the Priests and Seers and Prophets
Preach the faith they feel no longer—
Keeping to the ear the promise
They have broken to the Soul;

‘Still the slaves and tyrants palter
With the truth they dare not utter—
Still the spectral Man of Sorrows
Starveth at the Church's door;

‘Still, to blind the foolish people,
With the worn-out creed men juggle,—
Even o'er their cheating parchments
Smiling lawyers hold the Cross;

‘Atheist judges, cold and cruel,
Toss the murtherer to the hangman,
Crying, while they shrung their shoulders,
“God have mercy on thy soul!”

‘Dark and dissolute and dreadful
As that other Rome departed,
Is this later Rome and lewder,—
Death is crownèd here as there!

‘Last, thy Demos, while denying
All Divinity, assevers
He's essentially a Christian
Since he leads a moral life!’

Smiling quietly my Devil
Answer'd, ‘True, O angry Poet—
There my Demos errs: Messiahs
Always are immoral persons!

272

‘If the Christ of Superstition
Work'd no miracles or wonders,
If the man was well-conducted,
He was surely no Messiah!’

Sadly, wearily, he added:
‘Here as in the Rome departed
Priests abide and Folly lingers
Conquering in the name of God;

‘Priests abide, but Death is reigning!
Thus, in spite of God, I triumph!
Patience, patience, for my Demos
Groweth wiser day by day!

‘'Tis the way of foolish mortals,
When they cease to feel religion,
To become severely moral,
Hating Liberty and Light—

‘So, I grant, my woe-worn Demos
Makes Morality his fetish,
Closing ears and shutting eyelids
To the sanctions of the Flesh.

‘Patience, patience! I will teach him
Love that passeth understanding!
All the wondrous lore of Nature
Shall be open to his gaze!

‘This, at least, is certain: Never
Will he lose again his birthright!
Never bend before his tyrants,
Here on earth, or there in Heaven!

‘Never will he kneel and listen
To the lies of your Messiahs,
Forfeit for a fancied blessing
Light and Liberty and Life!

‘Patience, patience! Light is growing—
God at last shall be forgotten—
Man shall rise erect, subduing
All things evil, even Death!’

XXVII.

‘If thou speakest truth,’ I answer'd,
‘Much, indeed, thou hast been libel'd!
Yet thy very benedictions
Spring from Him, the first Creator.

‘By the will of Him, the Father,
Thou hast wrought to cleanse thy kingdom—
From the first His eyes, all-seeing,
Knew thee as His instrument!

‘If Mankind, tho' dimly, darkly,
Moveth onward to perfection,
If at last the ills of Nature
Shall be heal'd and render'd whole,

‘Even there I trace the Finger
Of the Almighty slowly working,
Till the hour when thou, His servant,
Kneeling low shalt be forgiven!

‘Then Humanity, made holy,
Kneeling also to the Father,
Shall accept His final blessing
And be lifted up and saved!’

Wistfully he lookt upon me,
Once again his face was clouded
With that mist of woeful pity,
While his eyes grew dim with tears...

Then, another transformation!
Bright and radiant, tho' despairing,
Rose he to his angel's stature,
Looking up with starry orbs;

While the stars and constellations,
Fixing countless eyes upon him,
Shed upon his woe-worn features
Splendour from a million worlds,

In a voice like stars vibrating,
Answer'd by the hosts of Heaven,
Cried he, while his troubled spirit
Shook with woeful indignation:

‘Cast thy thought along the Ages!
Walk the sepulchres of Nations!
Mourn, with me, the fair things perish'd!
Mark the martyrdoms of men!

‘Say, can any latter blessing
Cleanse the blood-stain'd Book of Being?
Can a remnant render'd happy
Wipe out centuries of sorrow?

‘Nay, one broken life outweigheth
Twenty thousand lives made perfect!
Nay, I scorn the God whose pathway
Lieth over bleeding hearts!

273

‘From the first the cry of anguish
Hath arisen to yonder Heaven!
From the first, the ways of Nature
Have been cruel and accurst!

‘Man, thou sayest, shall yet be happy?
What avails a bliss created
Out of hecatombs of evil,
Out of endless years of pain?

‘Happy? Looking ever backward
On the graves of generations,
Haunted by the eyes despairing
Of the millions lost for ever?

‘Even now the life he liveth
Builded is of shame and sorrow!
Even now his flesh is fashion'd
Of the creatures that surround him!

‘From the sward the stench of slaughter
Riseth hourly to his nostrils!
By his will the beast doth anguish
And the wounded dove doth die!

‘Dreamer! Even here thy fancy
Fails before the truths of Nature—
God, thy great all-loving Father,
By His will created Death!—

‘Like the races long departed,
So the perfect race shall perish!
Like the suns burnt out and faded,
Shall thy sun be shrivell'd up!

‘Juggle not with words and phrases!
Lie not with the Priests and Prophets!
Pain and Death are God's creation,
And eternal, like Himself!

‘I alone, whom men call Devil,
Have allay'd the woes of Nature!
Death alone I cannot vanquish—
Death and God, perchance, are One!’

XXVIII.

O, the sorrow and the splendour
Of that woe-worn Outcast Angel!
Reverently I bent before him,
Blessing him, the Prince of Pity;

Round him, as he look'd to Heaven,
Clung a cloud of golden music—
Fair he seem'd as when, ere fallen,
Singing on the morning star!

‘Thus,’ he said, ‘throughout the ages,
O'er the world my feet have wander'd,
Watching in eternal pity
Endless harvest-fields of Death!

‘One by one the tribes and races
To the silent grave have waver'd,—
Never have I seen a sleeper
Slip his shroud, to rise again!

‘Dead they lie, the strong, the gentle,
Dead alike, the good and evil,—
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,
All is o'er—they rest at last!

‘All the tears of all the martyrs
Fall'n in vain for Man's redemption!
All the souls of all the singers
Dumb for ever in the grave!

‘Where are they whose busy fingers
Wove the silks of Tyre and Sidon?
Where are they who in the desert
Raised the mighty Pyramids?

‘Ants upon an ant-heap, insects
Of the crumbling cells of coral,
Coming ever, ever going,
Race on race has lived and died.

‘Ev'n as Babylon departed,
So shall yonder greater City;
Like the Assyrian, like the Roman,
Celt and Briton shall depart!

‘Yea, the Cities and the Peoples
One by one have come and vanish'd:
Broken, on the sandy desert,
Lies the Bull of Nineveh!

‘Ev'n as beauteous reefs of coral
Rising bright and many-colour'd
In the midst of the great waters,
Wondrous Nations have arisen;

‘First the insects that upbuilt them
Labour'd busily, and dying
Left the reef of their creation
Crumbling wearily away;

274

‘O'er the reef the salt ooze gathers,
Mud and sand are heapt upon it,
Then the trees and flowers and grasses
Bury it for evermore!

‘Shall I bend in adoration
To the Lord of these delusions?
Nay, I stand erect, and scorn Him,—
Pulseless, null Omnipotence!

‘Deaf to all the wails and weeping,
Blind to all the woes of Being,
Plunging daily into darkness
All the dreams of all the Christs!’

XXIX.

‘Nay,’ I cried, ‘the Christ shall triumph!
After centuries of sorrow
Man at last shall gain his birthright
And arise, a living Soul!

‘Proves not this that One above thee
Wrought in love from the beginning?
Creeds and systems come and vanish,
But the Law Divine abides!

‘Out of endless tribulation
Springs the Human, casting from him
One by one the sins and sorrows
Worn in ignorance of godhead;

‘All around him and within him
Lies his Kingdom, but he rules it
By the grace of One Supremer
Who created it and him!

‘“Know thyself!” the Voice Eternal
Crieth; and himself he knoweth,
God incarnate, bowing meekly
To the Eternal Voice and Law.

‘Even thus thy God hath conquer'd!
What thy spirit wrought against Him
Turneth ever to a witness
Of His glory everlasting!

‘Kneel, then, rebel, and adore Him!
Kneel with Man and chant His praises,
Hallelujah to the Highest,
As 'twas sung in the beginning!’

Pallid in the moonlight, turning
Sad eyes upward to the Heavens,
Head erect, still proud in sorrow,
Stood that weary fallen Spirit!

‘Fool,’ he answer'd, ‘what availeth
Praise or prayer or lamentation?
Blindly, pitilessly, surely,
Worketh the Eternal Law.

‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes;
Nought escapeth, nought abideth—
Man, the sand for ever shifting
In an hour-glass, cometh, goeth!

‘Death alone is King and Master!
Death is mightiest here and yonder,—
Man, the drop within a fountain,
Riseth ever, ever falleth!

‘Vain the Dream and the Endeavour!
Vain the quest of Love and Knowledge,—
Man, the dewdrop in the Rainbow,
Shineth, then is drunk for ever!

‘Answerest thou, that nought can perish?
That the elements for ever
Disappearing, re-emerging,
Shape themselves to Life anew?

‘Even so; but Death shall silence
All that forms thy human nature—
Memory, consciousness, self-knowledge,
Personality, and Love!

‘Out of darkness God hath drawn thee,
Back to darkness thou returnest—
In that moment of thy making
Thou becam'st a conscious Soul!

‘Loving, hoping, apprehending,
Yearning to the Souls around thee,—
Father, mother, wife and children,
Sharers of thy joy and sorrow;

‘These are thou, and these must vanish
Leaving not a trace behind them—
With the Elemental godhead
Thou and these shall mix for ever!

‘The Supreme, the Elemental,
Voiceless is, and all unconscious!
But the conscious type emerging
Shineth, and is trumpet-tongued!

275

‘From the dark he cometh, standing
Beautiful and demigod-like,
Crying gladly, “Lo my kingdom,
Where I reign as God's anointed;”

‘Knowing, feeling, apprehending,
Thus he cometh to his birthright—
Memory, consciousness, self-knowledge,
Personality, and Love!

‘Fool, Death taps him on the shoulder,
Death, the wraith of the Almighty,
Saying, “Cease! The law of being
Meaneth endless retrogression!

‘“Back into the Night! re-mingle
With the elemental Darkness!
Only for a little moment
God permits thee to abide!”

‘Broken-hearted and despairing,
Into silence he returneth—
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes!
Crush'd he lies, a crumbling shell!

‘Name me not the Prince of Evil,—
Call me still the Prince of Pity,
Since alone among immortals
I have wept for human woes!

‘What remaineth? One thing only,
Since Death cometh soon or later:
Carpe diem! While it lasteth,
Stand erect, Ephemeron!

‘Waste no thought on the Almighty;
Seek, with all thy soul's endeavour,
How to make thine earthly dwelling
Bright and fair, in God's despite!

‘Only for a day thou livest!
Make that day, so quickly fleeting,
For thyself, for all thou lovest,
Beautiful with Light and Joy!

‘Yet, the pity! ah, the pity!
Back, far back, along the ages,
Stretch the graves of countless creatures
Who have borne the Cross for thee!

‘They, too, loved the light that lieth
On the seas and on the mountains!
They, too, by their God forsaken,
Died at last on Calvary!

‘They, too, dreamed of Life Eternal!
They, too, knelt before the Father!
They, too, clung to one another,
Till He drave them back to dust!’

XXX.

As he spake, I saw around me
Once again the Apparitions
Moving ant-wise hither and thither
'Neath the glimpses of the moon;

Faces of the dead departed
Glimmer'd on me from the shadows,
While a sound of woeful voices
Faintly wailing fill'd the air:

And again (which still was strangest!)
Never one did gaze upon me,
Though I named them wildly sobbing,
Stretching hungry empty arms:

Then at last my soul within me
Sicken'd, and the air around me,
Even as seas around the drowning,
Swung,—till sense and sight departed!...

XXXI.

On the lonely Heath of Hampstead
I awoke, and as I waken'd
Saw the Devil departing from me
Thro' the shadows of the night;

Limping lame, and bending double,
Like a venerable mortal,
Round he turn'd, before he vanish'd,
Sigh'd, and fixed his eyes on mine.

(Ah, the sleepless eyes, so woeful
With the wisdom of the Serpent!
Ah, the piteous face so weary
With the woes of all the worlds!)

Forcing then his wrinkled features
To a smile, and grimly laughing—
‘Plead,’ he said, ‘for the Defendant!
Be my Laureate, yet remember:

‘If the priests were right, and yonder
Waited Heaven and compensation,
I'd at once admit my folly,
Taking off my hat to God!’

276

Nodding quietly, he vanish'd
While again I sadly wander'd
O'er the lonely Heath of Hampstead,
Thro' the silence of the Night. . . .

XXXII.

Little did I dream or fancy
I should ever (God forgive me!)
State the Case for the Defendant
Whom I loath'd with all my soul!

From a race of cattle stealers,
Rievers of the clan Buchanan,
I, Buchanan, sprang—the riever's
Savage blood is in my veins;

Thieves and wolves we were, but never
Foxes, and our Celtic motto
Reads in Roman lingo—‘Magnest
Veritas et prevalebit!’

Tell the truth and shame the Devil!
Tell it, even tho' it praise him!
Tell the truth for the Defendant,
Tho' the Accuser be thy God!

Better still—let the Defendant
Plead his Case in his own person:
Tho' it means thine own damnation
Let the awful truth prevail! . . .

Yet, alas! that happy Eden!
All the golden, gladsome Garden!
God the Father smiling on us,
Raining gentle blessings down!

Eve, that ne'er shalt be a mother,
Wrap thy sleeping shroud about thee!
All is over, all is over,—
But the Devil was not to blame!

THE LITANY. DE PROFUNDIS.

O God our Father in Heaven, Holy, Unseen, and Unknown,
Have mercy on us Thy children, who pray beneath Thy Throne!
O God our Father in Heaven, Holy, Unseen, and Unknown
Have mercy on us Thy children, who pray beneath Thy Throne.
O God the Maker of Mortals, Life of all lives that be,
Speak, that our ears may hear Thee, shine, that our eyes may see!
O God the Maker of Mortals, Life of all lives that be,
Speak, that our ears may hear Thee, shine, that our eyes may see.
O God the Unbegotten, Fountain whence all things flow,
Open the Rock of Thy Secret, that we may see Thee and know.
O God the Unbegotten, Fountain whence all things flow,
Open the Rock of Thy Secret, that we may see Thee and know.
Son that had never a Father, Father that never had Son,
Here on the Earth and yonder in Heaven, Thy will be done.
Son that had never a Father, Father that never had son,
Here on the Earth and yonder in Heaven, Thy will be done.
Remember not our offences, O Father and Lord Divine,
Pity and spare Thy children, whose sins and offences are Thine;
For if they are blind and see not, 'tis Thou who closest their eyes,
And if they are frail and foolish, 'tis Thou who shouldst make them wise!
And be not angry, O Father, but sheathe Thine avenging Sword,
Spare the things of Thy making, love them and spare them, O Lord
We are the things of Thy making, spare us and love us, O Lord.
From all things hateful and evil, which come, O Father, from Thee,
From Sin, the Flesh, and the Devil, whom Thou permittest to be,
From what through Thee we suffer, since Thou hast made men thus,
From lesser and greater damnation, O Lord, deliver us!
From lesser and greater damnation O Lord, deliver us.
From pride and from vain glory, from all hypocrisy,
From envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharity,
From filth, from fornication, from all things vile and abhorred
Which leaven the bread of Thy making, deliver us, O Lord.

277

From filth, from fornication, from all things vile and abhorred
Which leaven the bread of Thy making, deliver us, O Lord.
From thine avenging Lightning! from Fire and Famine and Pest!
From all the terrors and portents Thy Will makes manifest!
From War Thy witless Daughter, from Murder Thy maniac Son,
From Death that at Thy bidding betrays us, Almighty One,
From all Thy hand hath fashion'd to keep men mourning thus,
From all the woes of Creation, good Lord, deliver us.
From all the woes of Creation, good Lord, deliver us.
We are the things of Thy making, we are the clouds of Thy breath!
Life hast Thou made, O Father, to flee for ever from Death,
Flesh Thou hast wrapt around us, Flesh and the lusts of the same,
Out of Thy Word 'twas fashion'd, out of Thy mouth they came!
From all the doubt and the darkness Thy vials of wrath have poured
To blind the spirits that seek Thee, deliver us, good Lord.
From all the doubt and the darkness Thy vials of wrath have poured
To blind the spirits that seek Thee, deliver us, good Lord.
Thou hast set these Rulers above us, to bind us, to blind our eyes,
Thou hast sent these Priests to lure us with creeds and dogmas and lies,
Thou hast built Thy Church on the sands still shifting and tremulous:
From Churches, and Priests, and Liars, good Lord, deliver us.
From Churches, and Priests, and Liars, good Lord, deliver us.
By Thyself Incarnate within us, Thy Voice in our aching ears,
By Thy birth and Thy circumcision, Thy baptism of tears,
By fasting and by temptation, from all the passionate horde
Of Devils that seize and slay us, deliver us, good Lord.
By fasting and by temptation, from all the passionate horde
Of Devils that seize and slay us, deliver us, good Lord.
By the woe Thou hast never felt, by the Cross and the Crown of Thorn,
By the agony and the sweat on the brow of Thine Eldest Born,
By the cry that never was answer'd and ringeth ever aloud,
By the tomb that never was open'd, the dust therein, and the shroud,
By Him who sleepeth for ever, while we implore Thee thus,
From death and from tribulation, good Lord, deliver us.
From death and from tribulation, good Lord, deliver us.
Strengthen our hearts to know Thee, O God that cannot be known!
Make righteous the Kings who rule us, and sit on an earthly throne!
Set in their hands Thy sceptre, place in their hands Thy sword—
Help us to bear their yoke!
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Shine on the eyes of Thy Priests, illumine Thy Bishops, shed
Lightnings to quicken life in the creeds that are pulseless and dead.
When the Holy supper is set, and the Ghost of the Christ at the board
Sits, be Thou there in our midst!
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Instruct the Lords of the Council! endow the brain of the Fool!
Bless and preserve our Masters who sit in high places and rule!
But when in their granaries yonder the harvest of toil is stored,
Spare us some mouthfuls of bread!
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
Father that dwellest in Heaven, so far from the sorrows of Earth,
Soften to us, Thy children, the travails of Death and of Birth,
Teach us to love Thee and dread Thee, to eat the bread of Thy Word,
Altho' it be hard as stone!
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord.
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord, when darkness and sorrow are near us,
When blindly we grope thro' the dark, good Lord, we beseech Thee to hear us,
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord, and send Thy Spirit to cheer us!
When Thy yoke is hardest to bear, good Lord, we beseech Thee to hear us.

278

Help us when we are falling, as we help others who fall!
By land and by sea preserve us, O Father, Maker of all!
Comfort the sick and the weary with tidings of hope and of peace,
All children, all women who labour that what Thou hast made may increase,
Open the gates to the captive, lift up the weak and forlorn,
Feed, too, the fatherless orphans, comfort the widows that mourn.
Have mercy, Father in Heaven, and send Thy spirit to cheer us,
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!
Good Lord, we beseech Thee to hear us.
O Father who canst not conquer our sorrow, since it is Thine!
Maker who cannot unmake us, since we, like Thee, are divine!
Light that dwellest within us, Light that art far away!
Nearest to, farthest from us, answer our prayers when we pray!
Lord, have mercy upon us! Send Thy Spirit to cheer us!
Have mercy and hear us, O Lord!
O Lord, have mercy and hear us.
Save us from all our enemies, Most High!
In our afflictions, Lord, be ever nigh!
Pity our sorrows, Fountain of all Light!
And when we pray be near us day and night.

Let us pray.

THE PRAYER.

Father, which art in Heaven, not here below!
Be Thy Name hallowed, in that place of worth!
And till Thy Kingdom cometh, and we know,
Be Thy will done more tenderly on earth!
Since we must live, give us our daily bread!
Forgive our stumblings, since Thou mad'st us blind!
If we offend Thee, Lord, at least forgive
As tenderly as we forgive our kind.
Spare us temptation, human or divine!
Deliver us from evil, now and then!
The Kingdom, Power, and Glory all are Thine
For ever and for evermore. Amen.

Let us pray.

O God, Unseen, Unknown, yet dimly guessed
By spirit and by sense,
The miracle of Nature doth attest
Thy dread Omnipotence!

Teach us to love Thee, God and Lord of all,
And lead us to Thy Light!
We love Thee not, we are too weak and small,
And Thou too Infinite! . . . .

O God, we have heard with our ears, and our fathers have told it unto us,
That Thou canst uplift or cast down, redeem, or for ever undo us,
The works Thou hast made we behold as dawn after dawn cometh breaking,
But evil and pain and despair are blent with the worlds of Thy making,—
Unveil the light of Thy Face, till all Thy dread ways become clear to us!

Deliver us out of the Darkness! Bend down thro' Thy clouds and give ear to us.

Glory be Thine, O Father, from all things fashion'd by Thee.

As it was in the beginning, is, and ever shall be.

The Ballad of Mary the Mother.

(1897.)

[Shepherds, wake, 'tis Christmas tide!]

Shepherds, wake, 'tis Christmas tide!
(Over the snow the bleak winds blow!)
Follow, with yonder Star for guide,
On Christmas day in the morning.

‘The way is dark, the way is long,
We cheer the way with a blithesome song.

‘Thro' the valley and over the hill,—
Hush, now hush, for the Star stands still!

‘It stands so still and it shines so clear—
This is the place! Our Lord is here!’

Ye who have gifts, your gifts unfold—
Wood of Lebanon, gems, and gold.

Kneel, and shrive ye of your sin—
Then lift the latch, and enter in. . . . .

Alack, why stand ye weeping there? . . . .
‘The fire is out, and the hearth is bare!

279

‘Far have we wander'd thro' wintry gloom—
To seek His cradle, and lo! His tomb!

‘Still overhead the Star shines clear,
But only the dust of the dead lies here:

‘Ashes and dust in a frozen shroud,
Wherefore we wonder and weep aloud!

‘Here He was born who long since died
(Over the snow the bleak winds blow!)
Dark is the bield this wintertide
On Christmas day in the morning.’

['Twas Mary, the woeful Mother]

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Came wandering footsore,
And stood, with her rags around her,
Outside the synagogue door.

‘O, who art thou, thou woeful woman,
And what may thine errand be?’
‘I am Mary, the Mother of thy Lord,
And I come from Galilee.’

‘Stand back, stand back, whoever thou art,
Thou canst not enter here,
Thy Son is doing His Father's work
Among His brethren dear.

‘O woman, thou canst not enter now,’
The grim door-keeper said,
‘Thy Son is pouring the Wine of Life,
And breaking the holy Bread.’

'Twas Mary, the gentle Mother,
Smiled, and laid bare her breast.
‘'Twas here he drank, and 'twas here he lay
Both waking and at rest.

‘Go in, and tell him his Mother waits
Out here among the crowd’—
And as she spake, from far within
She heard Him praying aloud.

'Twas one went in to the synagogue
When the deep prayer was done,—
‘Rabbi, a woman is at the door,
Who saith Thou art her Son.

‘Her bare feet bleed from the thorny ways
'Twixt here and Galilee,
And with the woman Thy brethren come,
And they would speak with Thee.’

The Lord stretch'd out His gentle hands
To His disciples dear:
‘These are my mother, these are my brethren,
None else may enter here!

‘I know no brethren, I know no mother,
Save those who believe on Me!
Who eat with Me of the Bread of Life
My mother and brethren be!’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Stood at the open door;
'Twas Jesus passed on His Heavenward way
And left her weeping sore.

His eyes were fixed on the far-off skies
As He left her there bereaven,
He turned away from His mother's face
To His Father's face in Heaven.

As He wandered on from door to door
She followed Him from afar;
His face was bright as the moon in Heaven,
And hers like a lonely star.

It was Mary, the woeful Mother,
Wept as she watched Him go
Through the town, and up the height
That looks on the sea below;

And His feet were as swift as the wind,
And His eyes were as bright as fire,
And the face He turn'd to the shining Heaven
Was wan with His heart's desire;

And His dress was of white, white wool,
And His breast and His feet were bare,
And the light came down like His Father's Hand
And lay on His golden hair!

And she heard His voice from afar
Crying o'er land and sea:
‘Father, my Father which art in Heaven,
Shine down and strengthen me!’

280

It was Mary, the woeful Mother,
Sat weeping on a stone,—
It was Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Found her weeping alone.

‘O why dost thou weep so sadly,
And why is thy grey head bowed?’
(And the smile came through her great black eyes
Like the light through a summer cloud.)

‘Rise up, thou weariful woman,
Rise up and come with me—
Thou shalt sit this day in my palace bower
And I will sit at thy knee;

‘And when my maidens have wash'd thy feet,
And the feast is over and done,
Thou shalt loosen thy lips and open thy heart
And tell me of thy Son!’

It was Mary, the woeful Mother,
Rose, weeping bitterlie,
And leaning on Mary the Maiden
Hied to her bower by the sea.

As they walked through the fields of corn
The birds were singing their song,
But the voice of the Lord above them
Rang out more clear and strong;

And they saw the crowd on the mountain
Gathering with glad acclaim,
And the Lord was standing above them
And blessing those who came.

In the bower of Mary the Maiden
There's a high seat and a low,
And the white-robed serving maidens
Are moving to and fro.

With dishes of gold and silver
The banquet they prepare,
And the scent of myrrh and roses
Is filling the air.

With white wine and with red wine
The brimming gourds o'erflow;
And the Mother sits on the high seat,
And the Maid on the seat below.

When the virgins have wash'd and anointed
The weariful Mother's feet,
When over her head they have broken
A box of ointments sweet;

When her mouth of the food hath eaten,
And her lips have touched the wine,
She looketh on Mary the Maiden,
And dryeth her tear-wet eyne.

‘On thee and thine, my daughter,
All peace and blessings be!
The God of Israël bless thee
For thy sweet charitie!’

As fair as the Hûleh lily
That blooms in the summer beam,
Was Mary the Maiden, wearing
Her robe of the silken seam;

And on her hair and her bosom
Were jewels and gems of price,
And round her neck there was hanging
A charm with a strange device:

A heart of amber, and round it
Ruby and emerald bands,
And over it, wrought in crystal,
Two little wingèd hands!

White and warm was her bosom
That rose and fell below,
And light on her face was playing,
Deep, like the after-glow;

With the waves of her heaving bosom
That strange light went and came,
Now dim and dark with the shadow of earth,
Now flush'd with a heavenly flame;

And the warmth of the glad green meadows,
The scent of the Night and the Day,
Flow'd up from Mary the Maiden
To Mary the old and grey.

‘O wherefore, my namesake Mary,
Art thou so good to me,—
The woeful woman who wedded
With Joseph of Galilee?

‘Poor is my lot and lowly,
Sad is my heart and sore,—
I am not worthy, my daughter,
To enter thy palace door!’

281

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
The beautiful shining one,
Answer'd, ‘I love thee, Mother,
For the Rabbi's sake, thy Son!

‘To the fairest and best of mortals
Thy womb hath given birth,—
Like the moon on the troubled waters
He walketh the waves of Earth!

‘White as a statue of marble
Wrought in some Grecian land,
Fair as a palm-tree growing
Green, 'mid the desert sand,

‘Monarch of men he shineth
Bright as the morning star,
A God, and of Godhead fashion'd,
Not mortal as others are!

‘There's a storm in my snow-white bosom
Only his touch can still,—
There's a void in my heart, O Mother,
Only his love can fill!’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Bent down and kissed her brow:
‘God help thee, Mary, my daughter,
And all such maids as thou!

‘His love is not for the things of earth,
His blessing for things of clay,—
A voice from a Land beyond the grave
Is calling my Son away!

‘How should he stoop to a love like thine
Who hath no love for me?
In my womb he grew, from my womb he fell,
And I nurst him on my knee.’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Smiled through her night-black hair,—
‘I met his eyes as he passed this day,
And methought he found me fair!

‘There is never a man of the sons of men
Who would not smile on me,
But if thy Son is more than a man,
Alack for me and thee!

‘But if thy Son is Joseph's son,
E'en as his brethren be,
Why, I am Mary of Magdala!
And a King might mate with me.’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Answered again, and said:
‘The love of the world is not for him,
Nor the happy bridal bed!

‘He has cast away all women of earth
Even as he casts out me,—
In my womb he grew, from my womb he fell,
And I nurst him on my knee.’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Frown'd, answering scornfullie—
‘Nay, rather than be another's bride
I would his leman be.

‘Rather than mate with Herod the King
Or Cæsar himself, his lord,
I'd be thy Son's, and ask no more
Than a kindly look or word.

‘I'd make my bed across his feet,
I'd be his handmaiden,—
There is no other lord for me
'Mong all the sons of men.

‘Yea, though thy Son be Joseph's son,
Who toileth for his bread,
For one warm kiss of his rosy mouth
Gladly I'd die,’ she said.

'Twas Mary the Mother answer'd:
‘Thy woe is even as mine;
Fain would I see my Son stoop down
To a human love like thine.

‘Hast thou not heard, O Mary,
The wondering people say
“He is Moses or Eli risen again,
Or a greater even than they”?

‘Hast thou not heard them whisper low
Who follow him night and day—
“The seed within his mother's womb
Came from no human clay”?

‘Hast thou not heard that, ere I wed
My husband leal and true,
My womb was full of a wondrous life
That quicken'd ere I knew;

282

‘And how my mate was wroth and thought
To thrust me from his side,
And how an angel in the night
Came to his bed and cried:

‘Forbear to know the woman thy wife,
Yet put her not away,
She is quick with child of the Holy Ghost,
And hath known no man of clay;

‘Behold it was written long ago,
Ere thy life's thread was spun,
“A Virgin shall conceive of God,
Quicken, and bear a Son!”’

It was the dark-eyed Mary
Sprang up her height and cried:
‘Is this thing true, and is thy Son
He that was prophesied?’

'Twas Mary, the Mother, raised her hands,
And wept and tore her hair,—
‘Woe worth the day that I was born,
Or ever a child did bear!

‘Hearken to me, my daughter,
Sit down and hearken to me;
But breathe not, out in the world of men,
The thing I tell to thee.

‘For the sands of my life run low,
And the thread of my woe is out-worn,
And the Lord hath smitten the Mother down
By the hand of her eldest-born.

‘'Twas but a little hand
When my babe lay here at rest,
A weak little hand, like a rose-leaf,
That felt for my milky breast.

‘Hearken to me, my daughter,
And when my tale is done,
We'll kneel in the night together
And pray for the man my Son!’

Green leaf and blossom,
White flower and red,
The whole world is gladdening
Where Love's feet tread!

There's light in the morning,
There's life for the young,
'Tis then the songs of Eden
On every bough are sung!

The young maid is listening,
Her lover by her side,—
Heaven the earth encircles,
The bridegroom his bride.

Green leaf and blossom,
White flower and red,—
The whole world is gladdening
Where Love's feet tread!

‘The God of Israël passeth
From world to world on high,
The seas and the mighty mountains
Quake as He passeth by;

‘No eye hath looked upon Him,
No soul hath fathom'd His ways,
His face is veil'd, though His breathing
Filleth our nights and days;

‘His Hand is a Hand in the darkness,
His Voice is a Voice in the gloom,
But seed of Jehovah hath never
Been sown in a woman's womb.

‘Yet the Light that blindeth the vision
Comes from the worlds He made,
And fire of the flesh He fashion'd
Maketh the soul afraid.

‘I wander'd happy and lonely
By wood and meadow and stream,
And the joy of my youth was upon me
And twined me away in a dream.

‘And my love's voice said “Thou art fairest,
Thine eyes are the eyes of the dove,
Thy breasts are roses and lilies,”
And I heark'd to the voice of my love!

‘Yea, the joy of my life was upon me,
And the light of my youth in my eyes,
And a breath like the breath of the morning
Woke me in Paradise!

‘By the beautiful waters of Marah
We pitch'd our tent in the sun,
And we drank of the waters rejoicing,
And lo! our dreaming was done;

283

‘For the taste of the waters was bitter,
And the bright sun shone no more,
And I sat alone in the gloaming,
And the day of my dream was o'er;

‘Then I rose in my sorrow, casting
Ashes and dust on my head,
For the seal of my womb was broken,
And the flower of my youth had fled.

‘Yet no one wist of the wonder
As home to our house I came,
Only the God of our fathers
Knew of His daughter's shame.

‘And I dwelt in the house of my people
And veil'd my face like a maid,
But ever when men came wooing
I fled to my chamber and prayed.

‘Morning and eve to the fountain,
Between the night and the day,
I went with the village maidens
Bearing my pitcher of clay.

And a man from a neighbouring village
Saw me, and thought me fair,
And lo! when I journeyed homeward,
I found him waiting there;

‘And while he spake with my father
His eyes grew large on me;
And the man was stately and gentle,
With a voice like the sough of the sea.

‘And my father gave me unto him,
With goats and kine for a dower,
And I fled to my lonely chamber
And wept for many an hour.

‘For the eye of my God was upon me
While I wept and sorrow'd apart,
And a little hand in the darkness
Was lifting the latch of my heart!

‘Would I had died in the night-time,
Would I had ne'er been born,—
I feared the eyes of the bridegroom,
And sorrow'd from night till morn.

‘Then came the hour of the bridal,
The feast and the bridal song,—
O, weak is the heart of a woman,
But the Law and the Lord are strong!

‘As he bare me home to his dwelling
'Twas summer in all the land,
But my heart was broken within me
By the touch of that little hand.

‘As we stood in the bridal chamber
He offered me bread and wine,
And I feared the light of his loving
As his eyes grew large on mine;

‘And I fell at his feet, and weeping
Pour'd out the gourd of my shame,
And the wrath of the Lord around him
Like fire-flaught went and came!

‘And at first he hunger'd in anger
To thrust me beyond his door,
But the mercy of God came on him
Though his soul was stricken sore.

‘And at last, when his wrath was over,
His face grew gentle and mild,
And he spake as a gentle father
Might speak to an erring child.

‘O blessings upon the bridegroom
Who shielded his bride from wrong—
The heart of a woman is feeble,
But the strength of a man is strong!

‘The mighty God of our fathers
Bless him in life or death,—
Wisest and best of mortals
Was Joseph of Nazareth!

‘He shielded me in my sorrow,
He calm'd my spirit to rest,
He found the sheep that had wander'd
And warm'd it on his breast.

‘And when my travail was over,
And the night of the birth-pang done,
He lifted the Babe from my bosom
And said, “Behold our Son!”

‘Yea, over the babe and the mother
The balm of his love he poured,
And he named the new-born JESUS
Which meaneth “Sent by the Lord.”

284

‘And I clave to my mate and master,
The tenderest man among men,
Yea, I grew to his breast in gladness,
His wife and his handmaiden!

‘And after my cleansing he knew me,
Yea, gave me the bridegroom's embrace,
And children were born unto us
To gladden our dwelling-place.’

'Twas Mary, the grey-hair'd Mother,
Bowed down her woeful head;
'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Reach'd up her arms and said:

‘God's grace and blessing, Mother,
Wrap thee from head to feet!
The ways of the world are weary,
But the kiss of a mouth is sweet!

‘Now tell me who was the lover
Who brought thee such glad pain?
Some mighty lord of the City?
Some chief of the lonely plain?’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Moan'd to herself and said:
‘His name will never be utter'd,
Darkness hideth his head!

‘He is gone like the dew of the morning,
He is fled with the flowers of the May,
His name on the sands of the desert
Was written and blown away.

‘I clave to my lord and master,
And peace and joy were mine,
For the blissful milk of the mother
Flow'd in my breast like wine;

‘For the lips of my babe drew from me
The poison and the pain,
Till the weariful heart within me
Gladden'd and leapt again!

‘A maid's love, O my daughter,
Is a pearl that men may buy,
But the love of a new-made mother
Is a rainbow in the sky!

‘All peace of earth and of heaven
Are gather'd in her embrace—
Smiling the little one lieth
And looketh up in her face!

‘His lips are lilies and roses,
His scent is sweeter than myrrh,
He draweth bliss from her bosom
And breatheth it back to her!

‘Still as a star on my bosom
My little first-born lay,
And like a fountain around him
My love flow'd day by day!

‘Clear as the summer heavens
I saw his blue eyes shine!
Never on mortal bosom
Shone babe so bright as mine!

‘The days flow'd on like a murmuring brook
That gladdeneth in the sun,—
For I heard the music of earth and heaven
From the mouth of my little one!

‘Brighter and fairer my first-born grew,
And O, but it was sweet
To hold him up with a finger touch
When he stood upon his feet;

‘I could hold him up with a finger touch,
He was so light and frail,—
But now he hath the might of a man
How should my strength avail?

‘Yet even in those sweet far-off days,
So bright and now so dim,
Meseem'd the bairns his playfellows
Were different from him!

‘He seem'd not as other children
That play in the summer beam,—
With the sound of their mirth around him
He stood and look'd up in a dream!

‘And while from hillock to hillock
They flew with laugh and cry,
He watch'd the white clouds passing
Over the still blue sky!

‘So grave and yet so gentle,
So still and yet so blest,—
It seemed some fountain of wonder
Flow'd in his baby breast.

285

‘And one by one in the darkness
The new-born waken'd and cried,
And I gladden'd, a fruitful Mother,
Forgiven and purified!

‘For lo! he gladden'd among them,
The fairest and goodliest,
And still that fountain of wonder
Flow'd in his gentle breast!

‘And so he grew in the dwelling
And brighten'd from day to day.
And the Light of the Lord was on us,
And the Angels looked our way!’

There's a cry of little ones in the bield,
And a patter of feet on the floor;
The Sun is splashing o'er farm and field
To the golden pool at the door!
The earth is twining flowers in her hair,
And there's some for you and me;
Smile, Babe!—leap, Babe!—rock'd upon
Mother's knee!

Of all the joys that the years can bring
There is never a joy like this,—
Flowers to bloom, birds to sing,
And the bud of a mouth to kiss!
Our good-man looks smiling on,
And a proud good-man is he!
Smile, Babe!—leap, Babe!—happy on
Mother's knee;

Clear as a fountain by our fireside
The cry of the young is heard,
Answer'd over the whole world wide
By the cry of lamb and bird!
It's home-time now in the happy world
And it's Heaven with my bairns and me!
Smile, Babe!—leap, Babe!—rock'd upon
Mother's knee!

Round and around our house they run,
A laughing, barefoot band—
Bright at the door the merry Sun
With a golden nod doth stand!
And it's oh! for the peace of Heaven and Home,
And the light on my bairns and me!
Smile, Babe!—leap, Babe!—happy on
Mother's knee!

As the flower of the Hûleh lily
Shineth after the rain,
The face of Mary the Mother
Smiled, and grew bright again!

For the milk of the glad young mother
Seem'd flowing in her breast,
And once again to her nipples
A little mouth seem'd prest;

And her great grey eyes half closing
Were dim with the happy dew,
And her red lips trembled and open'd
As the quick glad breath came thro'!

‘The peace of God was upon me,
The smile of God at my door,
My soul was a summer fountain
That filleth and floweth o'er!

‘Fairer and fairer my first-born grew
Till he was seven years old,
And his eyes had the glint o' the waters blue
And his hair the sunset's gold.

‘His voice was low as the voice o' the dove
That cries in a shady place,
And the light of a love that was more than love
Flowed from his shining face;

‘For he loved all things that the Lord hath made
Who maketh great and small,
And he folded his little hands and prayed
That God might guard them all!

‘But ever of all God's creatures
He loved the weak things best,—
The lamb that leaps in the meadows
Would come and lie in his breast;

‘The doves that dwell on the house-tops
Would gather about his feet,
And the hungry dogs would lick his hands
As he walk'd i' the sun-scorch'd street!

‘And he loved the folk who were sick and weak,
Whom God had stricken sore,
Yea, the tears would roll adown his cheek
For pity of the poor;

286

‘And sad was the heart of my little one,
And his eyes grew wet and dim,
When the spotted lepers crawl'd i' the sun
And held out hands to him! . . .

‘In the synagogue of his fathers
He heard the Rabbis preach,
And better than play or pleasure
He loved their stately speech;

‘Yea, even as the wild bee gathers
Its honey from flower to flower,
He gathered the words of wisdom
For many a happy hour.

‘But best he loved (God bless him,
And cherish him night and day)
The wandering men of the desert
Who silently fast and pray.

‘For when from the holy places
One of these wights footsore,
With scoop of brass, and apron
Of linen, would pass our door,

‘My good-man, merrily toiling
Within at the carpenter's board,
Would bid the pilgrim enter
And rest, in the name of the Lord;

‘And when he had made ablution
He'd enter and bless the place,
The silence of God around him,
The light of God on his face;

‘And Jesus would gaze upon him,
Till he reach'd out hands and smiled,
And murmur'd, “The God of Jacob
Preserve the little child!”

‘Then silently like a shadow
He'd rise and wander away,
But the Light of God and His Silence
Would dwell on the child all day.

‘Oft, as he spelt his letters,
Resting the scroll on my knee,
He'd close the scroll in his little hand
And sigh, and question me—

‘And 'twas “O, mother,” and “why, mother,
Do mortals weary and die?
Surely our Father in Heaven
Heareth His children cry?”

‘The tales that a thousand mothers
Tell to their sons, I told,—
Of the chosen race of Israël
And the weariful days of old;

‘And how in the land of bondage
We wail'd beneath God's hand,
Till the prophet came to set us free
And we gain'd the Golden Land;

‘Dumbly he'd stand and listen
While I those tales did tell,
And o'er and o'er he'd have me sing
The psalms of Israël!

‘O sweet he was as the summer rain
That falleth on desert ways,
But ever the cry of human pain
Troubled his nights and days!

‘And 'twas “O, mother,” and “why, mother,
Are folks so weary and sad?
The sick folk die, and the lepers cry,
Though the sun shines bright and glad!”

‘And he'd stand and muse apart
Like an old man bent with years,
And the well of wonder within his heart
Fill'd, like an eye with tears!

‘And so my little one grew,
The whitest lamb in the fold,
But the shadow dwelt in his eyes of blue
And his ways were strange and old. . . .

‘We came to the Holy City,
And the streets were bright and gay,
And lo! from the hour my bairn was born
'Twas thirteen years and a day.

‘The Temple stood with its gates of gold
On the heights of Jerusalem,
And the children gather'd like lambs i' the fold
And the Elders question'd them;

287

‘And we missed the child in the holy place,
And wondering, sought for him,
And lo! he stood with a shining face
In the halls of the Sanhedrim!

‘And the Priests and Rabbis gathered round,
And smooth'd their beards and smiled,
To hear the words of wisdom sound
From the lips of a little child.

‘Proud and glad was my heart that day
For joy of the little one!
And blithe and merry we rode away
When the Holy Feast was done! . . .

‘Stronger and fairer my first-born grew
And in our bield he stayed,
For now he toil'd at the bench and knew
My good-man's gentle trade!

‘And his voice chimed cheerily all day long
To the chime of the busy plane,
And as I sat and heark'd to his song
My heart was glad again!

‘For methought “My shame hath passed away,
My Son grows strong and tall,—
The God of Israël be his stay
Wherever his feet may fall!

‘“The God of Israël grant him life
And be his light and guide,—
And when he taketh a maid to wife
May their seed be multiplied!

‘“May their days be long in a fruitful land
Under the summer skies,
And ere I sleep may he hold my hand
And close my happy eyes.”

‘O the light o' the Lord shone bright indeed
Upon our dwelling-place!
For methought my seed was a goodly seed
To quicken and grow apace!

‘And I saw my Son's seed multiply
And gladden from day to day,
And I heard my children's children cry
Like voices far away!

‘The life of man is a tale thrice told,
His joy is a flower full blown—
When our Son was nineteen summers old,
He toil'd at the bench alone!

‘The weight of years on his hair so grey,
The sleep-dust in his eyne,
My good-man Joseph passed away
While I held his hand in mine;

‘Gently he beckon'd the first-born near
And gazed in his face and said:
“O, Jesus, look to thy mother dear
When I lie cold and dead!”

‘'Twas darkness then in the lowly bield
For many and many a day;
For he who had been my strength and shield
Was taken and hid away.

‘My children gathered around my knee
And I bowed my widow'd head,
But gently my first-born smiled on me
And my grief was comforted.

‘O, blessed be the name of the Lord!
He taketh and giveth again,
His wrath is fire and a flaming sword,
But His love is summer rain;

‘The flesh of the stricken He healeth up,
The sick He maketh sound,—
When our grief is full as a brimming cup
He poureth it on the ground.

‘The peace of God on my spirit fell
For joy of the man my Son,—
At his father's board he wrought full well
Till his daily task was done.

‘There was never a man of woman born
Was half so fair as he,—
Like the sound of a fountain night and morn
Was the voice of my Son to me.

‘And evermore when his toil was o'er
He loved to wander away,
To comfort the sick and cheer the poor,
Or to muse apart and pray.

‘And in the synagogue he'd teach
Among the Rabbis old,
And he gather'd wisdom, and lo! his speech
Grew stranger twentyfold;

288

‘But ever I murmur'd day and night,
“Never was Son like mine;
O, may his days be long and bright,
And his flesh a fruitful vine.”

‘Out of the lonely desert
Preaching Jochanan came,
And stood in the shallows of Jordan
Naming the one God's Name.

‘Wild as the horse of the desert
No man may saddle and ride,
Over his naked shoulders
A cloak o' the camel's hide;

‘He cried aloud to the people
Who gather'd on the strand:
“Repent! repent; for the Kingdom
Of Heaven is close at hand!”

‘And men and women and children,
From morn to evenfall,
Flock'd to the Prophet's bidding
And he baptised them all;—

‘With water he baptised them
Under the open sky,
And lo! on the second morning
The man, my Son, stood nigh!

‘And lo! as they met together
The eyes of John were dim,
For as morning star unto evening star
Was the man, my Son, to him!

‘Yet with water he baptised him,
And lo! when it was done.
The hunger and thirst of Godhead
Grew in the soul of my Son;

‘And he wandered away from the people
Into a desert place,
And there alone with the Silence
He fasted and hid his face;

‘And the stars of Heaven beheld him,
And the wild beasts hovered near,
But the eye of man did not see him
And the ear of man did not hear;

‘And he ate not and he drank not,
But fasted and prayed, and so
The flesh on his bones was wasted,
And the light of his life burnt low.

‘And when I again beheld him
I trembled and sobbed aloud,
For the dews of Death were upon him
And his face seem'd set in a shroud!

‘“O where hast thou been, my Jesus,
And why is thy look so wild?”
He stood like a ghost in the doorway
And look'd in my face and smiled;

‘And his smile was loving and gentle,
Tho' his face was ashen grey,
But his eyes were gazing through me
At something far away!

‘“O where hast thou been, my Jesus,
And what didst thou hear and see?’
“I heard the winds of the night,” he said,
“And the Silence spake to me!”

‘“Alas and alas, my Jesus,
And what didst thou see and hear?”
“I saw the Dead in their shrouds pass by
And the Souls of the Dead stood near!

‘“And I heard the beasts of the desert
Moaning like human things,
And the Spirit of Darkness cover'd my head
And wrapt me 'neath his wings.

‘“But I knelt and prayed that my Father in heaven
Would shrive me of my sin,
And the Gates of Heaven swung open wide
To show the lights within;

‘“And a Face looked out of the Golden Gates,
And the Spirit of Darkness fled,
And the Hand of God like a Father's hand
Was placed upon my head.

‘“And the Voice of God, like a Father's voice,
Came down the dark to me,—
‘Go forth, go forth in thy Father's Name,
For He hath chosen thee.’”

289

‘“Alas, and alas, my Jesus,
What didst thou see and hear?
The words thou speakest are dark and strange
And fill my soul with fear.

‘“The Master of Earth and Heaven
Hath neither feet nor hands,—
The wind of His breath is as the blast
That bloweth the desert sands.

‘“His face no eye hath looked on,
His voice no ear hath heard,—
And yet His face is the Light o' Life,
And His voice is a wingèd Word.”

‘Sadly he gazed upon me,
With great eyes dim with pain,
And the face of my Son burn'd bright through tears,
Like a rainbow through the rain.

‘“Come in and rest, my Jesus,
Thy spirit is weary and worn,
Come in and sleep in thy father's house
Where thou, my child, wast born;

‘“And I, thy mother, will sit beside
Thy bed, and sing to thee
The song I sang when I sang and rock'd
Thy cradle with my knee.”

‘Sadly he gazed upon me,
Folding his hands in prayer,—
“My Father's house is wide as the world,
And high as the heavens up there.

‘“My Father's house is wide as the world,
And I was born therein,—
My Father calleth me out of Heaven
To cleanse it of its sin.

‘“Never again shall my Father's Son
Rest in a narrow bed,—
To and fro, and up and down,
His weariful feet must tread.

‘“Never again shall my Father's Son
Hark to thy cradle song,—
To and fro, and up and down,
He goes, for the way is long.”

‘“Hearken to me, my Jesus,
Stay, and hearken to me;
Thy sisters and brethren who sit within
Would break their bread with thee.

‘“Come in, come in, and sit at the board,
Where my first-born should be,
And I, thy mother, will wash thy feet,
And stand and wait on thee!”

‘Sadly he gazed upon me,
Frowning he turned away,—
“Who break with me the Bread of Life,
My sisters and brethren are they!

‘“No brethren dwell in my Father's house
Save those who eat His Bread,
No mother's love can save the quick
Or wake and shrive the dead!

‘“And woe is me for my brethren dear
Who o'er the wide world stray,
And woe is me for the witless love
That withereth in a day!

‘“Lo, there be beds in my Father's house
Many as waves o' the sea,—
From bed to bed my feet must pass
Till the sleepers wakened be!

‘“Lo! there be boards in my Father's house
Where men feast merrily,—
From board to board my feet must pass
Till all shall follow Me!”

‘He turn'd away with a weary moan
From the bield where he was born,
And as he wander'd from door to door
His townsfolk laughed in scorn!

‘For strange he seemed as a witless wight
Whose soul and sense are dim,
And his eyes were bright with a vacant light
And the children mock'd at him!

‘We followed him slowly as up the street
Slowly he went his way,
And we saw him enter the synagogue,
For 'twas the Sabbath day;

‘And silently he enter'd in
And stood in the midst o' the crowd,
And his head was raised as they named the Name,
Tho' all the rest were bowed!

290

‘And he took the scroll in his thin white hand
While the Elders gather'd round,
And he read the lesson, and named the Name,
And sat down to expound;

‘The first words that he utter'd there
Were gentle and soft and low,
And the sound of his voice was as the sound
Of a fountain's ebb and flow;

‘The next words that he utter'd there
Were wild and strange and loud,
And the sound of his voice was as the sound
Of the riven thunder-cloud;

‘The next words that he utter'd there
Were drown'd in fierce acclaim,
For the Elders rose and tore their beards
And the folk shriek'd out in shame!

‘Around my Son like an angry sea
They gather'd shrieking shrill,
And his face was calm as a patient star
And his pale lips murmur'd still:

‘Again he utter'd the Name of Names
Nor knelt on bended knee,
But his eyes looked up as if they saw
The Face no man may see.

‘With curses and blows they thrust him forth
Into the open street,
And spectral pale he stood at the door
Like a corpse in his winding sheet.

‘“Come home, come home, my Jesus,
Come home with me,” I cried,
And gently I sought to guide him home,
But he pushed my hand aside.

‘“No home have I but my Father's Home,
And thither my feet must fare,—
My Father's Home is as wide as the world,
And high as the heavens up there.”’

Thou shalt not see, thou shalt not hear,
Yet I, the Lord thy God, am near.

Thou shalt not hear, thou shalt not see,
Yet I, thy God, abide with thee.

My Spirit stirs around thee (saith
The Lord), thy nostrils drink my breath.

So near am I both night and day,
And yet my throne is worlds away.

Seek not to unveil or fathom Me,—
But shut thine eyes, and bend thy knee.

Juggle not with the Law Divine,
Nor seek my Heavens for a sign.

I am veil'd for ever, I am dumb,
And yet my thunders go and come.

Father and Lord I am indeed,
And yet have neither Son nor seed.

Thou shalt not hear, thou shalt not see,
Yet I, thy God, abide with thee.

Let it suffice thee that I reign,—
Beware to take my Name in vain.

Go then thy ways,—though I am near,
Thou shalt not see, thou shalt not hear.

It was Mary, the woeful Mother,
Cried, weeping bitterlie,
‘My days are dark, for the Lord my God
Hath taken my Son from me!

‘He walked by the lonely waters,
And saw the ships go by,
And he cried aloud, and the men o' the ships
Heard, and answer'd his cry!

‘And the sound of his voice could still the pain
In the hearts of the tempest-blown,
For he spoke of the waters no ship may gain
And the land no man hath known!

‘And the men o' the sea forsook their nets
And, gathering one by one,
Sat by the waters of Galilee
And heark'd to the man, my Son.

‘And his voice was soft as the rain
That falleth cool on the grass,
And his face was like the moon in the sky
That watches the Tempest pass!

‘And the souls of the men o' the sea
Close to my Son did creep,
And he reached out hands and counted them
As a Shepherd counteth his sheep!

291

‘Alone I bode in the lonely house
And his blessing reached not me,—
I heard his voice like a sea-bird's cry
Far out on a sunless sea!

‘And the elders flocking about our house
Cried, “Woe to him and thee!
The mad folk gather to hear thy Son
And his mouth speaks blasphemy!

‘“He prophesieth and raveth loud
Out there by Galilee,
With woven hands and with magic spells
He lures the men o' the sea!

‘“He eateth and drinketh unpurified,
He breaketh the Sabbath day:
He is Eli or Moses risen, he saith,
Or a greater even than they!”

‘Nay then, the words they spake were sore
For a mother's ear to hear,
And I cried: “He is holy and pure of heart,
And such to the Lord are dear!

‘“Fair as a lily-flower, my Son
Hath grown to the height of man—
Ah, never yet grew a flower so fair
On earth, since the earth began!”

‘Yet ever the wonderful rumour grew,
And men began to tell
Of mighty magic in secret wrought
Wherever my Son's foot fell:

‘How the lame man walked, and the blind man saw,
And the dumb man spake and heard,
How the waxen man laid out for dead
Had bitten his shroud and stirred!

‘Nay then, my heart was sick with fear
And I feared for the man, my Son,
For I wist such wonders are often wrought
By will of the Evil One!

‘“He casteth down Devils by Beelzebub,
Who is Prince of Devils,” they said,
And I turn'd my face to the wall, and cast
Ashes and dust on my head.

‘For my buried shame had risen again
And haunted my soul forlorn,
As I prayed for the soul of the man, my Son,
Even Jesus my first-born.

‘Suddenly through the streets o' the town
I heard the laugh and the cry,
And follow'd by throngs of stranger folk
Jesus, my Son, went by.

‘And those who follow'd were ragged and poor,
And many were gaunt and gray,
And I cried his name as he passed our door
But his face was turned away.

‘And the townsfolk mock'd him as he walked
Swiftly from street to street,
But when he came to the edge o' the town
He shook the dust from his feet.

‘“Never was Prophet honoured yet
By those of his own countrie,—
Woe to the town where I was born
And the folk who mock at me!”

‘And he wandered up and over the hills,
And his feet were swift as wind,
And I join'd the throng o' the sick and poor
That crept and crawl'd behind;

‘And down to the shore of the lonely Sea
Of Galilee he came,
And the throngs of woeful women and men
Gather'd and called his name.’

It was Mary, the gentle Mother,
To Mary the Maiden cried,—
‘Like waves o’ the sea, the people
Flow'd on the mountain side;

‘And even as a rock in the waters
The man, my Son, stood there,
And the light of the still blue Heaven
Slept on his golden hair.

‘When he reached out hands and bless'd them,
They were hush'd as waves o' the sea,
And their faces were dark with yearning
As they listen'd on bended knee:

292

‘For his voice was sweet as a fountain
Or the voice of the turtle dove,
As he told of a Heavenly Kingdom
And the love that is more than love;

‘And the burden of earth was uplifted
By the touch of a magic hand,
And the folk beheld as they hearkened
The gleam of the Promised Land:

‘A land of milk and of honey,
Golden and bright and blest,
Where the wicked would cease from troubling
And the weary would be at rest!

‘Then the peace of God flowed round me
And the days of my woe seemed done,
As I listened happy and smiling,
To the voice of the man, my Son!

‘Kind were his words and gentle,
Bright was his face and mild,—
Happy he seem'd and loving
As when he was a child!

‘“Come to me, ye who hunger,
Come, and be straightway fed!
For lo! I bring from the Father
Not ashes and dust, but bread!

‘“Come to me, ye who are weeping,
And all your tears shall cease,
For lo! I bring from the Father,
Not trouble and pain, but peace!

‘“Come to me, ye who are stricken,
Who sicken and fight for breath,
For lo! I bring from the Father
Eternal Life, not Death!”

‘Sweet as a fountain's falling
The music filled our ears:
“Your Father in Heaven loves you
And fain would dry your tears!

‘“Your loving Father in Heaven
Heareth his children's cries—
Let him who is sick, then, gladden,
Let him who hath fallen rise!”

‘And the wind of his words went swiftly
Over the wondering crowd,
And like waves of the sea uprising
They wept and they sob'd aloud!

‘Then one shriek'd loudly, “Rabbi!
Heal me, lest I die!”
And lo! with a thousand voices
They echo'd that woeful cry!

‘Ragged, and worn, and weary
They gathered under the skies,—
And the blind men groped unto him
Rolling their sightless eyes!

‘And the little afflicted children
Close to his knees upcrept,
But the lepers stood afar off
And reach'd out hands and wept!

‘Pale as a man of marble
He stood on the lone hillside,
And wept as he gazed upon them,
And lifted up hands and cried:

‘“The Light I bring from the Father
Shineth in secret ways,—
Only the Hand that smiteth
And slayeth, hath power to raise!

‘“And yet the sick shall be healèd,
And the blind shall surely see,
For my Father's door is open
To those who follow me!

‘“Weep not, but be of comfort!
Fret not, your woes shall cease!
For lo! I bring from the Father
Love, and exceeding Pcace!”

‘But still they gather'd and murmur'd
With piteous woes and cries:
And the blind cried, “Master, heal us!”
Rolling their sightless eyes!

‘But e'en as they flock'd around him
And reached out hands and cried,
He girded up his raiment
And passed from the mountain side.

‘Swift through the clamouring people
He walked, nor gazed on them,
While they thronged to look upon him
And to touch his raiment-hem;

293

‘And the blind folk groped in the sunlight,
And the sick folk wept in woe,
And the lepers gazed from afar off
And wail'd, as they watched him go!’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Reach'd out her hands and cried:
‘These things thou sawest, O Mother,
These things and nought beside?

‘Was not the sick man healèd?
Did not the blind man see?
Such wonders were wrought, 'tis rumour'd,
Out yonder by Galilee!’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Answer'd in soul's despair,—
‘Woe worth the day that I was born
Or ever a Son did bear!

‘How shall the hand of a mortal
Give back what God hath ta'en—
If the hand of a man could dry our tears
No man would weep again!

‘The sick would sicken no longer,
The blind would gladden and see,—
But man is dust, and what God hath bound
No man that is dust shall free! . . .

‘When darkness over the mountain
Fell, for the day was done,—
Silently down the mountain side
I followed the man, my Son;

‘And I found him standing alone,
On the shore of a stormy sea,—
With hair and raiment backward blown
He prayed, and he marked not me;

‘And his hands were raised to the sky
Where the angry storm-clouds drave,
“Father, Father,” I heard him cry,
“Stretch down thy hand and save!

‘“That the blind may see, that the sick be heal'd,
That my word may wake the Dead!”
And the storm roll'd on, and the thunders peal'd,
And the lightning flash'd and fled.

‘“Father, Father, if I indeed
Thy dread commandments keep,
Help me to heal the hearts that bleed,
To dry the eyes that weep.

‘“Wearily over the whole world wide
My stricken brethren lie;—
Father in Heaven, look down,” he cried,
“Succour them, since they die!”

‘And lo! he fell on his face and prayed
Alone on the lone sea-shore,
And I watch'd him, trembling and afraid,
Till he stirred and rose once more.

‘And, lo! the storm of the night had fled,
Softly the night-wind blew,
And the clouds were opened overhead,
And the stars were shining through.

‘And the light, like a hand snow-white,
Lay on his golden hair,
As he walked on the shore at the dead o' night
And found me waiting there.

‘Face to face in the silence
We stood by the sleeping sea,—
“Woman,” he said, “what brings thee here,
And wherefore seekest thou Me?”

‘Then my heart broke in my bosom,
And I sank on my bended knee,—
“I am Mary, thy Mother, and all night long
My tears have flowed for thee.

‘“I heard thy voice on the mountain side
Sweet as the wood-dove's cry,
And the doors of Heaven seemed opening wide
And the Spirit of God went by!”

‘Gently he gazed upon me
As I knelt upon my knee,—
“God bless thee, Mary, my Mother,
Dost thou believe on Me?

‘“I have prayed, and my prayer is answer'd,
I have wept, but my tears are done,
My Father in Heaven hath heard my prayer,
And, lo! we twain are One.

294

‘“Even as the love of the Father
The love of the Son shall be;
Even with hands of the Father
The Son shall set men free.

‘“Greater than I is the Father,
And yet we twain are One!”
Weeping I rose to my feet and gazed
In the face of the man, my Son.

‘“Alas, alas, my Jesus!
Thy riddle is hard to read,—
The God of Israël dwelleth afar,
And hath neither Son nor seed!

‘“No eye of a mortal fathom can
The waters of Death and Doom,—
Seed art thou of a mortal man,
And grew in thy mother's womb!

‘“Come home, come home, my Jesus,
And dwell in peace with me—
The Lord is the Lord of Heaven and Hell,
Thy mother hath only thee.”

‘Sadly he gazed upon me,
Frowning he turn'd away,
“Woe to thee, woman of little faith,
In the dawn of my Judgment Day!

‘“I have no brethren, I have no mother,
Save those who believe on Me!
Son of my Father am I, and no other
Judgeth the lost, and thee!”

‘Sadly he gazed upon me
With eyes all woe-begone,
Full of the hunger of Godhead
That gleam'd in the eyes of John!

‘But when I clutched at his raiment,
He wept and turned from me,
And passed on shipboard, and sailed away
With the wild-eyed men o' the sea;

‘And his voice rang out once more
From the deck of the ship, and lo!
The sick and blind flocked down to the shore,
And wail'd as they watch'd him go!

‘And swiftly into the Night
He flew, as a sea-bird flies,
And the lepers gathered upon the height,
And wail'd to the empty skies.’

The Leper said:
‘Lord God, if Thou art just,
Heap earth upon my head,
Bury me, dust to dust!
I did not crave to be,
Yet lo, I crawl i' the sun,
And if Thou healest not me,
Slay me and set me free—
So let Thy Will be done!’

The Blind Man said:
‘Lord God, I seek the Light—
Wherever my cold feet tread,
'Tis night, eternal night.
Darkly I've sought for Thee,
Dear Lord, since life begun,
But since I still must be,
God, give me eyes to see—
So let Thy Will be done!’

The Mad Man said:
‘Lord God, uplift Thy hand!
Demons and spectres dread
Fill me at Thy command!
I loathe Thy works and Thee,
O Thou Almighty One,
I did not crave to be—
Slay me, or set me free,
So let Thy Will be done!’

God said:
‘Peace! for your cry is vain,—
I weave of quick and dead
An ever lengthening chain.
Peace! from my Law and Me
No man escapeth,—none,—
Long as the earth and sea
Endure, these things shall be,—
For so My Will is done!’

'Twas Mary, the gentle Mother,
Listen'd with lips apart,
While the voice from the lonely mountain
Flow'd thro' her empty heart.

‘Fairer he is and gentler
Than other mortals be,
But his thoughts are yonder in Heaven,
Not here on the earth with me.

295

‘I would to God he were lying
A babe on my breast this day,—
The light of his eyes is the light o' love,
But it shineth so far away!

‘I hear a voice still crying
Aloud to the sons of men,
But the cry of the babe on my bosom
Will never be heard again!

‘Rabbi the people call him,
Rabbi and Master and King;
He breaketh bread on the mountain,
While I sit famishing!’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Gazed from the bower and said:
‘He healeth the spots of the Leper,
He raiseth up the Dead!

‘And lo! as he passeth the gateway
With ragged throngs behind,
Out of the lanes are crawling
The sick and the halt and the blind;

‘E'en as a King of the people
He passeth on his way,
And whoso toucheth his raiment-hem
Is straightway healed, they say!

‘Their bread he multiplieth,
He turneth their water to wine—
Surely this Man, O Mother,
Is more than flesh of thine?’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Bowed down her head and cried,—
‘The God of Israël bless him
From morn to eventide!

‘Flesh of my flesh, O Mary,
Bone of my bone, is he,—
In my womb he grew, from my womb he fell,
And I nursed him on my knee.

‘From place to place he passeth,
Stately and tall, like one
Who walketh on thrones to his kingdom,
And yet . . . he is my Son!

‘Gladly my soul would greet him
Though he were thricefold King,
But ever behind him as he walks
The Shadow is following!

‘Man is a spark in the darkness,
His days are only a breath,
The wings of the Lord are wide as the world
And the shadow thereof is Death.’

'Twas Mary, the grey-haired Mother,
Rose trembling on her feet—
‘The ways of the world are many,
But yonder, all ways meet!

‘The wings of the Lord are mighty
And shadow all things that be,—
I hear their sounds in the silence
Deep as the sound of the Sea.

‘The heart of the Temple is cloven,
The high-priest waileth aloud,
The wrath of the Lord is growing,
Black as the thunder-cloud.

‘The rose and the Hûleh lily
Bloom but a little space,—
After his day man sleepeth,
Alone in a lonely place.

‘Never the dead that sleepeth
Shall slip his shroud and rise—
His ears are sealèd for ever,
Darkness filleth his eyes.’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Stood at the gate and cried:
‘O, hark! they hail him as sent of God,
Promised and prophesied!’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Stood up and tore her hair:
‘Woe worth the day that I was born
Or ever a son did bear.

‘The God of Israël crieth
“There is no God save Me!”
The Elders of Israël gather in wrath
Like waves of a stormy sea.’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Gazed from the gate and cried:
‘Thy Son shall wear a crown on his head,
Yea, and a sword at his side.

296

‘The people cry he is Lord and King,
Tho' he be Son of thine,—
O would that I were the Queen o' the King,
Or even his concubine!

‘There is never a man of the sons of men
Who is half so fair as he,—
Be he seed of a mortal or son of God,
He is Master of men and me.’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Sank to her knees and said:
‘Look forth, look forth, and tell me now
Whither my Son's feet tread?’

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
Laughed merrily, answering:
‘His face is turned to Jerusalem,
And there they will crown him King.

‘Be he seed of a mortal or son of God,
The folk will crown him there.’
'Twas Mary the Mother shrieked aloud,
And wept and tore her hair!

‘I hear a Voice he cannot hear,
That crieth “Forbear! forbear!”
I see a Hand he cannot see
That holdeth a sword in the air!

‘The Elders of Israël gather in wrath
Like waves of a stormy sea!
The God of Israël crieth aloud,
“There is no God but me!”

‘The God of Israël crieth aloud
As He to our fathers cried—
“The soul of a man is the breath of a mouth,
But I, the Lord, abide!”’

The Lord and the Law are One
And nought can sunder them!
Wherever their swift feet run
The worlds rock under them!

Wherever the Lord hath pass'd
The Law fulfilleth Him,
E'en Death lies low at last,
For a mightier stilleth him!

One, the Law and the Lord,
That passes and interpasses
Sure, as the sweep of a sword,
Still, as the growth of the grasses!

Two, yet ever the same,
Life and Death for their token—
The Lord that hath no name,
And the Law ne'er broken!

No miracles come of these
Whose miracles are for ever,
Their mystery no man sees,
It is uttered never.

Life and Death and Birth
Betoken their ministration,
On the Earth, and over the Earth,
And through all Creation.

The Law and the Lord are One,
And nought can sunder them!
Wherever their Will is done,
All things bow under them!

Think not with prayer or praise,
When the grave gapes wide for thee,
To stop the sun on its ways
Or turn God aside for thee!

He is Lord to the furthest sun,
With His strength He thrilleth him,
But the Law and the Lord are One,
And His Work fulfilleth Him!

As they parted His raiment among them,
For His vesture casting lots,
On the clouds of the night burnt brands of light
Like crimson leper-spots;

But the storm of the night was over
And the wild winds ceased to cry,
Yea, all was still on the skull-shaped hill
As the Spirit of Death crept by.

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Lay prone beneath the Tree,
And Mary the Maid knelt down and prayed
With Mary of Bethany.

And the light came out of the skies
And struck the Cross on the hill . . .
And Jesus moaned and open'd His eyes,
And the heart of the world stood still!

297

On His head the thorny crown,
His body bleeding and bare,
He woke on the Cross, and gazing down
Beheld His Mother there!

And ‘Mother! Mother dear!’
He murmured smiling sweet,—
And Mary arose, and creeping near
Sobbed, and embraced His feet.

And ‘Mother! Mother dear!’
Softly He sighed again,
And over His wounds, as she sobbed to hear,
Her wild tears ran like rain!

Not to His Father in Heaven,
Not to the empty skies,—
To Mary the Mother He looked, and no other
Blest, with His dying eyes.

The love of the Lord of Heaven
Is a dream that passeth by,
But the love of a mortal Mother
Is a love that doth not die!

The sword of the Lord of Heaven
Husheth His children's cry,
But the love of a mortal Mother
Shines on, tho' God goes by!

Gently He gazed upon her
Who had loved Him last and first,—
Then darken'd again with the cruel pain,
And murmur'd low, ‘I thirst!’

As they set the sponge on a spear
And moisten'd His mouth, He said,
Smiling down on His mother dear,
‘Lo, it is finishèd!’

And He bowed His head on His breast
And utter'd a woeful cry,
And the weariful Mother's lips were prest
To His wounds,—while God went by!

Twas Mary, the happy Mother,
Smiled and knelt on her knee,
And bared her breast and opened her arms
As they drew Him down from the Tree.

She pillow'd His head on her bare breastbone
And gave Him kisses three—
‘In my womb he grew, from my womb he fell,
God giveth him back to me!’

And over the cold still waxen face
Rain'd down her locks o' grey,
And the heavens were black, but the gates of Heaven
Were opening far away;

And the birth-star looked from the gates o' Death
As she rock'd the corse on her knee,
And the Earth lay silently down to watch
In the still bright arms o' the Sea.

On the breast of Mary the Mother
He rock'd beneath the Tree,
And Mary the Maiden sat at His feet
With Mary of Bethany;

And, lo! they croon'd His cradle-song
As she rock'd Him on her knee,—
There was Mary the Mother, and Mary the Maiden,
And Mary of Bethany.

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Wept as she sang, and cried:
‘My little one sleeps upon my breast,
For, lo! 'tis the eventide.

‘And round and round my cold breastbone
I feel the white milk stir!’
And she wept aloud, and the Maries twain
Wept, and drew close to her.

‘Now dry thine eyes, O Mother dear,
Smile and be comforted,—
Thy Son doth sleep, but thy Son shall wake
To judge both Quick and Dead.

‘Thy Son hath promised to wake again,
And the folk shall bring his crown,—
The clay thou nursest is not thy Son,
But thy Son is looking down.’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Pressed tight her mouth to His:
‘My Son is sleeping upon my breast,
And his red, red mouth I kiss.

298

‘By the milk that stirreth around my heart
I know my little one;
By the flesh that was woven in my womb I know
The flesh and the bone of my Son.

‘I hold him now, I clasp him now,
He is mine for evermore,
For the sun hath sunken upon his wrath,
And the day of his Dream is o'er.

‘Never more will he open his eyes
To waken and weep!
Never more will the wind and the rain
Trouble his sleep!

‘The heart of the Temple is cloven,
The High Priest teareth his hair,
But God is good, He giveth me back
The fruit that my womb did bear!

‘Yea, God is good, for my Son is mine
To cherish and clasp and keep,—
And I too, holding him in my arms,
Shall croon myself to sleep!’

'Twas Mary, the bright-eyed Maiden,
Rose up her height and cried:
‘The womb of the night is cloven with light!
He liveth, and hath not died!

‘He liveth, Lord and Master of men,
And he shall rise and reign!
For man is dust, and the hand of a man
Smiteth at God in vain!’

Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Raised up her face and cried:
‘Go by! the seal of thy God lies here
On the lids of the Crucified!

‘Go by, for I loved my child too well
To bid him waken and weep—
My God is good, and the hand of God
Giveth my little one sleep!’

'Twas Mary of Bethany weeping cried,
‘Hush, for I hear a tread!
They're coming hither over the hill
To seek and bury the dead;

‘And one uplifteth a torch on high
To light them as they go,
And they who follow are bearing a shroud
Of linen white as snow!’

And now they've embalm'd His white bodie
With myrrh and spices sweet,
And round and round they've lapt the folds
Of the long, long winding sheet;

And they've bound up tight His bearded chin
With waesome linen bands,
And over His frozen breast they've spread
His yellow waxen hands;

And they've borne Him up to the black hillside
To His lonesome Sepulchre,
And they've set Him down in the narrow place,
And still He doth not stir . . . .

‘Now come away, thou woeful woman,
And leave him sleeping alone,
Let us close the mouth of his Sepulchre
And seal it with a stone!’

'Twas Mary the Mother kissed His cheeks
And sobbed in soul's despair,—
And the torchlight lay like a bloody hand
Upon her poor grey hair.

And from over the hill the stars looked down
With dim sad tearful eyes,
For the cry of the Mother's broken heart
Rang through the empty skies.

(It rang to the foot of the Throne of God
Where all the wide world's woe,
The dole of a million broken hearts,
Melts like a flake of snow.)

'Twas Mary the Maiden weeping cried:
‘Come forth, O Mother dear!’
'Twas Mary the Mother answered, ‘Nay!
Go thou and leave me here!

‘Go forth, go forth, and on your head
All peace and blessing be,
But leave me here with the little Son
I nurst upon my knee!

299

‘There's room here at thy side, my Son,
There's room here with thee,
And O! to hold thee in my arms
Is more than Heaven to me!

‘And thou shalt sleep, and calm as thine
My own deep sleep shall be!
For ever and for evermore
I'll rest, my Son, with thee!’

They have led her forth from the lonesome place,
Despite her woeful moan,
They have closed the mouth of the Sepulchre
And sealed it with a stone;

And down the hill to Jerusalem
They pass, but leave the three—
There is Mary the Mother, and Mary the Maiden,
And Mary of Bethany.

'Twas Mary, the dark-eyed Maiden,
First dried her weeping eyes:
‘O Mother dear, we will keep watch here,
For lo! he will arise!

‘Master and Lord of men was he,
And he will wake again,—
Yea, ere he died he prophesied
That he would rise and reign!

‘He is not dead, but only sleeps,
And soon shall rule again—
O Mother dear, we'll keep watch here,
Till he doth rise and reign!’

'Twas Mary the Mother answered not,
But sat like a frozen thing,
Her dim dark eyes on the door o' the Tomb,
Vacant and famishing.

The first night they sat waiting there
The great Deep thunder'd loud,
And the lightning Snakes crept in and out
Their soot-black caves of cloud;

The next night they sat waiting there
Came Silence strange and chill,
And the stars hung watching out of heaven.
And the heart o' the world stood still;

The third night they sat waiting there
The winds began to cry,
And a cold snow fell from the frozen stars,
And the Spirit of Death went by!

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Rose to her feet and said:
‘The gate of the Tomb is sealèd fast,
And the Light of the world hath fled.

‘Never again shall the man, my Son,
Brighten the night or the day—
The soul of a man is the breath of a mouth,
And lo! it passeth away!

‘And it's O! for the kiss of his mouth,
And the touch of his hand,—aye me!
My day is dark, for the Lord my God
Hath taken my child from me!

‘And it's O! for his long, long sleep,
Alone in a lonely place,—
My Son is dead, for the wrath of the Lord
Hath fallen and hidden his face.

‘O had ye left me lying there,
At his side or at his feet,
In peace, in peace like a fount that falls,
My heart had ceased to beat!’

Then Mary, the gentle Maiden,
Answer'd her cry and said:
‘Wait on, wait yet, for a heavenly sign
That our Lord is quick, not dead!’

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Stood up and rent her hair:
‘Woe worth the day that I was born
Or ever a son did bear!

‘How shall the hand of a mortal
Gather the sheaves of the Lord?
The hand of a man is ashes and dust,
God's hand is fire and a sword!

‘How shall the seed of a woman
Master Euroclydon?
A woman's seed is as thistlebloom,
And lo, with a breath 'tis gone!

‘My son was fair as a lily,
His hair was of golden sheen,
But the lilies of Sharon perish
When the winds of the Lord blow keen!

300

‘What man shall stand in the whirlwind
Where only the Lord may stand?
The feet of the Lord are on the Dead,
And the Quick blow round like sand!’

Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Crept down from Calvary,
Held up by Mary the Maiden
And Mary of Bethany;

And over the hill the Dawn'd bright feet
Plash'd in the Night's cold springs,
And a lark rose, shaking the drops o' pearl
From the tips of his dewy wings;

And the heart of the world throb'd deep and strong
As on Creation's Day,
And the skies that roof the happy earth
Were as blue and as far away!

Shepherd dear, the winds blow cold,
'Tis dark, so dark, on the wintry wold,—
Waken and gather thy flocks to fold!

Over the stormy hills they roam,
Feebly crying they go and come,
With never a Shepherd to help them home.

Shepherd dear, ere the day was done,
Around thy feet in the summer sun
They flock'd, and were counted one by one;

Thy white hands blest them, Shepherd dear,
And thy voice said sweetly: ‘Be of cheer!
The fold is open, and I am here.’

Now, alas! the light hath fled,
The heavens are starless over head,—
We listen still for thy voice, thy tread.

So cold, so still, this wintertide,
Thou sleepest, who wast once their guide,—
Thy crook lies broken at thy side.

The cold snow falls, the shrill winds cry,
The flocks are scatter'd, they droop and die,
And there's never a star in the wintry sky.

Alas! thou dost not see or hear!
In the frozen sheepfold, Shepherd dear,
Thou sleepest on, while we weep in fear.

Shepherd, Shepherd, the winds blow cold!
'Tis dark, so dark, on the wintry wold,—
Waken, and gather thy flocks to fold.

AD MADONNAM.

I.

If I could worship in these Shrines at all,
Methinks that 'twould be yonder, where I see
The Holy Mother fair and virginal
Holding the radiant Child upon her knee:
For Rome, eternal foe of all things free,
Still quick tho' stretch'd out cold 'neath Peter's pall,
By this one gift of grace redeems her fall
And makes amends to poor Humanity.
Madonna, pure as mortal mothers are,
Type of them all, for ever calm and good,
Over thy Son thou shinest like a star
While at thy milky breasts His mouth finds food . . .
Holiest and best of all things, holier far
Than Godhead, is eternal Motherhood!

II.

Nineteen sad centuries have passed away,
Madonna, since this Man thy Son was slain,
Since pillow'd on thy breast thy dead Child lay
Nor heard thy moan of deep despair and pain:
So long! and all earth's tears have fallen in vain
Upon the grave that covereth that sweet clay—
Thou, too, didst cease to watch and plead and pray,
And slept at last never to wake again.
Best of all living creatures, thou alone
Whom God Himself had chosen (saith the Screed!)
Thou, Virgin of the Lily, must have known
If He, thy Son, was Son of God indeed;
Yet thou ('tis written) didst that claim disown,
Denying godhead to this Man, thy Seed!

301

III.

‘His Mother and His Brethren stood without
And waited!’ Ah, poor Mother, full of tears
While men believed and gladden'd, thou couldst doubt
And to that cry of godhead close thine ears!
Thro' the dark cloud of those forgotten years
I hear thee moaning yet, ring'd round about
With maniac faces, while the madmen shout
And high 'gainst Heaven the crimson Cross appears.
Mother of God! and yet thou couldst deny
In thine excess of love the Godlike claim!
Chosen of God,—yet thy despairing cry
Rose up to God in passionate grief and shame,
While, wraptinkingly robes thy Son went by,
Nor answer'd when thy lips did breathe His name!

IV.

His face was raised to Heaven, not turn'd to thee,
While thou didst call Him back from that mad quest;
Taught by thy Mother's heart, thine eyes could see
The piteous end of His divine unrest. . . .
Ah, well, God heard thy cry, and on thy breast
Again He sleeping lay, and thou and He,
United at God's feet, eternally
Abide in peace, of all things last and best. . . .
And yet, God knows! We know not! Wherefore, then,
The weary strife, the fret that ceaseth never,
Wherefore the witless want which maddeneth men,
The cruel sleepless quest, the long endeavour,
If, having waken'd once, we sleep again,
And lose our heritage of Love for ever?

V.

Our heritage of Love! . . Life and not Death,
Light and not Night, we seek from age to age;
The Spirit Thou hast kindled with Thy breath
To serve thee, Lord of Life, demands its wage!
Amid Thy tempests that for ever rage,
Man at Thy conjuration travaileth:
‘I did not crave to be, O God!’ (he saith)
‘But since I am, give me my heritage!
What Thou hast quicken'd, what Thy power hath taught
To serve Thee through all moods of doubt and fear,—
The mystic mood that flashes back Thy Thought,
The love that seeks Thy Heaven, and finds it here,—
These are Thy works, and what Thy hand hath wrought
Claims service still, from sleepless year to year!’

VI.

And yet, alas, the ways of God are dark,
His purpose hid, His will a mystery,—
No sign or voice that man may see or hark
Hath ever broke His Law's Eternity.
A little space we strive, then cease to be,
A day we smile, and then lie stiff and stark,
Forgotten 'neath the dust with none to mark,
Silent, Madonna, like thy Son and thee!
God gave no answer to our Brother's prayer,
The empty Heavens echoed back His cry;
He fainted 'neath the load we all must bear
That bitter day they led Him forth to die,—
‘Father,’ He cried, in darkness and despair,
And drank the cup no hand hath yet put by!

VII.

Gentle and loving was this Man, thy Seed,
And innocent as any lamb at play,
For all the woes of man His heart did bleed,
Yea, till the wrath of God made dark His day,
Till with the whole world's woe His soul grew gray,
As radiant as the morning was His creed:
To heal the sick, to succour folk in need,
To bless the poor and wipe their tears away . . .

302

Then groping darkly, maddening in His place,
Vainly He sought to grasp what none may find,—
For never tongue can speak or eye may trace
The Mystery God keeps dark from humankind,
And he who seeks to front God face to face
Is, by that Sun of Wonder, stricken blind!

VIII.

And lo! the issue! Of that loving Word
Thy dear one spoke, a multitudinous moan!
Not peace thy Son hath sent us, but a Sword
Shapen cross-wise, that flames from zone to zone!
And still the weary generations groan,
And still the vials of God's wrath are poured
On innocent and guilty, and the Lord
Veileth the very footstool of His Throne!
And unto every man, as to thy Son,
Cometh, at last, the same dark dread and doom—
All that our hands have wrought, our prayers have won,
Endeth with Him in utterness of gloom,
Our brief day endeth, and our Dream is done,
And lo! the woven shroud, the opening tomb!

IX.

Patient Madonna, with the heavenly eyes
Not upward bent, but downward on thy Child,—
Within thy open arms is Paradise
Happy and innocent and undefiled!
Smile thus, as many a mother sweet hath smiled,
Forgetful of that Shadow in the skies,—
Hushing the whole world's woe, and all the wild
Tumult of Nature, in thine Infant's cries;
And there, beneath that ever-loving gaze,
Eternal Child, find peace and calm at last!
Deaf to Thy passion, heedless of Thy praise,
God dwelt afar off in the empty Vast,
But Thou returnedst, after many days,
Unto the Heaven whence Thy feet had passed!

I.

And O Madonna mine! O dear grey-hair'd
Mother, of human mothers first and best,
All that my soul hath sought, my dream hath dared,
All that my youth and hope thought good-liest
Depart, and leave me crying for thy breast!
A child again, I see thy bosom bared,
And, lo! I falter to the place prepared
Where, after life's long fever, I may rest!
This gift alone, when the long day is done,
I ask from Him who holds all gifts in store—
After the weary battle, lost or won,
To find thy love and blessing as before,
To be again thy little helpless son,
And feel thy dear arms round me evermore!

II.

Thou sleepest, Dear!—and yet a little space
I stir above thee, waiting for a sign:
Colder than coldest marble is thy face,
Shut are thine eyes, I cannot see them shine;
But thou wilt waken! and thine arms will twine
Around me in the dark and narrow place
Where thou art lying, and again God's grace
And blessing will be on us, Mother mine!
My hair is grey like yours, my faltering feet
Are weary, and my heart grows chill and cold,
Faint is the prayer my feeble lips repeat,
Sad is the soul that once was bright and bold,
But when at last thou wakenest, smiling sweet,
I'll be thy child again, not worn and old.

A CATECHISM.

What is thy name?
Robert Buchanan.

Who
Gave thee that name?

Those from whose seed I grew,

303

He from whose loins I sprang, she in whose warm
Womb I grew shapen into flesh and form,—
Whereby I first did crawl, then walked upright
A child, inheritor of Life and Light.

What did thy Father and Mother then for thee?

Three things they swore: firstly, to shelter me
From all things evil, teaching me to find,
Through love for them, due love for all Mankind;
Next, that through that first faith, made ripe and good
Through human motherhood and fatherhood,
My soul should learn to apprehend and know
The Parentage Divine whence all things flow;
Lastly, that, walking all my nights and days
In love and reverence, I should learn God's ways
And His commandments. These things in my name,
They promised and fulfill'd, until I came
To full estate of all Life's joys and woes;
And as the measure of my love for those
Who first made Earth a happy dwelling-place,
And ring'd me round with offices of grace,
So may my love for all things measured be
Now and for ever, through Eternity.

Dost thou still think that thou art bound in right
To keep those pledges?

Yea, and morn and night
I keep them; if I stumble unawares,
The fault is on my head, and not on theirs
Who hold me dear for ever in their sight,
And turn'd my face to Heaven, to feel the Light.

Rehearse the articles of thy belief.

I do believe in God, supreme and chief
Of all things, first and last;—whose works proclaim
His glory, and the glories of His name;
I do believe in all the gods that shine
Beneath Him, humanised for eyes like mine
To images of loveliness divine;
I do believe that through my Father in Heaven
My sins (if Sin could be) would be forgiven,
And that, though Death for ever passes by,
Whate'er hath come to life can never die.

Thou saidst ‘If Sin could be’?

If Sin be blent
Into my nature as its element,
Then 'tis my God's as surely as 'tis mine;
But since I know my Father is Divine,
I know that all which seemeth Sin in me
Is but an image and a mystery.

Who is the God of Earth and Sea and Sky
All-living and all-knowing?

He is I;
Impersonal in all that seems to be,
He first and last grew personal in me;
His inward essence shines behind these eyes;
His outer form in all they recognise.

Hath He no Being, then, apart from thee?

None.

Yet abideth through Eternity?

As I abide.

Yet is He Lord of Death?

Yea, and if I should perish, perisheth.

Is He not more than thou?

He is the Whole
Of which I am the part, yet this my Soul
Is He, and surely through this sight of mine
He sees Himself and knows Himself Divine.

Now, name His attributes?

They have but one name,—
Love, which embracing all things grows the same

304

As that it contemplates.

Lov'st thou the Lord?

Nay; tho' I bow before His will and word.

How doth He manifest Himself?

In me,
And in mine other self, Humanity.

Name the Commandments!

Ten. Thou shalt have one
God, and one only (may His will be done!)
Thou shalt not fashion graven images
Of Him, or any other, and to these
Give prayer or praise; nor shall thy faith be priced
By any priest of Christ or Antichrist,
In any Temple or in any Fane;
Thou shalt not take the Name of God in vain.
All days shalt thou keep holy, pure and blest,
Six shalt thou labour, on the seventh rest,
But every day shall as a Sabbath be
Of heavenly hope and love and charity.
Honour thy father and thy mother,—not
That God may lengthen and make bright thy lot,
But that the love thou bearest them may spring
Fountain-like to refresh each living thing
Which lives and loves like thee. Slay not at all,—
Neither to feed thy wrath, nor at the call
Of nations lusting in accursèd strife,
Nor to appease the Law's black lust for life;
But take the murderer by the hand, and bring
Pity and mercy for his comforting.
Tho' thou must never an Adulterer be,
Deem not the deed of kind Adultery,
But reverence that function which keeps fair
The Earth, the Sea, the Ether, and the Air,
And peopling countless worlds with lives like thine,
Maketh all Nature fruitful and divine;
For as thou dost despise thy flesh and frame
Shalt thou despise the Lord thro' whom they came,
And if one act of these thou deemest base
Thou spittest in the Fountain of all Grace.
Thou shalt not steal, nor any lie sustain
Against thy neighbour; covet not his gain,
His wife, or aught that's his to have and hold,
For robbing him, thou rob'st thyself tenfold!

What dost thou learn from these Commandments?

Love
For things around me, and for things above
Worship and reverence; hate of deeds that sin
Against the living God who dwells within
This Temple of my life; obedience
To that celestial Light which issues thence.

Swearest thou to renounce, reject, and shun
The Flesh and all the lusts thereof?

Not one;
For these are of the godhead, which is I,
And if this Flesh could pass, this Soul must die.

Shall not the Flesh dissolve and disappear?
Shall not this Body which surrounds thee here
Pass into nothingness?

Never, since 'tis made
Of God's own substance, which can never fade.

Dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, God's Son?

In Him, and in my Brethren every one:
The child of Mary who was crucified,
The gods of Hellas fair and radianteyed,
Brahm, Balder, Guatama, and Mahomet,
All who have pledged their gains to pay my debt
Of sorrows,—all who through this world of dream
Breathe mystery and ecstasy supreme;
The greater and the less: the wise, the good,
Inheritors of Nature's godlike mood;

305

In these I do believe eternally,
Knowing them deathless, like the God in me.

How many sacraments hath God ordained
Whereby the strength of man may be sustained?

None; since all sacraments in Man are blent,
And I myself am daily sacrament.

Dost thou not realise that, being base,
Thou art lost for ever, if no saving grace
Were sent in pity out of yonder sky?
Dost thou not know that, answering man's cry
For help and aid, thy God who is Divine
Put on a human likeness such as thine,—
Knew all thy doubts and fears, was foully slain,
Died, rose a space, and shall arise again?

Death cannot touch the Lord my God. I know
That in a dream of death long years ago
Mine Elder Brother beautiful and fair
Inherited life's sorrow and despair,
And being weary of the garish day
Died, blessing me. He hath not passed away,
But filling all the world with His sweet breath
Walks, watch'd by two pale Angels, Sleep and Death.

Dost thou not in thine inmost heart believe,
Despite the lies which faithless sophists weave,
In Holy Church?

All Churches, great or small!
But most, that roof'd with blue celestial,
And fairer far than Temples built by hands,
Which, while all others fall, survives and stands!
More, I believe in Hell, and hope for Heaven!
Yea, also, that my fears may be forgiven,
And that this Body shall arise again
To Light and Everlasting Life. Amen.

ANTIPHONES.

I. The Love of God.

How can I love Thee, God that madest me?
Who saith he loves Thee, lies!
Behold him, mouthing on his bended knee,
Upgazing to the skies!

Thy works, Thy wonders, Thine Omnipotence?
Shall these awake my love?
Nay, these are only phantoms of the sense
Whereby I live and move!

Thy mercies and Thy gifts?—Thy large delight
In making living things?
Love is not born of any token bright
Imperial Nature brings.

I love my fellow men, I love this hound
Who gently licks my hand,
I love the land around me, and the sound
Of children in the land.

But Thee? I love not Thee!—Stoop down, come near
To me whom Thou hast made,
Then I may know Thee close, and hold Thee dear,—
But now I shrink afraid.

There's never a helpless thing surrounding me,
No timid bird or beast,
I love not better far, O God, than Thee,
Tho's Thou be first, these least.

I love the maid I woo, the mother whose touch
I feel upon my brow,
The friend who grips my hand!—for these are such
As I, and not as Thou.

Thou Vision of my Thought! Thou Mystery
Of which men preach and rave!
I would not look, if Heaven held only Thee,
One foot beyond the grave!

306

I seek the gentle ones who once were near,
Not Thee, O light above,—
I crave for all who learn'd to love me here
And whom I learn'd to love!

Out of Thy Darkness to this Light I came,
Thro' whim or wish of Thine,
O Miracle! O God unknown! O Name
Eternal and Divine!

And since Thy Glory fills these nights and days
That are so fugitive,
I give Thee thanks, O God, I give Thee praise,
But love I cannot give!

II. Contra Christum.

No Mediator, none! If thou art God,
Thy torments were self-wrought;
If thou wast Man, despised and undertrod,
Thy sorrows teach me nought.

I look within and find my Godhead there,
Not yonder on the Cross!
Sharer of my soul's doubt, my heart's despair,
My daily gain and loss,

How shouldst thou mediate for me and mine
Who art thyself not free?
If thou thyself wast deathless and Divine,
What part hast thou with me?

If thou art but the Son, and like the rest
Fell slain before God's Throne,
Then will I love thee (lo! my hand is prest,
Dear Comrade, in thine own!)

But if thou art the Father in disguise,
I snatch my hand away—
Back to thy realm, back to thy silent skies,—
I'll wait thy Judgment Day!

I search within, I find my one God still.
What answereth He? ‘Had I
Been God all-Powerful, fashioning to my will
All things that creep or fly,

‘I had not built their glory or their gain
On endless suffering,
I had not blent my Godhead with the pain
Of any living thing.’

Can the all-Powerful be all-Pitiful?
The all-Cruel be all-Kind?
If this be so then thou, my God, art null,
Then thou, my Soul, art blind!

No Mediator, then! Soul of my Soul,
God of my Thought, rest free:
Sure of myself while the long ages roll,
I turn in peace to Thee.

III. My Enemy.

Like to a Leper clings this man to me,
I strike at him in vain!
My soul is haunted by mine enemy
In endless forms of pain.

I would forget him, turning in delight
To those my soul holds dear.
I cannot. Like my shadow, day and night,
Mine enemy is here.

My very being, blighted with his breath,
Droops like a thing forlorn,
Yea, with his presence, dim and dread as Death,
My living force is worn.

I scorn him as the dust beneath my feet,
I curse him loud or low—
God hears me yonder on His Judgment Seat,
And yet he doth not go.

Yea, even more firmly than the first and best
Of mortals loved by me,
Clingeth with fierce hands on my wounded breast,
This man, mine enemy!

Sometimes, when fiercely struggling throat to throat,
Like snakes that intertwine,
Our eyes meet, and within his eyes I note
An agony like mine.

307

Sometimes, when God doth beckon from His skies
And bids me climb or soar,
I see great tear-drops in the hated eyes
That mock me ever more.

And now I know that neither I nor he
Can ever part at all,—
If I arise, I lift mine cnemy,
And if he falls, I fall!

Nay, then, we two must down or upward move
With the like end and aim,—
The links of Hate are as the links of Love,
Nay (Nature saith) the same!

The same? Nay then, I hold mine enemy
Too near for hate or scorn,
For what I hate in him is born of me,—
Like his own hate, self-born.

At last I pray for him, and praying know
That he and I are one,—
United at God's feet we fall, and lo!
Our foolish strife is done!

IV. Resurrection.

Scorner of Flesh, thou who wouldst plunge in gloom
This radiant thing God made,
What shall abide if this should cease to bloom,
This Flesh Divine should fade?

The Soul? A Flower of which this Flesh is seed?
Nay, Flesh and Soul are one!
Thou who wouldst part this one in twain, take heed,
Lest all should be undone!

This eye of Flesh, to see and apprehend,
Is thy Soul's eye! This clay,
That adumbrates thy Soul, shall find no end
Till that, too, fades away!

Lo, lying with a lily in her hand,
Thy dear one slumbereth,—
Yet on a day she shall arise and stand
Smiling on vanquish'd Death.

All Flesh, all Form, all that was pure and fair
Here on Life's crowded road,
She shall arise,—nay, not one little hair
Shall pass away, saith God!

All that was beautiful, all thine eyes and sense
Saw beautiful and whole,
The Form, the Flesh, no part shall vanish hence,
Since these things are the Soul!

Nought that is beautiful can die,—no form
That once grew fair can fade,—
This flesh shall still be radiant, sweet, and warm,
Form of the soul God made!

From the unconscious to the conscious life
Man hath emerged, to know
Self-knowledge, Sight, victorious o'er the strife
Of Nature's ebb and flow.

The day God can divide this life in twain
Its length of day is done,
But both, be sure, will rise and live again,
If Flesh and Soul are one!

V. Nature.

Nought is so sure as this, that Nature strives
Reckless of human pain,
That on the hecatomb of slaughtered lives
She looks with large disdain.

Canst thou appease her hunger? For a space,
But surely not for long;—
She strews Life's Deep with wreckage of our race,
For she alone is strong.

Behind her footsteps crawl Calamity,
Sorrow, Disease, and Death!
And yet she shareth in the agony
Of these, who are her breath.

308

Gladsome and beautiful, divinely fair,
Eager to blight or bless,
She carries in her heart all life's despair,
Yet still is pitiless.

How then escape her? Summon to thine aid
Thy God, all gods that be,—
Inexorable, silent, undismayed,
She smiles on them and thee.

Fringe of her raiment, dewdrops on her feet,
Gleams of her own surmise,
Thy Gods go with her, fading as they meet
The flashing of her eyes.

Dying yet deathless, changeful yet unchanged,
Still here, though all are gone,
All Love, all Hate, avenging and avenged,
She passeth slowly on.

Yet be of comfort,—let her wend her way!
Watch as she goeth by!
The power which slayeth all things cannot slay
Herself,—who cannot die;

And thou, my soul, art deathless, being part
Of her who is Divine,—
Pulse of that great and ever-beating Heart,
Its length of life is thine!

Destroying all things, she destroyeth nought
(Wherefore, be comforted!)
For if her life could fail within thy thought,
She would herself be dead!

L'ENVOI.

Think not that I blaspheme
Because I worship not this God of thine;
Because I bend not, either in deed or dream,
To that dread Force Divine.

Atheist thou callest me,
Αθεος, he who stands apart from God,
While priests and poets name Him fearfully
And tremble at His nod!

Poets and priests have lied
From immemorial Time, and still they lie;
Close to the ground they watch, dull-soul'd, dull-eyed,
The Lord of Hosts go by!

Not thus in far-off days
The Titan stood, fronting the stars and sun—
Erect he watch'd, with neither prayer nor praise,
The inevitable One!

Αθεος, too, was he
Who everywhere the Soul of Pity saw—
The God he prayed to, yonder in Galilee,
Was not your God of Law!

He dream'd as atheists do
Of love that triumphs on, tho' undertrod;
He worshipt not the gloomy God o' the Jew,
Nor even Nature's God!

The Law, the Might, the Lord,
Won not the worship of the Crucified,—
Murmuring another name, a gentler word,
The last Great Dreamer died.

Alas, he could not heal
The woes of Nature, or subdue her strife,—
But in sublime revolt he made men feel
The piteousness of Life! . . .

It is not reverence
To kneel in Temples priests and slaves upraise:
The Law which sweeps us hither and sweeps us hence
Heeds not our prayer or praise.

It is not blasphemy
To front, Prometheus-like, Eternal Fate!
The God to whom your priests now bend the knee
Left Jesus desolate!

So died he, αθεος,
Seeking in vain to break the Tyrant's rod;
Tormented, like Prometheus, on his Cross,
By all the slaves of God!

309

The New Rome.

(1900.)

PROEM. TO DAVID IN HEAVEN.

THIRTY YEARS AFTER.

Lo! the pale Moon roaming
Thro' the autumn gloaming,
Walking yonder Heavens alone, as many a year ago!
Lo! the dark streets under,
Hush'd their voice of thunder,
Silenced their mighty streams of life, and still'd their wails of woe!
Lo! Night's benediction
Shed on all things sleeping,—
The round still Moon above,—beneath, the River silently creeping!

Do I dream, or waken? . . .
On mine eyelids shaken
Falls the silver dew that shuts so many weary eyes;
Sleeping not, I wander
'Neath the Moon, and ponder,
A dream that wanders in a dream, a soul that sings and sighs—
Sorrow clingeth to me,—
Time hath overcome me,—
Sorrow and Time pursue in vain the friend who was taken from me!

Pale with dead ambition
Comes his Apparition!
Light of life, my boyhood's friend, so beautiful and fair!—
Here in the night he lingers,
Creeps close, with clay-cold fingers
Touches my feverish aching brow, and softly smooths my hair:
My heart breaks within me,
My tears fall, and I name him—
The soul alive with love and light, till the darkness overcame him.

In the City that slew him
My spirit hungereth to him,
Fain would clasp him close, but lo! he fadeth and is gone!
Lone and weary-hearted
I think of days departed,
The shining hope, the golden lure, that led our footsteps on!
That led me even hither
To Night and isolation,
That crowns me with the weary crown of a sunless aspiration!

Is it gone for ever,
The bright young endeavour,
Hope that sang among the stars, and Joy that drank the day?
Has the deeply cherish'd
Aspiration perish'd,
And is the Dream we dream'd of old for ever fled away?
By the strife scarce ended,
By the battle bravèd,
Whisper a magic word to-night, from the grave where I left you, David!

Help me,—I am failing!
So sad, so unavailing,
Seem these weary waiting years, to your long years of rest!
Yours the sweeter sorrow,—
To strive not night or morrow,
But tranquilly to sleep and dream, as on your mother's breast!
Winter stealeth on me,
The snow-time cometh nigh me,—
Aye me! the Spring, when I was young, and sang, and my friend was by me!

When we trod together
Yonder land of heather,
Poets gladden'd in the world, divinely dower'd and born—
Now, the few remaining,
Sad souls westward waning,
Walk sighing and look backward to the darken'd gates of Morn!
Dead Gods sadly beckon,
Godlike Poets follow,—
The hooting of the owl is heard in the Temples of Apollo!

What, then, shall awaken
Souls of men forsaken
By the Poets, by the Gods, by Hope and Faith and Song?

310

Teach me, ere I wander
Through the shadows yonder,
One word of comfort and of joy, to make my spirit strong!
Ah, your voice is silent,
Like those greater voices,—
Gone is the glory of the Dawn, and the music that rejoices!

All I sang and sought for,
Agonised and fought for,
In my hand is faëry gold, these wan and withered leaves
Wherefore still importune
Fame or fickle Fortune?
Ah, wherefore chase the Naked Shape that beckons and deceives?
All I plead and pray for
Is one glimpse of Maytime,—
The light of Morning on the fields of the flower-time and the paly-time!

How should Fame avail me,
If you and God should fail me,
Light of life, my boyhood's friend, who left me long ago?
Empty now, full measure,
O Fortune, all thy treasure—
Tis but a heap of withered flowers, and never a seed to sow!
All I plead and pray for,
Be it night-time or day-time,
Is one red bud of living bloom from the rose-trees of the Maytime!

Here, alone and weary,
I hear man's miserere
Sound from Temples where the Gods stand frozen into stone;
Loud the world complaineth,
But never a Bard remaineth
To stand upon the mountain-tops and trumpet mortals on!
'Tis over, all is over!
The world lies bereaven
Of Time's young dream, of Love's bright lure, of the Hierarchies of Heaven!

Love me, David, love me!
From thy place above me
Send me strength to stand erect, in Life's great Hippodrome!
The mob shrieks ‘Ad leones!’
And on the Imperial throne is
Christ with the crown of Antichrist, lord of another Rome:
His legions shriek around him,
His creatures deify him,
But naked in the ring I wait, while the harlot Fame sits by him.

‘Loosen the wild beasts!’ Hither
Springs Hate, and Falsehood with her,
Fateful, cruel, leonine, they crouch and gaze at me!
How shall arms avail me
When all the horde assail me,
And foulest, spotted like a snake, the leopard, Calumny!
Alone in the arena,
Strewn with dead and dying,
I look into their eyes and wait, while the horde is multiplying!

Love me, David, love me!
Stay and bend above me!
Light of life, my boyhood's friend, there's still no love like thine!
See! I raise in token
This sword blood-red and broken,
And point at yonder scarlet thing, the Fame we deemed divine:
The imperial Harlot rises,
Her cold dead eyes look thro' me,
With shrill clear voice she crieth ‘On!’ and pointeth the wild beasts to me!

'Tis over!—all the splendid
Dream of joy hath ended!
Fame is Death, and Death is Fame,—and Death is victor here!
Once, in days departed,
Dying happy-hearted
I could have borne the martyr's doom,—but now I shrink in fear.
No Heaven opens o'er me,
I hear no heavenly voices!
Gone is the faith which fights or falls, when the heart of youth rejoices!

This we learn, who linger
Beneath Time's wither'd finger,—
In a little while we cease, and all our dream is o'er;
Youth's fair morning vision
Of God and life Elysian
Is but a foolish fantasy, a childish dream no more;
This the wise have taught us
Every weary morrow:
That all the Glory and the Dream are the rainbows of our Sorrow!—

Better cease as you did!
Star-eyed, divinely-mooded,
Hoping, dreaming, passioning, fronting the fiery East!
Better die in gladness,
Than watch in utter sadness
The lights of Heaven put slowly out, like candles at a feast!

311

You emerge victorious,
We remain bereaven:
Better to die than live the heirs of an empty Earth and Heaven!

Stay! and whisper to me
Comfort to renew me—
Say the broken Gods survive, say the dead Bards live yet!
Tell me the Immortals,
Past the grave's dark portals,
Remember all the melodies that we on earth forget!
That, gathering grace together,
Gods and Poets wander
In shining raiment, side by side, thro' a Land of Light up yonder!

Say, the upward-springing
Heirs of noble singing
Fill the starry thrones and keep their heritage supreme—
Swiftly sunward flying
Byron still is crying,
Wordsworth along the calm blue aisles walks in his gentle dream!
Shakespeare, grave and gracious,
Reads some scroll of wonder;
Keats watches Homer's blind blue eyes, while the gods sweep past in thunder! . . .

Ah, the dream, the fancy!
No power, no necromancy,
Peoples Heaven's thrones again or stirs the poet-throng!
Nought can bring unto me
You who loved and knew me,
The boy's belief, the morning-red, the May-time and the Song—
Faintly up above me
Winter bells ring warning—
Aye me! the Spring, when we were young, at the golden gates of Morning!

David Gray. See the Prologue to the author's ‘Undertones,’

THE NEW ROME.

(Kensington Gardens. Late evening.)
THE POET.
Declaiming from a Manuscript.)
‘“The time is out of joint. O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right!”
Yet forth I'll venture, leaping in the lists,
To join the knightly band of Satirists!
For since the hour—’

A VOICE.
Proceed! I'm listening!
Prithee, remember I am always near
When Bards who ought to soar to Heaven and sing
Elect to crawl upon the ground and sneer!

THE POET.
Satan again!

THE NEW-COMER.
I see you recognise me!
The real and only Devil, whose cause dejected
You champion'd 'gainst a world that vilifies me,
And so for Hell's black laurel were selected!
Yea, Satan! Not the gruesome De'il invented
Up north by Kings and ministers demented,
Not the Arch-Knave in bonnet and cock's feather
Who scaled the Brocken peaks in windy weather,
Far less that fop of fashionable flummery
Beloved by Miss Corelli and Montgomery:—
Nay, the true Æon, friend of things created
Whom 'tis your glory to have vindicated!

THE POET.
What brings you hither?

THE ÆON.
Partly to remind you
Of sundry noble themes well worth your while,
My son, to sing of,—but alas, I find you,
Putting this joyful Jubilee behind you,
A-swing on Twickenham's too easy Style!
'Ware satire, friend! and most of all, I pray you,
Shun jogtrot jingles of the pinchbeck Masters!

THE POET.
And if my Muse refuses to obey you?

THE ÆON.
Be damn'd with Austin and the poetasters!

312

But come, your subject?

THE POET.
Rome!—the new-created
And dominant realm which now makes jubilation!
This Empire, which is Rome rejuvenated!

THE ÆON.
Continue, if you please, your declamation!

THE POET.
‘Yet since the hour when in the throat of Wrong
The Roman thrust his blunt-edged sword of song,
Since as a tigress suckling cubs unclean
The Imperial City fed its fiefs with sin,
Full circle round the Wheel of Time hath rolled,
And lo! another Rome, like Rome of old,
Heir of the ages, gathering hour by hour
The aftermath of human pride and power,
Pitiless as its prototype of yore,
Sweeps on with conquering sails from shore to shore!
As Rome was then, when all the gods were dead,
When Faith was gone, and even Hope had fled,
Yet when the Roman still in every land
Knelt and upraised to Heaven a blood-red hand,
So is our England now!—yea here as there,
Temples still rise and millions kneel in prayer—
Pale gods of Peace are carelessly adored,
While priests and augurs consecrate the Sword!
“Honour the Gods!” the people cry who know
Those gods were dead and buried long ago:
Atheists in thought and orthodox in deed
Men throng the forum and uphold the Creed,
For fashion still preserves what Truth hath slain,
Still simulacra of the gods remain,
And still 'tis decent, 'spite the scoffer's sneer,
To keep the word of promise to the ear
And break it—to the Soul!’

THE ÆON.
Bravo! a strain
Which makes the little hunchback squeak again!
Proceed!

THE POET.
You're laughing!

THE ÆON.
As you say!

THE POET.
Doth not the parallel strike home?
Is not the Empire of to-day
Another and a lewder Rome?
Is not this Realm, whose flag unfurl'd
Flies now where'er the surges roar,
Even as that wonder of the world
Sung by your Juvenal of yore?

THE ÆON.
My Juvenal?

THE POET.
At least you'll grant
'Tis such a Bard the people want—
Fearless, free-spoken, sane, and strong,
To smite with stern and savage song
This monstrous Age of shams and lies?

THE ÆON.
Nay, on my soul! I recognise
The justice of your parallel,
As high as Heaven, as deep as Hell;
But not by hate and not by scorn,
Not by the arts of bards outworn,
I work! I conquer and confute
By Love and Pity absolute!
And he who earns my praise must find
The Light beyond these clouds of Fate,—
By love, not hate, for Humankind,
Must he enfranchise and unbind
The slaves whom God leaves desolate!

THE POET.
Amen!

THE ÆON.
For in his throat he lies,
Who, taught by tyrants, sees in me
The Evil Spirit that denies,—
Nay, by my Christ's poor blinded eyes,
My task is to affirm and free!

313

THE POET.
Your Christ?

THE ÆON.
Yea, mine! I claim as kin
All noble souls, however blind,
Who freely stake their lives to win
Respite of sorrow for mankind!
'Tis true He failed, like all who fancy
That tears can stay God's chariot-wheels,
And seek with childish necromancy
The Force which neither spares nor feels.
Peace to His dream! He loved men well,
Despite that superstitious leaven,—
He help'd to calm the unrest of Hell,
Although He failed to climb to Heaven!
Like Him I place beneath my ban,
With sycophant and knave and priest,
Those bitter fools who find in Man
Only the instincts of the Beast!
For now (as you yourself have sung)
In faith in Man lies Man's last chance!
Only the over-old or over-young
Look on Humanity askance!
But to your parallel again—
How do you prove and make it plain?

THE POET.
Look back across the rolling years,
Through Time's dark mist of blood and tears,
Across the graves of those who died
Despite their Saviour crucified,
And mark the imperial City rise
The cynosure of all men's eyes!
Domitian rules! Though men still see
The crimson light on Calvary,
From east to west, in every land,
The Roman banners are unfurled,
And the strong Roman's blood-red brand
Reapeth the harvests of the world.
Shrieks of the slain beyond the foam
Gladden the crowds who rest at home—
The gilded throng at Cæsar's heels,
The runners by his chariot-wheels,
The Priests and Augurs who intone
Praise of the gods around his throne.
A thousand starve, a few are fed,
Legions of robbers rack the poor,
The rich man steals the widow's bread,
And Lazarus dies at Dives' door;
The Lawyer and the Priest adjust
The claims of Luxury and Lust
To seize the earth and hold the soil,
To store the grain they never reap,—
Under their heels the white slaves toil,
While children wail and women weep!—
The gods are dead, but in their name
Humanity is sold to shame,
While (then as now!) the tinsel'd Priest
Sitteth with robbers at the feast,
Blesses the laden blood-stain'd board,
Weaves garlands round the butcher's sword,
And poureth freely (now as then)
The sacramental blood of Men!

THE ÆON.
Ah me!

THE POET.
Pursue the parallel:
Hear the New Woman rant and rage,
Unsex'd, unshamed, she fits full well
The humours of a godless age,—
Too proud to suckle fools at home,
From every woman's function free,
Lo (now as then!) she leads in Rome
The dance of Death and Vanity!
In manly guise she strives with men
In the Arena (now as then!)
Or by some painted Player's side
Sits lissome-limb'd and wanton-eyed,
Forgetting for a Mummer's nod
Her sex, her children, and her God!

THE ÆON.
Stop there! my poet must not flout at Woman!
‘Das Ewigweibliche’ is still my care!
Thro' her, so long the White Slave of the Human,
I mean to baulk the blundering Force up there!
The reign of Fools and Dandies, Prigs and Clerics,
Is o'er, with all its creeds of fiddle-faddle—
And lo, she leaves her vapours and hysterics,
And on the merry wheel she rides astraddle!

314

Unsex'd? Enfranchised, rather! Slave no longer,
Each hour she groweth saner, fairer, stronger,
Full-soul'd in health, redeem'd from superstition,
Yet mightier for her functions of fruition!

THE POET.
To breed and suckle fools and madmen? These
Alone can live in the accurst time coming!
Lo!—all the gods men hailed on bended knees
Are fallen and dead, and o'er the seven seas
Only the little banjo-bards are strumming!
O Age of Wind and windy reputations,
Of Windmill-newspapers that grind no grain!—
Where once the Poet sang to listening nations
The leader-writer pipes his servile strain,
Praises the gods he knows are dead and cold,
Hails the great Jingo-Christ's triumphal car,
Nay, in that false Christ's name, grown over-bold,
Shrieks havoc, and lets loose the dogs of War!

THE ÆON.
Nay, pass the peddling knaves whose hands have hurled
Trash by the ton upon a foolish world,
Who print in brutal type the gigman's creed
For the great mass of rogues who run and read!
Come to the Seers and Singers, on whose page
We read the glory of thy Mother-Age—
Off hat to those, the mighty men, whose names
The Empire honours and the world acclaims!

THE POET.
Find them!

THE ÆON.
I' faith, I leave that task to you—
Whom do you honour? Surely one or two?

THE POET.
Not those at least whom Rumour's brazen throat
Trumpets as worthy of the crown and bays—
Dress-suited sages, gentlemen of note,
Sure of the newsman's nod, the gigman's praise.
I turn from them, the sycophantic horde
Who tune their scrannel throats to praise the Lord,
And seek the heights whereon the Wise Men stand . . .
Lo!—the Philosopher!—with cheek on hand
And sad eyes fix'd on God's deserted Throne,
He cries, ‘Rejoice, since nothing can be known!
I show, beyond my ever-lengthening track
Of synthesis, the eternal—Cul de sac!’
Lo, then, the Poet!—happy, and at home
In all the arts and crafts of learnèd Rome,
He sees the bloody pageant of despair,
All Nature moaning 'neath its load of care,
Takes off his hat, and with a bow polite
Chirps, ‘God is in his Heaven! The world's all right!’
Add unto these the Sage who in the school
Of Timon madden'd and became God's Fool,
And all the would-be Titans of the time
Who pant in cumbrous prose or rant in rhyme,—
Where shall one find, to slake his soul's desire,
The piteous mood or cloud-compelling fire?

THE ÆON.
More satire, eh?—I' faith, if you'd your will
The Gods of this our Rome would fare but ill—
You ask too much, my friend! . . . But hark, that cry!
The hosts of Tommy Atkins passing by!
The Flag that for a thousand years has braved
The battle and the breeze is floating there!
What Shakespeare glorified and Nelson saved
Is worth, I think, some little praise and prayer!

315

Even I, the Devil, at that note
Feel the lump rising in my throat!
'Tis something, after all, you must agree,
To mark the old Flag float from sea to sea!

THE POET.
Amen!—God bless the flag, and God bless those
Who bled that it might wave aloft this day,
The nameless, fameless martyrs, who repose
Unwept, unmourn'd, on shores afar away!—
Honour to those who died for this our Rome,
Honour to those who, while we crow at home,
Preserve our freedom for a beggar's pay!
‘Let loose the dogs of War!’ the gigman cries,
Feasting on gold while Tommy starves and dies;
‘Glory to England and to us its brave!’
He shouts, while hirelings dig the soldier's grave!
O shame! O mockery! for a little gold
The freedom which we vaunt is bought and sold,—
And when a foeman smites us in the face,
‘A blow!’ we cry; ‘prepare the battle-field!’
Then bribe a starving wretch to take our place
And draw the ancestral sword we fear to wield!

THE ÆON.
You're out of temper with the times
And overstate your accusation,—
'Tis not her follies or her crimes
That keep this England still a Nation!
The gigman's lust, the bagman's greed,
The counter-jumper's peddling creed,
Are foam and froth of the great wave
Of Freedom rolling proudly on—
This England's heart of hearts is brave
And duteous as in ages gone!
The mercenary, who fulfils
The bloody deed another wills,
No alien is,—within his veins the bold
And fearless blood of a great race is flowing—
The flower of Valour, though 'tis bought and sold,
At least is home-bred and of English growing!
Enough of Rome! My Poet's gentle eyes
Are blinded with the City's garish day—
Sleep in the Moonlight for a time! you'll rise
Renew'd and strong, and Care will wing away.
Yonder among the hills of thyme and heather
I'm holding Jubilee myself full soon;
The Spirits of the Age will feast together
And there'll be merry doings 'neath the moon.
Join us! you'll find the mountain air more pleasant
Than this foul City gas you breathe at present;
Since to your soul these voices sound abhorrent,
Exchange them for the voices of the Torrent;
With dewy starlight freshen up your fancy,
Dip once again in Nature's lonely fountains,
And when you've drunk your fill of necromancy,
Flash back to Rome your message from the Mountains!

See ‘The Devil's Case, passim

See infra ‘The Last Faith.’

316

Songs of Empire.

‘Monstro, quod ipse tibi possis dare: semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia: nos te,
Nos facimus, Fortuna, Deam, cœloque locamus!’
Juv., Sat. x.

CARMEN DEIFIC.

I.

Awake, awake, ye Nations, now the Lord of Hosts goes by!
Sing ye His praise, O happy souls, who smile beneath the sky!
Join in the song, O martyr'd ones, where'er ye droop and die!
The Lord goes marching on!

'Mid tramp and clangour of the winds and clash of clash of clouds that meet,
He passeth on His way and treads the Lost beneath His feet;
His legions are the winged Storms that follow fast and fleet
Their Master marching on!

From battlefield to battlefield He wends in royal array,
Dead worlds are strewn like wither'd leaves on His triumphal way,
The new Suns blossom at His touch, the old spent Suns grow grey;
Their Lord goes marching on!

His eyes are blind with their own Light, He knows not where He goes,
The Day before, the Night behind, with all its wails and woes,
And ever more on foul and fair His glory overflows
As He goes marching on!

He is the Sea without a bound, for ever strong and free,
Lord of the worlds that break like waves, and every wave is He,
He is the foam that flies and falls and yet He is the Sea
For ever rolling on!

He could not if He would turn back and listen to thy prayer,
He could not if He would dispel the clouds of thy despair,—
Impotent in omnipotence He wends He knows not where,
For ever marching on!

He hath no time to pause a space and look upon thy Dead,
How should He heed the living dust He crushes 'neath His tread?
Blind, deaf, and dumb, He heareth not when prayer or curse is said,
But still goes marching on!

Awake, awake, ye Nations, now the Lord of Hosts goes by!
Sing ye His praise, O happy ones, who round His chariot fly,
Join in the song, if so ye list, ye Lost, who droop and die,—
The Lord goes marching on!

II.

Out of the dust beneath His tread,
Ashes and dust beneath His train,
Dust and earth of the living-dead,
Rises this ant-heap of Rome again!
Tower and turret and palace-dome,
Mart and temple, arise once more . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?

Quickens the dust to a human cry,
Ashes and dust take shape and form,
Once again as the Lord goes by
Ashes are living and dust is warm,
Crowds to our insect cities come,
Legions of ants increase their store . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?

317

Empire fair as any of old,
Proud it stands in the rosy light!
For crumbs of bread and morsels of gold
Its people struggle from morn to night,
Seize their plunder and carry it home,
Slay each other like folks of yore,—
So they slew in that other Rome
Plucking the laurels the Cæsars wore!

A little while and a little life—
A little life and an endless rest—
An endless rest to the fever'd strife
Of atoms heedlessly ban'd or blest!
Others have made this clod their home,
Lived and vanished through Death's dark door . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels the Cæsars wore?

III.

‘How long, my love,’ she whisper'd,
‘How long shall it be,—
The light upon the mountain-tops,
The sunlight on the sea?
For ever and for ever,
Or only for a day?’
He drew her gently to him
And kiss'd her tears away—
‘Perchance, dear love, for ever,
Perchance for a day!’

‘How long, my love,’ she whisper'd,
‘How long shall it be,—
The joy that thrills across the earth
And mingles you and me?
For ever and for ever,
Too sweet to pass away?’
He sigh'd, ‘If not for ever,
At least for a day!
So heart to heart, my darling,
If only for a day!’

IV.

Stand up, Ephemeron!
This hour at least is thine, though it must fly!
So waste it not by gazing at the sky
With eyes so woe-begone!

Thou shalt be dust anon,
Who now art rapture and a living thing!
Grasping what gifts the winged moments bring,
Rejoice, Ephemeron!

Increase, Ephemeron!
Thou hast a time to quicken in delight,
And after thee shall others no less bright
Follow, when thou art gone!

Be proud and buckle on
Thy pigmy armour and thine insect mail!
Strive with thy kind, and, though a thousand fail,
Emerge, Ephemeron!

V.

If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
If from a throne omnipotent I ruled all things that be,
Tidings of light and love I'd send as far as thought could fly,
And one great hymn of happiness should sound from sky to sky,—
And on your brow my gentle hand should shed the saving dew,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!

If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
And in the dark you prayed and wept and I could hear and see,
The sorrow of your broken heart would darken all my day,
And never peace or pride were mine, till it was smiled away,—
I'd clear my Heaven above your head till all was bright and blue,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!

If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
Small need for those my might had made to bend the suppliant knee;
I'd light no lamp in yonder Heaven to fade and disappear,
I'd break no promise to the Soul, yet keep it to the ear!
High as my heart I'd lift my child till all his dreams came true,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!

318

VI.

A Voice was heard in the night, and it haunts the night for ever,
And these are the words of the Voice that God shall silence never:

‘How often, God of the Glad, and God of the Lost, shall I name Thee!
Cursing Thee under breath, too weak to stay Thee or shame Thee!

‘Blundering blindly on, with blood and tears for Thy token,
Thou tramplest down the Weak, yea the Strong by Thee are broken!

‘Yet still Thy praise is heard, the perishing pray unto Thee,—
And lo! I woke in the night, and smiled for methought I knew Thee!

‘I watch'd Thy sacrifice flame up, and I did not falter,
Though the lamb and the little child were offered up on the Altar!

‘I praised Thy Day and Thy Night, Thy manifold works and wonders.
Thy purpose gladden'd my soul, O God of a million blunders!

‘From failure on to failure I saw Thy Light progressing,
I felt the lash of Thy Law, yet knelt to entreat Thy blessing.

‘Thou hast not spared Thy dearest, Thy best beloved Thou art slaying,
Thine ears are shut to the prayers of Thy Saints, yet lo, I am praying!

‘I fear Thee, God of the Night, for Thy Silence hath overcome me.
I hear the wails of the souls Thy Night hath taken from me.

‘Darkness shrouds Thy feet, and darkness Thy Face is veiling—
Shepherd, 'tis dark all round, and Thou comest not to our wailing!’

This Voice was heard in the Night, and the Lord shall still it never!
For those are the words of the Voice that cries in the Night for ever!

THE IMAGE IN THE FORUM.

Not Baal, but Christus-Jingo! Heir
Of Him who once was crucified!
The red stigmata still are there,
The crimson spear-wounds in the side;
But raised aloft as God and Lord,
He holds the Money-bag and Sword.

See, underneath the Crown of Thorn,
The eyeballs fierce, the features grim!
And merrily from night to morn
We chaunt his praise and worship him,
Great Christus-Jingo, at whose feet
Christian and Jew and Atheist meet!

A wondrous god! most fit for those
Who cheat on 'Change, then creep to prayer;
Blood on his heavenly altar flows,
Hell's burning incense fills the air,
And Death attests in street and lane
The hideous glory of his reign.

O gentle Jew, from age to age
Walking the waves Thou could'st not tame,
This god hath ta'en Thy heritage,
And stolen Thy sweet and stainless Name!
To him we crawl and bend the knee,
Naming Thy Name, but scorning Thee!

THE AUGURS.

Darken the Temple from the light,
Shut out the sun and sky,—
In Darkness deep as Death and Night
Lead forth the Lamb to die!
We hold the golden knife aloft, and lo! we prophesy.

Augurs and priests in crimson stoled,
We ring the Altar round:
Above us, gaunt and grey and cold,
The Man-god hangs, thorn-crown'd—
Ragged and wretched waits the crowd, watching, without a sound.

319

With blood their hunger we appease
(Else all our task were vain);
Trembling they watch on bended knees
The Man-god's sculptured pain;
Then wait in wonder while we search the entrails of the Slain!

THE JEW PASSES.

With slow monotonous tread,
A Phantom hoary and grey,
While Heaven was shining overhead,
He wandered on His way:

And still His thin feet bled,
And His eyes were dim with tears—
‘Surely at last,’ He said,
‘My father in Heaven hears?

‘Surely now at last
My Cross is a blossoming tree,—
Evil and sorrow are past,
My Throne is ready for me?’

Worn and wan and white,
He gazed to Heaven and smiled,
And the restless wind of the night
Slept, like a sleeping child.

Slowly along the dark
Unseen by Men crept He,
But the Earth lay silently down to mark
In the soft still arms of the Sea!

He came to a City great,
Silent under the sky,
And the watchmen at the gate
Beheld Him not go by.

Passing the empty mart,
Creeping from shade to shade,
He found at last in the City's heart
A Temple that men had made.

Dark at the Temple door
The ragged and outcast lay,
And Lazarus wail'd once more,
Weary and gaunt and grey.

And an altar-light burn'd there,
And a litany sounded thence—
‘Rejoice! rejoice! for all gods that were
Are banish'd and vanish'd hence!

‘And the only god we know
Is the ghost of our own despair;
Gaze in the glass, and lo!
Is he not mirror'd there?

‘Strong as when time began,
Creature of dust and breath,
God our Lord, the Spirit of Man,
Crown'd with the crown of Death!’

And lo! from earth and sea,
And the skies now overcast,
A voice wail'd, ‘Woe is me!
Death is the first and last!’

He went with silent feet
Thro' loathsome alley and den;
He heard around Him from every street
The moan of the Magdalen.

‘How long, O Lord, how long,’
He heard the lone voice cry,
‘Shall they who wrought the wrong,
While we lie lost, go by?

‘Reach down thy hand,’ it moaned,
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!’

Still and unseen crept He
Into the prison-square,
And He saw the Upas Tree
Of Man's Invention there . . .

High as the Cross it stood,
Cross-wise its shadows fell,
And the sap of the tree was tears and blood
And its roots sank deep as Hell.

‘Rabbi!’ again that cry
Came from a lonely place—
And she who waited to die
Had a Woman's form and face.

‘Reach down thy hand,’ she moaned,
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!

‘The lie, the blight, and the ban,
That doom me, men have cast—
By Man I fell, and my Judge, a man,
Threw the first stone, and last.

320

‘Master, master!’ she said,
‘Hither, come hither to me!’
He left His blessing upon her head,
His curse on the Upas Tree!

And all His soul was stirr'd,
His tears like red blood ran,
While the light of the woeful Word
Flamed on the City of Man!

And the heavens grew black as night,
And the voice cried: ‘Wander on!’
And the cold Moon's arms clung wild and white
Round a World all woe-begone!

He walked upon the Sea,
And the lamb-like waves lay still,
And He came to Calvary
And the Crosses high on the hill.

Beneath His Cross He stood,
Between the thief and the thief;
And lo, the Cross dript blood, dript blood,
And never put forth a leaf!

With slow monotonous tread
He passed from sea to sea.
‘So long, so long!’ He said,
‘And still no sleep for me!’

A SONG OF JUBILEE.

I

Ho, heirs of Saxon Alfred
And Cœur de Lion bold!
Mix'd breed of churls and belted earls
Who worshipped God of old;
Who harried East and harried West
And gather'd land and gold,
While from the lips of white-wing'd ships
Our battle-thunder rolled!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
At the will of the Lord of the Cross and Sword
We swept from sea to sea!

II

And lo, our mighty Empire
Rises like Rome of yore—
Another Rome, that feasts at home
And hugs its golden store;
Another and a mightier Rome!
That, growing more and more,
Now reaches from Saint Paul's great dome
To far Tasmania's shore!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
True strain and seed of the Ocean-breed,
We keep this Jubilee!

III

Liegemen of Bess the Virgin,
Heirs of the harlot Nell!
Our once bright blood hath mix'd with mud
More oft than song need tell;
But through each hour of pride and power,
When free we fought and fell,
What gave us might to face the Fight
Was—faith in Heaven and Hell!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
Though the faith hath fled and our Lord lies dead,
We keep this Jubilee!

IV

Stay! By the Soul of Milton!
By Cromwell's battle-cry!
The voice of the Lord of the Cross and Sword
Still rings beneath our sky!
Our faith lives still in the stubborn Will
No Priest or Pope could buy—
Ours is the crced of the doughty Deed,
The strength to do and die!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
Still sword in hand 'neath the Cross we stand
And keep this Jubilee!

V

Lady and Queen and Mother!
Our long sea-race is run!
Let Love and Peace bless and increase
What Cross and Sword have won!
The nameless guilt, the red blood spilt,
The deeds in darkness done,
All these are past, and our souls at last
Stand shriven in the sun,
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
We Men of the Deep sheathe swords, and keep
Thy bloodless Jubilee!

321

VI

Queen of the many races
That round thy footstool cling,
Take heed lest Cain o'erthrow again
His brother's offering!
Beyond the waves crawl butchering knaves,
Now crouching for the spring,
While stolen gold stains, as of old,
The gift thy legions bring!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
There are robbers still who are fain to spill
Blood, on thy Jubilee!

VII

Ghosts of sad Queens departed
Watch thee from far away:
Not theirs the bliss and calm of this
Thy peaceful triumph-day!
A faith more fearless and serene,
A creed less swift to slay,
Are thine, if thou hast found, O Queen,
A gentler God for stay!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
We thy might proclaim in that one God's Name
On this thy Jubilee.

THE MERCENARIES.

I. Tommie Atkins.

Shrieking and swinging legs, astride
On his native fence, the Cockney cried:
‘Fee faw fum! beware of me!
I am the Lord of Land and Sea!’

Out on the fields, where day and night
The weary warriors strove in fight,
They paused a space to gaze upon
The moat-surrounded fence,—his throne!

And while they heard that war-cry float
From the smug Cockney's raucous throat,
‘Come off the fence,’ they cried, ‘and share
The brunt of battle, if you dare!’

Yet still they heard him shriek and brag
Waving a little schoolboy's Flag,
And angry at his martial mien
They tried to hoot him from the scene!

‘Ho ho!’ he said, ‘if that's your plan,
I'll teach you I'm an Englishman!—
Here, Tommie Atkins,—take your fee,—
Go fight these knaves who flout at me!’

Poor Tommie Atkins waiting stood,
And heard his master's cry for blood,
Then held out hand to take his pay,
And drew his sword, and sprang away!

All day the bloody strife was wrought,
The Cockney shriek'd, while Tommie fought.
Night came, the foe were driven away,—
But Tommie Atkins dying lay.

‘Tommie, what cheer?’ the Cockney said;
Poor Tommie raised his bleeding head,—
‘You've lick'd them, sir!’ poor Tommie cried,
And slowly droop'd his head, and died!

Still on his fence the Cockney swings,
Loud in the air the war-cry rings,
And still, in answer to his cries,
Poor Tommie Atkins bleeds and dies.

II. Nelson's Day.

Here's to the health of Nelson! Hurrah and three times three!
Glory to him who gave us back our birth-right of the Sea!
He gave us back the wide wide Sea, and bade us rule the wave,
And how did we pay him back, dear boys, for that great gift he gave?

Just as his life was ebbing ('Twas in Trafalgar's bay)
He craved one little thing from us for whom he fell that day;
For in that hour of glorious death his last thoughts landward ran,
Since, alas and alas, my Christian friends, he wasn't a moral man!

322

‘Take care of Lady Hamilton!’ the dying hero cried,—
'Twas all he asked from Englishmen for whom he fought and died;
‘Now I have bought you with my blood the Sea and all thereon,
Take care of her I love,’ he said, ‘when I am dead and gone!’

His health, the health of Nelson! health to the good, the brave!
But still we're moral men, dear boys, with moral souls to save . . .
We suffered her he loved to starve, to fill a pauper's grave,—
That's how we paid him back, dear boys, for the great gift he gave!

Honour to Nelson's memory! his health with three times three!
If we are freemen 'twas his gift—he gave us back the Sea,—
Crow, west to east! but while we shout his name from wave to wave,
Think how we paid our Hero back for the great gift he gave!

SONG OF THE SLAIN.

This is the Song of the Weak
Trod 'neath the heel of the Strong!
This is the Song of the hearts that break
And bleed as we ride along,—
From sea to sea we singing sweep, but this is the slain man's Song!

Southward, a shriek of pain,
As the martyr'd races fall!
The wild man's land and his herds we gain,
With the gold that's best of all,—
Because the leaves of the tree are black 'tis meet that they should fall!

Eastward, another cry,
Wrung from the black and red!
But merrily our hosts go by,
Trampling the quick and dead,—
'Tis meet that the heathen tribes should starve, and the Christian dogs be fed.

Westward, close at the door,
A cry for bread and light!
But lo, we hug our golden store
And feast from morn to night:—
Our brother Esau must perish too, altho' his skin be white!

In the name of the Jingo-Christ
We raise our savage song,
In gold the martyr's blood is priced
Wherever we march along,
How should we heed our brother's cry,—he is weak and we are strong!

We have sow'd, and lo! we reap,
We are strong, and lo! we slay;
We are lords of Earth and Deep,
And this is our triumph-day,—
The broken wave and the broken heart are spent, and vanish away!

Ever the Weak must fall
Under the strength of the Strong!
And God (they say), who is Lord of all,
Smiles as we sweep along;
Yet tho' we are strong and our song is loud, this is the slain man's Song!

THE CHARTER'D COMPANIE.

I

The Devil's will is the Devil's still, whereever the Devil may be—
He used to delight in the thick of the fight, whether on land or sea;
'Twas difficult for mortal men to know what side he took,
When the wrath of the Lord from heaven was poured and the whole Creation shook;
Yet for many a day the Devil's way was ever mighty and grand,
'Mid the swift sword's flash and the cannon's crash he boldly took his stand:

323

Such perilous work he has learn'd to shirk, and quiet at home sits he,
Having turn'd himself for the love of pelf to a Charter'd Companie!

II

‘Ho! better far than the work of War, and the storm and stress of strife,
Is to rest at home, while others roam,’ he murmurs to Sin, his wife!
‘Tho' the fiends my sons make Gatling guns, they're Christians to the core,
And they love the range of the Stock Exchange far better than battle-roar.
They are spared, in truth, much strife uncouth and trouble by field and flood,
Since the work of Hell is done so well by creatures of flesh and blood;
And I think on the whole,’ says the grim old Soul, ‘'tis better for you and me
That I've turned myself, ere laid on the shelf, to a Charter'd Companie!

III

‘The thin red line was doubtless fine as it crept across the plain,
While the thick fire ran from the black Redan and broke it again and again,
But the hearts of men throbb'd bravely then, and their souls could do and dare,
'Mid the thick of the fight, in my despite, God found out Heroes there!
The Flag of England waved on high, and the thin red line crept on,
And I felt, as it flashed along to die, my occupation gone!
O'er a brave man's soul I had no control in those old days,’ said he,
‘So I've turned myself, ere laid on the shelf, to a Charter'd Companie!

IV

‘The Flag of England still doth blow and flings the sunlight back,
But the line that creepeth now below is changed to a line of black!
Wherever the Flag of England blows, down go all other flags,
Wherever the line of black print goes, the British Bulldog brags!
The newspaper, my dear, is best to further such work as mine,—
My blessing rest, north, south, east, west, on the thin black penny-a-line!
For my work is done 'neath moon or sun, by men and not by me,
Now I've changed myself, in the reign of the Guelph, to a charter'd Companie!

V

‘Of Church and of State let others prate, let martyr'd thousands moan,—
I m responsible, I beg to state, to my share-holders alone!
The Flag of England may rot and fall, both Church and State may end,
Whate'er befall, I laugh at it all, if I pay a dividend!
But O my dear, it is very clear that the thing is working well—
When they hunt the black man down like deer, we devils rejoice in Hell!
'Tis loot, loot, loot, as they slaughter and shoot out yonder across the sea,
Now I've turned myself, like a gamesome elf, to a Charter'd Companie!

VI

‘Just study, my dear, the record here, of the mighty deeds they've done—
Hundreds, en masse, mowed down like grass, to an English loss of one!
Then loot, loot, loot, as they slaughter and shoot, to the shrieks of the naked foe,
While murder and greed on the fallen feed, right up my stock must go!
And the best of the lark, you'll be pleased to mark, is the counter-jumper's cry,
As he clutches his shares and mumbles his prayers to the Jingo-God on high!
With Bible and Gun the work is done both here and across the sea,
Now I've turned myself, in the reign of the Guelph, to a Charter'd Companie!’

VII

The Devil's will is the Devil's still, though wrought in a Christian land,
He chuckles low and laughs his fill, with the latest news in hand;
Nor God nor man can mar his plan so long as the markets thrive,
Tho' the Flag be stained and the Creed profaned, he keepeth the game alive!

324

‘The Flag of England may rot and fall, both Church and State may end,
Whatever befall, I laugh at it all, if I pay a dividend!
Right glad I dwell where I make my Hell, in the white man's heart,’ cries he,
‘Now I've turned myself, for the love of pelf, to a Charter'd Companie!’

Not the great Æon, whom I have vindicated,
Call'd falsely Devil by the blind and base,
But Belial, a creature execrated
Except in Church and in the market-place.

—R. B.

THE BALLAD OF KIPLINGSON.

There came a knock at the Heavenly Gate, where the good St. Peter sat,—
‘Hi, open the door, you fellah there, to a British rat-tat-tat!’

The Saint sat up in his chair, rubb'd eyes, and prick'd his holy ears,
‘Who's there?’ he muttered, ‘a single man, or a regiment of Grenadiers?’

‘A single man,’ the voice replied, ‘but one of prodigious size,
Who claims by Jingo, his patron Saint, the entry to Paradise!’

The good St. Peter open'd the Gate, but blocking the entry scan'd
The spectacled ghost of a little man, with an infant's flag in his hand.

‘Your name? Before I let you pass, say who and what you were!
Describe your life on the earth, and prove your claim to a place in there!’

‘Wot! haven't you heard of Kiplingson? whose name and fame have spread
As far as the Flag of England waves, and the Tory prints are read?

‘I was raised in the lap of Jingo, sir, till I grew to the height of man,
And a wonderful Literary Gent, I emerged upon Hindostan!

‘I sounded the praise of the Empire, sir, I pitch'd out piping hot
The new old stories of British bounce (see Lever and Michael Scott);

‘And rapid as light my glory spread, till thro' Cockaigne it flew,
And I grew the joy of the Cockney cliques, and the pet of the Jingo Jew!

‘For the Lord my God was a Cockney Gawd, whose voice was a savage yell,
A fust-rate Gawd who dropt, d'ye see, the “h” in Heaven and Hell!

‘O I was clever beyond compare, and not like most young muffs,
Tho' I died last night, at an early age, of a plethora of puffs.

‘O lollipops are toothsome things, and sweet is the log-roll'd jam,
But the last big puff of the Log-rollers has choked me, and here I am!

‘But I was a real Phenomenon,’ continued Kiplingson,
‘The only genius ever born who was Tory at twenty-one!’

‘Alas, and alas,’ the good Saint said, a tear in his eye serene,
‘A Tory at twenty-one! Good God! At fifty what would you have been?

‘There's not a spirit now here in Heaven who wouldn't at twenty-one
Have tried to upset the very Throne, and reform both Sire and Son!

‘The saddest sight that my eyes have seen, down yonder on earth or here,
Is a brat that talks like a weary man, or a youth with a cynic's leer.

‘Try lower down, young man,’ he cried, and began to close the Gate—
‘Hi, here, old fellah,’ said Kiplingson, ‘by Jingo! just you wait—

‘I've heaps of Criticisms here, to show my claims are true,
That I'm 'cute in almost everything, and have probed Creation through!’

‘And what have you found?’ the Saint inquired, a frown on his face benign—
‘The Flag of England!’ cried Kiplingson, ‘and the thin black penny-a-line!

325

‘Wherever the Flag of England waves, down go all other flags;
Wherever the thin black line is spread, the Bulldog bites and brags!

‘And I warn you now, if you close that Gate, the moment it is done,
I'll summon an army of Cockney Gents, with a great big Gatling gun!

‘O Gawd, beware of the Jingo's wrath! the Journals of Earth are mine!
Across the plains of the earth still creeps the thin black penny-a-line!

‘For wherever the Flag of England waves’— but here, we grieve to state,
His voice was drown'd in a thunder-crash, for the Saint bang'd-to the Gate!

TO OLIVE SCHREINER.

Pansies, for thoughts; and Rue, for gentle grief;
Roses,—for gladness given in large increase:
Add now to these one soft grey silvern leaf,
Olive,—for Peace!

O life that put'st our noisier lives to shame,
Sign that the Bow shall shine, the Deluge cease!
Steadfast and true and holy like thy name:
Olive,—for Peace!

THE DREAMER OF DREAMS.

I

‘We are men in a world of men, not gods!’ the Strong Man cried;
‘Yea, men, but more than men,’ the Dreamer of Dreams replied;
‘'Tis not the mighty Arm (the Lion and Bear have that),
Tis not the Ear and the Eye (for those hath the Ounce and the Cat),
'Tis not the form of a Man upstanding erect and free,
For this hath the forest Ape, yea, the face of a Man hath he;
'Tis not by these alone, ye compass'd the mighty things,
Hew'd the log to a ship, till the ship swept out on wings,
Ye are men in a world of men, lord of the seas and streams,
But ye dreamed ye were more than men when ye heark'd to the Dreamers of Dreams!
And the Dream begat the Deed, and grew with the growth of the years,
So ye were the Builders of Earth, but we were the Pioneers!

II

‘By the Arm and the Ear and the Eye, and the upright Form divine’
(Thus the Dreamer of Dreams), ‘thou hast conquered the world—’tis thine;
Wherefore rejoice, O Man, in the wonders thy might hath wrought,
But woe to thy pride the day thou forgettest the Dream we brought;
The Dream that made thee a Man (the beast was as swift in the fray),
The Dream that found thee a Soul, and lit thee along on thy way,
The Dream that guided thine Arm, and taught thee with sight and with sound,
The Dream that held thee erect when the beast was prone on the ground!
A man in a world of men, and strong as a man beseems,
Thou art indeed, but thy strength was drawn from the Dreamers of Dreams!
Wert thou no more than a man, the Fox and the Ape were thy peers,
We dream'd thou wast more than a man, when we led thee, thy Pioneers!

III

‘And now thy triumph hath come, the sceptre is set in thy hand,
See’ (said the Dreamer of Dreams) ‘that thy spirit doth understand:
Not by the lust of the Ape, or the courage and strength of the Beast,
Thou risest to rule thy Realm, and sit at the head of the Feast—
We dream'd there was love in thy heart, the love that no beast doth gain,
We held thee just in our Dream, and therefore fitter to reign,

326

And though there was blood on thy sword, and lust of blood in thy breast,
We taught thee (still in our Dream) that Pity and Prayer were best:
Pity for all thy kind, and most for the undertrod,
Prayer to the Power unseen which stiffen'd thy soul 'gainst God,
Then out of the Dream the Deed, which grew with the growing years
And made thee Master of Earth, but we were thy Pioneers!’

IV

‘We are men in a world of men, not gods,’ the Strong Man cried.
‘Then woe to thy race and thee,’ the Dreamer of Dreams replied;
‘The Tiger can fight and feed, the Serpent can hear and see,
The Ape can increase his kind, the Beaver can build, like thee.
Have I led thee on to find thee of all things last and least,
A Man who is only a Man and therefore less than a beast?
Who bareth a red right arm, and crieth “Lo! I am strong;”
Who shouts to an empty sky a savage triumphal song,
Who apes the cry of the woods, who crawls like a snake and lies,
Who loves not, neither is loved, but crawleth a space and dies?—
Ah, woe indeed to the Dream that guided thee all these years,
And woe to the Dreamers of Dreams who ran as thy Pioneers!’

BE PITIFUL.

Thou canst not right the ancient wrong,
Or mend the broken thread;
Thou canst not raise with spell or song
The countless martyrs dead,—
Yet one kind thought may sometimes bless
Lives which the dark gods ban;
Wherefore, since they are pitiless,
Be pitiful, O Man!

Raised on the rock of endless woe,
Thy throne is built, O King!
Yet from that rock some dews may flow
To show the hidden spring;—
Lord in thy place of life and death,
Complete the cruel plan,
But gazing down on things of breath,
Be pitiful, O Man!

Be pitiful! be pitiful!
More grace in Pity lies
Than in the gladdest flowers they cull
In Passion's Paradise!
Thron'd on the earth even as a god,
All creatures gently scan—
Thy sceptre then like Aaron's rod
Shall bud and bloom, O Man!

Be pitiful to every thing
That creeps around thy throne,
Yea, with thy love as with a wing
Shelter the lost and lone;—
Tho' from the cradle to the tomb
Thy reign is but a span,
Still, in despite of Death and Doom,
Be pitiful, O Man!

So shall thy soul arise in strength
Above the coward's dread,
So shall thy love avenge at length
The blood the gods have shed,
So shalt thou scorn the cruel Law
That is since Time began,
And, held by Heaven and Hell in awe,
Shame all the gods, O Man!

MAN OF THE RED RIGHT HAND.

Man with the Red Right Hand knelt in the night and prayed:
‘Pity and spare, O God, the mortal whom thou hast made!
Strengthen the house he builds, adorn his glad roof-tree,
Blessing the bloody spoil he gathers on earth and sea!
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo! thy servant kneels!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.

327

God went by in the Storm and answered never a word.
But the birds of the air shrieked loud and the beasts of the mountain heard,
And the dark sad flocks of the Sea and the Sea-lambs gentle-eyed
Wail'd from their oozy folds, and the mild Sea-kine replied,
And the pity of God fell down like darkness on sea and land,
But froze to ice in the heart of Man with the Red Right Hand.

Then up he rose from his knee and brandish'd the crimson knife,
Saying: ‘I thank thee, God, for making me Lord of Life!
The beasts and the birds are mine, and the flesh and blood of the same,
Baptised in the blood of these, I gladden and praise thy name!
Laden with spoils of life thy servant shall smiling stand!’
And out on the Deep he hied, this Man with the Red Right Hand.

Afar on the lonely isles the cry of the slaughtered herds
Rose on the morning air, to the scream of the flying birds,
And the birds fell down and bled with pitiful human cries,
And the butcher'd Lambs of the Sea lookt up with pleading eyes,
And the blood of bird and beast was red on sea and land,
And drunk with the joy of Death was Man with the Red Right Hand.

And the fur of the slain sea-lamb was a cloak for his bride to wear,
And the broken wing of the bird was set in his leman's hair,
And the flesh of the ox and lamb were food for his brood to eat,
And the skin of the mild sea-kine was shoon on his daughter's feet!
And the cry of the slaughtered things was loud over sea and land
As he knelt once more and prayed, upraising his Red Right Hand.

‘Pity me, Master and Lord! spare me and pass me by,
Grant me Eternal Life, though the beast and the bird must die!
Behold I worship thy Law, and gladden in all thy ways,
The bird and the beast are dumb, but behold I sing thy praise,
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo, I see and know!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.

God went by in the Storm and answered never a word.
But deep in the soul of Man the cry of a God was heard:
‘Askest thou pity, thou, who ne'er drew pitying breath?
Askest thou fulness of life, whose life is built upon Death?
Even as thou metest to these, thy kin of the sea and land,
Shall it be meted to thee, O Man of the Red Right Hand!

‘When thou namest bird and beast, and blessest them passing by,
When thy pleasure is built no more on the pain of things that die,
When thy bride no longer wears the spoil of thy butcher's knife,
Perchance thy prayer may reach the ears of the Lord of Life;
Meantime be slain with the things thou slayest on sea and land,—
Yea, pass in thy place like those, O Man with the Red Right Hand!’

SONG OF THE FUR-SEAL.

Who cometh out of the sea
Wrapt in His winding-sheet?
He who hung on the Tree
With blood on His hands and feet,—
On the frozen isles He leaps, and lo, the sea-lambs round Him bleat!

328

The cry of the flocks o' the Sea
Rings in the ears of the Man!
Gentle and mild is He,
Tho' worn and weak and wan;
The mild-eyed seals look up in joy, His pitiful face to scan.

They gather round Him there,
He blesses them one and all,—
On their eyes and tangled hair
His tears of blessing fall;—
But He starteth up and He listeneth, for He hears the hunter's call!

Moaning in fear He flies
Leading the wild sea-herds,
O'er Him, under the skies,
Follow the startled birds.
‘Father, look down!’ He moans aloud, and the Heavens fling back His words!

The hunter's feet are swift,
The feet of the Christ are slow,
Nearer they come who lift
Red hands for the butcher's blow,—
Aye me, the bleeding lambs of the Sea, who struggle and wail in woe!

Blind with the lust of death
Are the red hunter's eyes,
Around him blood like breath
Streams to the silent skies,—
Slain again 'mong the slain sea-lambs the white Christ moans and dies!

‘Even as the least of these,
Butcher'd again, I fall!’
O gentle lambs of the Sea,
Who leapt to hear Him call,
Bleeding there in your midst He lies, who gladden'd and blest you all!

And the hunter striding by,
Blind, with no heart to feel,
Laughs at the anguish'd cry,
And crushes under his heel
The head of the Christ that looketh up with the eyes of a slaughter'd seal!

See, passim, the descriptions of Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N., Captain Borchgrevink, Professor Jukes, and others, of the devilries which accompany the slaughter of the Fur-Seal.

GOD EVOLVING.

Turn from that mirage of a God on high
Holding the sceptre of a creed outworn,
And hearken to the faint half-human cry
Of Nature quickening with the God unborn!

The God unborn, the God that is to be,
The God that has not been since Time began,—
Hark,—that low sound of Nature's agony
Echoed thro' life and the hard heart of Man!

Fed with the blood and tears of living things,
Nourish'd and strengthen'd by Creation's woes,
The God unborn, that shall be King of Kings,
Sown in the darkness, thro' the darkness grows.

Alas, the long slow travail and the pain
Of her who bears him in her mighty womb!
How long ere he shall live and breathe and reign,
While yonder Phantom fades to give him room?

Where'er great pity is and piteousness,
Where'er great Love and Love's strange sorrow stay,
Where'er men cease to curse, but bend to bless,
Frail brethren fashion'd like themselves of clay;

Where'er the lamb and lion side by side
Lie down in peace, where'er on land or sea
Infinite Love and Mercy heavenly-eyed
Emerge, there stirs the God that is to be!

His light is round the slaughter'd bird and beast
As round the forehead of Man crucified,—
All things that live, the greatest and the least,
Await the coming of this Lord and Guide;

And every gentle deed by mortals done,
Yea, every holy thought and loving breath,
Lighten poor Nature's travail with this Son
Who shall be Lord and God of Life and Death!

329

No God behind us in the empty Vast,
No God enthroned on yonder heights above,
But God emerging, and evolved at last
Out of the inmost heart of human Love!

Wound Love, thou woundest, too, this God unborn!
Of Love and Love's compassion is he bred!
His strength the grace that holds no thing in scorn,
His very blood the tears by Pity shed!

And every cruel thought or deed on earth,
Yea, even blood-sacrifice on bended knee,
Lengthens the travail and delays the birth
Of this our God, the God that is to be!

‘PATRIOTISM.’

‘Throughout all this period of Titanic struggle, patriotism was the most potent factor in the contest, and ultimately decided the issue. Animated by patriotism, which gave to her armies a superhuman strength, France was able to confound all the efforts of her enemies. Then, ignoring in all other nations a love of independence and freedom as strenuous as her own, she at last created and evoked in them this all-powerful sentiment, and was in the end driven back to her frontiers by an exhibition of the same spirit as that which had enabled her to defend them. . . . The fact is, that a vague attachment to the whole human race is a poor substitute for the performance of the duties of a citizen; and professions of universal philanthropy afford no excuse for neglecting the interests of one's own country.’— Joseph Chamberlain, in Glasgow.

I

Judas to Caiaphas,
The Elders, and the Priests:
‘I, heir of him who sold the Man
Whose voice disturb'd your feasts,
My thirty pieces duly gained,
The Cross and Sword upraise,
And claim, for triumph thus attained,
The Patriot's palm and bays!

II

‘Who is the Patriot? He
Who, swift and keen to slay,
Spieth the helpless quarry out
For home-bred birds of prey;
Who heeds not hearts that ache and break,
But peers from sea to sea,
And ever, for his Country's sake,
Points Christ to Calvary!

III

‘The black Christs and the white,
Lo, how they shriek and die,
While the great conquering Flag floats on
And merry hosts go by!
I price in our imperial Mart
Their land, their gold, their lives—
Ho, Priests, who heeds the broken heart,
So that the Market thrives?

IV

‘Who is the Patriot? He
Who strideth, sword in hand,
To reap the fields he never sowed,
For his own Fatherland!
Who, sweeping human rights aside,
Sets up the cross-shaped Tree,
And while the Christ is crucified,
Bids all the Thieves go free!

V

‘This for a sign I speak—
Heed it and understand—
Who loves his neighbour as himself
Loves, too, his neighbour's land!
His neighbour's land, his wives, his gold,
All the good thief may seize,
And he's a Patriot twentyfold
Who garners all of these!

VI

‘All, for his Country's sake,
His God, his Lord, his Home,
Ev'n so the Roman stalk'd abroad
And claimed the world for Rome,
Ev'n so the patriot Nations still
In emulation toil,
Confront each other, shrieking shrill,
And hungering for the spoil!

VII

‘Remember how the Patriot's fire
Swept Europe west to east,
While on its trail devouring ran
The many-headed Beast;
Till dawn'd at last the glorious morn
When all the Earth was priced
By Patriotism's latest-born,
The Imperial Antichrist!

330

VII

‘Hark! still the Patriot's cry
Yonder in France is heard—
She slew her Kings, she found for men
The blood-compelling Word:
Arm'd to the teeth still croucheth she,
Waketh, and sleepeth not—
“Allons, enfants de la Patrie—
To cut our neighbour's throat!”

IX

‘Lo, how the same grand dream
Of God and Fatherland
Fills the brave Teuton's warrior-soul
And arms his mailed hand;
Beast-like for battle he prepares,
Bow'd down with helm and glaive,—
How proudly he, the Patriot, wears
The livery of the Slave!’

X

Judas to Caiaphas,
The Elders, and the Priests:
‘I, heir of him who sold the Man
Whose voice disturb'd your feasts,
Bid ye, my brethren of the Blood,
March on from sea to sea,
Nor heed, 'mid Conquest's roaring flood,
The cries from Calvary!

XI

‘Patriots ye were and are,
Yours is the Patriot's crown;
The Patriot is the strong man, he
Who strikes the weak man down!
Onward with Cross and Sword, still race
With all the world for prey,—
I price, in this your market-place,
The robes of Him ye slay!’

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

(Westminster, March 1898.)

I.

Now the long volume of his life,
As all in turn must be,
Is closed, and placed remote from strife
In Death's black library,

Eternal honour to the name
Kept clean from youth to age,
With scarce a blot of sin or shame
Upon the splendid page!

The Grand Old Man! how few have writ
A scroll so clean and clear!—
Pilgrims shall come and ponder it
For many and many a year;

And ever as their eyes are cast
Upon it shall descry,
Yea, from the front page till the last,
The name of the Most High!

For in an age where strong men doubt
This strong man doubted nought,
But mail'd in faith, passed in and out
The wind-blown flames of Thought;

And ever from his lips there came
The words of happy prayer,
With which he, child-like, sought to shame
The pessimist's despair.

Ah, well, he was, when all is said,
A gracious soul and kind—
I do not weep that he is dead,
I weep that he was blind!

Blind with the Light that sears the sight
With sheer excess of Day,—
So true, so eager for the Right,
And yet—so oft astray!

A mighty leader and a guide,
He led men long and well,
First in the van, tho' blown aside
By breaths from Heaven or Hell!

Out of his very weakness strong,
His very blindness brave,
Serene and calm he march'd along
To no inglorious grave.

And round him now the ribald throng
That mock'd his march is dumb,
And honouring what they fear'd so long
The rival factions come,—

Nay, priests of every creed attest
Him King of Humankind,
Blessed 'mong men, but blessedest
Because his eyes were blind!

331

II.

Battle and Storm? God screen'd his form
From all Life's fiercest airs;
His battle was of words, his storm
Was one to lay with prayers!

As true as steel, as pure as snow,
He lived his gentle life
Too shielded in his place to know
The stress of human strife,—

The woe, the anguish, the despair,
Of mortals tempest-toss'd;
In his soul's sails the wind blew fair
Even when he struggled most!

Easy it seems for such a man
To keep his soul's page white—
God never bow'd him with His ban
Or marr'd him with His blight!

His gentle hand ne'er lifted up
The load of human pain,
His lips not even touch'd the cup
The broken-hearted drain;

He thirsted not, nor lack'd for food,
Nor stricken earthward grieved,
But, sure that God was kind and good,
He gladden'd and believed!

His rose-crown'd cup ran o'er the brim
With wine, not tear-drops sad—
His God was very good to him,
And kept him blind and glad!

III.

Peace, he was pure,—let that suffice!
And brave in word and deed,—
Why envy, in these caves of ice,
The sunshine of his creed?

The wind we feel so chill blows fresh
On him, and such as he,—
Tho' God who fashioneth the flesh
Sendeth the Leprosy!

Blest was his child-like faith and prayer,
If not afar, yet here,—
How dark and dull seems our despair
Beside a faith so clear!

He walked the broad and easy way
And died and lived a child,—
Yea, even on his stormiest day
Folded his hands and smiled,

Believing all things, doubting not
That all was surely well,—
Upon his soul one only blot,
The death-stain of Parnell!

Cleanse that one blot away, his fame
Was star-like 'mongst his kind,—
Yet even that from goodness came,
Because God kept him blind!

‘THE UNION.’

The speech our English freemen spoke
Still fills the plains afar,
Where branches of our English oak
Wave 'neath the Western star;
‘Be free!’ men cried in Shakespeare's tongue,
When smiting for the slave—
Thus Hampden's cry for freedom rung
As far as Lincoln's grave!

Back rings that cry from far away
To fill the Motherland,
Where 'neath the Union Jack this day
Both false and true men stand—
Hark to the foes of all things free,
Who, arm'd in hate, intone:
‘The Union! let our war-cry be
That word, and that alone!

‘The Union! Kiss the dead Christ's face
While brandishing the Sword,
Foster the scorn of race for race,
Exult, and praise the Lord!
Carry the rule of pride and hate
O'er earth, from pole to pole!
The Union! leave men desolate
But keep the Empire whole!’

‘The Union? Yes, in God's name, still
The Union!’ we reply—
‘The Union of a Nation's will
Against each timbrel'd lie!
The Union beautiful and good
Of lands by Love made one!
One heart, one cause, one brotherhood,
One Empire 'neath the sun!

332

‘That Union which hath been so long
Our boast from sea to sea,—
Justice, redressing human wrong,
Love, keeping all men free;
Not that which starves one hapless land
While others smile full-fed,
Not that which from another's hand
Would snatch the daily bread!

‘Union in strength of Love, not Hate!
Union in Peace, not Strife!
Union to keep inviolate
The sacraments of Life!
Union is one great common aim,
Triumphant late or soon,
To share the freedom we proclaim
With all who beg the boon!

‘Not Union based on braggart's boasts
Or on the robber's creed,
Not Union thrust by armed hosts
On lives that would be freed!
Not Union fed by hate and wrath
Where'er the weak make moan,—
No, Union on the heavenward path
Where Justice hath her throne!

‘Justice to all, and first to those
Who speak our common speech—
Help to our brethren great or small,
Free thought, free laws, for each;
Who chains his brother to his side
Seeketh his help in vain,
And Might is impotent to guide
The souls that Love may gain.

‘This is the Union which is still
Our strength from sea to sea—
Freedom, whose mandates we fulfil
By leaving all men free
To sheathe the sword, to help man's lot,
To break each cruel chain . . .
The Union? Yes, by God!—but not
A pact 'tween Christ and Cain!’

‘PEACE, NOT A SWORD.’

(The Arbitration Treaty, January 1897.)

I

Peace, not a Sword! She claims to-day
The crown by Freedom wrought,—
Victorious Peace, with power to sway
Free Life, free Speech, free Thought;
The Lord who gave the blind Seer sight
Hath led us up and on,
And lo! our Milton's dream of Light
Fulfil'd, at Washington!

II

In this great hour of righteous pride,
Be hush'd, ye Voices vain,
Which still invite the Crucified
To join the feasts of Cain;
Not by the hypocrite's despair
Shall Love's last gift be priced,
Nay! Cain is Cain, although he wear
The livery of the Christ!

III

Now, while ye greet your Jingo-god,
Hounds of the mart and street,
We close the bloody winepress, trod
By fratricidal feet!
The strife which savage priests have sung
A thousand years shall cease,
For Glory's banner shall be hung
In the great Halls of Peace.

IV

Despair not, Men, though Time should bring
But part of all ye crave:
Did not the cry of Hampden ring
As far as Lincoln's grave?
The voice which saith, ‘No brother's hand
May shed a brother's blood,’
Shall grow till men in every land
Are one vast Brotherhood!

V

Lo, now the seed by martyrs sown
Springs up, a goodly tree,
Let every Despot on his throne
Take heed, from sea to sea!
For he who still invokes the Sword
Shall by that same Sword fall,
While he whom Wisdom's Voice and Word
Redeem, must conquer all!

VI

Ring out, glad bells! now night hath fled,
The rose of Dawn shall bloom!
The Light that halo'd Whitman's head
Shines back on Shelley's tomb!

333

Under the bloodless Flag we stand
Which martyr-bards unfurl'd,
Heart link'd to heart, hand join'd to hand,
The Freedmen of the World!

12th January 1897.

HARK NOW, WHAT FRETFUL VOICES.

Hark now, what fretful voices
Sound shrill from shore to shore!—
The home-bred curs of England
Barking at England's door,—
The weak wolf-hearted creatures
Who gather multiform
And out of quiet waters
Would fain shriek up the Storm!

Hark, how the half-breed answers
With strident harsh refrain,
Echoed by Windmill-Journals
That whirl yet grind no grain—
Out o'er the peaceful waters
The hideous notes are hurl'd,
While poets of the banjo
Defy the listening world!

Not thus in days departed
Did England's triumphs come—
The Hero then was silent,
The Martyr then was dumb!
Amid the roll of tempests
You heard no rowdy's song—
The Makers of our England
Were still as they were strong!

Not thus the sons of England
Grew strong and great and free,
Bridling the white sea-horses
That sweep from sea to sea,—
With stern lips set in silence
They paused and bent the knee,
And prayed the God of Silence
To give them victory!

The mighty hand of England
Should be too strong to raise
The trumpet of the Braggart
That sounds her own self-praise!
Her glory (still she gains it
From sleepless year to year)
Is wrought through deeds of Heroes,
Not shrieks of Chanticleer!

Out there upon the waters
Heroes are living still,—
From land to land they wander
With firm and fearless will;
They plough the stormy billow,
But vaunt not what they do,—
The Mariners of England
Are calm as they are true!

Yonder our legions gather
Beneath the battle-flag,
They march to Death in silence
And let the coward brag;
To urge their spirits onward
They need no savage song,—
The Warriors of England
Are still as they are strong!

And still, erect and fearless,
Unarm'd or sword in hand,
Wherever Honour beckons
Our silent Heroes stand:
They scorn the shrieking remnant
Who gather multiform
And, safe from every danger,
Would fain shriek up the Storm!

THE IRISHMAN TO CROMWELL.

I

Cromwell, what soul denies thy claim
To honour in the Saxon's sight?
Thy spirit, like a stormy flame,
Still gleams through centuries of Night,
While Freedom's weeping eyes are bent
On deeds that are thy monument!

II

Thanks to thy ruthless sword and thee
Thy cruel creed is living yet,
And Christians still from sea to sea
Owe thee and thine a deathless debt;
With thee to light them through the land,
Famine and Faith walk'd hand in hand.

334

III

Think not we scorn thee,—thou wast strong!
Think not we wrong thee,—thou wast great!
Thou sharest with the kingly throng
The aftermath of human Hate:
Among the thrones thy lightnings rent
Should surely be thy monument?

IV

Hot gospeller of bloody War,
Thy Cross became a slaughtering sword;
Thy Biblic thunders roll'd afar
The message of thy King and Lord,—
The wondering Nations heard thy cry—
‘Worship my God of Wrath, or die!’

V

Before thee, Tyrant, tyrants fell,
By thee, O King, a King was slain,—
Honest as Cain and true as Hell,
Scorner of mercy, thou didst reign;
With blood and tears thou didst cement
This Union, thy monument!

VI

Thy Throne was on a million graves,
O Christian monarch of the free;
The curse of sixty thousand slaves,
Torn from their homes and chain'd by thee,
From the plantations of the west
Arose, thy might to manifest!

VII

Even thus on History's bloodiest page
Thy name is written, King of men,—
And evermore from age to age
Thy seed of bigots springs again;
What needst thou further to content
Thy ghost, by way of monument?

VIII

The bigot's strength and faith were thine,
The bigot's creed that hates the sun,
And yet in Freedom's name divine
Thy bloody victories were won:
'Mong Monarchs keep thy place of pride,
With Charles's Spectre at thy side!

IX

Ask not the love our souls deny,
But take our homage if thou wilt,—
Thy gospel was a living lie,
Our blood was on thine altars spilt,—
Scourge by the God of Slaughter sent,
Be Drogheda thy monument!

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

(NEW STYLE.)

‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother said,
‘And what's the news about my sons, and are they quick or dead?
I've waited on for many a year and prayed beside the sea,
Remembering how they drew the sword and swore to set me free!’
‘O Mother, sure thy sons survive, tho' better they had died,
They palter with the faith they learn'd before they left thy side;
Among the camp fires of thy foes the Fratricides are seen,
They hang upon the Tyrant's nod, and blush to wear the Green!’

‘My eyes are dim with weeping,’ the grey old Mother said,
‘The chains are still upon my hands, the sackcloth on my head;
I blest my sons before they went and deem'd them leal and true,
And eagerly with leaping hearts across the seas they flew.’
‘O Mother, what was sown in pride thy sons now reap in scorn,
They help'd the pandars and the priests to slay thine Eldest-born,
Then for his raiment casting lots they reached out hands obscene,
Dishonouring the noble dead who best had loved the Green!’

‘Green be his grave in England, who loved me long and well,
May never freemen welcome back the butchers of Parnell!

335

I deem them sons of mine no more, I brand them sons of Cain,
Who slew their brother over there, the bigot's smile to gain!’
‘O Mother, sure not all thy sons are false and base like those,
Not all have traded truth and faith to win the English rose;
Among thy children over there are some whose hands are clean,
And these shall yet unbind thy chains, and glorify the Green!’

‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother cried,
‘Now he is slain, my Eldest-born, who stands as chief and guide?
What souls are false, what souls are true of all that bear my name,
What son of mine shall lift me up and save me out of shame?’
‘O Mother, sure they follow now the feeblest of thy clan,
A peddler with a woman's heart, and not an Irish man!
And in his train the turncoat and the sycophant are seen,
And day by day dishonour comes to those who wear the Green!

‘And over there in England, the Saxon who had sworn
To break thy bonds and set thee free has laughed thy woes to scorn;
For in the City's Square they raise a likeness hewn in stone
To honour him who broke thy heart and left thee here alone!
Mother, remember Drogheda, and all thy woes of old,
And curse the butcher Cromwell's name a thousand thousandfold,
Trust not the slaves that honour him who thy worst scourge has been,
But turn again from friends so false to those who wear the Green!

‘We are the sons who love thee, O Erin, Mother dear!
We've borne thy Cross and blest thy name from weary year to year!
We've shamed the fratricidal crew who take thy name in vain,
We've fought for Ireland foot by foot although our Chief lay slain;
There's hope for thee and Freedom yet, so long as we are true,
Our birthright still remains to us although our ranks are few,—
Please God we'll save our country yet, and keep its record clean,
And preach from Cork to Donegar the wearing of the Green!’

VICTORY.

Old Flag, that floatest fair and proud
Where'er our swift fleets fly,
Do they who shriek thy praise aloud
Honour thee more than I,—
Who yield to none beneath the sun
In love for thine and thee,
Altho' I raise no song of praise
Or hymn of victory?

Not love thee, dear old Flag? not bless
This England, sea and shore?
O England, if I loved thee less
My song might praise thee more,—
I'd have thee strong to right the wrong
And wise as thou art free;
For thee I'd claim a stainless fame,
A bloodless victory!

Conquer'd thou hast! from west to east,
Thy fleets float on in pride,—
Thy glory, England, hath not ceased
Since Nelson bled and died;
Peace to the brave, who to thee gave
This Empire of the Sea,—
Yet would thy son from God had won
A mightier victory!

The trumpets of thy rule are blown
Where'er thy hosts go by;
Blent with their sound I hear the moan
Of martyr'd men who die;
Crush'd 'neath their tread lie quick and dead,
And far away I see
The white Christ rise with weeping eyes
To mourn thy victory!

336

Nay, is it victory at all
The blood-red wreath to gain?
The hosts who curse thee as they fall
But prove thy glory vain;
Thy legions strong still march along
And reap the world for thee,
But nobler is the Sower's song
Than their best victory!

Not through thy legions arm'd to slay
Hast thou survived and reigned,—
Through men who threw the sword away
Thy glory hath been gained;
Strong, stubborn-kneed, they stood and freed
The slave from sea to sea,
And Wilberforce's bloodless deed
Was England's victory!

The men whose hands have raised thy throne,
And guard it evermore,
Are such as lit the Eddystone
And built the Skerryvore!
By blood unstain'd their hands maintain'd
This Empire of the Sea,—
The white wreath won by Stephenson
Crown'd Nelson's victory!

To such as these, O Motherland,
Let thy red hosts give room—
To those who wrought with patient hand
The engine and the loom;
Thy gifts increase through acts of Peace,
Not deeds men weep to see,
And Shakespeare's page from age to age
Is thy best victory!

Not love the dear old Flag? not bless
Our England, sea and shore?
O England, those who love thee less
May stoop to praise thee more.
To keep thy fame from taint of shame
I pray on bended knee,
But where the braggart mouths thy name
I hail no victory!

Thy place is yonder on the Deep
That blows thy fleets abroad,
Thy strength is in the men who keep
Their bloodless pact with God;
They love thee best who will not rest
Until, from sea to sea,
Justice and Love, by all men blest,
Complete thy victory!

VOX POPULI.

I

How long, O God, how long shall we,
The chosen of Thy race,
Wail in the night for Light to see
The glory of Thy Face?
How long shall Death usurp Thy throne,
While clouds of sorrow gather?
Hearken, O God! Thy children moan
In darkness for their Father!

II

How long shall this foul Upas-tree,
Hung with the butcher'd dead,
Cast on Thy Cross of Calvary
Its shadow dark and dread?
As high as Heaven its branches rise
While those black fruits swing under,
And yet no Hand from yonder skies
Tears the black boughs asunder!

III

How long into our lives shall eat
The leprosy of Lust,
While all things pure and fair and sweet
Turn into strumous dust?
Crush'd 'neath the Leper's conquering feet
Crouches the white Slave, Woman,
While silently from street to street
Glide hucksters of the Human!

IV

Under Thy Cross the Throne still stands,
A Woman sits thereon;
Beneath her cling with feeble hands
Her brethren, woe-begone;
No help, no succour from on high,
To bless their souls bereaven . . .
My God! they drag them thence to die,
While Thou art dumb in Heaven!

V

The Atheist and the Priest, O Lord,
Unite to forge our chains!
Under Thy Cross, arm'd with Thy Sword,
Judge Ananias reigns!

337

Thy Priests stand by and make no sign,
Thy Church lies mute and broken,
And that they know no Light Divine
Thy Gallows stands for token!

VI

Reach out Thy Hand, snatch back Thy Sword!
God of the quick and dead!
Crush down these Upas-trees, O Lord,
To dust beneath Thy tread!
Each leaf of life that trembles there,
Withering broken-hearted,
Attests, despite a Nation's prayer,
Thy glory hath departed!

VII

How long shall Man's dark law abide
And Thine be closely seal'd,
How long shall Truth and Mercy hide
Forgotten, unreveal'd?
See, o'er this Flood whereon we move
Burns War's red Bow of Slaughter!
And still no sign of Thy White Dove
Upon the crimson water!

VIII

Come from the darkness of the Deep,
Open the Heavens up there,
We charge Thee, by these tears we weep,
And by these chains we bear!
Death rules Thine earth despite our cries,
Heaven's Throne, too, is assailèd,—
While from His stricken children's eves
The Father's Face is veilèd . . .

How long, O Lord, how long?

VOX DEI.

I

Cowards and Slaves, who ne'er will learn
Your own deep strength and might,
Who shut those eyes which should discern
The Truth, the Right, the Light!
God helps not Man, who might control
Ev'n God to his endeavour!—
The Titan with a Pigmy's Soul
Remains a Pigmy ever!

II

So long as those who might be free
Crouch down and hug their chains,
In vain is their appeal to Me
Or any God that reigns;
So long as mortal men despair,
Self-martyr'd, self-polluted,
Those Upas-trees shall cloud the air
With branches human-fruited!

III

So long as freemen yield the Thief
Their birthright of the soil,
And let my earth remain in fief
To Knaves who will not toil;
So long as Knaves by Slaves are sent
To rule my fair creation,
Wail on, ye Mortals, and lament
Your own self-immolation!

IV

Awake! arise! upraise your eyes,
Ye Titans of mankind,—
One touch would break the chain of Lies
Which ye yourselves have twined!
'Tis you alone who are the Strong,
Not ev'n your God is stronger!—
Long as ye will, be Slaves,—so long!
But not one heart's-beat longer!

V

I made you free, I gave you might
To lose or conquer all;
I help no coward in the fight,
But calmly watch him fall!
So long as ye forget your dower,
By your own wills bereaven,
Wail on, in impotence of power,
But hope no help from Heaven! . . .

So long, O Men, so long!

OLD ROME.

Old Rome, whose thunderbolts were hurl'd
So long across a wondering world,
Whose legions swarmed from east to west,
Whose eagles kept the storms at bay,

338

Now Time hath lull'd thy heart to rest,
Where is thy pride, O Rome, today? . . .
Thy heart is still, Old Rome, thy pride hath pass'd away!

Mount Atlas rises as of yore;
All round upon the Afric shore
The vast and solitary stones
Of thine imperial Cities stand—
The mighty Monster's bleaching bones
Half-buried in the desert sand! . . .
Where are thy conquering eyes, O Rome, thy red right hand?

The sleepless Eagle's eyes at last
Are closed, its sunward flight hath pass'd!
But lo, afar across the sea
This new imperial Rome doth rise,
As strong, as fearless, and as free,
It feels the sun and fronts the skies . . .
Thine ears are dust, Old Rome, and cannot hear its cries!

Dust! and we too, who now adjust
Our pomp and pride, shall be as dust!
And this, our Empire, too, shall share
The same inevitable doom,—
Thy death, Old Rome, and thy despair,
With all the weary world for tomb;—
The new race comes, the old and worn-out race gives room!

With bread and pageants we appease
The home-bred mob, while o'er the seas,
Snatching the spoil of many lands,
Conquering we sweep with sword and fire,
Nay, building up with bloody hands
The glory of our heart's desire,—
Raising (like thee, Old Rome!) our own proud funeral pyre!

Thy pride hath pass'd, and ours shall pass!
Over our graves shall grow the grass,
Within the cities we upraise
Jackal and wolf shall make their home,
A younger brow shall bear the bays,
A fairer fleet shall face the foam,—
When this our Rome is dust and laid with thine, Old Rome!

THE LAST BIVOUAC.

At hush of night, when all things seem
To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
The tramp of Legions o'er the earth!
And in the dark
Hush'd heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o'erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!

Then, while the spectral Hosts sweep by,
Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
Beneath him crowd,
Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.

No sound disturbs those camps so chill,
No banner waves, no clarions ring,—
Imperial Death sits cloaked and still
With eyes turned earthward, listening
To that great throng
Which sweeps along
With battle-cry and thunder-tread,
To join the bivouacs of the Dead!

Sentinel-stars their vigil keep!
The hooded Spectre sitteth dumb,
While still to join the Hosts asleep
The Legions of the Living come:
'Neath Heáven's blue arch
They march and march,
Ever more silent as they tread
More near the bivouacs of the Dead.

But when they reach those bivouacs chill
Their cries are hush'd, their heads are bow'd,
And with their comrades, slumbering still,
Silent they blend, like cloud with cloud:
Light answers light
Across the night,—
While quietly they seek their bed
Among the watch-fires of the Dead!

339

And night by night the Leader's form
Looms black' gainst heavens cold and dim,
While evermore in silence swarm
The human Hosts to rest with him;
Hush'd grow their cries,
Closèd their eyes,
Silent until some trumpet dread
Shall wake the Legions of the Dead!

Thro' the Great City.

THE FAIRY QUEEN.

On the silent Bridge, at dead of night,
I met the Fairy Queen,—
I knew her well by the elfin light
In the depths of her woeful een.

Tho' the robe she wore was ragged and rent
And her form was bent and old,
Her hair in the gleam o' the gas was sprent
With glimmers of fairy gold.

‘What makest thou here in the streets of Rome?’
And softly answer'd she:
‘Hungry and cold on the streets I come,
Keeping my Jubilee!

‘The crown I wore in the days of old
I have pawn'd in the Mart,’ she said,
‘And I sell my kiss for a piece of gold
To buy my little ones bread!

‘They drove me out of my happy home
Under the greenwood tree,
And now I serve in the streets o’ Rome
The Lords of the Bread!’ said she.

I lookt in her face and methought I dreamed—
She looked so weary and worn!
So like a painted woman she seem'd
Who in Fairyland was born!

‘Thy sisters and brethren, where are they?’
‘They are slaves of the Mart,’ she said,
‘For a crust or a blow, be it night or day,
They serve the Lords of the Bread!

‘And it's O for the gladness that once we knew,
For the Dance and the Dream,’ said she,
‘For the soft moonlight and the morning dew
And the glamour of Faërie!’

Weary and worn through the shadows grey
The weariful creature fled,
And I clench'd my hands as she vanish'd away,
And curst the Lords of the Bread!

THE LORDS OF THE BREAD.

I

‘Lords of the Bread and the Land,
Cruel and empty of heart,
Low at your footstool we stand,
We who are Slaves of the Mart!
Ye have conquer'd the Earth and the Sea;
In glory of purple and gold
Your Empire rolls onward, but we
Stand bleeding and bare as of old;
Ye have stolen the soil of our birth,
With the flesh of our bones ye are fed,—
Who made ye the Masters of Earth?
Answer, ye Lords of the Bread!’

II

And the Lords of the Bread replied:
‘Hush, ye vain voices, be still!
With the God of the Strong for our guide
We have triumph'd and fatten'd our fill;
And lo! in our pride we upbuild
These Cities that look on the foam,
And the waves of the waters are stilled
And rock 'neath the grain-ships of Rome;
And from City to City march forth
Our legions with conquering tread:
Ye made us the Masters of Earth,
And the fulness thereof, and the Bread!’

III

Then answer'd the Slaves of the Mart:
‘Even so! ye are great, ye are strong!
But wherefore, O cruel of heart,
Deny us our birthright so long!

340

We launch'd ye these ships on the waves,
We plough'd both the Earth and the Deep,
And all that we ask for, your Slaves,
Is tithe of the treasure ye keep.
Ye have stolen the soil of our birth,
Your beasts with our harvests are fed,—
We made ye the Masters of Earth,
And left ye the Lords of the Bread!’

IV

The Lords of the Bread spoke again:
‘Lo, this is the Law,—so take heed,—
Who gains shall inherit his gain,
Yea, he and his uttermost seed!
With the Sword of the Strong in our hand
We keep what was stolen of yore,
For lo! we inherit the Land,
And ye can inherit no more—
Behold we rejoice and make mirth,
Though the mouth of the fool gapes unfed,
For we are the Masters of Earth,
And the fulness thereof, and the Bread!’

V

Then answer'd the Slaves of the Mart:
‘O traitors, O wolves in the fold,
The blood ye have wrung from the heart
Ye coin into drachmas of gold;
And the gold buys our sisters and wives,
And our children are sold for the same,
While ye stand on the wreck of our lives
Rejoicing, and trumpet your fame!
Accurst be this Land of our birth,
And woe to this Empire,’ they said,
‘If ye, the proud Masters of Earth,
Deny us our birthright of Bread!’

LAST NIGHT.

Last night, as in the streets of stone
I paced in silence and alone,
A pale thin youth with locks of flame
Came to me, murmuring my name.

His face was white, his eyes were wild,
He looked into my face and smiled,
He named my name, then softly said,
‘I am thine other self, long dead!’

And as he spake I felt his breath
Was chilly with the dews of Death,
But suddenly he sang, and lo!
'Twas an old song I used to know.

Ah, God! the music tore apart
The clammy cerements of my heart,
And suddenly I seemed to be
Wild, young, and wonderful as he!

And when he ceased, he laugh'd and cried,
‘Tho' all have perished, I abide,’
Yet looking in his face I knew
'Twas glittering with churchyard dew!

I reach'd out hands and would have pressed
The gentle vision to my breast,
But from my touch, before I wist,
He sprang and vanished into mist!

‘Come back, come back!’ I cried in pain,
But ah, he would not come again!
Tearful, in silence and alone,
I paced along the streets of stone.

THE SPHINX.

(On the Thames Embankment, London.)

I.

A little gloved hand on my arm, a tall slight form beside me,
After the supper at Rule's, on a balmy night in June,
Whither in all the world should God or the Devil guide me
But down to face the Sphinx, in the light of the summer moon!
Not on the desert sands, with lions roaring around her
Seeking their timid prey in pools of the bright moonrise,
But here, by the glimmering Thames, in silence of dreams profounder,
Crouches the Shape of Stone, wingèd, with wondrous eyes!
Puffing my cigarette, I look on her marble features,
Dead, stone dead, and looming pale in the starry light,
While, flitting silently round, creep desolate human creatures,
Carrion-seeking women, woeful waifs of the night,—

341

Fading swiftly away as the slow policeman comes nearer,
Stolid, silent, and tall, with measured ominous tread. . . .
Hush! he is gone like a ghost! the light falls brighter and clearer
On the wingèd Shape of the Beast, on the ringleted Woman's Head,
On the dead dumb eyes still gazing, not on the City before them,
Not on the moonlit streets, but on something far away,—
Heedless of Earth around, of the patient Heavens o'er them,
Heedless of Life and Time, dead to the Night and the Day!

II.

Clari, my sweet, you shiver? Nay, but the night is chilly! . . .
Fear not the fabled Sphinx, but look in her rayless eyes,—
Tiptoe, clinging unto me, frail and white as a lily,
You face the Sphinx at last, with a maidenly mute surmise!
Older than Night and Day, older than Death, she remaineth!
Still, tho' New Rome is astir! Calm, tho' the Tempest complaineth!
Ancient of days she was crouching like this ere Christ was created!
Watching the things that are fled, seeing the things that are fated;
Speechless, impotent, wise; pitiless, silent, and certain;
Seeing some Shape that is stirring yonder beyond Night's curtain;
Conscious, perchance, of the Sea of Eternity, blindly breaking
Over this Rock of a World, on to the space without spheres. . . .
We, too, look, but discern not!—yet ever, sleeping or waking,
Fear the Sight she is seeing, shrink from the Silence she hears!

III.

Charm of the mystic Moonlight! Now, as the moonrays enfold you,
You seem some lissome Queen, upgazing with a smile!
With tiger-skin on your shoulders and fillet of dusky gold, you
Witch the night with your mirth, on the banks of the yellow Nile!
With armèd troops behind, this gloaming of golden weather,
You lift your jewel'd hand, and lo! the trumpets play. . . .
Ah, but the magic fades, and again, in bonnet and feather,
You laugh, and merrily whisper, ‘Leave her, and come awal!’

IV.

Nay, let me front the Sphinx for only another minute,
Now when the city sleeps, and the River is mother-o'-pearl'd:
Then hey for the hansom home, two lovers nestling within it,
The joy of Night, and to-morrow, the rush of the waking World!

V.

Secret no mortal hath guessed, she seëth and knoweth for ever!
Light no mortal hath seen, streams on her eyeballs of stone!
Under her talon'd feet runs like a desolate river
Life, and over her head Time like a trumpet is blown!
Silent,—and we shall be silent;—lonely,—and we shall be lonely,
Knowing what she hath known, seeing what she can see;—
Dead,—and we shall be dead!—for our life and our love are only
A dream in the Dream she dreameth, a drop in that infinite Sea!
Even as Nineveh faded, even as Babylon perish'd,
So shall this City depart, with all it hath shelter'd and cherish'd!
Stone shall be cast upon stone,—grave upon grave shall be lying,—
There, where the Magdalen wails, jackal and wolf shall be crying:
Yet shall the River of Life wander and wander and wander,
Yet shall the Trumpet of Time sound from the Sungates up yonder,

342

Yet shall the fabled Sphinx brood on the mystic To-morrow
While newer Cities arise, on the dust that is scatter'd in sorrow!

VI.

Dearest, 'tis long, so long, since out of the lonely abysses
Crawl'd this fabled Sphinx, and moved among things of breath,
Seeing the Sight Man sees not, feeling the Light Man misses,
Turn'd to eternal stone, and brooded in dreamful Death—
Cities have followed cities, nations have followed nations,
Thick as the sands have vanish'd the tribes and the generations,
God hath fallen on god, like statues of marble broken,
Zeus hath gone like a cloud, Jehovah hath left no token,—
And hush! who yonder is stealing, old and hoary and saintly,
Holding in His thin hand a lamp that is flickering faintly?—
Ghostwise on through the night, still loving thro' wholly despairing,
Creeps the gentlest of all, to the grave of His kindred repairing!

VII.

Well! if the last word said, so long as our ears can hearken,
Be this last word of Love (dear hand, how it creeps in mine!)
Well, if the last God seen, ere the thrones of Eternity darken,
Be the supremest and best, most human and most Divine?
Is it not sweet to go, if He who is also going
Beckons and bids us follow, ev'n to the empty grave?
Better to rest beside Him, be done with seeing and knowing
Than walk in a World bereft of the Spirits who heal and save!
Ah, but in sad procession fast at His back they follow—
Buddha, Balder, Menù, Prometheus, Phœbus Apollo:
Shades, that follow a Shade; Gods, that obey a Supremer;
Spirits of Healing and Light, Lords of the poet and dreamer,
Leaving behind them only a world by despair overshaded,
Only these eyes of the Sphinx, to mock us till we too have faded!

VIII.

Nay, then, by yonder blue Vault, with its million eyes gazing hither,
Open and watching the world roll blindly no mortal knows whither,
Nay, by those eyes more divine than any of stone, ever filling
With drops of infinite Life, from the great heart of Nature distilling,
God and the gods shall abide, wherever our souls seek a token,
Speech of the Gods shall be heard, the silence of Death shall be broken,
And Man shall distinguish a sign, a voice in the midnight, a tremor
From every pulse of the Heavens, to answer the heart of the Dreamer!
Faces of Gods and men shall throng the blue casements above him!
Heaven shall be peopled with throngs of Spirits that watch him and love him!
Out of the furthest Abyss voices shall call, while upspringing
Man shall arise to his height, reaching hands up the darkness and singing,—
Clouds of the Void shall part, with lights that throng brighter and faster,
While blind as the grave the Sphinx lies low, 'neath the feet of her Master!

IX.

Close thine eyes, old Sphinx! we heed thy stare not a feather!
Sleep in the summer moon, near the River mother-o'-pearl'd!
And now for the hansom home, two lovers nestling together,
The joy of Night, and to-morrow, the rush of the waking World!

343

‘THESE VOICES.’

These voices! Hark, Buchanan! All about thee,
In the night-time, in the day-time, they are crying!
Within thee they are sounding, yet without thee,
Ever growing on thy sense, and ever dying!

Sounds of weeping, sounds of jubilance and singing,
Sobs of terror and of pain, and sighs of sorrow;
And their echoes thro' thine inmost Soul are ringing,
While thy soul looks forth in wonder night and morrow.

Nay, but listen! . . . 'Tis the children's cry of gladness:
Nay, but look! They smile with rosy faces hither!
. . . But alas! the little shapes that sit in sadness,
And the little broken lives that droop and wither!

Hear the strong man in the dark for pity crying,
Hear the foul man's word of hate as he goes by thee;
Hear the shriek of trampled women, vainly flying
From the phantoms that appal thee and defy thee!

Ah, the Voices! and the Faces!—all the pity
And the wonder, in this vision of the Human,
All the lightness and the darkness of the City,
All the beauty and the shame of man and woman!

All the foul things God would seem to put His ban on,
All the fair things that would seem to have His blessing—
Without thee yet within thee, O Buchanan,
They are thronging, with a riddle for thy guessing!

Canst thou answer? Hath the living Soul within thee
Any token, any beauteous explanation?
Is it silent? Then Eternal Night shall win thee,
And these Souls but knell thy Soul's annihilation!

Shall these Voices die to one Voice,—thine upbraiding
Of the power which brings and takes thee out of being?
Shall these Faces fade to one—thine own face, fading
Back to darkness, in the very act of seeing?

Ah, the Voices! and the Faces!—wild and wan, on
They are rushing, to destroy or to renew thee!
Like a foam-flake shalt thou vanish, O Buchanan,
If but one of these is lost that cry unto thee!

THE CRY FOR LIFE.

‘Da spatium vitæ, multos da, Jupiter, annos! Juv., Sat. x.

This was my Dream. Methought I stood
Amid a crying multitude
Who in this Rome awoke by night,
And saw about them, shining white
'Gainst the great heaven's soot-black pall,
An Angel with a sword. (Ye all,
O brethren fashion'd out of clay,
Have dreamed this Dream by night and day!)

Loud (in my Dream) that host was crying
For Life eternal and undying,
And thus to still them as they cried,
The pale Protagonist replied:

‘Silence, and listen for a space,
Ye waifs and strays of human race,
While I, God's herald from above,
Whom ye name Death, and He names Love,
Holding aloft the fatal knife
Which cuts the crimson thread of life,
Rehearse, to still your acclamation,
The Master's last Determination!’

344

VOICES.
Speak on, O scourge of Humankind,
But veil thine eyes, that strike us blind!

THE ANGEL.
He who hath made you, frail or fair,
Happy and innocent, or base,
Hath given ear unto your prayer
And pondered o'er it, in His place.
And, firstly, He admits at once
(What may be proved to any dunce)
That when He breathed abroad His word
To make Humanity, He erred!
For know, to even Him is given
Power to recant and to revise,
And placing pigmies 'neath His Heaven
To wail and curse and criticise,
Was (by the sun and planets seven!)
A hasty business and unwise!
Yet ye, who by His dispensation
Procreate also in your prime,
Find irresponsible creation
Pleasant to pass away the time!
Results, however (and by these
God judges both Himself and men),
Have proved that doing what we please
May lead to trouble now and then!
This He perceives, and finding all
His plans to make men worth the saving,
End only in a caterwaul
Of sin and strife and misbehaving,
He thinks (whilst still apologising
For that first blunder most surprising)
That if He, in some moment weak
Of pity, granted what you seek,
It might perchance be just another
Blunder, no better than the other!

VOICES.
Let us live on! Eternal Life
We crave, though 'twere eternal strife;
Let us live on, O Thou most High!
For oh, 'tis terrible to die!

THE ANGEL.
O miserable things of clay!
Do ye deserve to live?

VOICES.
Ah, nay!
Not our desert, but our desire,
Is the sole claim whereon we dwell—
Lord, give us life, though in the fire
Which burns for ever down in Hell!

THE ANGEL.
Alas! ye know (for men most wise
Have opened up your close-shut eyes)
Hell is a phantasy invented
By pious gentlemen at prayer,
Where all their foes may be tormented
Whilst they themselves play harps elsewhere.
Should ye live on, your lives must be
Condition'd through Eternity
By the same feelings, grave or gay,
That animate your frames to-day.
Wherefore the Lord, loath to refuse
Your prayer, and fain to end the strife,
Bids me make question how ye use
The opportunities of life?
If, being men, your aspiration
Is worthy endless prolongation?
Or whether (as our friend the Devil
Argues) your plans, pursuits, and pains,
Are so absurdly low of level,
So little worthy things with brains,
That 'twould be better, past a doubt,
To let each little lamp go out?
Speak then, all ye that look for ruth,
What is the life ye fain would seize?
Let God Almighty learn the truth,
And don't speak all together, please!

(Whereupon is heard a great clamour, after the subsiding of which individual voices make themselves faintly heard.)
FIRST VOICE.
I've lounged about barracks, I've danced and I've flirted,
I bolted from Simla with Kitty Magee,
And much as her fair reputation was dirtied
By the cruel Divorce Court and nisi decree,
I stuck to the lady and married her after,
Returned to inherit dad's acres and pounds,
Then treated the County (that cut us) with laughter,
Till the Prince espied Kitty, when riding to hounds!

345

After that all was smooth, and we entered Society,
The clergyman called, and the County knelt down,
And now life is full of eternal variety,
'Tween the fun in the shire, and the season in town!

ANOTHER VOICE.
With roguish face and pretty foot,
Pink silken stocking, high-heel'd boot,
And robes of Redfern's best,
I sup at two, and rise at ten,
Love all the white-shirt-fronted men,
But the gay Guardsman best.
Sing tra-la-la and rub-a-dub,
I frisk at the Corinthian club
With swells and ladies gay.
I think this pleasant life and free
Is just the life that ought to be
For ever and a day!

ANOTHER VOICE.
For ever, for ever! I love the sweet rustle
Of crisp new bank-notes, and the jingle of guineas—
In the street, upon 'Change, 'mid the murmur and bustle,
I pluck all the greenhorns, and wheedle the ninnies—
Cent. per cent. is my motto! I blow the bright bubbles
Which float for a while and then burst with no warning,
And then take my holiday, tramping the stubbles,
But get the Financial Review every morning.
I've a brougham and buggy, a wife and a family,
A dovecot at Fulham, a soiled dove within it,—
When I dream of a coffin, my skin perspires clammily,
And I don't want to think these enjoyments are finite!

ANOTHER VOICE.
I've plumb'd the great abyss of Mind
And find no solid bottom there.
Blind Force, blind Law are all I find,
And dark progression God knows where!
I've made a system most complete
Of true philosophy, wherein
I show all creeds are obsolete
That seek some heavenly goal to win.
And yet, Life's pleasant!—there's the rub
With other fogies at the club,
The Times at breakfast, and the knocks
I give to notions orthodox
In the Reviews! Tho' old and grey,
And somewhat troubled with the gout,
I really think I'd like to stay
And see my theories worked out!

ANOTHER VOICE.
Even as my hand the pistol clutches,
As the cold steel my forehead touches,
I pause in act to fire, and crave
Another chance beyond the grave!
More life! more chances! here I first
Drew breath, and knew the gambler's thirst,
Lost every stake I had to play,
And yet I know there is a way
Had I but time! For pity's sake,
Another life! wherein to stake
My soul, in passionate despair,
And win or lose it, then and there!

VOICES.
Yea, let us live! Eternal life
We crave, tho' 'twere eternal strife!
Let us live on, O thou most High,
For oh, 'tis terrible to die!

A VOICE.
The light that never was on sea or land
Fires and inspires me as I grip the pen,—
That Novel of the Age, which I have planned,
Must stagger and amaze my fellow-men.
I crave for Fame! but most I want to beat
That idiot Smith who boasts his tenth edition!
Ars longa, vita brevis. Life is sweet,
But far too scanty for the writer's mission—
And Smith is famous, while I pine neglected!
Almighty God, who makest reputations,
Grant life, that Smith may hide his head dejected,
While I am shining 'mongst Thy constellations!

346

ANOTHER VOICE.
'Mong quiet woodland ways, remote
From Demos of the clamouring throat
And all rude sight and sound,
I build my gentle House of Art
Wherein my soul may sit apart
Secure and lily-crown'd;
While foolish martyrs feed the fire
And angry factions rage,
I twang the solitary lyre
And scan the poet's page.
The village maidens clean and trim
Weave me green chaplets while I hymn
God's glory and the King's;
But o'er my grave and calm repose
The gracious Muse of Rugby throws
The shadow of her wings.
Deep is my faith in Nature's plan,
Mysterious and divine,
To waken in the mind of man
The peace which gladdens mine.
Wherefore I crave eternal life,
Remote from care, remote from strife,
And innocent of wrong,
That, loved and honour'd in the land,
I still may cut with cunning hand
My diamonds of song!

ANOTHER VOICE.
Thou hast set this crown of Empire on my head,
Thou hast given me glory full and overflowing!
The hungry people tremble at my tread,
The widowed nations fear my trumpet's blowing.
Leash'd in my grip, I hold the bloodhound War,
But o'er my crown the Cross of Christ is looming,
For in Thy name, O God, whence all things are,
I wield the sword, cross-shapen, lifeconsuming!

ANOTHER VOICE.
To talk and talk! To spout for hours
And have it printed all verbatim,
While pressmen, wondering at my powers,
Follow my prosings seriatim!
Abuse or praise, 'tis all the same
To make the politician's game,
While o'er the long-ear'd listening nation
Shoots the loose rocket, Reputation:
The listening House, the long debate,
The watching eyes, the Speaker's nod,
Shall these depart? Forbid it, Fate!
Make me immortal, like a God!

These voices, and a thousand more,
Like sad waves surging on the shore,
Rose, broke and fell, while others came
To fill the midnight with acclaim,
Till, wearied out, the Angel dread
Rais'd his right hand, and frowning said:
‘Enough, enough,’ and vanishèd.
Whereon again uprose the strife
Of those wild waves of human life,
But in a little space once more
His form flashed out against the sky;
His hand was raised to hush the roar
Of restless waters rolling by,
And thus he spake, with lustrous gaze
Fixed in large scorn on those who heard,
Delivering to the World's amaze
The Master's final Doom and Word!

‘Will it startle you much and be very distressing,
If I say that the Lord, who is kindly tho' strong,
Thinks that, tho' one or two might deserve such a blessing,
Mankind on the whole are too mean to prolong?
He harks to your pleading, He knows your petitions,
But sees with a sigh what you are, and must be,
And having made men of all sorts and conditions,
He thinks He must trust them to Nature, and Me.
Ipse dicit: the life you possess must content you,
You'd waste for all Time what you waste for a day . . .
Yet He leaves just a Doubt in your minds, to prevent you
From letting the Devil have all his own way!’

347

SISTERS OF MIDNIGHT.

(A NEW BALLAD TO AN OLD BURTHEN.)

‘One more unfortunate weary of breath’
(Sisters of Midnight, so runneth the ditty),
‘Rashly importunate, gone to her death,’
Lost in the gulf of the desolate City.
Let the flood cover her, while we walk over her,
Lit by the lamps of the Bridges forlorn—
Sisters of Midnight, pale waifs of Humanity,
Laugh at the world, all the foulness and vanity,
Hunting your prey from the night till the morn!

Poisonous paint on us, under the gas,
Smiling like spectres, we gather bereaven;
Leprosy's taint on us, ghost-like we pass,
Watch'd by the eyes of yon pitiless Heaven!
Let the stars stare at us! God, too, may glare at us
Out of the Void where He hideth so well . . .
Sisters of midnight, He damn'd us in making us,
Cast us like carrion to men, then forsaking us,
Smiles from His throne on these markets of Hell!

Laugh! Those who turn from us, too, have their price!
There, for the proud, other harlots are dressing,
They too may learn from us man's old device—
Food for his lust, with some sham of a blessing!
Sons of old Adam there buy the fine madam there,
Bid with a coronet,—yea, or a crown!
Sisters, who'd envy the glory which graces them?
They, too, are sold to the lust which embraces them,
Ev'n in the Church, with the Christ looking down!

Pure in their scorn of us, happy and fair,
Let them go by us, contented and smiling—
Foulness that's born of us, they, too, must share,
Long as they welcome what we are defiling.
They, who might turn to us, comfort us, yearn to us,
They who still smile on the Man and his sin,
Shut their proud portals of silver and gold on us!
Sisters of Midnight, tho' shame comes tenfold on us,
It comes twentyfold on those women within!

Leprosy's taint on them falls (let it fall!),
What we have poisoned, they clasp night and morrow!
Angel or saint on them vainly shall call!
Downward they drift to our level of sorrow!
Laugh! The trade's flourishing, thanks to our nourishing!
Pale droop the babes, while the mother's heart bleeds!
Sisters of Midnight, God's good,—He avenges us!
E'en as to dust and to foulness Man changes us,
Back goes the sin to his innocent seed!

‘One more unfortunate, weary of breath,’—
Plunge! down she drops, leaving sorrow behind her.
‘Rashly importunate, gone to her death!’
Spare her your pity, O fool, when ye find her!
Stretch her out merrily, murmuring, ‘Verily,
Luck, spite of all, falls at last to her share!’
Life has rejected her, let the gulf swallow her!
Sisters of Midnight, make ready to follow her
Down the deep waters of Death and Despair!

348

THE LOST WOMEN.

These are the Lost, waifs which from wave to wave
Drift lone, while yonder on the yellow strand
The laughing Children run from cave to cave
And happy Lovers wander hand in hand.

The sun shines yonder on the green hillside,
The bright spire points to Heaven through leafy trees,
The Maiden wears the glory of a Bride,
The bright babe crows on the young Mother's knees.

O happy Brides! O happy Mothers! born
To inherit all the light that life can give,
Hear ye these voices out of depths forlorn?
Know ye these Lost, who die that you may live?

A MORNING INVOCATION.

(ON LONDON BRIDGE.)

Shades of the clouds and the peaks! voices of rivers and fountains!
Glimpses of purple crags and torrents that murmur and leap!
Sounds and sights surrounding the Shepherd who stands on the mountains
Lonely 'mong vapours of Dawn, dim like a vision in sleep.
Dim he looms, and gigantic! Feels the chill breath of the Morning
Creep thro' the whitening mists, blowing them silently past,
Watches them come and depart, till out of the East with no warning
Flashes a roseate beam, and smites them asunder at last!
When lo! tho' clouds roll above and the sun is with shadows enfolden,
The flocks are spilt on the hills, the torrents shoot to the fall,
The eyes of the blue meres open, the moors grow purple and golden,
The mists melt over the heights, and the great Day gladdeneth all!
Shepherd of Song stand I here! and lo, the Night 'neath me and o'er me!
Lone in the City I loom, and watch for the dawn of the Day!
Shades as of clouds and of peaks, rising like phantoms before me,
Darken around me to-night as they darken'd afar away.
Dawn—and the shadows are stirr'd!
Light—and the clouds break asunder!
The River of Life again rolls by with a sound as of thunder!
Spires of the City gleam, houses loom large in the grey light,
Yonder a flag is flung out, yonder a casement shines clear,
And lo! St. Paul's like a crag, rounded and dewy with daylight,
Shines in the sun, while below it masts thick as reeds on a mere
Rise from the dark-flowing Thames!
Light of Humanity, filling
The eyes and the ears with thy glory, this mystical dawning of Day!
Touch the dark sources of prayer that stir in my bosom, distilling
Dews from the darkness of sense, till the darkness melteth away!
Come with the motion of clouds, with the murmur of winds come unto me,
Open the glimpses divine, while Night like an owl taketh wing;—
Shepherd of Song stand I here! Strengthen, inspire, and renew me
To look on the pageant and live, to hear the world wake, and to sing!

TO JUVENAL.

‘Prima fere vota et cunctis notissima templis
Divitiæ, crescant ut opes, ut maxima toto
Nostra sit arca foro.’
Juv., Sat. x. 23-25.

Thy satire neither old nor stale is,
Tho' many an age hath passed away,—
Decimus Junius Juvenalis,
Thou should'st be living here to-day!

349

The God men still with prayer importune
In every Christian temple stands,—
To Plutus and his harlot Fortune
We kneel with largess-seeking hand!

Tho' eighteen centuries have departed
This world of ours is just the same
As when, O Censor single-hearted,
You lookt on Life's Circensian game!
Here is the City, as you drew it
In those forgotten day of old!
The mob of Remus, as you knew it
When the slain Christ was scarcely cold!

And Fame still tells the same old story
Of idols whom the mob adore,—
A little reign, a little glory,
And lo, Sejanus topples o'er!
The statue made of mighty metal
Melts in the furnace, and alas!
Mere basin, frying-pan, and kettle
Are fashioned from the head of brass!

All power, all pride, are only trouble,
Honour and glory cease to shine,
Wisdom's a wig, and Fame a bubble,
But Gold is evermore divine,—
Minted tenfold it never ceases
To gladden mortal days and nights,
Surviving all the world's caprices
And buying all the world's delights!

No wonder, therefore, that we pray for it,
Ev'n as ye Romans prayed of old,—
Waving all other gods away for it,
Selling our very souls for Gold;—
The one glad thing that never stale is,
The one thing sure when all is told,
Is what you cursed, my Juvenalis,
When the slain Christ was scarcely cold!

‘. . . Deinde ex facie toto orbe secunda Fiunt urceoli, pelves, sartago, patellœ!’ Juv., Sat. x.

LYDIA AT THE SAVOY.

O my little Roman lady, with the fearless Roman air,
Freezing up the strange beholder with thy calm imperial stare,
Passing onward to thy carriage from the supper-table bright,
While the other lissome ladies feast so merrily by night!

With a gleam of chilly jewels and a rustling silken train
Sweeping onward from the revel, full of delicate disdain,
Proud and virginal and chilly to thy pointed finger-tips,
Despite the splash of crimson on thy soft and scornful lips!

But, my little Roman lady, how the gentle gods transform
Thy beauty in the chamber where the lights are dim and warm,
When thy sheath of silken splendour slips from nakedness divine,
And a laughing little lady holds her rosy mouth to mine!

O my little Roman lady! still remain as thou hast been,
For the garish world a vestal, but for me the Cyprian Queen!
Proud and virginal and chilly, till the Paphian charm is said,
And the Cupids and the Graces gather laughing round thy bed!

LESBIA.

(TO CATULLUS.)

‘Lesbia, illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam
Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes!’
Cat.

Hundreds of years ago
Your Lesbia lived and died
Yonder in Rome; yet lo!
Here she is at my side,
Merry and wanton-eyed!

Dead, yet ever re-born!
Lost, yet ever found!
Still with the roses of Morn
And poppies of Midnight crown'd,—
Laughing, with zone unbound!

350

Still, my Catullus, here
Her Paphian rites are done!
Ever from year to year
She gladdeneth in the sun,
The wanton eternal one!

Out of the ripe warm earth,
After the death-cold snow,
Bringing the old glad mirth
The rose and the rose-girl blow—
As in Rome so long ago!

More than my eyes I love her,
Just as you loved her there,—
The same skies shine above her,
And the same bright golden hair
Flows on her shoulders bare!

Light from her eyes I borrow,
Clasp, kiss her, and adore;—
Under the earth to-morrow
She'll sleep as she slept before—
Then waken and love once more.

Tho' under the earth like thee
I slumber still as stone,
Roses will blossom, and she,
The rose-girl, stand full-blown,—
Laughing, with loosen'd zone!

BICYCLE SONG.

(FOR WOMEN.)

I

Changed in a trice you find me,
Man, my master of yore!
Vainly you seek to bind me,
For I'm your Slave no more.
Fast as you fly behind me,
I now fly on before!

II

Out from my prison breaking,
Wherein so long I lay,
Into my lungs I'm taking
Draughts of the glad new Day—
Out! where the world is waking!
Presto! up and away!

III

Praise to the Luck which sent me
This magical Wheel I ride,
For now I know God meant me
To match Man, side by side!
Wings the good Lord hath lent me,
And oh, the world is wide!

IV

Scornful of all disaster,
On to the goal I flee!
My wheel grows faster and faster,
My soul more strong and free!
Pedal your best, good Master,
If you'd keep pace with me!

V

Bees may hum in the clover,
Sheep in the fold may cry,
My long siesta is over,—
Onward at last I fly—
He who would be my lover
Must now be swift as I!

VI

All that I missed he misses
Who lags behind distressed,—
Sweet were the old-time blisses
But Freedom and Life are best—
Still, there's a time for kisses,
When now and then we rest!

VII

And now I heed not a feather
The chains I used to feel—
Soon in the golden weather,
Edenward back we'll steal!
Adam and Eve together!
Throned on the Double Wheel!

THE SHOWER.

I.

Suddenly, as the busy crowd
Surges and roars along the street,
Over the housetops broods the cloud,
And down the first loose raindrops beat!
While black umbrellas here and there
Flutter up in the troubled air,

351

With pitter-patter of many feet
Into shelter the throngs retreat;
In a moment the rush and roar
Are still'd, and the Shower begins to pour,
The eager Shower. with its twofold sound—
The splash close by, and the murmur all round!

II.

Splash, splash! while the murmurous sound
Gathers and deepens all around!
And on the streets with leaden strokes
Strikes the Rain, till the pavement smokes
And where the great drops plash and pelt
Quicksilver-rings are made and melt!
While under the archways, at open doors,
The wet folk gather, down it pours,—
The eager Shower, with its twofold sound,—
The splash close by, and the murmur around!

III.

And now . . . how quiet all things look!
Still as a picture in a book!
And lo! the crowding people seem
Spell-bound, like figures in a Dream!
Silently they shelter and stare
On the rain-lash'd street, thro' the misty air:—
Trembling the little sempstress stands,
Holding her bandbox in her hands,
Lifting her skirt and peeping down
At her thin wet shoes with a shrug and a frown;
The fop his silk umbrella grips,
Holding it from him while it drips;
The city man with impatient glance
Looks at the clouded sky askance,
Mutters, and quietly unfolds
The evening newspaper he holds;
The loafer leaneth against the wall,
Straw in his mouth, with a grin for all;
The urchin, reaching out his foot,
Into the puddle dips his boot,
Or cap in hand thrusts out his bare
Head, that the drops may pelt his hair!
'Buses and cabs crawl slowly by,
Glistering moistly under the sky;
A mist steams up from the slippery ground,
While louder and louder grows the sound—
The splash close by, and the murmur around!

IV.

Then, all of a sudden, the air grows bright;
The moist black pools flash back the light,
The sun shines cheerily over all,
And lo, the Shower has ceased to fall!
The spell is broken, and now once more
The crowd flows onward with busy roar!

SERAPHINA SNOWE.

I. Her Portrait.

The medium, Seraphina Snowe,
Hath come to town with her Spirit-show:
A lady whom many a humbug think,
Raised in the land of the bobolink;
Has bothered philosophers many a day
In the land of notions over the way;
And over to England cometh she,
Blown like a feather across the sea.

A little lady with very white teeth,
White high forehead, and underneath
Eyes of strange forget-me-not blue
Washed more pale by a dreamy dew;
Lips rose-red and ever apart,
Full of the pants of a passionate heart;
Yellow and silken is her hair,
With a gleam of blood-red here and there;
As light, as bright, as a gleaming dove,
Is the little lady the Spirits love!
Hold her hand up to the light!
How transparent, how waxen white,
Save where the pink blood glimmers through!
Observe the slight little body, too!
A mingling, all tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’

With the wise men round her
And the savants dying to confound her,
She seems like some bright beautiful bird
Singing to snakes—who think song absurd:
Or a wave that breaks and sparkles and dances,
While the dark rocks scowl, until each rock glances

352

With the dew it scatters; or best, some hold,
One of those spiders whose threads of gold
Cross the woodland pathway, and (though so thin)
The light and the dew and the glory win,—
While close at hand with watchful wits,
The lithe and luminous lady sits,
Her body all beauty, her home all gay,
And her two eyes waiting for common prey!

II. Séance.

Poor little spider, so soft, so white!
What! doth she think in a web so slight
To catch enormous insects like these,
Or the critical wasps, or the busy bees? . . .
Buzz! . . . in the silent séance you mark
The wise blue-bottles hovering dark:
Doctor That and Professor This,
Each one finding the thing amiss,
Seeking to learn the trick of the show.
Poor little Seraphina Snowe!

Hush! . . . How brightly she doth brood
In the midst of us all, with the gentle blood
All flown to her heart, and her face all hoar.
Darken the room a little more!
Is that the wind on the pane or the rain! . . .
Something is stirring in my brain. . . .
What is that? . . .

. . . In the darkness of the room
Her face grows up and fills the gloom
Like a Lily of light. I feel her eyes,
Tho' I cannot see them. My spirits rise
And shiver—my heart ticks like a clock.
O hush! O hush! was that a knock?
Half a tap and half a creak,
Partly bubble and partly squeak,—
One,—two,—three!
The room seems rising,—and still I see
The gleam of the face. Strange raptures rain
Thro' my blood, and my bones, and my bursting brain!
She draws me nearer to her place,
I seem to be coming face to face;
She drinks my life,—her soft lips shoot
Warmth to my spirit's uttermost root,
Her glittering soul is in mine,—and hark!
The sounds continue in the dark,—
One,—two,—three!

Break the charm! On the company
Comes a scream like a spirit's in pain!—
Something sweet dies out of my brain;
And as lights are brought, great, yellow, and bright,
There the medium sits so white
Staring round with bewildered looks;
And beneath her croucheth Doctor Snooks
With a grin on his lanthorn jaws;—for he
Has gript her delicate lissome knee,
And holds the muscles as in a vice;
And ‘Lo!’ he crieth, ‘in a trice
I have stopped the raps; 'tis a muscular trick,
And nothing more.’ Then, rising quick,
He addeth, seizing his hat, ‘Good day!
Madam, I wish you a wiser way
Of gulling the public!’ Out they go,
Reproachful, melancholy, slow;
But still like a bird at bay sits she,
Half in a swoon,—so silently
Watching them all as they flit by
With her pallid spectral eyes!

. . . And I
With eyes that burn and heart astir,
Would linger behind and speak to her;
But she waves me hence with a little scream,
And out I follow in a dream,
A haunted man; and when I meet
The chuckling Doctor in the street,
I pass him by with a bitter frown,
And my hot fist burns to knock him down!

III. The Gospel According to Philosophy.

O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash'd more pale by a dreamy dew,
O red red lips, O dainty tresses,
O breast the breath of the world distresses!
O little lady, do they divine
That they hath fathom'd thee and thine?
Fools! Let them fathom fire,—and beat
Light in a mortar; ay, and heat
Soul in a crucible! Let them try
To conquer the Light, and the Wind, and the Sky!

353

Darkly the secret forces lurk,
We know them least where most they work,
And here they meet and mix in thee,
For a strange and mystic entity,
Making of thy pale soul in sooth
A life half trickery and half truth.

Well? . . . O my philosophic friend,
Does Nature herself ne'er condescend
To cheats and shams, and freaks and tricks,
Or doth she rather affect to mix
Reason with revel? Are you certain
That all is honest behind the curtain
Of lovely things you rejoice to meet?
Doth the Earth never sham, the Sky never cheat?
And do we question and rebel
If the cheat is pleasant and plausible?
Do we growl at the Rainbow in the air,
Or frown at the Mirage here and there?
Nay, we take these things as they come, my friend,
And let them into our being blend!
Passive we yield to the Sun and the Light,
To the scent of the flowers, to the sense and the sight,
Taking all changes with souls serene . . .
And so I take poor Seraphine!
Beautiful mingling, tinted well,
Of ‘Ariel’ and ‘Little Nell,’
With a spice of ‘Puck!’

True, as you aver,
I never was a philosopher!
But I do not envy Doctor Snooks
His scientific tools and books,
And I cheerfully let the grim old boy
Dissect the humbug that I enjoy.

Names,—more names? Let the lady be,—
Fie upon your philosophy!
And so the tricksy little bird
Is a ‘grass widow’ (is that the word?)
Or cast-off mistress, left to shame
By a New York rowdy of evil fame.
He thrash'd her did he? Go on. What more?
Finish your story, and o'er and o'er,
Proving things beyond human guess,
Blacken the little adventuress.
Now you have done, and I have heard,
Patiently, every cruel word,
Listen to me,—or rather, no!
Why should I argue with you so,
O wise Philosophy? Frown and go!
. . . I turn to Seraphina Snowe!

IV. Mesmeric Flashes.

O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash'd more pale with a dreamy dew,
What faces wicked, what haunts unclean,
Have ye not in your wanderings seen!
Poor little lady, so frail and wan,
Bruised in the brutal embrace of Man!
Thin white hands where the blood doth run
Like the light in a shell held up to the sun,
How often have ye lifted been
To ward away from hands obscene
Not a wicked touch but a ruffian blow!
God help thee, Seraphina Snowe!
Found out, exposed, the jest of the day,
With thy spectral eyes on the world, at bay!
While the sense of the Sun and the Wind and the Light
Surge thro' thee, and leave thee more wild and white,
And a mystic touch is in thy hair,
And a whisper of awe is everywhere,
And thou almost fearest in thy sin
The spirits thou half believest in!

Always imposing, little Elf,
And most on thy delicate silken self!
Making the raps with thy cunning knee,
Smiling to hear them secretly,—
And all the while thy pulses beat,
Thou tremblest at thine own deceit,
Listening, yielding, till there comes
Out of thy veins, and out at thy thumbs,
A wave of emotion, a swift flame
Blanching thy spiritual frame
To more ivory whiteness, a wild dew
Washing the spectral eyes more blue—
The secret Soul with its blinding light
Confirming thee in thy lie's despite!

Would to God that thou and I
Might put our hands together and fly
To some far island lone and new
Where the sun is golden, the sea dark blue,

354

Where the scented palm and the coca-tree
Should make a bower for thee and me,
And all should be wild and bright and keen,
The flowers all colour, the leaves all sheen,
The air and the warm earth all aglow
With the life, the fever, the ebb and flow,
With the spirit-waves that, flowing free,
Foam up to a crest in Elves like thee!

There, like the spider silvern and soft
Spinning lits thread of gold aloft,
Thou shouldst sit among the leaves and look
Out at me from a golden nook;
And draw me nearer with those dim eyes,
And kindle thyself to pants and sighs,
And I would crouch and gaze at thee
Through life that would seem Eternity:
While a wondrous spiritual light
Flash'd through and through me so wild and bright,
Till I faded away beneath thy hand,
Through thy Soul, to the Spirit Land!

MAETERLINCK.

(After a Matinée of ‘Pelléas and Melisande.’)

Why art thou dead, John Keats, not listening here
To this faint melody from Shadowland? . . .
The world dissolves, the Elfin groves appear,
And naked in their midst young Love doth stand!

Naked and wan, and, like a rose leaf, thin,
With strange sad silver on his golden hair,
He creeps o'er shadowy dew-soak'd lawns, to win
Some fairy casement glimmering ghost-like there!

The lights sink low, while sitting with no sound,
Sunk in our shadowy stalls, we two recline—
Frock-coated men and silk-clad ladies round,
And thou beside me, Demi-vierge divine!

The world dissolves, the garish streets are gone,
Fled is the City's strident harsh unrest—
Silent we watch the blind sad Love creep on
With wet weak wings and piteous wounded breast!

I cannot see thee, but my hand seeks thine,—
And following Love's faint feet we steal away,—
How shall I name thee, Demi-vierge divine,
Morgan le Faye, or Blanche la Desirée?

Ay me, the spell enwoven of woman's tears!
The sound of kisses and soft madrigals!
The forest path is haunted,—on our ears
The warm melodious rain of Dreamland falls!

And thin and pale and naked, side by side,
We follow naked Love through woodlands wan;
By all the wondering eyes of Elfland spied,
We cling and kiss as ghostly lovers can!

How shall I count our kisses in the dark?
How shall I count our feverish words and sighs?
Birds in a rain-wash'd nest, we cling and mark
Love stealing sadly on with blind red eyes! . . .

The music fades, the lights go up once more,
Silk dresses rustle, murmuring voices sound,
The spell of that lost Fairyland is o'er,
But dreaming still we rise and look around!

Then following with the crowd that seeks the light,
Out to the garish street we pass again,
And lo, thy face is glad and warm and bright,
Redeem'd from Fairyland and all its pain!

355

‘How quaint! how odd! why, one would almost think
We'd spent a chilly hour in some old tomb!
No wonder people say that Maeterlinck
Is Shakespeare's wraith, all creepiness and gloom!’

Sighing I stand and watch thee drive away,
Smiling and nodding gaily as we part,—
Morgan le Faye, or Blanche la Desirée,
Changed to a modern maid without a heart!

THE LAST CHRISTIANS

I. ‘Storm in the Night.’

Storm in the Night, Buchanan! a Voice the night still crying,
‘They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where He is lying!’

Thou, too, singer of songs and dreamer of dreams, art weeping
For the form that lay in the tomb, the Face so peacefully sleeping;

And now He hath gone indeed, and His worshippers roam bereaven,
Thou, by the Magdalen's side, art standing and looking at Heaven!

Woe unto thee, Buchanan; and woe to thy generation!
The harp of the heart He strung, the Soul He set in vibration,

Are lost since He is lost, the beautiful Elder Brother;
For the harp of the heart was His, the song could gladden no other!

'Twas something,—nay, 'twas much!—to know, though His life was over,
That the fair, bright Form was there, with the wool-white shroud for a cover!

He did not speak or stir, He did not hark to our weeping,
But His grave grew wide as the World, and the stars smiled down on His sleeping.

He made no speech, no sign, for Death has disrobed and discrown'd Him,—
But the scent of spikenard and myrrh was sweet in the air around Him!

So we kept our Brother, tho' dead! The Lily Flower of Creation!
And to touch His dear dead hands was joy in our desolation.

But now, the Tomb is void, and the rain beats over the portal:
Thieves like wolves in the night have stolen the dead Immortal!

So peacefully He slept, the Lily Flower of Creation,
That we said to ourselves, ‘He dreams! and His Dream is the World's salvation!’

But now by the Tomb we stand, despairing and heavy-hearted;
The stars look silently down, but the Light of the World hath departed.

And yet, should He be risen? Should He have waken'd, to wander
Out 'mid the winds of the night, out 'mid the Tempest yonder,

Holding His Lamp wind-blown, while the rain-cloud darkens and gathers,
Feeling His way thro' the gloom, naming our names, and our Father's?

Nay, for the World would know the face of the fair New Comer,
The graves would open wide, like buds at the breath of the summer,—

The graves would open, the Dead within them quicken and blossom,
And over the World would rain the flowers that had grown in His bosom!

Nay, then, He hath fled, not risen! in vain we seek and implore Him!
Deeper than Death He hath fall'n, and the waves of the World roll o'er Him!

Storm in the night, Buchanan! A Voice in the night still crying,
‘They have taken away our Lord! and we know not where he is lying!’

356

II. ‘Hallelujah Jane.’

‘He's a long way off, is Jesus—and we've got to make it loud!’

Glory! Hallelujah! March along together!
March along, march along, every kind of weather!
Wet or dry, shower or shine, ready night and day,
Travelling to Jesus, singing on the way!
He is waiting for us, yonder in the sky,
Stooping down His shining head to

Hear

Our

Cry!

‘'Alleloojah! 'alleloojah! Round the corner of the street
They're a-coming and a-singing, with a sound of tramping feet,
Throw the windy open, Jenny—let me 'ear the fife and drum—
Garn; the cold can't 'arm me, Jenny—ain't I book'd for Kingdom Come?
I've got the doctor's ticket for a third-class seat, ye know,
And the Lord 'll blow His whistle, and the train begin to go . . .
'Alleloojah! How I love 'em!—and the music—and the rhyme—
My 'eart's a-marchin’ with 'em, and my feet is beatin' time!
Lift me up and let me see them—Lord, how bright they looks to-day!
Ain't it 'eavenly? Men and women, boys and gels, they march away!
Who's that wavin’? It's the Captain, bless his 'art! He sees me plain—
It was 'im as 'ad me chris'en'd, called me “'Alleloojah Jane!”
And the minute I was chris'en'd, somethink lep' in my inside,
And I saw, fur off and shining, Golden Gates as open'd wide,
And I 'eard the Angels 'oller, and I answered loud and clear,
And the blessèd larfing Jesus cried, “You've got to march up 'ere!”
And I march'd and lep' and shouted till my throat was sick and sore,
Down I tumbled with diptheery, and I couldn't march no more!’

Glory! Hallelujah! Sound the fife and drum!
Brother, won't you join us, bound for Kingdom Come?
Wear our regimentals, spick and span and gay,
And be always ready to listen and obey?
Form in marching order, stepping right along,
While above the angels smile and

Join

Our

Song!

‘Are they gone? Well, lay me down, Jenny—for p'r'aps this very day
The Lord 'll read the roll-call, so there ain't much time to stay.
But afore I leave yer, Jenny, for the trip as all must take,
Jest you 'ear me bless the music that fust blew my soul awake . . .
I was born in dirt and darkness—I was blind and dumb with sin—
For the typhus 'ad took father, and my mother's-milk was gin,
And at sixteen I was walkin’ like the other gels ye meet,
And I kep' a little sister by my earnin's on the street.
Well, they say 'twas orful sinful, but 'twas all I'd got to do,
For I 'ad to get my livin', and to keep my sister too;
And poor Bess, yer see, was sickly—for she'd never been the same
Since she got a kick from father on the back, wot made her lame;—
As for mother, she was berried too, thank God! One winter night
Been run over by a Pickford, when mad drunk, and serve her right!
So we two was left together, and poor Bess, 'twas 'ard for 'er,
For her legs was thin as matches, and she couldn't scursly stir;

357

But so pretty! with her thin face, and her silken yeller 'air,
And so 'andy with her needle, in her invalidy chair,
And when at night I left her to walk out in street and lane,
Tho' I come 'ome empty-'anded, she'd a kiss for sister Jane.
But 'twas 'ard, and allays 'arder, just to keep ourselves at all,
Me so precious black and ugly, Bess so 'flicted and so small,
For tho' only one year younger, she'd 'a' passed for twelve or less;
But, Lor bless ye, she was clever, and could read and spell, could Bess!
(She'd learnt it at the 'ospital from some kind nuss, yer see.)
When I brought 'er 'ome a paper she could read the noos to me,
All the p'lice noos and the murders, and the other rum things there,
And for 'ours I'd sit and listen by her invalidy chair!

‘Well, one night as I was climbin’ up the stair, tir'd out and sad,
For the luck had been ag'in me, and 'twas pouring down like mad,
I 'eard her voice a-screaming! and from floor to floor I ran,
Till I reach'd our room and sor 'er, and beside her was a man,
An ugly Spanish sailor as was lodgin' in the place,
And the beast was 'olding Bessie and a-kissing of her face,
And she cried and scream'd and struggled, a-tryin' to get free,
And the beast he 'eard me comin' and turned round 'is face to me,
And I sor it black and ugly with the drink and worse beside,
And I screech'd, “Let go my sister!” while she 'id her face and cried.
Then the man look'd black as thunder, and he swore he'd 'ave my life
If I stay'd there, and his fingers began feelin' for his knife,
But I lep' and seized a poker as was lying by the grate,
And I struck 'im on the forrid (bet your life he got it straight—
For I felt as strong as twenty!), and he guv an angry groan,
Drew the knife, and lep' to stab me, then roll'd over like a stone!
And the landlord and the lodgers came a-rushin' up the stair,
While I knelt by Bess, who'd fainted in her invalidy chair!

‘Well, Jenny, no one blamed me!—and the p'lice said “Serve him right!”—
I never saw his face ag'in arter that drefful night;
But ever arter that poor Bess seem'd dull and full of care,
And she droop'd and droop'd and sicken'd in her invalidy chair.
Some trouble of the 'art, they said (that shock was her death-blow!)
And I watched her late and early, and I knew as she must go;
And the doctor gave her physic, and she'd all as she could eat,
And I bought her many a relish, when I'd luck upon the street;
But one mornin', close on Easter, when I waken'd in our bed,
I turn'd and see her lyin’ with her arms out, stiff and dead!
And I cried a bit and kiss'd her, then got out o' bed and drest,
Wash'd her face, put on clean linen, placed her 'ands upon her breast,
And she look'd . . . she look'd . . . so pretty!
God was good! I'd luck just then—
I scraped the money somehow, till I'd nigh on one pound ten,
And I bought poor Bess a coffin, and a grave where she could lie—
She got no workus berryin'—thank God for that, sez I!
And the neighbours sor me foller, all a-gatherin' in a crowd,
And I never felt as lonesome, but I never felt so proud!

‘Arter that, I sort o' drifted 'ere and there about the town,
Like a smut blown from a chimbly, and a long time comin' down!

358

And I took to drink like mother, and the drink it made me mad,
So, between the streets and prison, well, my luck was orful bad!
I was 'onest, tho', and never robb'd a man, or thief'd (not me!)
Tho' they quodded me for fightin' and bad langwidge, don't yer see?
And at last, somehow or other, how it come about ain't clear,
I was took to a big 'ospital, and kep' there nigh a year,
And I felt—well, now, I'll tell yer—like a bit of orange peel,
All muddy and all rotten, wot you squash beneath your 'eel!
Well, the doctors 'ealed and cured me, but one mornin', when they said
I must go to a reformat'ry, sez I, “No, strike me dead!”
And I felt a kind of loathin' for them all, and thought of Bess
Lyin' peaceful there at Stepney in her clean white fun'ral dress.
And I left the place next mornin'—I was wild, ye see, to go—
And 'twas Christmas, when I trampled back to Stepney thro' the snow—
And I met a chap who treated me and made me blazin' tight,
And I lost my 'ed and waken'd in the streets at dead o' night,
And the snow was fallin', fallin', and 'twas thick upon the ground,
And I'd got no place to go to, and my 'ed was whirlin' round,
When I see a lamp afore me, and a door stood open wide,
And I took it for a publick, till they sang a psalm inside,
And I sez, “It's them Salvationists!” and turned to go away,
When one comes out, their Captain, and calls out for me to stay;
And he touch'd me on the shoulder, and he sez, “Wot's up, my lass?”
And I sez, “I ain't teetotal!” and I larf'd, and tried to pass,
But he looked me in the face, he did, and sez, “Wot brings ye 'ere?
Speak out if you're in trouble, and we'll 'elp ye, never fear!”
And I sez, “I ain't in trouble!” but he looks me in the eyes,
And he answers sharp and sudden, “Don't you tell me any lies—
The Lord Jesus 'ates a liar!” and at that I shut my fist,
I'd 'a' struck 'im if'e'd let me, but he ketch'd me by the wrist,
And he whisper'd, oh, so gentle, “You're our sister, lass,” he said,
“And to-night I think our sister 'as no place to lay her 'ed!
Come in—your friends are waitin'—they've been waitin' many a day—
And at last you've come, my sister, and I think you've come to stay!”’

Glory! Hallelujah! Fighting for the Lord!
Sinners kneel before us, fearing fire and sword!
Never you take service with the Devil's crew—
Here you'll get promotion, if you're straight and true!
Jesus is Field-marshal! Jesus, Heaven's King,
Points us forward, forward, while we

March

And

Sing!

‘Still a-playin’ in the distance! 'Allelujah! Fife and drum!
'Ere's my blessin' on the music, now I'm bound for Kingdom Come!
Well, that night ?—They guv me shelter, and a shakedown nice and clean,
And no one ax'd no questions—who I was, or wot I'd been—
But next mornin' when I waken'd, with a 'ed that split in two,
In there comes a nice old lady, and sez smilin', “How d'ye do?”
And I nods and answers sulky, for “she's come to preach,” thinks I,
But we gets in conwersation, and at last, the Lord knows why,
I tells her about Bessy,—and I see her eyes grow dim,
And outside, while I was talkin', sounds the loud Salvation 'ymn.

359

“Well,” sez she, “she's gone to glory, and she's up among the Blest,
For it's poor gels like your sister as Lord Jesus likes the best!”
And from that she got me talkin' of myself, and when she 'eard
All my story as I've told yer, up she got without a word,
And she kiss'd me on the forrid! then she sez, “All that's gone past!
And there's lots of life before you, now you've come to us at last!”
Then I larf'd—“I ain't Salvationist, and never mean to be!
Tho' a-prayin' and a-singin' may suit you, it won't suit me!”
But she sez, “You just 'ave patience, for the thing wot's wrong with you
Is just this—you're downright wretched, all for want of work to do!
One so pretty should be 'appy as a bird upon a tree”
(Me pretty! and me 'appy!) “for the Lord, my dear,” sez she,
“Likes nice cheerful folks about Him, and can't bear to see them sad,
For He's fond of fun and music and of everythink that's glad!”

‘Well, she got me work, and told me folks must labour every one,
And I said I'd be teetotal (just to please her, and for fun!)
But I allays hated working, and my 'eart felt dull and low,
And thinks I, “The publick's better, and religion ain't no go,”
For somethink black and 'eavy seem'd a-workin' in my breast,
And I used to go 'ysteric, and I never felt at rest . . .
But one mornin', when the Army was agatherin', I stood by,
And they 'ollered, “Glory, glory, to our Father in the sky!”
And I thought the tune was jolly, and I sang out loud and gay,
And the minute I begun it, 'arf my trouble pass'd away,
And the louder as I sung it, that great lump I felt inside
Grew a-lighter and a-lighter, while I lep and sung and cried!
And when the song was over, up the Captain comes to me,
And he sez, “That voice of yourn, Jane, is as good as any three!
Why, you're like a op'ry singer!” he sez, larfin'. . . . “Never mind,”
He sez (for I look'd sulky, and his 'eart was allays kind!)
“Never mind—there's many among us of such singin' would be proud—
He's a long way off, is Jesus, so we've got to make it loud!”
Then they march'd, and I went marchin', for I seem'd gone mad that day,
And my 'art inside was dancin' every footstep of the way.
Yes, and that there singin' saved me! for the louder as I sung,
Why, the more my load was lighten'd, and it seem'd as how I sprung
From the ground right up to Jesus, and I 'eard Him 'oller clear,
“Keep a marchin' and a-singin', for you've got to get up 'ere!”’

Hear

Our

Cry!

‘Coming back? Ah, yes, I 'ear them, louder, louder, as they come;
Lord, if I might only jine them, march ag'in to fife and drum!
. . . I feels faint. . . . A drop o' water!—There, I'm better, but my 'ed
Is a-swimmin' to the music. . . . Now it's stop't. . . . Wot's that ye said?
They're a-standing 'neath the windy? Lift me up, and let me see,
For the sight of them as saved me is like life and breath to me!
No, I can't!—all's black afore me—and my singin's a'most done. . . .
Now, it's lighter! I can see them! all a-standin' in the sun!

360

Look, look, it's the Lord Jesus! He's a-formin' them in line,
His white 'orse is golden-bridled, and 'is eyes—see, how they shine!
'E's a-speakin'! Read the Roll-Call! They're a-throngin' one and all,
With their things in marchin' order, they're a-answ'rin' to the call,
My turn will soon be comin', for the march must soon begin. . . .
‘Alleloojah Jane! That's me, sir! Ready? Ready, sir! Fall in!’

L'Envoi to the Preceding Poem.

Nought is so base that Nature cannot turn
Its dross to shining gold,
No lamb so lost that it may never learn
The footpath to the fold.

Be sure this trampled clay beneath our feet
Hath life as fair as ours,
Be sure this smell of foulness is as sweet
As scent of fresh young flowers.

All is a mystery and a change,—a strife
Of evil powers with good:
Sin is the leaven wherewith the bread of life
Is fashion'd for our food.

God works with instruments as foul as these,
Sifts Souls from dregs of sense,
Death is His shadow—Sorrow and Disease
Are both His handmaidens!

Out of the tangled woof of Day and Night
His web of Life is spun:
Dust in the beam is just as surely Light
As yonder shining Sun!

III. ‘Annie;’ or, the Waif's Jubilee.

‘The magistrate asked her what she had to say for herself. “Only this, sir,” she replied, “I was a gentleman's daughter once.”’—Police Report.

‘Annie! Annie!’
Hark, it is Father's call!
See, he is coming! Run
To meet him, little one,
In the golden evenfall.
Yonder down the lane
His voice calls clear:
‘Annie!’ he cries again—
Run down and meet him, dear!
The long day's toil is done,
The hour of rest has come—
Haste to him, little one—
Ride on his shoulder home!
. . . What voice is it she hears across the storm,
The haggard Waif who stands with drip ping form
Shivering beneath the lamps of the dark street?
With slant moist beams upon the Rain's black walls
The dreary gaslight falls,
And all around the wings o' the Tempest beat!
O hark! O hark!
The voice calls clear i' the dark—
She hears—she moans—and moaning wanders on;
A mist before her eyes,
A stone in her heart, she flies
Into the rainy darkness, and is gone!
What a Night! strong and blind
Down the street swoops the Wind,
Falls breathless, then moans!
While again and again
Like a spirit in pain,
On the black slippery stones
Sobs the Rain! . . .
‘Annie! Annie!’
Hark, it is Father's call!
See, he is coming! Run
To meet him, little one,
In the golden evenfall!
. . . Out from the darkness she hath crept once more,
That strange voice ringing hollow over all;
Close to the theatre's great lighted door,
Where smiling ladies, while the raindrops pour,
Wait for their carriages, and linkmen bawl.

361

She pauses watching, while they laugh and pass
Tripping across the pavement 'neath the gas,
Then rattling home. Home? Ah, what home hath she,
Who once was bright and glad as any there?
Fifty years old, this is her Jubilee!
And round her Life is like an angry Sea
Breaking to ululations of despair!
. . . Who hath not seen her, on dark nights of rain,
Or when the Moon is chill on the chill street,
Creeping from shade to shade in grief and pain,
Showing her painted cheeks for man's disdain
And wrapt in woe as in a winding sheet?
Sin hath so stain'd it none may recognise
The face that once was innocent and fair,
And hollow rings are round the hungry eyes,
And shocks of grey replace the golden hair;
And all her chance is, when the drink makes blind
The foulest and the meanest of mankind,
To hide her stains and force a hideous mirth,
And gain her body's food the old foul way—
Ah, loathsome dead sea fruit that eats like earth,
Her mouth is foul with it both night and day!
So that corruption and the stench of Death
Consume her body and pollute her breath,
And all the world she looks upon appears
A dismal charnel-house of lust and tears!
Sick of the horror that corrupts the flesh,
Tangled in vice as in a spider's mesh,
Scenting the lazar-house, in soul's despair,
She sees the gin shop's bloodshot eyeballs glare,
And creepeth in, the feverish drug to drain
That blots the sense and blinds the aching brain;
And then with feeble form and faltering feet
Again she steals into the midnight street,
Seeks for her prey, and woefully takes flight
To join her spectral sisters of the Night!
What a Night! fierce and blind
Down the street swoops the Wind!
How it moans! how it groans!
While again and again
Like a spirit in pain,
On the black slippery stones
Sobs the Rain!
See! like ghosts to and fro
Living forms swiftly pass,
With their shadows below
In the gleam of the gas;
And the swells, wrapt up warm,
With their weeds blasing bright,
Hurry home thro' the Storm . . .
It's a Hell of a Night!
Hell? She is in it, and these shapes she sees,
While crawling on, are hateful and accurst!
Light laughter of light lips, mad images
Of dainty creatures delicately nurst,
Cries of the revel, blackness, and the gleam
Of ghastly lights, are blended in her dream
Of Hell that lives and is, the Hell she knows,
With all its mockery of human woes!
Darkly, as in a glass, she seëth plain
The vision of dead days that live again:
The house, beyond these streets, where she was born;
The father's face in death; the hungry home;
The fight for bread; the hungry and forlorn
Cry for a help and guide that would not come;
The glimmer of glad halls, the forms therein
Beck'ning and laughing till she joined their mirth;
Then, pleasures sultry with the sense of sin,
And those foul dead sea fruits that taste of earth;
Then, blackness of disease and utter shame,
And all Hell's infamies without a name!
Then, all the bloom of sense and spirit fled,
The slow descent to midnight gulfs of dread
Like this she sees!—Then, in a wretched room
Deep 'mid the City's sunless heart of gloom,
Another life awakening 'neath her heart,
A sickly babe with crying lips apart

362

Moaning for food!—and into Hell she creeps
Once more to feed it, haunting the black street,—
Yea, in the garret where her infant sleeps
Hell's hideous rites are done, that it may eat!
Then, Death once more! The sickly life at rest;
The child's light coffin that a child might bear;
The mother's hunger tearing at her breast,
And only Drink to drown the soul's despair.
She sees it all, on this her Jubilee,
While the Night moans and the sick
Hell-lights gleam. . . .
O God! O Motherhood! Can these things be,
And men still say that Hell is but a dream?
‘Annie! Annie!’
What voice is this that cries
Amid the lights of Hell,
Where these live shadows dwell
Under the rain-rent skies? . . .
What a night! All one hears
Is the torrent of tears
On a world plung'd in pain;
All one sees is the swarm
Of dim waifs in the storm,
Flitting hither and thither
(O God, who knows whi ker?)
Like ghosts, thro' the Rain!
. . . Annie! . . .
She hears the voice, ev'n while she crawls
'Neath the black arches on the riverside,
Then moaning low upon her face she falls . . .
Annie! . . . She stirs, and listens as it calls,
With eyes that open wide.
Lost there to Man, dead to the Storm and Strife.
She lies and keeps her Jubilee till morn,
O'er her, a heap of rags, the waves of Life
Wash weary and forlorn . . .
Is all, then, done? Nay, from the depths of Night
That voice still cries, and dimly gleams a Light . . .
‘Annie!’—She listens —Thro' the Tempest wild
One cometh softly—she can see him come!—
‘Father! I'm Annie! I'm your little child!’
And father lifts her up, to bear her Home!

L'Envoi to the Preceding Poem.

I.

Courage, and face the strife of Humankind
In patience, O my brother:
We come from the eternal Night to find,
And not to lose, each other!

Think'st thou thy God hath toil'd thro' endless Time
With ceaseless strong endeavour,
To tashion these and thee from ooze and slime,
Then blot His work for ever?

Age after age hath roll'd in billowy strife
On the eternal Ocean,
Bearing us hither to these sands of Life
With sure and steadfast motion

Dead? Nought that lives can die. We live and see!
So hush thy foolish grieving:
This Universe was made that thou mightst be
Incarnate, self-perceiving.

Still thine own Soul, if thou wouldst still the strife
Of phantoms round thee flying;
Remember that the paradox of Life
Is Death, the Life undying.

II.

How? Thou be saved, and one of these be los
The least of these be spent, and thou soar free!
Nay! for these things are thou—these tempest-tost
Waves of the darkness are but forras of thee.

363

Shall these be cast away? Then rest thou sure
No hopes abide for thee if none for these.
Wouldst thou be heal'd? Then hast thou these to cure;
Thine is their shame, their foulness, their disease.

By these, thy shadows, shalt thou rise or fall;
Thro' these, and thee, God reigns, or rests down-trod:
Let Him but lose but one, He loses all,
And losing all, He too is lost, ev'n God.

These shapes are only images of thee,
Nay, very God is thou and all things thine:
Thou art the Eye with which Eternity
Surveys itself, and knows itself Divine!

THE TRUE SONG OF FAIRYLAND.

I.

The bugle is blowing from elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo!
The dark clouds part as the music swells,
And the Heaven where eternal summer dwells
Shines bonnie and bright and blue! . . .

A child I dwelt in the wild north-land,
In a City beside the Sea,—
The morning I slept on the yellow strand
I had summers seven and three!

Tired with playing on the sands so fair
I slept in the white moon's beam,
And the good folk found me sleeping there
And twined me away in a dream!

They wetted my lips with the honey-dew
And my lids with the euphrasie,
And I open'd my eyes beneath the blue
Still Heaven o' Faërie!

I saw the fields of the silvern grain
And the hills of the purple sheen,
And the King of Elfland with all his train
Rode o'er the uplands green;

I learn'd the spell o' the Elfin land
And the songs the Pixies sing,—
The woven charm of the waving hand
That makes the Magic Ring!

I heard what mortals cannot hear,
The dew-wash'd blue-bells tinkling clear
Under the starry skies,
And the Fay-folk throng'd on the grassy ground,
And the Kelpie swam in the burn, like a hound
With great sad human eyes . . .

They bore me back from the Land of Light
To my sleeping-place by the Sea,
But when I waken'd my face was bright
With a golden glamorie!

As I wander'd back on the ocean sand
I sang full loud and free,—
For the things I had seen in the Elfinland,
And the swectness I could not understand,
Had turn'd to a melodie!

II.

Lonely I dwelt by the sad sea-shore
In a world of women and men,—
When I lookt on the Spirits of Light once more
I had summers seven and ten!

They gather'd at night around my bed,
All in the pale moon's beam,
‘Sing of the Fairy World,’ they said,
‘And the Dream within the Dream!

‘Sing, for a World that is weary and grieves,
Of a World that is ever bright,
Of the Spirits that hide among flowers and leaves
And play in the starry Light!

‘Sing, for the hearts that are sad and old,
Of the hearts that ever are young!’
And they set in my arms a harp of gold,
And I wander'd forth,—and I sung.

I sung my song by the cottage door
And up at the lordly hall,
And I wove the light of the magic lore
With the love that is birthright of rich and poor
And blesses great and small.

364

Then into the City I singing pass'd
And the walls closed round on me,
Till the Cloud of the World shut out at last
The Heaven o' Faërie!

III.

From lane to lane, from street to street,
I walked for weary years,
And a band of lead was around my feet
And my song was still'd with tears.

The smoke of the City above my head
Shut out the starry sky,
And the sounds around me were as the tread
Of legions thundering by!

And I tried to sing, but no song would come
From my frozen lips of clay,—
By the living Waters I wandered dumb
And watch'd them rolling away!

IV.

Full many a year my heart was sore
And the World grew dark to me,—
When I heard the music I loved once more
I had summers a score and three!

There came a bird in the dead of night
And sang and waken'd me,
And I felt the beams of the Land of Light
And open'd mine eyes to see!

The clouds of the City were cleft in twain,
The gleam of the skies shone through,—
And voices from Elfland cried again
With a hark and a hey halloo!

The banners of Elfland waved on high,
The streets were grassy green,
Everywhere 'neath the starry sky
The Fairy Folk were seen!

The pale Fay-King with his golden crown
Went by and beckon'd me,
And troops of children followed him down
To the sands of a crystal Sea;—

And some were blind, and some were lame,
And all were ragged and poor,
And they flock'd and flock'd with glad acclaim,
As he passed, from every door!

And down to a silvern strand they hied
And bathed in the water clear,
And the King stood by them radiant-eyed
While the Good Folk gather'd near.

Back they flocked to the City cold,
Between the dark and the light,
And a gentle Shepherd with crook of gold
Gather'd them into the dusky fold
Like lambs wash'd clean and white!

From the shining dove-cots overhead
Whose doors swung open wide,
The Fays of heaven took wing and fled
Like doves in the eventide;

And the Fays of the woods came thronging in,
With the Fays of field and stream,
And they filled the City of shame and sin
With the sound of a summer dream!

Have you heard the croon of a cushat creep
Through the boughs of a leafy dell?
Like the cushat's call, from the boughs of Sleep
(Deep! deep! deep! deep!)
The magic murmur fell!

And the little children lay content
While the Fays their vigil kept,
And honeysuckle and hawthorn scent
Blew round them as they slept!

And ever the bugles of Elfland blew
And the magic notes ran free,—
The Heavens were open, the stars shone thro'
With a golden glamorie!

V.

The bugle blows from the elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo,
And the magic song of the fields and fells
Rings on beneath the blue!

Be it rain or wind, be it shine or snow,
I echo that song to men,—
The fairies are with me still, altho'
I have winters five times ten!

The mist that floats before human eyes
Hides the heaven o' Faërie,
The cloud o' the sense around them lies,
They are blind and cannot see;

365

Yet the folk of Elfland are busy yet
In street and alley and lane,—
They dry the eyes that are weary and wet,
And they beal the heart's dull pain!

From door to door the Good Folk fly,
With liberal heart and hand,
And wherever the little children cry
Is the light o' the Fairy Land.

The little box of mignonette,
On the window-sill of the sick-room set,
Holds flowers the Fay-folk sow—
The thrush in his wicker cage that swings
In the smoky lane, laughs loud and sings
A song the Good Folk know!

They are with us yet, they are busy yet,
They are here from night to morn,
And they remember tho' we forget
The land where the Light is born!

At dead of night with a soft footfall
Thro' the wards of the children's hospital
They flock with light and song,—
On the still white beds the moonlight lies,
And the pale sick children open their eyes
And see the shining throng.

VI.

The bugle blows from the elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo!
The Land where eternal summer dwells,
The Land of magical songs and spells,
Again shines bright and blue!

Be it sun or snow, be it rain or wind,
I echo that music here,
Tho' my heart beats faint and my eyes grow blind
And the wintertide is near.

I hear the sound of a funeral bell
Go thro' the World grown gray,—
I hear the wise men ringing the knell
Of a God that is dead, they say.

I hear the weeping, I hear the groans,
I see the mourners stir,
I watch the sextons who heap the stones
On the mouth of the sepulchre!

But I only smile, for the Fays by night
Make the day's long labour vain,—
Legions from Elfland, laughing light,
Open the grave again!

When the gates o' the grave are openèd
And the lambs sleep in the fold,
The Fay-King arises, quick not dead,
And the gleam of the moonlight is round his head,
And his shroud is shining gold!

He stands and smiles on the folk asleep,
Yea, stoops and comforts them,
But the men and women that sleep not, creep
To touch his raiment-hem!

And I hear his voice ring clear and mild
Over the earth and the sea,—
‘Except thou be as a little Child,
Thou shalt not come to Me!’

And I see the faces of old, old men
Grow foolish and glad and young,
And I hear the grandam crooning again
The songs the Fays have sung;

And men and women forget their care
And cry like lambs in the night,
For the King of Elfland finds them there,
And the spirits of Elfland fill the air
With dreams from the Land of Light;

And the graves are open, and shining crowds
Throng from the fields of Sleep,
And we see our loved ones in their shrouds,
That fall and leave them like breaking clouds,
And we clasp their hands and weep!

Yea, this is the work the Fay-folk do
In the name of their gentle King,—
Ah, well for men if they surelier knew
The message the Good Folk bring!

Alas for the life of ashes and sand,
Alas for the World grown gray,
If the gentle dream of the Fairy Land,
The Light in the lattice of Heaven, the Hand
That beckons, should fade away!

366

Latter-Day Gospels.

JUSTINIAN; OR, THE NEW CREED.

‘The world is weary of idolatries:
Pan and Apollo and great Zeus are dead,
And Jesus Christ hangs cold upon the Cross.
Nay more, the light of Science newly born
Hath scatter'd all the gods and God their guide,
So that, for calm assurance of our souls,
We mathematically demonstrate
Infinite God as infinitely false
To infinite impossibility.
Henceforth a grievous shadow quits the earth,
While Man, the fruitage and the flower of things,
Walks fetterless and free.’ Thus much and more,
With many hints of cell and protoplasm,
And of the dusk beginnings of the brain,
The mild Professor said.

Professor Day,
A little gentleman with soft gray eyes,
Whose spectacles had faced the very Sphinx
And read the cosmicriddle wrought therein.
He, having lived to forty years of age,
Had hate for nought but ambiguity;
Knew all that Science and the schools could teach,
Lived for Truth only, and, had these been days
Of any necessary martyrdom,
Would cheerfully have given his life for Truth.
Meantime, he served her cause. How wrathfully
He rose his height, while angry pulpits wail'd,
And from the platforms of the great Reviews
Demolish'd the theistic fallacy,
Pluck'd the bright mantle from the verbal form
And show'd the syllogistic skeleton!
Dear gentle heart, he who could be so fierce
In hating what he did not deem to be,
Was full of love for all the things that are;
Wherefore God loved him for his unbelief
And sent a ministering angel down. . . .

He often thought, ‘If I should have a child,
If ever life should issue out of mine,
I shall uprear it on the gracious food
Of Knowledge only. Superstition haunts
Our very cradles: in our nurses' hands
Dangle the fetish and the crucifix
That darken us for ever till we die.
No child of mine, if I should have a child,
Shall know the legend of the Lie Divine
Or lisp the words of folly that profane
The wish of wisdom. Prayer is cowardice:
No child of mine shall pray. Worship is fear:
My child shall never know the name of fear.
But when its eyes are ready to behold,
Its ears to hear, my child shall wander forth,
Fearlessly leaning on its father's strength,
Serene in innocence and mastery.’

And so he wedded, hoping for a chi'd,
A tender toy to cut his creed upon,
And wedded wisely: a virgin not too young,
And not too proud, and not too beautiful,
But gently reared, and of a learnèd race
Who held that over-learning suits but ill
The creed and need of women. To his side
She came not trembling, trusting in his strength,
And wise enough to dimly comprehend
Her gentle lord's superiority.
Two years they grew together, as two trees
Blending their branches; then a child was born,
Which, flickering like a taper thro' the night,

367

Went out ere dawn; but when the mother wept,
And reach'd her thin hands down the darkness, whither
The little life had fallen like a spark,
The pale Professor (though his eyes were dim)
Sat by the bedside presently, and proved—
As gently as a poor man praying to God—
That what had never known potential life,
In all its qualities and faculties,
Had never absolutely lived at all;
Nay, 'twere as wise, perchance, he thought, to mourn
Some faint albuminous product of the Deep,
As weep for something which had ne'er achieved
The motions and the mysteries of Mind,
Which things are Life itself. The mother moaned;
And creeping thence to his laboratory,
The wise man wiped away a foolish dew
That shamed the gloss of his philosophy.

But comfort came a little later on;
Another crying life arose and bloom'd,
And faded not upon the mother's breast,
But drew its milk with feeble lips, and breath'd.
It was a boy, and when they brought him down,
And placed him in the pale Professor's arms,
He laugh'd and reach'd his little rosy hands
To embrace his father; and the wise man said,
Holding the babe and blushing awkwardly,
‘How naturally mammals love their young!
Thus, even thus, the archetypal Ape
Dandled its rough first-born!’ Whereat the nurse
Exclaim'd,—not comprehending, pious soul,—
‘Thank God for sending you so fine a boy!’
And when the wise man thro' his spectacles
Look'd lightnings of philosophy and scorn,
She took the babe and murmur'd, kissing it,
‘Now God Almighty grant the pretty dear
A ong and merry life!’

The wise man's cheek
Grew pallid, for already, ere he knew,
It seem'd that Superstition's skinny hand
Was clutching at his pearl of innocence.
He fled into his study, and therein
Added a fragment to a fierce review
Upholding Haeckel, proving Tyndall tame,
And rating Virchow and Agnosticism;
And having thus refreshed his learnèd soul,
He sat by the bedside of his pale wife,
Holding her hand in silence for an hour,
Feeling a nameless fear upon his heart,
Blent with a sense of blessing one less wise
Might have mistaken for a sense of prayer.

Thenceforward, with a curious scrutiny,
Such as he brought to bear on things minute
Dredged from the fishpond or the river's bed,
He watch'd the tiny life expand and grow
Stretching sensorial tendrils softly forth,
Sucking its mother's milk with rosy lips,
As tiny creatures of albumen suck
Their nurture from the tidal ooze and foam.
Then with a span he measured the small head,
And watch'd the soft pink circle where the skin
Closed on the milk-white matter of the brain,
Hardening slowly into skull and bone;
And all the while the little azure orbs
Look'd upward meaningless as flowers or stars
Full of a faint flame issuing from within.
Then thought he, ‘It is well; a goodly child;
A brain of weight above the average
And phrenologically excellent!
And yet how helpless in their dim beginnings
The higher mammals seem, this babe of mine
Nor less nor more; a feeble crying thing,
Feeling with blind progressions like a plant
To the full sunshine of potential life.
Prick the grey cells, it dies, and has not lived;
Deny it nurture, as of sun and rain,
And even as a leaf it withers up,
Without a sign that it hath ever been.
Yea, what we bring it, it absorbs, and turns
To highest use and issue; as we train
Its tendrils, so it grows; and if denled
Such nurture as the nobler species need,

368

Would surely, slowly, dwindle back to beast,
As is the wont of many human types
Stunted and starven in their infancy.
But this one, bone of mine and flesh of mine,
This will I watch with ministering care,
Till it rewards my patience and becomes
Perfect in knowledge and in mastery,
The living apex and the crown of things.’

A little later, when the mother rose,
And with the consecration of her pain
Clothed softly still, sat pallid by the fire,
She, after resting silent for a time
And casting many a hesitating glance,
Said softly, ‘Dear, have you reflected yet
How we shall christen him?’ Stung by the word,
The wise man murmur'd, ‘Christen?— christen him?’
Then, flush'd with wrath, ‘The very word is rank
With superstition and idolatry—
Do not repeat it, as you love the child.’
Whereat the mother, timorously firm,
Said, smiling, ‘But the child must have a name!
What shall we call him?’ Puzzled for the time,
The wise man pursed his lips and shook his head,
And scrutinised the little rosy face
As if for inspiration and for help.
Then one by one they named the names of men,
From Adam down to Peter, Paul, and john,
And scorning these as over-scriptural,
They counted o'er the legion heathen names
But found them fraught with superstition too.
‘Our infant,’ the Professor moralised,
‘Heathen no more than Christian, shall receive
No gift from Heathendom or Christendom,
Not even that slightest of all shades, a name.
Could I invent?—but no, invented names
Ever sound barbarous—I will rack my books,
And find one fitting; there is time to spare;
Take thought and wait!’ So many a quiet night
They talk'd it o'er, and after hovering long
O'er Thales (‘Evolution's Morning Star,’
The wise man styled him, while the mother's ear
Was shock'd at the mere sound of ‘Thales Day’),
Rejecting Bruno and Galileo,
They found the thing they sought upon their shelves,
And pausing at the famous ‘Institutes,’
They chose the learned name—Justinian.

Not at the font with painted windows round,
Not through the office of a priest in lawn
Sprinkling with white hands the baptismal dew,
The infant took his name; but quietly
One Sunday morn, in the laboratory,
With casts and fœtal forms around about,
The wise man, kissing him upon the brow,
Named him ‘Justinian;’ and the mother's voice
Echo'd ‘Justinian;’ and the naming him
Would have been wholly joyful and complete,
But for a jangling sound of bells that rang
Suddenly from the churches round about,—
Calling the folk of Christendom to prayer!

Pass o'er the seasons when with baby lips
The infant drew its nurture from the breast,
And when with tottering steps he first began
To walk erect upon the ground and shape
The first faint sounds to mimic human speech.
Behold him, then, at five years old, a child
Large-eyed, large-brow'd, and somewhat pale of cheek,
Clutching a thin forefinger as he ran
And prattled at the pale Professor's side,
Companions now they grew from day to day,
For while within his study 'mong his books
The wise man sat, the infant at his feet
Sat looking up; or, on the table perch'd,
Blink'd like a pretty gnome; and every morn
When for a hurried constitutional
The father trotted over Hampstead Heath,
The little one would toddle by his side,
Happy and garrulous, and looking up
With question after question.—Thus the child
Heard, at an age when other children feed

369

On nursery rhymes and tales of Fairyland,
The wondrous song of Science; how at first
The nebulæ cohered, how this round orb
Rose out of chaos, how it lay in space
Eyeless and dark until the sun's red hand
Touched it upon the heart and made it live,
And how the first faint protoplasmic forms,
Amœbæ, infusoria, stirr'd and moved
In troubled depths of some primeval ooze.
All this, and more, translated tenderly
Into soft words of just one syllable,
Justinian heard, not understanding yet,
But turning all the solemn cosmic fact
To pretty fancy such as children love.
What solemn truth, what sad solemnity,
May not an infant turn to poesy?
Instead of Gorgon and Chimæra dire,
His fancy saw the monstrous mastodon;
Instead of fairies of the moonlight wood,
Strange shapes that lurk in strata or disport
In some green waterdrcp; instead of myths,
He read the faëry story of the World.

From childhood upward, till the end, he knew
No teacher save his father, and, indeed,
Since never teacher could be tenderer,
He did not miss the lore of love itself.
As patient as a woman, firm yet fond,
Hoarding his very heart up in the boy,
The father tended, taught him, watch'd him grow.
At eight years old Justinian lisp'd in Greek
And readily construed Lucretius;—
He read the great stone Book whereon is writ
The riddle of the world from age to age;
Knew the fair marvels of the Zodiac,
The stars and their processions; had by heart
The elemental truths of chemistry . . .
And zealously, within a mental maze,
As dense as that which covered Rosamond,
His teacher guarded him against the creeds.
For gospel, he had knowledge, and for God,
His gentle human father; and indeed
No child that lisps a heavenly Father's name
Could lisp it with a fonder fairer faith
Than fill'd him when he named his earthly one.

Now when the boy was scarcely ten years old,
Wise far beyond the wisdom of his years,
The mother, wasting of a long disease,
Died, leaving a great void within his heart
Only the father's larger love could fill.
The wise man sorrow'd little, having view'd
His helpmate with a calm superior care,
Approving her, but hoarded in his boy;
And thenceforth, sire and son were all in all
To one another. Oft the pair were seen
Seated in scientific lecture-halls,
The wise man blinking thro' his spectacles,
The boy, his little image, by his side,
Like small by greater owl; and evermore
When, hastening home, they pass'd some shadowy Shrine
The father drew his treasure closer to him,
Lest some dark Phantom from within the porch
Should mar the crystal mirror of his soul.

The seasons sped; at sixteen years of age
Justinian was famous in the haunts
Where wise men gather, and in deep debate
Could hold his own among grey honour'd heads
And pass with pedants for a prodigy.
At seventeen, he wrote that bold review,
Attributed for several weeks to Mill,
Denuding Buckle and his theory
Of History's four stages. How men smiled,
When some one blabb'd and the strange truth was told,
To find the grown man's pompous periods
Dissected into folly by a boy!

Now for the first time on the father's heart
There fell the shadow of a nameless fear
Lest all this building of a noble mind
Should fail and perilously come to nought.
For lo! despite the glow of happy pride,
Justinian's cheek was pale, his gentle eyes
Deep sunken, and he stoop'd beneath the weight
Of too much wisdom; oftentimes his face,
Tho' firm in faith and beautiful resolve,
Seem'd set in silent sorrow. At last, one night,
After a crowded meeting of the learn'd,
A great physician and his father's friend
Took him apart and whisper'd in his ear,—
‘Take care, my dear professor, of your boy!—

370

I do not like that cough—he works too hard—
His life is very precious to us all—
Be sure to watch him well.’

From that day forth
The father's heart was burthen'd with a dread
He never phrased to any human ear.
Hungrily, with sick hunger of the soul,
He watched his treasure, sleepless ev'n by night,
Like some wan miser who for ever hears
The robber's foot upon the creaking stair
Coming to take his gold. He watch'd and watch'd,
Hiding his terror with a cheerless smile,
Each light or shade that softly chased itself
On the sweet boyish face. Was it a dream?—
Or did Death pass, and with a finger-point
Leave one deep crimson spot on either cheek
As signal of decay? No, no, not Death!
Not Death, but Life, now made the blue eyes gleam
So marvellously bright; the small hands grow
Thin and blue vein'd, with pink blood glimmering thro'
Like light thro' alabaster; the brave brow
So marble-cold and clear!—Yet presently
He led him to the great physician's house
And asked for counsel. ‘Take him to the sea,’
Said the physician; ‘keep away all books;
Let brain and body rest for three months’ space—
Then, when we know what sun and sea can do
To make him rosy, come to me again.’

They went together to the sea, and there,
Fann'd by the potent breath, the young man's cheek
Grew brighter, and the father's heart took cheer.
But one day, as they sat upon the beach
Watching the great smooth billows break themselves
With solemn lapse upon the shell and sand,
Justinian said, not loudly, in a voice
As if communing softly with himself,
‘Father, if I should die!’

The very word
Seem'd sad and terrible and fraught with fear.
And starting at the sound, the wise man cried,
‘Die? and so young!—that is a foolish thought!
You cannot, will not, die!’

But with his eyes
Fix'd on the ever-breaking line of foam,
Justinian answer'd, ‘Soon or late, Death comes—
A little earlier, or a little later,
What matter? In the end we falter back
Into the nothingness from which we rose.
Well have you taught me, father, that our life
Is but the climbing and the falling wave.
I do not fear to die. No foolish tale
Of priest or pope affrights me; I have read
The secret of the world, and know indeed
That Death is Silence and an end of all.’

‘But you will live!’

‘For what? To read again
A tale thrice told; to hear a few more years
The same cold answer to my questionings;
To be a little wiser possibly,
And being so, a little sadder? Nay!
I am weary of it all—I have lived my life!’

‘Lived?’ cried the wise man, holding the thin hand,
‘Lived? you, a stripling still, not yet a man—
You know not what you say. When you are well
(And 'twill be soon) you'll laugh at these sad moods
And gather up your force to face anew
For many a merry year the shocks of Time.
Have comfort!—I am sixty years of age,
And am not weary yet!’

The young man smiled
And press'd the gentle hand that held his own.
‘Dear father, since we do not measure time
Merely by seasons past, 'tis I am old,
And you that are the boy! How cheerfully
You con the lesson you have learn'd by heart
So many a busy year. Why were we born?
To come into the sunlight and demand
Whence come we, wh ther go we, then to pass

371

Back into silence and to nothingness.
You say that life is long—alas! that life
Which ends at all, is far too brief for me.
Sixty years hence, if I could live till then,
I should be no less bitter to depart,
To pass into a silence and a sleep,
Than this day, or to-morrow. Dearest father,
My faith is firm as yours. I know full well
There is no God or Gods, as mad folk dream,
Beyond these echoes: that with man's last breath
All individual being ends for ever,
And with the chemic crystals of the brain
Dries up that gas the preachers christen Soul.
Were I to live an hundred years and ten,
To realise old wives' and prophets' tales
Of man's longevity, what could I learn
Not taught already? I could hear no more
Than I have heard;—than you have taught me, father,
Almost with my first breath.’

Then, in a voice
Broken and thick with tears, the wise man cried,
‘I have taught you over-much!—My son, my son,
Forgive me for my love and over-zeal!
I have been too cruel, placing on your strength,
Too slight to bear it, such a weight of work
As pales the cheek and rusts the wholesome blood.
But you shall rest! throwing all books aside,
We two will seek the breezes on the sea
And on the mountains! Then you will be strong,
And casting off these sad distemper'd fears,
Become a man indeed!’

From that day forth
The silken thread of love, that ran unseen
Between the hearts of father and of son,
Tighten'd with many a pang of hope and dread.
Now for the first the father realised
Parting was possible, and with sick suspense
He watch'd the shadow and the sunbeam fight
For victory on the pallid patient face.
When winter came they flitted to the south,
And there, amid a land of pine and vine,
Under a sapphire sky, Justinian seem'd
To gather strength and walk about renew'd.
Then ever in that fair land they heard the sound
Of soft church-bells, and ever in their walks
They came on rudely painted images
Of Jesus and Madonna, and beheld
At every step the shaven face of priests.
Among these signs of blind and ignorant faith
They walk'd like strangers in an alien clime,
Wondering and pitying, pitied in their turn
By all who saw them slowly pass along;
The tall boy leaning on the father's arm,
The old man with a woman's tender care
Uplooking in his face, with sleepless eyes,
Watching his pearl of pearls.

At last they came
Unto a place most peaceful and most fair,
Upon the margin of a crystal lake
Set in the hollow of Italian hills.
There an eternal summer seem'd to dwell
In an eternal calm. On every side
The purple mountains rose with filmy lights
And slender scarfs of white and melting mist,
While down below were happy orange groves
And gleaming emerald slopes, and crimson crags
Upon whose sides hung chalets white as snow
Just peeping from deep fringe of flower and fern.
And all the crag and chalet, grove and wood,
With snow-white gleams of silent cataracts
For ever frozen in the act to fall,
Were imaged, to the tiniest flower or leaf,
In the cerulean mirror of the lake,—
Save when across the stillness crystalline
A gondola with purple shade crawl'd slowly
And blurr'd the picture with its silvern trail.

Here then they rested, in a cottage set
Upon the green edge of a promontory,
Where, sitting side by side, with images
Reflected in the azure sleeping lake,
They often heard the boatman's even-song
Come from a distance like a sound in sleep;
And often faintly from the crags o'er head

372

Tinkled the chapel bell. But day by day
The young man felt the life-blood in his heart
Fail more and more, till oftentimes his life
Would seem as sad and faint and indistinct
As those soft sounds. Once, as they linger'd there,
A gentle Lutheran priest whose home was near
Came, hearing that the youth was sick to death,
And sought to give them comfort; but the sire,
With something of a learnèd anger left,
Tho' gently, warn'd him from the sufferer's side.
Then coming to his son, ‘How far these priests
Scent sorrow!—they would make the merry world
A charnel-house to do their office in!
I sent the preacher packing; he seemed vex'd
To hear that you were growing strong and well
And did not need his prayers!’ and with a smile
Of sad entreaty, ‘Yes, you are growing strong!
And you will soon be well!’

Divinely blue
The heavens were bending o'er the young man's head,
Blue lay the peaceful lake, and in its breast
Another heaven as divinely blue
Throbb'd through its own soft sunlight rapturously.
Propp'd in his chair Justinian gazed around.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘dear father, hold my hand—
In all the world there is no comfort left
Like feeling your kind touch. Now listen to me!
I know I shall not leave this place alive—
My time has almost come!’

‘No, no!’

‘Dear father!
When the faint flame of life is flickering low,
They say that even mindless beasts and birds
Know that the end is near; and lo, I know it,
For all my sense grows dim. A little while
And I shall be a part of that soft sleep
Upon the lake and on the purple hills
And in the quiet grave where no shape stirs.
But now it does not seem so hard to go,
Since all life seems a dream within a dream
And I myself the strangest dream of all.
To those fair elements whence first I came—
Water and earth and air—I shall return;
And see! how tranquil and how beautiful
They wait for me, the immortal ministers
Of Man and all that shares mortality!’

Then in a voice that seemed the very sound
Of his own rending heart the father cried:
‘My son! Justinian! child of mine old age!
Sole comfort of my dark and dreary days!
You cannot go! you cannot fade away!
No, no, you must not die! How shall I live
Bereft of you? Where shall my soul find rest,
When all I cherish, all the loving mind
That I have nurtured so, depart so soon?
No, I will hold you—I will clasp you to me—
Nothing shall part us, nay, not Death itself;
For if you die, my only boy, my pride,
I will die too!’ Then, as he clasped his son,
And looked into the thin and tearful eyes,
And felt the slight frame tremble through and through
As if with chill of some cold blighting breath,
He suddenly raised up his face to heaven
And unaware, with a great gush of tears,
Moan'd ‘God! God! God!’

Startled at that strange cry,
Justinian murmur'd ‘Father!’ and the two
Clung close to one another tremulously
In pain too quick for speech; but when the storm
Of sudden agony had passed away,
There came a pause—a long and tearful pause—
And each could feel the other's beating heart
And the quick coming of the other's breath.
Then presently their eyes met, and a light
Of some new wonder fill'd Justinian's eyes,
While softly, quietly, he said, ‘My father!
Since I was but a babe upon the breast,

373

And ever upward through the happy years,
Your eyes have been the source of all my seeing,
Your mind the living font of all my thoughts,
Tell me, dear father—now, before we part—
And tell me firmly, with no thought of fear,
Is it for ever? Have I read, indeed,
My lesson truly? Tell me am I right?
For you have taught me truth is best of all—
Is this the utter end of all our love,
And shall we never meet and know each other
Again, as we have known each other here?’

Then sobbing like a child the old man cried:
‘Ask me not!—Pity me, and ask no more;
For lo, I seem as one whose house has fallen
About his feet in ruins, and who stands
Living, aghast, with ashes on his head,
Clouded with horror, half awaked from sleep.
I know there is no God—Nature herself,
More mighty and more terrible than God,
Hath taught me that—but till this piteous hour
I never craved for God or named his Name.
I asked not for him, craved no alms of Heaven,
Nor hunger'd for another better life
Than this we live; all that I sought on earth
Was you, my child, my son. Stay with me here,
Let us remain a little more together—
And I shall be content.’

Then with a smile
Angelically sad, Justinian said:
‘It is enough—torture your heart no more.
Hold to our faith—be strong—for though I die
Fairer than I shall live. Now, read to me
That sweet preamble of Lucretius
I always loved so much—because it brought
The very breath of fields and happy flocks,
With that great animal content and joy
Which fills the earth to which we all return.’

Then trembling, in a voice made thick with tears,
The old man at the bidding of the boy
Read the rich periods of the only bard
Who faced with fearless front unconquerable
That Shape so many see,—a Skeleton
Standing amid the universal snow
Of seeds atomic, pointing dimly down.

‘For of the mighty scheme of Heaven and Gods
I now shall sing, unfolding to thy gaze
The everlasting principles of things—
Whence Nature forms, increases, and sustains
All forms that are, and whither as they die
She evermore dissolves each form again.
These principles we in our human speech
Call matter or the generative seeds,
Bodies primordial whence all things that be
Were marvellously fashioned from the first.’

With eyes half closed, his face suffused with sunlight,
The pale boy listen'd, while the verse flow'd on.

‘This darkness, this deep shadow of the mind
Neither the sunrise nor the darts of day
Have power to scatter; but it shall dissolve
Before the light of reason and the face
Of Nature's self. First, for exordium,
Lay thou to heart this first great principle—
Nought e'er is form'd from nought by Power Divine! . . .
But when we have studied deep and comprehend
That Power Divine can ne'er make nought from nought,
Then shall we know that which we seek to know—
How everything is fashion'd first and last,
And all things wrought without the help of God!’

So far he read, and paused; and as he paused
A change came o'er the face he gazed upon
As if a finger touch'd the brow and eyes.
The father shriek'd and shuddered, shrinking back
In nameless awe, for in a moment's space,
Though all the air was sunny overhead,

374

And all the lake was golden at their feet,
The twain were cover'd with a shadow cast
By some dark shape unseen.

‘Hold my hand, father,
For I am dying!’

Then the white face flashed
To one wild look of passionate farewell,
And silently, without another word,
The last sad breath was drawn.

They bore him in—
How and by whom the gentle deed was done
The father knew not, being dazed and stunn'd,
But follow'd moaning, while upon his bed
They placed him down; and when that afternoon
A pallid Sister from the convent came
To do the last sad offices of death,
The old man only watch'd her in a trance
And made no sign; but when, her kind task done,
She touch'd him, saying in her own soft speech,
‘Signor, I trust he died in the full faith
Of Christ our Lord!’ he gave a laugh so strange,
So terrible and yet so pitiful,
She thought his wits were gone.

Fair as a star,
Justinian lay upon his bed of death,
And seeing him so young and beautiful
The Sister gathered lilies in the garden
And strew'd them on his breast; then reverently
She bless'd him; and the old man look'd at her,
Trembling as in a trance; but suddenly
Uprising, in a hollow voice he cried,
Pointing her to the door with quivering hands,
‘Begone! profane him not! from life to death
I kept him safe from Superstition's touch!
My boy! you shall not take him from me now!’

The following is the original text of the passages of Lucretius, translated in the text and printed in italics:—

‘Nam tibi de summa cœli ratione deûmque
Disserere incipiam, et rerum primordia pandam;
Unde omnes natura creet res, auctet alatque;
Quove eadem rursum natura perempta resolvat;
Quæ nos materiem, et genitalia corpora rebus
Reddenda in ratione vocare, et semina rerum
Appellare suëmus, et hæc eadem usurpare
Corpora prima, quod ex illis sunt omnia primis.’

De Rer. Nat., Book i. 54-62.

The following is the original text of the passages of Lucretius, translated in the text and printed in italics:—

‘Hunc igitur terrorem animi tenebrasque necesse est
Non radii solis, neque lucida tela diei
Discutiant, sed naturæ species ratioque:
Principium hinc cujus nobis exordia sumet,
Nullam rem e nihilo gigni divinitus unquam . . .
Quas ob res, ubi viderimur nil posse creari
De nihilo, tum, quod sequimur, jam rectius inde
Perspiciemus. et unde queat res quæque creari,
Et quo quæque modo fiant opera sine divûm.’

De Rer. Nat., Book i. 147-151, 156-159.

THE NEW BUDDHA.

(SCHOPENHAUER.)

In Frankfort, at the crowded table-d'hôte,
Amid the steam of dishes and the sound
Of chattering voices, I beheld at last
The face I sought: a toothless lion's face,
Grey, livid, sprinkled o'er with dust of dream,
With two dim eyes that (as the lion's orbs
Gaze through and past the groups around the cage
Upon the sands of Afric far away)
Met mine and saw me not, but mark'd beyond
That melancholy desert of the Mind
Where in his lonely splendour he had reign'd.
But when he rose without a word, and stepped
Across the threshold out into the street,
I follow'd reverently, and touch'd his arm.
Frowning he turn'd. ‘Your pardon,’ I exclaimed,
Standing bareheaded in the summer sun—
‘To the new Buddha, Arthur Schopenhauer,
I've come with letters from your sometime friend,
Hestmann of Hamburg. Bliss it were, indeed,
If for a space you suffered me to gaze
On the one fountain of philosophy
Still sparkling to refresh an arid world!’

375

He took the letters, glanced them grimly through,
Then his face brighten'd and he smiled well pleased;
Then nodding, said: ‘You come in season, sir!
I lack an arm to lean on as I walk,
And now, if you are willing, yours will serve.
For, as you see, your Buddha (so men please
To style me; and if zeal to make men wise,
To free them from their yoke of misery,
Constitute godship, I deserve the name!)
Your Buddha groweth old, is well-nigh spent,
And soon must pass away.’ ‘Nay,’ I replied,
‘For many a summer and a winter more
Your living force must flow to gladden man:
Philosophy is still too halt and blind
To spare you yet!’ More brightly still his face
Flash'd answer to the flattery of my words.
‘Right, right!’ he murmur'd. ‘After all, they are wise
Who flout the Bible's three-score years and ten;
A strong man's season is a hundred years,
Nor less nor more; and I, though grey and bent,
May see another generation yet!’

I had reach'd his heart at once, as courtiers gain
The hearts of kings. So, resting on mine arm,
Smiling and nodding gently, as we went,
He passed with me along the sunny street;
And on our way I spake with youthful warmth
Of that new gospel which the lonely man
Had offered all in vain for two-score years
To every passer-by in this dull world;
And what himself had said a thousand times
I said with zeal—that in the sun there stood
Temples and towers, but only Memnon's sang,
And his was Memnon's to a listening world.
Still more complacent grew his deity,
Finding so passionate a worshipper!
And presently he questioned of myself,
My birthplace, and my business in the city.
English by name and accent, as he guessed?
Was his name known in England? he inquired,
With quick solicitous glance; and when I said
His name was known and reverenced through the land,
His pale cheek flush'd with pleasure once again.

Then, as we passed along the populous streets,
With houses, shops, and marts on either side,
And folk as thick as bees that throng i' the hive,
He, finding I was apt, grew garrulous:
Told of his weary years of martyrdom,
Through which, neglected and despised, he framed
His creed of grand negation and despair;
How, bitter at the baseness of the world,
Yet never faltering as his hand set down
In philosophic rhythm the weary sound
Made by the ocean of the Will which beats
For ever on these wrinkled sands of Time,
He had waited, till the pigmies wrought his crown;
How every man-made god, or god-made man,
Had lied, until he spake the ‘Sesame’
Which opened the great cavern of the truth
To every soul that yearn'd to creep therein;
And how, now all was said that thought could say,
He rested, while the nations one by one
Approved—Nirwâna!

As he spake, he paused
Before a great cathedral whose tall spire
Pointed a fiery finger up at Heaven.
Then, smiling, ‘Still the pagan temples stand,
And from the heart of each a bleeding god,
Not Buddha or a greater, spins his web
To entangle insects of Humanity.
Henceforth the battle is between us twain,—
I who have scaled the Heavens and found them bare,
I who have cast the Heavenly Father down,

376

And Christ that cries, “He reigns!”’

He rose erect,
Nostrils dilated, eyes grown fiercely bright,
With possible conquest.

‘'Tis the Christ or I,
And face to face we stand before the age!
All other of the intellectual gods,
Save I alone, were frail or timorous,
Mad or god-drunken; I alone have set
My finger on the canker of the world,
Saying 'Tis fatal—'Tis incurable—
And I defy the Christ to find a cure!
The Titans, headed by Prometheus
(Whom we in Deutschland call Immanuel Kant),
Marshal'd their hosts against the Olympian throne,
And one by one before its shadowy seat
Fell, mumbling “God;” the tempests of the mind
Enwrapt and overpowered them, and they fell;
Last of the race, their Epimetheus,
Our moonstruck Hegel, gibbering like an ape,
Follow'd the phantom God whom he denied
Garrulously up and down! My turn was next.
I stood alone upon the eternal shore,
And heard the thunder of the waves of Will
Upmounting to destroy me, till I spake
The mystic word “Nirwâna,” and behold!
They heard me and obeyed me, and were hush'd.
A Spirit stood beside me, even Death,
And in his clammy palm I placed my hand,
And still together, masters of the hour,
We stand triumphant, waiting the event!’

Again he took my arm and on we walk'd
Towards Sachsenhausen. Passing o'er the bridge,
'Mid crowds of pleasure-seeking citizens,
We came among the parks and flowery ways
And heard among the sunbeam-laden trees
The fluttering and the singing of the birds.
From neighbouring gardens came the fiddle's sound,
The flute's soft whistle, and the eager shouts
Of merry-making folk. Then, sitting down,
Upon a bench o'erhung with whispering leaves,
We watched the stream of festal men and maids
That overflowed the roads and garden walks.
Loud in the summer sunshine sang the birds,
Answered by human voices, while the sage
Looked sadly on, and mused:

‘The stress of pain
Dwells on the heartstrings of the feather'd choir,
Who, prompted by the goad of fiery love
(Veneris ictus, as Lucretius sings),
Toil restlessly, build nests, uprear their young,
With eager palpitations, ever fearing
The shadow of the cruel kestrel, Death,
Hovering above them. Sounds their summer cry
So merry, say you? 'Tis the o'erburdened heart
Spilling itself in waves of agony,
Which only to the sense of babes can seem
Sweet and ecstatic! Walk abroad; and mark
The cony struggling in the foumart's fangs,
The deer and hare that fly the sharp-tooth'd hound,
The raven that with flap of murderous wing
Hangs on the woolly forehead of the sheep
And blinds its harmless eyes; nor these alone,
But every flying, every creeping thing,
Anguishes in the fierce blind fight for life!
Sharp hunger gnaws the lion's entrails, tears
The carrion-seeking vulture, films with cold
The orbs of snake and dove. For these, for all,
Remains but one dark Friend and Comforter,
The husher of the weary waves of Will,
Whom men name Peace or Death.’

‘A piteous creed!’
I answer'd. ‘Surely yonder thrush's song
Is not all sadness? Hark how joyfully
He, clinging to the laden apple-bough,
Trills out his “lover-lover! kiss-kiss sweet!”
And yonder youth and maiden listening
Sit hand in hand as if in Paradise,
And seeing heaven in each other's eyes,
Forget for once that love can die or change
Or youth's gay music turn to jangling bells
Or funeral discord!’

On my Buddha's face
A dark smile gather'd like a sulphurous flash

377

Upon a lonely cloud, and died away.
‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the woman close at hand
Suckling her sickly babe: poor soul, she smiles
To feel the famished lips that draw her milk
And drink her feeble life! Call you that smile
The light of living joy? To me it seems
Rapture of misery ineffable,
Such as the birds and beasts bear in their breasts
Starving to feed their young! Then mark again
That other, like a ripe and rich-hued fruit
Pit-speck'd and rotten to the very core!
She flaunts her painted beauty in the sun
And hangs upon the arm of yonder Jew
Whose little eyes are shrivell'd in his head
With Nature's light of lust. Priapus still
Is god o' the garden! Not a stone's-throw hence,
Temples obscene as those Vesuvius once
Smother'd with fiery lava, still attest
The infamous worship! Wheresoe'er we gaze,
On quiet field or busy haunts of men,
Among the creeping or the upright beasts,
Comes Nature, grinning like a procuress,
Bringing her innocent victims to assuage
The fire herself hath sown in the quick veins
Of all that live. Call you that quenchless fire
Peaceful or joyful?—yet by that alone
We move and have our being!’

‘Nay,’ I cried.
‘For surely there is Love which conquers it,
And Passion pallid as the passion-flower
Rooted in earth but showering up to heaven
Its wealth of stainless blooms!’

‘Love conquers it,’
He answer'd with a weary inward smile,
‘If e'er it conquers, by the privilege
Of some supremer pain. The ascending scale,
From lower up to higher, only marks
The clearing of the flame until its light
Grows wholly sacrificial. Beasts and birds
Struggle and agonise to increase their kind,
Obeying blind pulsations which began
Deep in the burning breast of yonder Sun
Whose corporal beams we are! Creation ever
Obeys the blind vibration which arose
Ere yet the timorous nebulæ cohered
To fashion fiery worlds; but we who stand
Supreme, the apex and the crown of things,
Have gained supremacy of suffering
And sovereignty of limitless despair!’

How merrily the festal music rose,
While men and women 'neath the lindentrees
Join'd in the dance, and happy children cried,
And birds with quick precipitous rapture shower'd
Their answer from the blossom-laden boughs!
Sunny as Eden seemed the earth that day;
And yet, methought, I saw the sunlight shrink
And all creation darken suddenly,
As if from out the umbrage there had peer'd
The agate-eyes o' the Snake! Then, as I gazed
Into the pallid dreamer's filmy orbs,
Methought the flesh and hair were shrivell'd up,
And in their places skin and scale appeared,
Till on his belly crawling serpent-wise
My Buddha slipt into the undergrass
And disappear'd. The fancy vanishing,
I heard his voice intoning at my side.

‘Supremacy of sorrow gained at last,
Agony upon agony multiplied
And crystallised in knowledge, He, your Christ,
Rose and confronted Nature, as a dove
Might face eternal Deluge. “Comfort yet,”
He murmur'd, “while I set, upon the brows
Of all who suffer, this red crown of thorns,
And speak the promise of eternal life.”
Eternal Life! Eternal strife and sorrow!
Man's privilege of misery ascending
Scale after scale, until at last it gains
An immortality of suffering!
What marvel if the tortured victim shrinks
From infinite possibilities of pain,
And casting down that crown, calling a curse

378

On Nature, dwindling down the scale which once
He eagerly ascended, gains the beast,
Holds hideous orgy, or like Niobe
Weeps—and is fix'd in stone! Helpless and frail,
Sharing the desolation he surveys,
Christ crawleth back into His sepulchre
And sleeps again. . . . Meantime, out of the womb
Of sorrow springs another Comforter,
Your Buddha, even I, the lonely man
Who walks the waves of Will as long ago
The Galilean seem'd to walk the sea.
“Patience!” I whisper; “take the gift I bring—
No crown of thorns, no promise of more life,
But this black poppy, pluck'd upon a grave!
The Ocean, though its waters wash as far
As the remotest sphere, as the last sun
Just crackling, shrivelling, like a leaf i' the fire,
The Ocean wide as Life, hath still—a shore!
On those dark sands each troublous wave is still'd,
Breaks, falls, and stirs no more, though other waves,
Pain following pain, identity that crowds
Fast on identity, shall still succeed.
Ye are weary—sleep; ye are weeping— weep no more;
As ye have come, depart; as ye have risen
To the supremest crest of suffering,
Break, overflow, subside, and cease for ever.”
Man hears. He feels, though all the rest be false,
One thing is certain—sleep: more precious far
Than any weary walkings in the sun.
Shall not the leafy world even as a flower
Be wither'd in its season; or, grown cold,
Even like a snowflake melting in the light,
Fade very silently, and pass away
As it had never been? Shall Man, predoom'd,
Cling to his sinking straw of consciousness,
Fight with the choking waters in his throat,
And gasp aloud, “More life, O God, more life!
More pain, O God”? . . . Nay, let him silently,
Bowing his head like some spent swimmer, sink
Without a sigh into the blest Abyss
Dark with the shipwreck of the nations, strewn
With bones of generations—lime of shells
That once were quick and lived. Even at this hour
He pauses, doubting, with the old fond cry,
Dreaming that some miraculous Hand may snatch
His spirit from the waters! Let him raise
His vision upward, and with one last look,
Ere all is o'er, behold “Nirwâna” writ
Across the cruel Heavens above his head
In fiery letters, fading characters
Of dying planets, faintly flickering suns,
Foredoom'd like him to waste away and fade,
Extinguish'd in the long eternal Night.’

As one who walks in gardens of the feast,
When the last guests flit down the lamphung walks
To music sadly ceasing on the air,
And sees a dark arm pass from lamp to lamp,
Quenching them one by one, so did I seem
Hearkening that voice of cheerless prophecy.
I rose, walked on, he leaning on mine arm,
I listening; and where'er we went methought
Sorrow and sunlessness preceded us;
So that the people dancing 'neath the trees,
The birds that fluted on the blossoming boughs,
The music and the murmur, made more sharp
My sense of desolation. Everywhere
I saw the hovering ernes, Despair and Death,
Watching their victim, Man.

A space we walked
In silence, then I murmur'd: ‘Can it be
That Death and Death's Despair are paramount?

379

That, even as suns and systems are consumed,
The mind of man, which apprehends or dreams
It apprehends them, shares their destiny?
Is there not something deathless, which denies
The victory to Death?’

‘Their Christ says “Yea,”’
Answer'd the Buddha; ‘and with that lure and lie
Hath led the world for eighteen hundred years.
The mind of Man is as the rest—a flash
Of sunfire, nothing more; a quality
Pertaining only to the perishable.
Thought is a struggle with the Unconscious; soon
The struggle ceases, and the Unconscious drinks
The thinker and the thought for evermore.
Blessèd is he who, having wildly watch'd
The beauteous mirage of a heavenly Home,
Knoweth 'tis mirage only, and sinks down
To slumber on the arid stretch of sand
Whereon his weary feet have trod so long:
The sun shall shine upon him, and the stars
Fulfil their ministrations; he shall hear
No more the wailings of the flocks and herds
Slain to assuage the appetite for life;
No thing that suffers and no thing that slays
Shall mar his peace with pain or sympathy;
Dust, he returns to dust; life, he resolves
To life unconscious, such as quickeneth
In even trees and stones; his dream is o'er
For ever; and he hath become a part
Of elemental dumb Eternity.’

‘If this be so, dear Master,’ I returned,
‘What then remains for us who walk i' the sun?
For surely Love is curst, if Love must die
Like breath upon a mirror, like the dew
Clothing the Hûleh lily; and alas!
Since Love goes, what abides of heavenly hope
To abate our weary heart-beats?’ With a smile
He answered: ‘Fold thine arms upon thy breast
And face thy destiny Prometheus-like,
Not flattering even to its face the Power
That makes and shall unmake thee! Give the ear
To Jesus and his gaunt attendant gods,
Jove or Jehovah, and remain—a slave;
Shut up thine ears, and give those gods the lie,
And stand erect in fearless sovereignty
Of limitless despair! Grand even in Death,
Yea, grand because of Death, the mind of Man
Can front the issue of the Inevitable,
Despising and appraising and defying
The anarchy and tyranny that spare
No shape that lives. Nature is pitiless;
Then be thou pitiful. Cruel is the world;
Then be thou kind, even to the creeping thing
That crawls and agonises in its place
As thou in thine. Fever and Pestilence
Make and keep open one long-festering wound;
Anoint it with the balm of charity,
The oil of leechcraft. Thus, and thus alone,
Shalt thou in sheer defeat find victory,
And 'midst the very blast of that strong Voice
Which crieth “Love is not,” shall thy last word
Attest Love's triumph, and thy soul remain
Immortal even in Death!’

In proud revolt
He paused, and pointed at the pallid heavens
As if arraigning Nature, while his hand
Trembled with palsy, and his eye was film'd,
And in his feeble frame the undaunted heart
Plunged, like a prison'd bird worn out and dying.
Then cunningly, to change the cheerless chord
He struck so strenuously, I spake again
Of his great labour, ever-increasing fame,
The homage of the world, and the long reach
Of honour, opening for his feet to tread;
And soon the Lion saw, not desert sands,
But gentle worshippers that led him on
With chains of flowers, tamely to crouch beside
The footstools of anointed crownèd kings.
Bright'ning he spake of labours yet to do,
Fair fields of fame unreapt, glad days and merry,

380

Of taking gifts and yielding oracles!
So cheerfully, like one that loved his life,
He prattled on, beneath the blossoming boughs,
In answer to the carol of the birds,
The shouting of the children, the glad sound
Of festal fife and flute.

At evenfall
We parted, he to seek his lonely house,
I to the city hostel where I lodged;
But as he faded from me in the street
Touch'd by the bright beams of the rising moon,
Surely I saw the Shadow men name Death
Creeping behind him. Turning with a sigh,
I left him in the graveyard of his creed.

NIETZSCHE.

Jupiter's gutter-snipe! A shrill-tongued thing
Running beside the blood-stain'd chariot wheels,
Crying ‘Hosannah to the pitiless King,
The ravening Strength that neither spares nor feels!’

A slave that glorified the yoke and goad,
Cast mud into the well of human tears,
Gibed at the Weak who perish on the road,
Slain by the Law which neither heeds nor hears!

‘All hail to the Eternal Might and Right,
By which all life is sifted, slain, and shed!
Lord, make me hard like thee that day and night
I may approve thy ways, however dread!’

So cried he, while, indifferent to his cries,
Nature's triumphal Car went grinding past,—
And lo, the dust was blown into his eyes,
And crush'd 'mid blood and mud, he sank at last.

Poor gutter-snipe! Answer'd with his own prayer,
Back to primeval darkness he has gone;—
Only one living soul can help him there,
The gentle human god he spat upon!

THE LAST FAITH.

Lose the last faith of all, and die indeed—
Keep that, and thou may'st live! When all the rest
Has faded like thy breath upon a mirror,
When all the thrones of all the gods have fallen,
When God Himself remains not even a Name,
Gaze in the faces of thy fellow-men
For one last comfort. If those faces seem
Vacant and foul, if all Humanity
Assumes the blackness of thine own despair,
So that thou echoest the preacher's cry
That Man is base as any Drunkard's dream,
Turn round into the darkness, veil thy face,
For thou art lost to all Eternity!

Now, when the Heavens are empty and no sign
Comes from the Eternal Silence, loudly still
The blind priest raves, and all the slaves of God
Shriek their approval! ‘Man,’ they cry, ‘is evil,
Yea, canker'd thro' and thro' with Sin's disease,
And cruelty, the aftermath of Sin;
In the beginning God stretched out a Hand
To heal him, but he thrust the Hand away
And hid his evil face in dust of lust,
And so is lost for ever, save for grace
Of Him he hath offended!’ Lie of lies!
Yet how the hordes of madmen echo it,
Not knowing that they curse themselves and God,
Cursing the only thing that Death and Time
Spare and preserve Divine. In this dark world
What moves my wonder most is, not that Man
Is so accurst and warp'd from heavenly love,
But that, despite the pitfalls round his feet,
He falls into so few,—despite the hate
And anarchy of Nature, echoed on
In his own heart-beats, he can love so much!
He stumbles, being blind; he eateth dust,
Being fashion'd out of dust; flesh, he pursues
The instincts of the flesh; but evermore
He, struggling upward from the slough of shame,

381

Confronts the Power which made him miserable
And stands erect in love, a living Soul!

Doubt that, doubt all. I tell you I have walk'd
For many a weary year these wastes of woe,
And found beneath the shining of the sun
No creature wholly evil; nay, I have seen
Ev'n in the very dregs and filth of Sin
A power, a patience, and a gentleness
That put ev'n gods to shame. 'Twas long my custom
To haunt the byways of great Towns by night,
Seeking for Souls,—and chiefly for the Souls
Of outcast women. (Man may save himself;
The world is not so leagued against mere Man,
But Woman is bound down a million-fold
By blinded generations, led alas!
By the Semitic Christ.) I have stood for hours
Watching the gin-shop's bloodshot eyeballs flash,
Or with an aching hunger following
The shadows on the window of the brothel
In hope to catch some glimmering of a waif
Whose message was to me. God gave to me
This gift,—to know at once, to recognise
Instantly, in a face-flash, as it were,
The creature I can help. All night my foot
Has troubled the dead silence of the slums,
Oft broken by the drunken mother's shriek,
The dull sound of a blow, a body's fall;
And when the cry of ‘Murther’ hath arisen,
My eyes have been the first to see, my hand
The first to raise, the bleeding mother's form,
The children's slaughter'd clay. My place has been
Under lone scaffolds in the dim grey dawn,
Watching Man's murderers lead forth to death
The poor sick wretch with haggard eyes and knees
That knock together; and my wrath hath risen
In protestation deeper, if less loud,
Than the thief's laughter and the rowdy's oath
Beside me. I have wander'd like a ghost
Down shrouded walls of hideous Hospitals,
Following my quest from bloody bed to bed,
Each desecrated to man's cruelty
And feminine corruption. I have seen
Such sorrow, such destruction, such despair,
That in the atmosphere these things exhaled
Reason hath totter'd, lost its throne, and swoon'd;
I know all sins woman or man can sin,
I know all viper-nests where such sins breed,
I mark the Tree of Evil root and branch,
And from the darkest bough that grows thereon
My hands have pluckt some precious human fruit;
My hands have gather'd flowers of heavenly light
And loveliness, that God, if God there be,
Will never leave to die.

Then, quit the depths,
And climb the heights, of Life—what gracious flowers
Are growing gladly there! what deeds of grace
Attest the power and privilege of Love
To elude Heaven's cruelty and Life's caprice
And grow divine indeed!

Here rests my faith,
The last fond faith of all: not far away
In the void Heavens up yonder, not on creeds
Upbuilded 'mid the ever-shifting sands,
Not in the Temples of God's sycophants,
But here, among our fellows, down as deep
As the last rung of Hell!—So once again
I say my wonder is, not at Man's sin,
But at his patience and beneficence!
How bravely, cheerfully, he bears the load
Nature hath left upon him! With what courage
He strangles one by one the snakes surrounding
His cradle and his grave! how brightly, gladly,
He takes the little blessings as they come
And seeks with happy eyes the little Ligh!

382

Hate Man, and o, thou hatest, losest God;
Keep faith in Man, and rest with God indeed.
And what if, after all, the God thou seekest
Were here, not yonder,—God in act to be,
To find and know Himself for evermore?

AD CARISSIMAM AMICAM.

Now that our mirth is o'er, now that our Dream is done,
Now that a Hand creeps out across the heavenly blue
Putting the lights of Heaven out sadly one by one,
What dream beneath the moon, what hope beneath the sun
Shall our poor souls pursue?

Startled amid the feast we look around and lo!
The Word of Doom that flames along Life's palace walls—
The music dies away—the last musicians go—
(Bards with their golden harps, gods in their robes of snow)
And the dread Silence falls!

What is the word we read in wonder and despair?
ANARCHY! writ in flame for all our eyes to mark . . .
Rise,—put the wine cup by,—fly out into the air!
Ah, but the sunless void, the empty space, are there,
And all the Heavens are dark!

Nay, courage! droop thy gaze from yonder fading spheres,
With thy soft azure orbs gaze in these eyes of mine—
There, deep within the soul, a dim sweet light appears,
The glimmer of a Dawn that sparkles out thro' tears,
Brightens, and seems divine!

Within us, not without, there gleams that lucent ray,
Flash'd from the Founts of Dawn, a glimmer of dewy light;
What tho' the gods are dead? what tho' the world grows grey?
Still clearer grows the dawn of some diviner Day
Transcending Death and Night.

ANARCHY? . . . 'tis the word that startles and appals.
LOVE! . . . 'tis the heavenly word that softly calls us hence!
Without, the red word runs in fire on crumbling walls,
Yea, for the World is doom'd,—dark as a spent torch falls
This leaning tower o' the sense!

Chaos and Night remain,—Death and the darkness blend—
Yet comfort! suns shall rise tho' many a sun hath set:
This is the dawn of Hope, now all save Hope doth end—
Rest thy dear hand in mine, kneel with me and attend—
All is not over yet;

Deep in thy faithful eyes how bright the promise gleams,
Answering the first faint beams of that new Dawn above—
‘Let there be LIGHT!’ God said,—Light came in orient beams;
Again across the Void, faint as a voice in dreams,
God saith, ‘Let there be LOVE!’

383

Land and Sea Songs.

SPRING SONG AFTER SNOW.

The swift is wheeling and gleaming,
The brook is brown in its bed,
Rain from the cloud is streaming,
And the Bow bends overhead:
The charm of the Winter is broken! the last of the spell is said!

Out of the East one morning
Grey Winter came in sight,
But his elves with never a warning
Had been at work all night,
Tinkling at trees and windows, and hanging the world in white.

Up, with a foggy breathing,
His nose all red with cold,
Round him the vapours wreathing,
O'er him the dark clouds rolled,
The greybeard came that morning, rheurny and blear'd and old!

The sharp wind blew behind him,
The swift wind ran before,
The thick snow tried to blind him,
His feet were chilly and sore:
You could hear his wheezing and coughing, a hundred miles and more!

Slowly, with feet that linger'd
Up the hills and down,
Chilly footed and finger'd,
He came to our good Town:
The fog was a robe around him, the frost had made him a crown.

Woeful he seem'd and weary,
As he the steeple spied,
All look'd dull and dreary
Under it far and wide;
But when to the pond he wander'd the boys were making a slide!

Comforters warm and woollen,
Boots all thick and strong,
With not a feature sullen
There they cried in a throng:
And the robin sat on the paling, watching and singing a song!

Then seeing a sight so jolly,
Old Winter nodded his head,
And drew out a bunch of holly
With berries all ripe and red,
And he waved the holly for magic, while down the slide they sped!

And suddenly with no warning,
All at the pleasant sign,
The bells rang out in the morning,
And the sun began to shine,—
And the host at the inn door chuckled, and all the world looked fine!

. . . But now the earth is green again,
And the blue swift wheels in the air;
Leaves on the hedges are seen again,
And the rain is rich and rare,
And all for another promise the Bow bends bright up there!

The Bow bends out of the heaven,
Out of the cloud o'erhead,
The hues in the Bow are seven,
From yellow to purple and red,—
Its foot on the churchyard resteth, bright on the graves of the Dead!

The eel in the pond is quick'ning,
The grayling leaps in the stream,—
What if the clouds are thick'ning,
See how the meadows gleam!
The spell of the Winter is shaken, the world awakes from a dream.

The fir puts out green fingers,
The pear-tree softly blows,
The rose in her dark bower lingers,
But her curtains will soon unclose,—
The lilac will shake her ringlets, over the blush of the rose!

The swift is wheeling and gleaming,
The woods are beginning to ring,
Rain from the clouds is streaming;
There, where the Bow doth cling,
Summer is smiling afar off, over the shoulder of Spring!

384

ON THE SHORE.

The swift winds run
Under the sun
And under the silver moon,—
They have taken away my little one—
May they bring him back to me soon!

Ye winds, I trow
I care not now
Though the sun hath tann'd him black,
He is still my little one tho' his brow
Be fierce as the wild sea-wrack;

Tho' his eyes be cold
As the sea-caves old,
Tho' his beard be dank wi' foam,
Tho' he be wavwarder twenty-fold,
Blow my little one home!

O loud laugh'd he,
As he went from me
To follow the Storms out there,—
My boy that I rock'd upon my knee
And nurst with a widow's prayer.

He would not stay,
And he sail'd away
To toss on the angry Sea,
And when he return'd after many a day
A tall grim man was he!

But evermore
When he came on shore,
Despite his wayward will,
The world grew bright and the angry roar
Of the sleepless Seas was still!

Again in my breast
Right glad and blest
The mother's milk was stirred,—
My heart grew glad as the seas at rest
At a loving look or word.

Run, winds, run
Under the sun
And under the silver moon.—
Follow the ship of my little one,
And hasten it homeward soon!

There is nought for me
On the land or sea,
Or even in Heaven up there,
But the boy I rock'd upon my knee
And nurst with a widow's prayer!

Ye Winds, that be
As wayward as he,
As restless and fierce and bold,
Find him, and blow him again to me,
Now I am weary and old!

Be he far or near,
Let him shoreward steer,—
After him, swift winds, fly!
Come back together, that I may hear
Your voices mingle, and die!

THE MERMAID.

(WINDLASS SONG.)

I.

I'll tell you, mates, how she came to sea!
(Heave at the windlass! heave ho! cheerily)
She loved me, and I love she,
For she was the gel for a Sailor!
She hailed from Wapping, her name was Sue,
And she was the daughter of a tailor,—
We parted at last, but without ado
She bought both jacket and breeches blue,
And aboard she came for to join our crew
And live the life of a Sailor!

CHORUS.
Heave at the windlass! yeo heave ho!
Up with the anchor! away we go!
The wind's off the shore, boys,—let it blow,—
Hurrah for the life of a Sailor!
Yeo—ho!

II.

Our Captain he eyed her from stem to starn
(Heave at the windlass! heave ho! cheerily)
But nought of her secret could he discarn,
For his savage jib couldn't quail her.

385

But when she went for'ard among the res
Her heart began for to fail her,
So she took me aside and the truth confess'd,
With her face a-blushing on this 'ere breast,
And I stared and stared, and says I, ‘I'm blest!
My Sue turn'd into a Sailor!’

CHORUS.
Heave at the windlass! yeo heave ho!
Up with the anchor! away we go!
The wind's off the shore, boys,—let it blow,—
Hurrah for the life of a Sailor!
Yeo—ho!

III.

Now we hadn't got far away from land
(Heave at the windlass, heave ho! cheerily)
When a Mermaid rose with a glass in her hand,
And our ship hove to for to hail her.
Says she, ‘Each wessel that looks on me,
Man-o'-war, merchantman, or whaler,
Must sink right down to the bottom of the sea,
Where the dog-fish flies and the sea-snakes flee,
Unless a Wirgin on board there be
To plead for the life of a Sailor!’

CHORUS.
Heave at the windlass! yeo heave ho!
Up with the anchor! away we go!
The wind's off the shore, boys,—let it blow,—
Hurrah for the life of a Sailor!
Yeo—ho!

IV.

Then up jumped Sue with the breeches on!
(Heave at the windlass, heave ho! cheerily)
‘You nasty hussy!’ says she, ‘begone!’
And the Mermaid's cheeks grew paler!
‘There's a gel aboard and her name is Sue!
A Wirgin, the daughter of a tailor,
Who's more than a match for the likes of you!’
At this the Mermaid looked werry blue,
And then, with a splash of her tail, with-drew,
While Sue she embraced her Sailor!

CHORUS.
Heave at the windlass! yeo heave ho!
Up with the anchor! away we go!
The wind's off the shore, boys,—let it blow,—
Hurrah for the life of a Sailor!
Yeo—ho!

THE TRAMP'S DITTY.

I.

Out there in the greenwood beneath a green willow,
Or under a haystack, my lodging shall be, O!
The sky for a curtain, the earth for a pillow,
The life of a Tramp is the life that suits me, O!
Sing derry down derry,
It's glad and it's merry! . . .
Thro' the haze of the heat
Cattle low, lambkins bleat,
While (tweet a tweet tweet!)
The birds whistle sweet,
And I lie on my back, right contented and free, O!
Sing derry down derry,
The life is so merry!
The life of a Tramp,
Be it dry, be it damp,
Is a life for a King, and the right life for me, O!

II.

Would I eat? there's a spread in the turnipfield ready!
Would I drink? there's the cow standing under a tree, O!
Would I change with a lord? I'm not quite such a neddy!
No, wealth and fine raiment are fiddlede-dee, O!
Sing derry down derry,
This life is most merry!
When it rains, let it rain!
In the wood or the lane,
Snugly sheltered I lie
Till the shower passes by,—
With patter of pearls on the daisy-deckt lea, O!
Then, derry down derry,
The sun shines out merry,—
And the heart of the Tramp,
Be he rogue, be he scamp,
Leaps and laughs in the light, like a wave of the Sea, O!

386

III.

And sometimes a-milking comes sun-freckled Molly,
And after palaver sits down on my knee, O!
And I envy no lordling his finely drest dolly,
When kisses like those can be mine, with no fee, O!
Thro' the haze of the heat
Cattle low, lambkins bleat,
And the birds sing so sweet
While we kiss (tweet a tweet!),
And the King and the Queen of the Meadows are we, O!
Sing derry down derry,
The life is so merry,—
The life of a Tramp
Beats the Court and the Camp,
Be it day, be it night, 'tis the life that suits me, O!

THE CRY FROM THE MINE.

Out of the sinister caverns of Night,
Out of the depths where the Hell-fires are glowing,
Cometh a cry, floating up to the Light,
Here, where glad mortals are reaping and sowing:
‘Night ever over us, blackness to cover us,
Deeper we crawl than the graves of the Dead!
Sisters and brothers, whose fires burn so cheerily,
Fed by the coal that we work for so wearily,
Give us, in God's name, our wages of Bread!

‘Hell burning under us, gnome-like we dwell,
Store for your hearths ever scraping and scooping,
Stifling and thunderous vapours of Hell
Blacken our mouths, where we're stooping and drooping;
Terrors environ us, lest the fierce fire on us
Leap, as it leapt on our kin who are sped!
Children and wives wait our wages and cry for them;
Eager to toil for them, ready to die for them,
Darkly we grope for our handful of Bread!

‘Sooner or later Death cometh this way,—
Slain by his breathing our kindred are lying here!
Old ere our time, worn and weary and grey,
Bear we the burthen that's dreary as dying, here!
Pain is our portion here, gruesome our fortune here,
Still we're content when our dear ones are fed—
Sisters and brothers, while blindly and wearily
Ever we toil that your fires may burn cheerily,
Give us, in God's name, our guerdon of Bread!’

Out of the sinister caverns of Night,
Out of the depths where these weary ones wander,
Cometh the cry, floating up to the Light.
Up to the sunshine that never shines yonder:
‘Night ever over us, blackness to cover us,
Toil we for ever, less living than dead!—
Sisters and brothers, whose fires burn so cheerily,
Fed by the coal that we dig for so drearily.
See that we lack not our wages of Bread!’

THE LEAD-MELTING.

'Twas clear, cold, starry, silver night,
And the Old Year was a-dying;
Three pretty girls with melted lead
Sat gaily fortune-trying.
They dropt the lead in water clear,
With blushing palpitations
And, as it hissed, with fearful heart;
They sought its revelations.

In the deep night, while all around
The snow is whitely falling,
Each pretty girl looks down to find
Her future husband's calling.
The eldest sees a Castle bright,
Girt round by shrubland shady;
And, blushing bright, she feels in thought
A lady rich already.

387

The second sees a silver Ship,
And bright and glad her face is;
Oh, she will have a skipper bold,
Grown rich in foreign places!
The younger sees a glittering Crown,
And starts in consternation;
For Molly is too meek to dream
Of reaching regal station!

And time went by: one maiden got
Her landsman, one her sailor—
The Lackey of a country count,
The Skipper of a whaler!
And Molly has her Crown, although
She unto few can show it—
Her crown is true-love fancy-wrought,
Her husband, a poor Poet!

In the Library.

TO A POET OF THE EMPIRE.

Dear singing Brother, who so long
Wore Galahad's white robe of Fame,
And kept it stainless like thy name
Thro' dreary days of doubting song;

Who blest the seasons as they fell,
Contented with the flowers they bring,
Nor soar'd to Heaven on Milton's wing,
Nor walked with Dante's ghost thro' Hell,

But rather chose to dream at ease
With Keats' mid ways thy gardener plan'd
Beside a mimic lake to stand
And see, just glimpsing thro' the trees,

Thy marble statues brought from far,
Dryad and Naiad white and still,
And o'er the mead. above the hill,
The twinkle of the Cyprian star;

And on those plots of garden ground,
Calm in thy sorrow and thy mirth,
Leal to the Lords of Heaven and Earth,
Thou dwelledst grave and laurel-crown'd;

And peering down with curious eye,
Polish'd with gentle art and long
Thy faultless diamonds of song,
And let the windy world go by;

And heeded not the long despair
Of souls that never see the sun,
But to thy Maker cried ‘Well done,’
Since English pastures seemed so fair;

And from the hovel to the Throne
Beheld one perfect order'd plan;
And praised the Christ as God and Man
That wars were made and trumpets blown;

Yea, deem'd this later greater Rome
Supremely just and surely wise,
And shut thine ears against the cries
Of races slain beyond the foam

That this our Empire might increase
And this our Rome have silk and gold,—
Nor heard across the blood-stain'd fold
The Butcher-Shepherds crying, ‘Peace!’

Nor saw the thousand martyrs bowed
Beneath the chariots of the Strong,
But with thy wreaths of martial song
Didst grace the triumphs of the Proud!

Forgive, if to thy tomb I bring
No garland such as maidens twine,
But in the verse that Art made thine
Proffer a votive offering!

For tho' my soul was passion-rent,
I knew thee good and kind and great,
And prayed that no unkindly fate
Might ever mar thy mild content!

I loved thy pleachèd English lawn,
Thy gracious girls, thy pastoral lyre,
Nay, even thy Church and slender spire
Pointing at Heaven so far withdrawn!

And often have I prayed to be
As calm, as much at peace with God,—
Not moaning underneath His rod,
But smiling at His feet, with thee!

Wherefore accept these songs of mine,
For I, being lesson'd long in grief,
Believe despite my unbelief,
Although my faith is far from thine!

388

THE GNOME.

(A FANTASY.)

I.

At Dusseldorf in the Bolkerstrass',
In seventeen hundred and ninety-nine,
A mystical meeting there came to pass,
All in the pale moonshine.

From every mountain and meadow-sward,
From every forest around the Town,
While the Mayor and the Corporation snored,
The Elves came trooping down!

And busily down in the silent street,
Under the windows, they flitted there,—
The Will-o'-the-Wisp and the Fay so fleet
And the Troll with his tangled hair;

Yea, all the spirits, black, blue, and red,
Which philosophy long had driven away—
From the white Undine with her starry head
To the Gnome and the Goblin grey.

And they cried, ‘Of dulness the world is sick,
And the realistic reign hath passed—
And the hour hath come (if we are but quick!)
To revenge our wrongs at last—

‘For Man the mortal hath grown so wise,
To Heaven he thrusteth his bumptious brow—
He believes in nothing beneath the skies
But the “ich” and the “nicht ich,” now!

‘Too grave to laugh and too proud to play,
And full of a philosophic spleen,
He walks the world in his browsing way,
Like a jackass on a green.

‘He deems us slain with the creeds long dead,
He stalks sole Master of earth and skies—
But we mean, ere many an hour hath fled,
To give him a slight surprise!’

And at Dusseldorf, as the moon sail'd by,
When the City slept and the streets were still,
The Elves at the trick they meant to try
Laughed out full loud and shrill.

II.

Children by millions has Deutschland born,
With brains to ponder and mouths to eat,
But the strangest child saw light next morn
In Dusseldorf, Bolker Street!

Dim was his brow with the moon-dew dim,
Large his eyes and of lustre clear,
And he kick'd his legs with a laughter grim
Smiling from ear to ear.

A cry like the cry of the Elves and Gnomes
Went up from the breast on which he lay,
And he pucker'd his eyes and he showed his gums
In the wonderful Elfin way.

But his hair was bright as the sweet moonlight,
And his breath was sweet as the breath of flowers,
And looking up, on a starry night,
He would lie and laugh for hours!

And the human mother who watched his rest
Did love the smile of his small weird face,
While he drank, with the white milk of her breast,
A loving and human grace.

But night by night in the mystic shine
The Spirits of meadow and mountain came,
And moisten'd his lips with the Elfin wine
And whisper'd his Elfin name!

For the Elves and Gnomes had played their trick,
Despite the Philosophers grim and grey—
And a Gnome was growing, alive and quick,
With a body and legs of clay!

III.

He drank the seasons from year to year
And at last he grew to the height of man
And at Hamburg, the City of girls and beer,
The goblin-sport began.

389

For up he leapt in the crowded street,
All crown'd with ivy, and leaves, and flowers,
And began a magical song, full sweet,
Of the wonderful Elfin bowers.

He sang of the pale Moon silvern shod,
The Stars and the Spirits that feed their flame
(But where others utter the praise of God
He smiled, and he skipt the Name).

Sweet as the singing of summer eves
He sang in the midst of the wondering folk,
And they saw the dew of the flowers and leaves
On his white lips as he spoke!

And he told of the beautiful woodland things
Who glimmer naked without a blush,
And he mimick'd the little birds with wings,
The lark, and the finch, and the thrush!

He told of the knight in the Pixy's cave
Who sits like marble and hears her croon;
Of the Water-spirits beneath the wave
Who wail to the weary Moon.

Wan were the faces of those that heard;
They sighed for the mystical Elfin time;
And they stood in a dream, with their spirits stirred
To the thrill of that runic rhyme!

But ever, just as the spell was done,
He laughed as shrill as a bugle horn;
And they rubbed their eyes in the garish sun
To the sound of the Goblin's scorn!

IV.

Then over the Earth the tidings went,
To the Kings above and the crowds below,
That a Gnome, a magical Gnome, was sent
To play his pranks below.

‘All things that are holy in mortal sight,’
Quoth those that gathered his pranks to see,
‘He turns, with a scrutiny mock-polite,
To a goblin glamorie!

‘He dances his dance in the dark churchaisle,
He makes grimaces behind Earth's Kings,
He mocks, with a diabolical smile,
The highest and holiest things.

‘He jeers alike at our gain and loss,
He turns our faith to a goblin joke;
He perches himself on the wayside Cross
To grin at the kneeling folk!

‘He cutteth off our Madonna's head
With golden hair and red lips beneath,
And he sets on the fair one's throat instead
A skull and grinning teeth!

‘Full of flowers are his eager hands
As by Eve or Lilith he lies caressed,
But he laughs! and they turn to ashes and sands,
As he rains them upon her breast!

‘Nothing he spares 'neath the sad blue Heaven,
All he mocks and regards as vain;
Nothing he spares—not his own love even,
Or his own despair and pain!’

V.

Then some one (surely the son of a goose!)
Cried, ‘Send the Philosophers after him!
'Tis an ignis jatuus broken loose,
Or a Goblin wicked and grim.

‘For his sweetest sport is with sacred Kings,
Of their holy persons he makes a game;
And he strips our Queens of their splendid things
And shows their naked shame!

‘He tricks the world in a goblin revel,
He turns all substance to flowers and foam;
Nothing he spares—not the very Devil,
Or even the Pope of Rome!’

The Philosophers came, those wondrous men!
They fronted the Gnome in his elfin glee,
And they proved to demonstration, then,
He wasn't, and couldn't be!

390

And they showed him how in equation clear
The Being and Being-not exist,
And they proved that the only Actual here
In the Werden must consist.

They prodded his ribs with their fingerpoints,
Proving he was not a fact at all;—
And the Gnome laugh'd madly thro' all his joints
And uttered his Elfin call.

Around them the Goblin glamour grew,
They turned to Phantoms and gazed askance,
And he sprinkled their brows with the moonlight dew
And led them a Devil's dance!

They skipt along at his wicked beck,
He left them, fool'd to their hearts' content—
Each in his quagmire, up to the neck,
Deep in the argument!

VI.

But the hand of the Human was on the Gnome,
The lot he had chosen he must fulfil;—
So a cry went out, over land and foam,
That the wonderful Gnome was ill.

Philosophers grey and Kings on their thrones
Smiled and thought ‘He was long our pest;
Our plague is sick—on his wicked bones
The blight and the murrain rest!’

In Paris, the City of Sin and Light,
In Matignon Avenue No. 3,
Propt on his pillows he sat — a sight
Most pitiful to see!

For his cheeks were white as his own moon-shine,
And his great head roll'd with a weary pain,
And his limbs were shrunk, while his wondrous eyne
Shone with a sad disdain.

A skeleton form, with a thin white hand,
He lay alone in the chamber dim;
But he beckon'd and laugh'd—and all the land
Of Faëry flock'd to him!

Thro' his chamber window, when all was still,
When Mathilde was sound, and Cocotte was dumb,
On the moonbeam pale, o'er the window sill,
Thronging he saw them come!

In the City of absinthe and unbelief,
The Encyclopædia's sceptic home,
Fairies and Trolls, with a gentle grief,
Surrounded the sickly Gnome.

But at break of day, when Mathilde awoke
And the parrot screamed, they had fled from there;
While the sunrise red on the boulevard broke
The pale Gnome dozed in his chair.

But his eyes looked up with a mystic light,
And his lips still laughed in the Elfin way,
And the dew of the Vision he saw all night
Was dim on his cheek all day!

VII.

In sad Montmartre there stands a tomb,
Where the wonderful Gnome is lain asleep;
And there, in the moonlight and the gloom,
The Spirits of Elfland creep!

The lot of the Human was on his life;
He knew the sorrow of human breath;—
The bitter fret and the daily strife,
And the cruel human Death.

But the Spirit that loves all shining things,
The shapes of woodland and hill and stream,
The flowers, and the wonderful birds with wings,
And the Dream within the Dream,—

391

The gentle Spirit looked down and said,
‘He hath drunk the mortal passion and pain;
Let the balm of a mortal Sleep be shed
On his weary heart and brain.’

And that is the reason he wakens not,
Tho' ever and ever, at pale Moonrise,
The spirits of Elfland haunt the spot
Where ‘Heinrich Heine’ lies.

See Hegel passim.

Mathilde was the name of Madame Heine; Cocotte that of her pet parrot.

THE WHITE ROBE; OR, ZOLA IN A NUTSHELL.

I.

At Paris, on the Champs Elysées,
I sat and read Pot-Bouille through,
Then felt like one whose lips are greasy
After some sorry kitchen-stew;
Then, putting Zola in my pocket,
I watched Napoleon's arc of fame—
Its open arch, like Death's eye-socket,
Flush'd with flame.

Beyond, the sun was sinking downward,
And from the race-course, past the gate,
Thousands were driving swiftly townward—
Some merry, some disconsolate;
While on the footpath gay crowds lingered
Watching the bright cortège flow by,
Lucifer pointed, fiery-fingered,
From the sky.

Herodias, by her lord attended,
Faustine alone, in landau blue,
La Gloria, with trappings splendid,
And Plutus in her retinue;
In their hired carriage, Mai and Mimi,
Light-coated lovers at their side;
Camille, consumption-mark'd and dreamy,
Hollow-eyed.

Then, all the glorious wedded ladies!
Prudish or bold, I saw them pass;
How like the rest whose busiest trade is
Done in the night beneath the gas!
Leaders of folly or of fashion,
With splendour robed, with roses crowned,
With eyes of prurience or of passion
Smiling round!

There, oiled and scented, white-waist-coated,
The jolly bourgeois, coarse and fat,
Lolled by his lady purple-throated
In velvet robes and feathered hat.
I stay'd, with Zola in my pocket,
And watched till they had come and gone,
Napoleon's arc, like Death's eye-socket,
Glaring on!

And all the foulness and obsceneness
Of dress and form, of face and look,
Answer'd the sadness and uncleanness
That I had gathered from the book.
My inmost soul was sick with Zola.
I thought of sins without a name,
I loathed the world, and thought the whole a
Sink of shame!

II.

Just as I rose, with sorrow laden,
Eager to leave the shameless sight,
I saw close by a little Maiden
Bareheaded in the sunset-light.
In muslin robe of snowy whiteness,
And one white lily in her hair,
She paused, her pale cheek flush'd to brightness,
Smiling there!

Her mother, who had brought her thither,
An ouvrieuse with travail bowed,
Stood waiting to wend homeward with her
Through the gay groups, the chattering crowd;
Watched by that mother sad and tender,
On the glad picture gazed the child;
Then, glancing at her own white splendour,
Proudly smiled.

Presently, with a sigh of gladness,
Turning, toward my seat she came,
So feeble and slow, I saw with sadness
She bore a crutch and she was lame;
She came still nearer with her mother,
And leaning on her crutch she stood;
One slender limb was sound, the other
Made of wood!

392

And on the sound foot, small and pretty,
One stocking white, one satin shoe!
My soul grew full of pain and pity,
My eyes were dim with tenderest dew;
But ah! her face was bright with pleasure,
Nor pained or peevish, sad or cross;
Her heart too full that day to measure
All her loss.

'Twas her first day of Confirmation;
And many a month before that day
The child, with eager expectation,
Had longed to wear that white array;
Then, that glad morning, in the City
She had wakened long before the light,
And stolen from bed, to seek her pretty
Robe of White.

And she had stood with many others—
Poor little lambs of the same fold
Watched fondly by their sad-eyed mothers,
'Neath the great Church's dome of gold;
And while the holy light caressed them
And solemn music went and came,
The bishop had approved and blessed them
In Christ's name!

While the pale mother sat beside me,
We talked together of the child,
Who, listening proudly, stood and eyed me
With soul astir and cheeks that smiled;
Bright as a flower that blooms in Eden
Fed with sweet dews and heavenly air,
Was that poor lily of a Maiden
Pure and fair.

And as I looked in loving wonder
The whole world brighten'd to my view,
The dark sad sod was cleft asunder
To let the flowers of light slip through;
And lilies bright and roses blowing
Dazzled my sense, while on mine ear
Came sounds of winds and waters flowing
Crystal clear!

III.

Down to the glad green Bois I wandered,
The sun shone down on sward and tree;
Around me, as I walked and pondered,
The children shouted merrily;
The lake was sparkling full of gladness.
The song of birds trilled clear and gay,
I listened, and the cloud of sadness
Stole away.

Then out I took, with fingers shrinking,
My Zola, poisonous like the snake,
And held him where the light was blinking
O'er leaves of lilies on the lake.
‘Zola, my prophet of obsceneness,’
I murmured, ‘this at least is clear:
Who seeks may ever find uncleanness,
Even here.

‘And yet God made the world, and in it
Caused buds of love and joy to bloom;
Voices of innocence each minute
Scatter the ravens of the tomb;
E'en from the dreariest dust of sorrow
Lilies of light may spring and shine,
And from the Heaven above them borrow
Hues divine.

‘The glad deep music of Creation,
Abiding still though men depart,
Transcends the song of tribulation
Raised in your lazar-house of Art.
He who would hear it must, upleaping,
Face the full suntide of his Time,
Nor, on the muddy bottom creeping,
Search the slime!

‘One lily, wheresoever blowing,
Can shame your sunless kitchen-weeds;
One flower of joy, though feebly growing,
Still justifies diviner creeds.
There may be Hell, with mischief laden,
There still is Heaven (look up and try!).
So that poor lily of a Maiden
Proves—you lie!’

I held him sunward for a minute,
Then loosening fingers set him free:
The water splashed; he vanished in it.
Down to the muddy depths went he.
The light flash'd out, no longer feeble,
The waters sparkled where he fell.
‘Zola,’ I said, ‘enfant terrible,
Fare-thee-well!’

Paris: June 1883.

393

CARLYLE.

‘“If God would only do something,” I said.
“He does nothing,” answered Carlyle.’
Froude's Life of Carlyle.

I

‘God does nothing!’ sigh'd the Seer,
Sick of playing Prophet:
To his eyes the sun-flames clear
Seem'd the fumes of Tophet;
Off the King he tore his crown,
Stript the Priest of clothing,
Curst the world—then with a frown,
Murmur'd, ‘God does—nothing!’

II

Bitter creed, and creedless cry
Of the soul despairing—
He who once on sea and sky
Saw the Portent flaring,
He who chose the thorny road,
Paths of pleasure loathing,
Crying loudly, ‘Great is God,
Only Man is nothing!’

III

Many a year the merry world
Flash'd its lights before him,
Freedom's flag had been unfurl'd
To the ether o'er him,
Kings had fallen, empires changed,
Suns of science risen,
Innocence had been avenged,
Truth had burst her prison.

IV

Having slain the serpent creeds,
Knowledge, swift, Persean,
On their grave had scatter'd seeds
From the Empyrean;
Godlike shapes had come and gone,
Naked Nations clothing,
While the Prophet sat alone,
Sighing ‘God does—nothing!’

V

Nothing? Whence, then, came the Light,
Flashed across each Nation,
Working after years of night
Love's glad liberation?
Whose the Voice that from the grave
Cried, ‘Hell; fires I smother’?
Whose the Hand that freed the slave?
If not His, what other?

VI

Nay, but who was busy too
In the Seer's own dwelling,
Planting flowers of heavenly blue
In a soul rebelling?
Who was whispering, even then,
Loving and not loathing,
‘Only he who hateth men
Thinketh God does nothing!’

VII

Strong and stubborn as the rock,
Blindly sat the Prophet—
Angels round his hearth might flock,
Yet he reck'd not of it!
Blind,—tho' one assumed the form
Of a weary Woman,
Shedding on his heart of stone
Love divinely human!

VIII

Wrapt around with stoic pride
Blind he sat each morrow—
Whose, then, was the Voice that cried,
‘Smite his soul with sorrow’?
Whose, then, was the shadowy Power
Which to overcome him,
Stooping as one plucks a flower,
Took that other from him?

IX

Not alone on wings of storm,
Nor in tones of thunder,
Speaks the Voice and stirs the Form,
While we watch and wonder;
Still as falls the silent dew,
Sweet'ning, sanctifying,
He who stirs the suns can strew
Lilies on the dying!

X

Darker grows the cloud, when we,
Blind and helpless creatures,
Face to face the Lord could see,
Scrutinise His features!
He who plans our loss or gain
Works beyond our guessing—
On the loneliest paths of pain
Grows His sweetest blessing!

394

XI

Wouldst thou tear the clouds apart,
Seeking sign or token?
Look for God within thy heart,
Tho' that heart be broken!
All without thee—tempest-blown
Darkness of Creation—
Is a dream that needs thine own
Life's interpretation!

XII

Seekest thou the God of wrath,
In the Tempest calling?
Or a Phantom in thy path,
Slaying and appalling?
Rather, when the light is low,
Crouching silent near it,
Seek Him in the ebb and flow
Of thy breathing spirit!

XIII

See, the weary Prophet's grave!
Calm and sweet it lieth,
Hush'd, tho' still the human wave,
Breaking blindly, crieth!
He who works thro' quick and dead,
Loving, never loathing,
Blest this grey-hair'd child, who said
Feebly, ‘God does—nothing!’

Mark now, how close they are akin,
The worst man and the best,—
The soul that least is touch'd with sin,
And he that's sinfullest.

From Shakespeare to the dullest knave
That scans the poet's page,
A step,—and lo, the same black grave
Yawns both for fool and sage!

A little life, a little sleep,
A little hunger and thirst,
A little time to laugh and weep,
Unite the best and worst!

Hush then thy pomp and pride, O Man!
But humbly breathe and be,—
The Law that was when life began
Flows on thro' God and thee!

ATYS.

(TO CATULLUS.)

‘Stimulatus ubi furenti rabie, vagus animi.’ Cat., De Aty, 4.

O Catullus, still among us strides the thing you celebrated,
Flying yonder through the shadows where the modern mænads throng,—
Sexless, sad, self-mutilated, that which God as Man created
Wails in mad despair of manhood, beats the timbrel, shrills the song!

Ah the pity! for the Muses round his cradle sang a pæan,
Hover'd o'er him and around him where a happy child he ran,
But he join'd the flocks Circean, drank the cursèd wine Lethean,
And now the gods deny to it the birthright of a man!

Ah, the pity!—oft there cometh from its lips that murmur madly
A tone that still reminds us of the song that might have been!
While the face that once shone gladly looms despitefully and sadly
From the haunted Phrygian forest of the Goddess Epicene!

DOCTOR B.

(ON RE-READING A COLLECTION OF POEMS.)

Confound your croakers and drug concoctors!
I've sent them packing at last, you see!
I'm in the hands of the best of doctors,
Dear cheery and chirpy Doctor B.!

None of your moping, methodistic,
Long-faced ravens who frighten a man!
No, ever with treatment optimistic
To rouse the sick, is the Doctor's plan!

In he comes to you, smiling brightly,
Feels your pulse for the mere form's sake,
Bustles about the sick room lightly.
Gives you no beastly drugs to take,

395

But blithely clapping you on the shoulder
‘Better?’ he cries. ‘Why, you're nearly well!’
And then you hear, with a heart grown bolder,
The last good story he has to tell!

And, mind you, his learning is prodigious,
He has Latin and Greek at his finger ends,
And with all his knowledge he's still religious,
And counts no sceptic among his friends.

God's in His Heaven, and willy nilly
All things come right in the end, he shows—
The rouge on the ladies of Piccadilly
Is God's, as much as the blush of the rose!

And as for the wail of the whole world's sorrow,
Well, men may weep, but the thrushes sing!
If you're sick to-day, there'll be jinks tomorrow,
And life, on the whole, is a pleasant thing!

When out of spirits you're sadly lying,
All dismal talk he puts bravely by:
‘God's in His Heaven,’ you hear him crying,—
‘All's right with Creation from star to sty!’

Full of world's wisdom and life's variety,
Always alive and alert is he,
His patients move in the best society,
And Duchesses swear by Doctor B.!

A bit too chirpy to some folks' thinking?
Well, there are moods that he hardly suits!—
Once, last summer, when I felt sinking,
I fear'd his voice and the creak of his boots!

It he has a fault which there's no denying,
Tis proneness to argue and prove his case,—
When under the shadow a man is lying,
Such boisterous comfort seems out of place;

'Tis little solace, when one is going
Into the long eternal Night,
To hear a voice, like a bugle blowing,
Cry, ‘Glory to God, for the world's all right!’

I long'd, I own, for a voice less cheery,
A style less strident, a tone less frce,—
For one who'd bend by my bedside dreary
And hush his wisdom and weep with me!

But bless your heart, when my health grew better,
I gladden'd the old boy's face to see;
And still I consider myself the debtor
Of dear old chirpy Doctor B.!

SOCRATES IN CAMDEN.

WITH A LOOK ROUND.

(Written after first meeting the American poet, Walt Whitman, at Camden, New Jersey.)

A pilgrim from beyond the seas,
Seeking some shrine where shrines are few,
I found the latter Socrates,
Greek to the core, yet Yankee too;
Feeble, for he was growing old,
Yet fearless, self-contained, and bold,
Rough as a seaman who has driven
Long years before the winds of Heaven,
I found him, with the blue skies o'er him,
And, figuratively, knelt before him!
Then gript the hand that long had lain
Tenderly in the palm of Death,
Saw the sweet eyes that still maintain
Calm star-like watch o'er things of breath,
And as the dear voice gave its greeting
My heart was troubled unaware
With love and awe that hush'd its beating
And pride that darken'd into prayer.

This man affirmed his disbelief
In all the gods, but Belial mainly:
Nature he loved, but Man in chief,
And what Man is, he uttered plainly!
Like Socrates, he mixed with men
At the street corner, rough and ready,
Christ-like he sought the Magdalen,
Lifting his hat, as to a lady;

396

No thing that breathes, however small,
Found him unloving or rebelling;
The shamble and the hospital
Familiar were as his own dwelling;
Then trumpet-like his voice proclaimed
The naked Adam unashamed,
The triumph of the Body, through
The sun-like Soul that keeps it true,
The triumph of the Soul, whereby
The Body lives, and cannot die.
The world was shocked, and Boston screaming
Cover'd her face, and cried ‘For shame!’
Gross, hankering, mystically dreaming,
The good grey Poet went and came;
But when the dark hour loomed at last,
And, lighted by the fiery levin,
Man grappled man in conflict vast,
While Christendom gazed on aghast,
Through the great battlefield he pass'd
With finger pointing up to Heaven.
Socrates? Nay, more like that Other
Who walked upon the stormy Sea,
He brought, while brother wounded brother,
The anointing nard of charity!

But when the cruel strife was ended,
Uprose the Elders, mob-attended,
Saying, ‘This Socrates, it seems,
Denies Olympus and blasphemes;
Offends, moreover, 'gainst the Schools
Who teach great Belial's moral rules,
Sins against Boston and the Law
That keeps the coteries in awe,
And altogether for his swagger
Deserves the hemlock cup or dagger!’
So said so done! The Pharisees
Called up the guard and gave directions—
The prison opened—Socrates
Was left therein to his reflections!

A full score years have passed, and still
The good grey Bard still loafs and lingers;
The social poison could not kill,
Though stirred by literary fingers—
He sipped it, smiled, and put it by,
Despite the scandal and the cry;
But when, the Pharisees commanding,
They rushed to end him with the sword,
They saw, beside the poet standing,
A radiant Angel of the Lord.
A hemlock cup? Yes, there it lies,
Close to thy hand, old friend, this minute!
With gentle twinkle of the eyes
You mark the muddy liquid in it:
For the grave rulers of the City,
Who sent it, you have only pity;
For those who mixed it, made it green
With misconception, spite, and spleen,
You feel no thrill of scornful fret,
But only kindness and regret.
'Twas Emerson, some folk affirm,
Who passed it round with shrug of shoulder—
Good soul, he worshipped Time and Term,
Instead of Pan, as he grew older!
And Boston snubbed thee? Walt, true heart,
Time ever brings about revenges—
Just glance that way before we part
And note the memorable changes.

There, in the ‘hub’ of all creation,
Where Margaret Fuller, ere she mated,
Flirted with seers of reputation
And all the ‘smis’ cultivated,
Where still brisk Holmes cuts learnèd capers
With buckles on knee-breeches fine,
The sweet man-milliners and drapers,
Howells and James, put up their sign.
And there the modern Misses find
The wares most suited to their mind—
French fashions, farthingales delightful,
Frills white as snow for ladies' wear;
Nothing old-fashioned, fast, or frightful,
Is dealt in by this dainty pair!
The stuff they sell to man or woman
May in itself be poor or common,
Coarsest of serge or veriest sacking,
But they can trick it in a trice,
So that no element is lacking
To render it extremely nice.
‘Ladies!’ they murmur, with a smile,
‘We pride ourselves upon our style!
Our cutter is a paragon
Match'd only by our fitter-on;
Bring what material you like,
We'll treat it in a way to strike,
Turn your old satins, and embellish
Last season's hats with feathers swellish!
In short, weave miracles of clothing
By genius out of next to nothing,
And charge the very lowest prices
For all our daintiest devices.

397

We know,’ they add, with smirk and bow,
‘Some of you like old-fashioned clothes—
The Emersonian homespun (now
Absurd as Whitman's or Thoreau's),
Or even, still absurder, seek
Poor Shakespeare's fashion quite antique,
Fit only, with its stiff brocades,
For vulgar frumps and country maids;
Could Shakespeare, poor old fellow, please
With such a cut as this—chemise?
The woof he used was strongly woven,
But surely, now, his taste was shocking?
Compare our silk hose, much approven,
With Dickens' clumsy worsted stocking!
We please the dames and gain the daughters
With neat inventions of our own,
Replace George Eliot's learned garters
With our suspenders silken-sewn;
While in an annex to the shop,
Our customers will find, quite handy,
The toothsome bun and lollipop
And superfine molasses candy!’
The busy pair! How well they patter,
Disposing of their slender matter;
The girls adore, instead of loathing,
These laurcates of underclothing,
Delight their soul's attire to model
On the last style of mollycoddle,
Eked out with sickly importations
From France, that naughtiest of nations!
Dapper they are, and neatly dressed,
Insidious, tempting folks to buy goods,
But mere man-milliners at best
Vending the flimsiest of dry goods;
Trash in their flimsy window setting,
And tricking up to catch the eye
Such clothes as spoil with the first wetting
From the free rains of yonder sky!

Daintily passing by their shop,
Sometimes, when it is cloudless weather,
Aldrich, a literary fop,
In trim tight boots of patent leather,
Strolls to the quiet street, where he saw
Sun-freckled Marjorie play at see-saw,
And bending o'er her hammock, kisses
That sweetest, shadowiest of misses!
His languid gait, his dudish drawl,
His fopdom, we forgive them all,
For her dear sake of his creating,
Fairer than girls of flesh and blood,
Who, never loving, never mating,
Swings in eternal Maidenhood!

Now I conjure thee, best of Bards,
Scatter thy wisdom Bostonwards!
Tell Howells, who with fingers taper
Measures the matron and the maid,
God never meant him for a draper—
Strip off his coat, give him a spade!
His muscles and his style may harden
If he digs hard in Adam's garden,
Or follows Dudley Warner flying
Where Adirondack eagles soar,
Or chums with some brown savage, lying
With Stoddard on a South-sea shore.
Tell James to burn his continental
Library of the Detrimental,
And climb a hill, or take a header
Into the briny, billowy seas,
Or find some strapping Muse and wed her,
Instead of simpering at teas!
How should the Titaness of nations,
Whose flag o'er half a world unfurls,
Sit listening to the sibilations
Of shopmen twittering to girls?
She sees the blue skies bend above her,
She feels the throb of hearts that love her,
She hears the torrent and the thunder,
The clouds above, the waters under,
She knows her destiny is shaping
Beyond the dreams of Linendraping!
She craves a band of Bards with voices
To echo her when she rejoices,
To sing her sorrows and to capture
The Homeric music of her rapture!
She hears the good grey Poet only
Sing, priestly-vestured, prophet-eyed,
And on his spirit falls the lonely
Light of her splendour and her pride. . . .

Poet divine, strong soul of fire,
Alive with love and love's desire,
Whose strength is as the Clouds, whose song
Is as the Waters deep and strong,
Whose spirit, like a flag unfurled,
Proclaims the freedom of the World,
What gifts of grace and joy have come
Out of thy gentle martyrdom!
A pilgrim from afar, I bring
Homage from some who love thee well—
Ah, may the feeble song I sing
Make summer music in thy cell!

398

The noblest head 'neath western skies,
The tenderest heart, the clearest eyes,
Are thine, my Socrates, whose fate
Is beautifully desolate!
As deep as Hell, as high as Heaven,
Thy wisdom hath this lesson given,
When all the gods that reign'd and reign
Have fallen like leaves and left no sign,
The god-like Man shall still remain
To prove Humanity divine!

Indian Rock, Philadelphia, Pa.: March 1885.

WALT WHITMAN.

One handshake, Walt! while we, thy little band
Of lovers, take our last long look at thee—
One handshake, and one kiss upon the hand
Thou didst outreach to bless Humanity!

The dear, kind hand is cold, the grave sweet eyes
Are closed in slumber, as thou liest there.
We shed no tears, but watch in sad surmise
The face still smiling thro' the good grey hair!

No tears for thee! Tears rather, tears of shame,
For those who saw that face yet turn'd away;
Yet even these, too, didst thou love and claim
As brethren, tho' they frown'd and would not stay.

And so, dear Walt, thine Elder Brother passed,
Unknown, unblest, with open hand like thine—
Till lo! the open Sepulchre at last,
The watching angels, and the Voice Divine!

God bless thee, Walt! Even Death may never seize
Thy gifts of goodness in no market priced—
The wisdom and the charm of Socrates,
Touch'd with some gentle glory of the Christ!

So long!—We seem to hear thy voice again,
Tender and low, and yet so deep and strong!
Yes, we will wait, in gladness not in pain.
The coming of thy Prophecy. (‘So long!’)

THE STORMY ONES.

What bark is this by the breezes driven,
With scarce a rag of remaining sail?—
Under the gentle eyes of Heaven
It drifteth, crowded with faces pale.

Who's at the helm with his hair back blowing
(And very badly he seems to steer)?
Loosely his raven locks are flowing,—
The shade of Byron, by all that's queer!

Close beside him a blushing bevy
Of women on tiger-skins repose,—
Their cheeks are waxen, their eyes are heavy,
They wear loose trousers, and yawn and doze!

Daintily drest but sea-sick slightly,
Leans Chateaubriand over the rail,
Watch'd by an Indian maid politely,
A sort of Choctaw Madame de Stael.

There's Grillparzer, with scowl and swagger,
Kotzebue also, with paper and pen,
Werner, with poison'd bowl and dagger,
All the stormy women and men!

Atala, Charlotte, Medora, Haidee,
Mrs. Haller, may be descried,
Fair of feature, in morals shady,
Caressed and wheedled,—then kick'd aside!

Down below in the cabin, thickly
Gather the revellers, weak of will—
Alfred de Musset with smile so sickly,
Heine with laughter wild and shrill.

Women, too!—actress, cocotte, and gipsy,
Mimi Pinson, and all the rest,
Each bareheaded, with eyeballs tipsy,
Leaning there on a reveller's breast.

399

Poof! how close it is below here!
Best again to the deck repair—
At least a breath from Heaven may blow here,
But down in the cabin, one chokes for air!

Byron swears as he grasps the tiller,
Haidee sobs as she bites her bun,
And the little stowaway, Joaquin Miller,
Gapes at a symbol and cries ‘What fun!’

For up at the peak their flag is flying—
A white Death's head, with grinning teeth,—
‘Eat, drink, and love, for the day is dying’
Written in cypher underneath.

‘Vanity! Vanity! Love and Revel!’
‘Take a sip of absinthe, my dear!’
‘Religion's a bore, but I like the Devil!’
These are some of the words you hear!. . .

Over the vessel so small and crowded,
Walking the winds with solemn tread,
Two shapes are hanging, their faces shrouded,—
They talk as they hearken overhead.

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

Why rocks this ship upon the main
When all the waves repose?

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

The breeze is only in the brain,
And so they think it blows!

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

But all is calm—'tis summer-time—
Soft sighs the silken swell!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

Still, you and I dream'd ere our prime
Our Teacup Storms as well!

Still as glass is the ocean weather,
All is quiet and still and warm,
Yet see! the Stormy Ones crowd together,
Baring their foreheads to front the Storm!

‘Thunder and lightning, we defy you!
Fate, we scorn thee!’ loud they cry—
‘Blow your loudest, O wind on high! You
Can only make us blaspheme and die!’

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

Methinks the song they sing is stale,
So oft it hath been sung!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

That very vessel thro' a gale
I steered, when I was young!

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

Why do they rave of tempests thus?
The weather's wondrous fair!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

Herr God! 'tis too ridiculous—
There's not a breath of air!

Spirits tremendous, you're right precisely!
The song of the Stormy is quite absurd—
There's just a breeze to sail with nicely,
The waves are gentle to boat and bird.

Yonder Liberty's Ark is floating,
And there's the Dove, with the branch in his beak—
Even the Pope on the brine is boating,
Safe in his tub, in spite of the leak!

Go by, O Stormy Ones, dreaming wildly
You breast the waves with heroic mind—
On your brows may the breeze blow mildly,
When you're sea-sick, may Fate be kind!

But O ye Women, black-eyed and blue-eyed,
Who listen still to the old stale song,
Ye victims of mock-heroics! true-eyed,
Credulous, innocent, spite of wrong!

Yours is the sorrow, theirs the pleasure,—
Yours are the tears, and theirs the laugh,—
The cowards sip the froth of the measure,
But give you the poisonous dregs to quaff!

Lords of misrule and of melancholy,
They share among you their devil's dole,
While on the decks of that Ship of Folly
You faint and sicken, O Woman-Soul!

THE DISMAL THRONG.

The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,
The Gods have left us one by one,
And the last Poets, too, are going!

400

Ended is all the mirth and song,
Fled are the merry Music-makers;
And what remains? The Dismal Throng
Of literary Undertakers!

Clad in deep black of funeral cut,
With faces of forlorn expression,
Their eyes half open, souls close shut,
They stalk along in pale procession;
The latest seed of Schopenhauer,
Born of a Trull of Flaubert's choosing,
They cry, while on the ground they glower,
‘There's nothing in the world amusing!’

There's Zola, grimy as his theme,
Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure,
Sceptic of all that poets dream,
All hopes that simple mortals treasure;
With sense most keen for odours strong,
He stirs the Drains and scents disaster,
Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng
Who bow their heads before ‘the Master.’

There's Miss Matilda in the south,
There's Valdes in Madrid and Seville,
There's mad Verlaine with gangrened mouth
Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil.
From every nation of the earth,
Instead of smiling music-makers,
They come, the foes of Love and Mirth,
The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.

There's Tolstoi, towering in his place
O'er all the rest by head and shoulders;
No sunshine on that noble face
Which Nature meant to charm beholders!
Mad with his self-made martyr's shirt,
Obscene through hatred of obsceneness,
He from a pulpit built of Dirt
Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!

There's Ibsen, puckering up his lips,
Squirming at Nature and Society,
Drawing with tingling finger-tips
The clothes off naked Impropriety!
So nice, so nasty, and so grim,
He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder;
To summon up one smile from him
Would be a miracle of wonder!

There's Maupassant, who takes his cue
From Dame Bovary's bourgeois troubles;
There's Bourget, dyed his own sick ‘blue,’
There's Loti, blowing blue soap-bubbles;
There's Mendès (no Catullus, he!)
There's Richepin, sick with sensual passion.
The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free,
Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.

‘Turn down the lights! put out the Sun!
Man is unclean and morals muddy,
The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
Disease and Dirt must be our study!
Tear open Nature's genial heart,
Let neither God nor gods escape us,
But spare, to give our subjects zest.
The basest god of all—Priapus!’

The Dismal Throng! 'Tis thus they preach,
From Christiania to Cadiz,
Recruited as they talk and teach
By dingy lads and draggled ladies;
Without a sunbeam or a song,
With no clear Heaven to hunger after;
The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng!
The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!

By Shakespeare's Soul! if this goes on,
From every face of man and woman
The gift of gladness will be gone,
And laughter will be thought inhuman!
The only beast who smiles is Man!
That marks him out from meaner creatures!
Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan
To take God's birth-mark from our features!

Manfreds who walk the hospitals,
Laras and Giaours grown scientific,
They wear the clothes and bear the palls
Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific;
They play the same old funeral tune.
And posture with the same dejection,
But turn from howling at the moon
To literary vivisection!

And while they loom before our view,
Dark'ning the air that should be sunny,
Here's Oscar growing dismal too,
Our Oscar who was once so funny!

401

Blue china ceases to delight
The dear curl'd darling of society,
Changed are his breeches, once so bright,
For foreign breaches of propriety!

I grant there's many a sorry place
On Earth, and much in need of mending,
But all the world is not so base
As sickly souls are now contending;
And I prefer my roses still
To all the garlic in their garden—
Let Hedda gabble as she will,
I'll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!

O for one laugh of Rabelais,
To rout these moralising croakers!
(The cowls were mightier far than they,
Yet fled before that King of Jokers).
O for a slash of Fielding's pen
To bleed these pimps of Melancholy!
O for a Boz, born once again
To play the Dickens with such folly

Yet stay! why bid the dead arise?
Why call them back from Charon's wherry?
Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes,
Confuse these ghouls with something merry!
Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three,
Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent,
Forsake thy themes of butchery
And be the merry Muses' servant!

Come, Dickens' foster-son, Bret Harte!
(Before he died, he bless'd thy labours!)
Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart
With sound of rustic fifes and tabors!
Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy,
Come from thy garden by the river,
And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy,
These dreary bores who drone for ever!

By Heaven! we want you one and all,
For Hypochondria is reigning—
The Mater Dolorosa's squall
Makes Nature hideous with complaining.
Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled
When Art was virginal and vernal—
The pure Madonna with her Child,
Pure as the light, and as eternal!

Pest on these dreary, dolent airs!
Confound these funeral pomps and poses!
Is Life Dyspepsia's and Despair's,
And Love's complexion all chlorosis?
A lie! There's Health, and Mirth, and Song,
The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying—
The dismal droning doleful Throng
Are only smuts in sunshine playing!

Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!
Shine out, O Sun, and planets seven!
Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand
Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!
The World's alive—still quick, not dead,
It needs no Undertaker's warning;
So put the Dismal Throng to bed,
And wake once more to Light and Morning!

THE GIFT OF BURNS.

[_]

(Addressed to the Caledonian Club, Boston, U.S.A., on the Anniversary of the Birth of the Poet.)

I

The speech our English Pilgrims spoke
Fills the great plains afar,
And branches of the British oak
Wave 'neath the Western star;
‘Be free!’ men cried, in Shakespeare's tongue,
When striking for the Slave—
Thus Hampden's cry for Freedom rung
As far as Lincoln's grave!

II

But where new oaks of England rise
The thistle freelier blows;
Across the seas 'neath alien skies
Another Scotland grows;
Here Independence, mountain Maid
Reaps her full birthright now,
And Burns's shade, in trews and plaid,
Still whistles at the plough!

III

Scots, gather'd now in phalanx bright,
Here in this distant land,
To greet you all, this festal night,
I reach the loving hand;

402

My soul is with you one and all,
Who pledge our Poet's fame,
And echoing your toast, I call
A blessing on his name!

IV

The heritage he left behind
Has spread from sea to sea—
The liberal heart, the fearless mind,
The undaunted Soul and free;
The radiant humour that redeem'd
A world of commonplace;
The wit that like a sword-flash gleam'd
In Fashion's painted face;

V

The brotherhood whose smiles and tears,
Too deep for thought to scan,
Have made of all us Mountaineers
One world-compelling clan!
Hand join with hand! Soul links with soul
Where'er we sit and sing,
Flashing, from utmost pole to pole,
Love's bright electric ring!

VI

The songs he sang were sown as seeds
Deep in the furrow'd earth—
They blossom into dauntless deeds
And flowers of gentle mirth;
They brighten every path we tread,
They conquer Time and place;
While blue skies, opening overhead,
Reveal—the Singer's face!

VII

God bless him! Tho' he sin'd and fell,
His sins are all forgiven,
Since with his wit he conquer'd Hell,
And with his love show'd Heaven!
He was the noblest of us all,
Yet of us all a part,
For every Scot, howe'er so small,
Is high as Burns's heart!

VIII

All honour'd be the night indeed
When he this life began—
The open-handed, stubborn-knee'd
Type of the mountain clan!
The shape erect that never knelt
To Kings of earth or air,
But at a maiden's touch would melt
And tremble into prayer!

IX

His soul pursues us where we roam,
Beyond the furthest waves,
He sheds the light of Love and Home
Upon our loneliest graves!
Poor is the slave that honours not
The flag he first unfurl'd—
Our Singer, who has made the Scot
The Freeman of the World!

THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

(FOR ROBERT BURNS'S BIRTHDAY, 25TH JANUARY.)

When cold and frosted lies the plough
And never a flower upsprings,
How blithely on the wintry bough
The Robin sits and sings!

His bright black eye with restless ray
Glints at the snow-clad earth;
Chill blow the winds, and yet his lay
Is bright with Love and Mirth! . . .

E'en so, my Robin, didst thou come
Into our wintry clime,
And when the summer bards were dumb
Piped out thy perfect rhyme;

Clouds parted, and the sun shone through!
Men welcomed, smiling bright,
The Friend of Man, the Minstrel true
Of Love, and Life, and Light!

Poor outcast Adam ceased to grieve,
And answer'd with a will:
'Twas Eden once again, and Eve
Was mother-naked still!

And ever by the Cotter's door,
Thy notes rang clear and frce,
And Freedom fill'd the soul once more
That hearken'd unto thee!

The crimson stain was on thy breast,
The bleeding heart below,
But bravely thou didst pipe thy best
Despite the whole world's woe!

403

Blest be that strain of Love and Mirth,
So fearless and so fine! . . .
What were this waste of wintry earth
Without such cheer as thine!

TO GEORGE BERNARD SHAW.

No slave at least art thou, on this dull Day
When slaves and knaves throng in Life's banquet-hall! . . .
Who listens to thy scornful laugh must say
‘Wormwood, tho' bitter, is medicinal!’

Because thou turnest from our Feast of Lies
Where prosperous priests with whores and warriors feed,
Because thy Jester's mask hides loving eyes,
I name thee here, and bid thy work ‘God speed!’

THE SAD SHEPHERD.

(TO THOMAS HARDY.)

Thy song is piteous now that once was glad,
The merry uplands hear thy voice no more—
Thro' frozen forest-ways, O Shepherd sad,
Thou wanderest, while windy tempests roar;

And in thine arms—aye me!—thou claspest tight
A wounded Lamb that bleateth in the cold,
Warming it in thy breast, while thro' the night
Thou strugglest, fain to bear it to the fold!

Shepherd, God bless thy task, and keep thee strong
To help poor lambs that else might die astray! . . .
Thy midnight cry is holier than the song
The summer uplands heard at dawn of day!

L'ENVOI IN THE LIBRARY.

And if, O Brethren of the Bleeding Heart,
Dreamers amid the Storm where Love gropes blind,
I have cried aloud for Joy to tear apart
The cloud of Fate that broods o'er Humankind;

If 'mid the darkness I have call'd, ‘Rejoice!
God's in His Heaven—the skies are blue and fair!’
If for a moment's space my faltering voice
Hath echoed here the infant's cry and prayer;

'Tis that the pang of pity grew too great,
Too absolute the quick sharp sense of pain,
And in my soul's despair, left desolate,
I sought to be a little child again!

Not that I love your piteous labours less,
But that I yearn for Life and Sunshine more,—
Hearing, 'mid Seas and Storms so pitiless,
The happy children shouting on the shore!

CORUISKEN SONNETS.

(Loch Coruisk, Isle of Skye, N.B.)

I

Again among the Mountains, and again
That same old question on my faltering tongue!
Purged if not purified by fires of pain,
I seek the solitudes I loved when young;
And lo, the prayers I prayed, the songs I sung,
Echo like elfin music in my brain,
While to these lonely regions of the Rain
I come, a Pilgrim worn and serpent-stung.
The bitter wormwood of the creeds hath pass'd
To poison in my blood of dull despair,
I have torn the mask from Death and stood aghast
To find the Phantom's features foul not fair,
I have read the Riddle of the Gods at last
With broken heart, and found no comfort there!

404

II

Unchanged, Coruisk, thou liest!—Time hath made
No mark on thee his empery to attest;
Winter and summer, light and solemn shade,
Break not the eternal darkness of thy breast,
Black Lake of Sorrow, stillest, woefullest
Of all God's Waters,—countless storms have played
O'er thee and round, since on thy shores I prayed
And left thee here untroubled in thy rest. . .
And o'er thee still the sunless Peaks arise
Finding no mirror in thy depths below,
And night by night Heaven with its million eyes
Hath watch'd thy lava-pools of silent woe,—
The same thou art, under the same sad Skies,
As when God's Hand first stilled thee, long ago!

III

Tho' Time which leaves thee whole hath rent and worn
The soul of him who stood and worshipt here,
The weary Waters and the Hills forlorn
Remain the same from silent year to year;—
Despite the sad unrest afar and near,
The cry of Torrents that for ever mourn,
The march of Clouds by winds and lightnings torn,
Here dwells no heritage of human fear!
God keeps His scourge for slaves that pray and cling,
For Clouds and Mists and mortals frail as they,—
The Mountains heed Him not, the Waters fling
His strong Hand back and wave His pride away:
Serene and silent they confront the Thing
Which chills the flesh and blood of men of clay!

IV

Now hearken!—Led, methought, by God's own Hand,
I wander'd in a world of gracious things,
Heaven was above, all round was Fairyland,
Music of singing brooks and crystal springs,—
Each flower that blossoms and each bird that sings
Promised the Paradise which Love had planned,
Spake of the spirits who at his command
Bare peace from star to star on happy wings.
I heard the Promise wheresoe'er I went,
I saw it rainbow'd yonder in the Sky,
Yea, even when the Heavens were lightningrent,
I saw the radiant hosts go shining by,—
I look'd and listen'd, calm and well-content,
And little guess'd that Promise was a Lie!

V

How could I doubt the lark and nightingale
Singing their chaunt of Joy and Love Divine?
How could I dream that golden Light could fail
Which lit the whole green world with bliss like mine?
Where'er I walked I saw the Promise shine
Soft as the dawn-star o'er a leafy dale,
And raising happy hands I cried, ‘All hail!
Father of All, since Life and Light are Thine!’
Nay, even when utter darkness wrapt me round
And bending low I saw pale Death creep near,
Methought I saw an Angel Heavenwardbound
Laden with flowers that bloom'd and faded here,
While far away I heard a happy sound
And saw the Mirage flash from sphere to sphere!

VI

The Mirage! ah, the Mirage! O how fair
And wonderful it seem'd, flashed overhead
From world to world! Bright faces glimmer'd there,
Hands beckon'd, and my grief was comforted!
Wherefore, O God, I did not fear to tread
That darkness, and to breathe that deadly air,
For there was comfort yet in my despair,
And since God lived, I was not wholly dead!

405

Then came the crowning grief, the final fear
That snapt my heart in twain, Unpitying One!
The Hand was drawn away, the path grew drear,
The Mirage faded, and the Dream was done;
And lo, the Heaven that once had seem'd so near
Had fled, to shine no more in moon or sun!

VII

I charge Thee now, O God, if God indeed
Thou art, and not an evil empty Dream!
Now when the Earth is strong and quick with seed,
Redeem Thy promise! with Thy life supreme
Fill those dear eyes, till they unclose and beam!
Think how my heart hath bled and still doth bleed
Beneath Thy wrath, and listen while I plead
In darkness,—send Thy Light, a living stream,
Into the grave where all I love lies low!. . .
Spring comes again, Thy world awakeneth,
May-time is near, the buds begin to blow,
Over all Nature flows a living breath,—
The Hills are loosen'd and the Waters flow,—
Melt then, O God, those icicles of Death!

VIII

Thou wilt not melt them! Never in sun or rain
The gentle heart shall stir, the dear eyes shine!
Silent Thou passest, pitiless, Divine,
Trailing behind Thy footsteps Life's long chain,
Which breaketh link by link with ceaseless pain,
Breaketh and faileth like this life of mine,
And yet is evermore renew'd again
To prove all Time's Eternity is Thine!
Wherefore my soul no more shall pray and cling
To Thee, O God, for succour or for stay;—
The Mountains heed Thee not,—the Waters fling
Thy strong Hand back and wave Thy pride away:—
Serene and cold like those, I front the Thing
Which chills the flesh and blood of men of clay.

See the author's ‘Book of Orm.’

THE DEVIL'S SABBATH.

(Loch Coruisk, Island of Skye. Night.)

THE ÆON.
Welcome, Buchanan! once again I greet you
Here 'mong the Mountains as in London yonder!
Right glad am I in mine own realm to meet you,
Far from the haunts where priests and pedants wander.
Once more I thank you for your vindication
Of one so long malign'd in foolish fiction!
Your book shall long survive the execration
Of critics through your Master's benediction!
You've reconstructed, much as fools have slighted you,
The one true Jesus and the one true Devil.
Wherefore to prove our love we've now invited you
To join our new Walpurgis-Night, and revel!

THE POET.
What heights are those that rise so sadly o'er me?
What waters sad are those beneath me sleeping?
Dark as a dream the shadows part before me
And show the snow-white gleam of torrents leaping!

THE ÆON.
This is the lonely Corry of the Water
By which you walked and sung in days departed;
And she who stands beside me is my daughter,
Last of the maiden Muses merry-hearted;

406

The others left the land when Byron perish'd,
But she, the fruit of sad amours and stealthy,
Lived on, a sickly child, the deeplier cherish'd
Because she never has been strong or healthy.

VOICES.
From rock to rock,
Still faster and faster,
Upward we flock
At thy call, O Master!

THE POET.
What shapes are these?

THE ÆON.
Sinners and sages
Of all degrees,
Sexes, and ages!
Poor devils, how blindly they grope about,
Thinking they climb but never succeeding!
As they wind like serpents in and out,
Their mouths are panting, their lips are bleeding!

NEW MUSE.
Hilló! hilló! come hither to me!

VOICES.
We hear thy voice, but we cannot see
Thy face, O Lady of Love and Light!
Upward, upward like sparks we flee,
Blown in the winds of the woeful night!
Thine old wild tunes in our brains are ringing,
Tho' we are weary and spirit-sore,
Singing, singing, and upward springing,
Whither we know not, ever more!

SHE SINGS.
Sing me a song of the Dove
And the Hawk that slew him!
From a golden heaven above
Eyes like the eyes of thy love
Gazed downward to him!
Sing me the song of the Dove
And the Hawk that slew him!

VOICES.
Room for the Wisdom! Stand aside!
Here he cometh goggle-eyed,
Solver of the great I AM,
Scorner of the Snake and Lamb,
Measurer of space and time,
Up the steep path see him climb,
Vacant heir of all the ages,
First of Fools and last of Sages.
See! he stoops and from the ground
Lifteth something large and round,
Smiles, and nods, and looks profound,—
Hither, Master!
Faster, faster,
Show us now what thou hast found!

THE WISE MAN.
A trifle! yet even to one so ripe
In knowledge as I, the one thing needed,—
The missing skull of the Archetype
Whence our father Adam the First pro ceeded!

THE MUSE.
Hilló! Hilló! come hither to me.

VOICES.
We hear thy voice, but we cannot see
Thy face, O Lady of Love and Light!
Upward, upward we struggle and flee,
Blown in the winds of this woeful night!

THE MUSE.
Sing me a song of a Tree
And the fruit forbidden!
Of a fool who sought to see
What from God himself is hidden!
Weary and sad stands he,
By his children's children chidden,
Under the Cross of the Tree
Of the fruit forbidden!

THE POET.
What is yonder priestly train
Struggling upward through wind and rain?

THE ÆON.
Those are the priests of Priapus. Sadly
They worship the God of the Grove, not gladly
As in the frolicsome days departed
When men and women were innocent-hearted—
The phallic emblems you may espy
Looming crimson against the sky,

407

But now they are hung with weeds, instead
Of pure white lilies and roses red,
And none of the faithful dare to pay
Their duty to them in open day!

THE POET.
Pause here! How peaceful and how still
Is this green glade on the moonlit hill,—
The tumult dies to a peaceful call
Like the hum of a distant waterfall!
Here is a porch of marble red that leads
Into a roofless Temple thick with weeds,
And yonder in the shadow I can see
The glimmer of some nude Divinity.
But who is this who lifts his lonely head
Far from the eddying throng that yonder groans?
His face is calm and godlike, and his tread
Royal and proud, as if he walk'd on thrones;
Gravely he stands and muses, listening
From time to time to those faint human cries!

THE ÆON.
Knowest thou not the last Apollo, King
Of the unpitying heart and eagle eyes?
The place is calm, yet (cast thine eyes around)
'Tis strewn with marble bones of Gods long sped,—
Creatures obscene are crawling on the ground,
And yonder Venus armless is, and dead!

THE POET.
Nay, something stirs 'mid yonder shadows! See!
She wrings her hands and moans, and looks at me!

THE ÆON.
Peace with thee, Gretchen!. . . Hark, her piteous cry
Rings through the grove and echoes to the sky!
And lo, the mad tumultuous crowd
Beneath us answer, laughing loud!
‘By the pinching of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes!’
Hilló, hilló! this way, this way!
Shrieking stumbling things of clay,
Nymphs and Satyrs of To-day!

THE POET.
Alas, why break a peace so calm and stately
With clamour of the hogs from Circe's pen?

THE ÆON.
The demigod's conceit annoys me greatly,
And so I love to vex him now and then.
Have no fear, they will not stay,
Just one rush and they're away,
From the sty and from the street
Fast they flock and on they fleet.
See! my kinsman, goat-foot Pan,
And Silenos on his ass,
Catamites and harlots wan
Follow shrieking through the grass,
Herodias and Magdalen
Clashing cymbals head the throng,
Naked maids and maniac men
Follow them with dance and song.
Bring the boon he once loved well,
Rain it on his frozen heart;
Break the spell with shouts from Hell,
Grieve the godhead and depart!

A VOICE.
What ho, you things of dirt and dust,
I come with news that must surprise you,—
But first lie down, my Lady of Lust,
Giggling nymph with the swelling bust!
Let us dissect and anatomise you!

VOICES.
Whence do you come, and what is your name?

VOICE.
My name's Peer Gynt, and I come from Thulé!

VOICES.
Return, old fellow, from whence you came,
Or join our sports and be honoured duly.

VOICE.
I join your infamous pagan revel!
I, the apostle of Truth and Sanity!—
My task it is to expose the Devil
And all his plottings against Humanity!
Wherever the cloven foot has been
I trace the proofs and the signs obscene;

408

Wherever your naked Venus stands
I hold the mirror of Truth before her,—
In vain she seizes with trembling hands
A scarf or a shift and flings it o'er her!
O Sin, my friends, is everywhere,
In the song of the birds, in the light of the air,
In the baby's prattle, the virgin's kiss,
In the mother's love, in the lover's bliss,
And Sin and Death since the world's creation
Have led to eternal and deep damnation.
Here are comrades three times three
Who preach the gospel of Sin with me!
We charge you now in the Name Divine
To leave the pleasures ye think so fine,
To quit these heights where the Devil prowls,
And come to our Heaven of Ghosts and Ghouls.

THE ÆON.
By Hell and all its lights profane,
‘'Tis good John Calvin risen again!—
How busily the peddling knave
Searches about for souls to save;
Yet Conscience, to a fine art turn'd,
Loses the wisdom fools have learn'd,
And he who augur-like broods o'er
The beast's foul entrails evermore,
Or searches all his soul and skin
For specks of filth or spots of sin,
May busy be among his kind
But lacks his birthright and grows blind.
Nay, Life's full cup, howe'er so brittle,
Is better than a stinking skull!
Men mope too much and live too little,
And thus grow functionless and null.
Leave to green girls and criticasters
That hide-bound throng of Little Masters,
And let us hasten onward, flying
To yonder heights of snow-white flame,
Where throngs of spirits multiplying
Are loudly calling out my name.

ELFIN VOICES.
The bugle blows from the elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo,—
Fays of the Glens, of the Crags and Fells,
Come hither and join our crew!

ECHOES.
We come, we come, from the crags and fells—
Hark! hark! halloo! halloo!

THE POET.
Stay, for I know you, Shapes divine
Who hover'd round me long ago,—
Stay, on this way-worn heart of mine
Pour the glad peace it used to know!

THE ELFINS.
The bugle is blowing from height to height
Under the skies o' blue,
We fly, we fly thro' the shining night
With a hark and a hey halloo!

ECHOES.
Halloo! halloo! halloo!

THE POET.
From crag to crag, from peak to peak,
I follow swiftly where ye fly,—
O stay, sweet Shapes, and on my cheek
Breathe gently as in days gone by!
Alas! they hear but will not stay;
They come, they smile, and fade away!

THE ÆON.
Pause here,—where from the topmost height
The torrent hangs its scarf of white,
And while the phantom shapes slip by,
Behold the Boy who cannot die,
With face turn'd upward to the sky!

THE POET.
Aye me, I know him, and he seems
Mine other brighter self long dead,—
Smiling he sits alone and dreams,
While the wild cataract leaps and gleams
From rock to rock above his head.

THE BOY.
Waterfall, waterfall,
Would that I were you!
To leap and leap, and call and call
All night through!
Pausing, pausing far up there,
Plunging downward thro' the air,
Ever resting, ever flowing,
Ever coming, ever going,
Calling, calling,
Falling, falling.
Where the heather bells are blowing,
Underneath the blue!
Morning tide and evenfall,
And all night thro',

409

You leap and leap, and call and call!
Would that I were you!
(He gazes into the pool.)
Fay of the Fall, I can see you there,
Dancing down in the pools below me,—
You leap and laugh like a lady fair,
Naked, white footed, with wild bright hair,
And cool spray-kisses you love to throw me.
I can see your face through its veil of foam,
When you pause a space in the bright moon-ray,
Combing your locks with a silver comb,
Then vanishing merrily away!
I think you are living, Fay of the Fall,
Though you are great and I am small;
The clouds are living, the winds are living,
The trees, the heather, the grass, are living
And I am living among them all!
(A pause. He speaks again.)
Who walks yonder over the height?
(Hush! hush! 'Tis she! 'tis she!)
I know you, Lady of the Light,
Holding high, with your hand so white,
Your silver lamp,—you search for me!
Silent I crouch in the shade of the hill,
And the voices around are hushed and still
But my heart throbs loudly unaware,
For I hear you murmuring, ‘Is he there?’
Yonder up in the sky you stand,
Naked and bright, with your maidens round you,
And suddenly one of the shining band
Leaps down to touch me, and cries, ‘We've found you!’
Moon-Fay, Moon-Fay, Maid of the Night,
You turn my face up like a flower,
And the smile of the Lady of the Light
Falls on my cheeks like a silver shower!
Hold me close and clasp me round,
Moon-Fay, Moon-Fay, while I gaze!
Naked, beautiful, golden-crown'd,
Your Queen stands there with her troops of Fays.
She lifts her finger and past they fly,
Everywhere, everywhere under the sky,
To find the wonderful living things,
Those that fly, and those that creep,
To light the dark with their luminous wings,
And to kiss the eyelids of folk asleep!
Onward and round with a fairy sound
One whirls in your arms, O Waterfall!
The Moon is living, the Fays are living,
The trees, the winds, and the grass are living,
And I am living among them all!
(A pause. He closes his eyes.)
The Waterfall is sleepy, like me!
Its voice sounds faint and far away—
Close my eyelids with kisses three,
And pillow my head on your breast, dear Fay!

ELFIN VOICES.
The bugle blows from the Elfin dells
With a hark and a hey halloo!
Fays of the Glens, of the Crags and Fells,
Come hither and join our crew!
This Boy was born where our sisters weep,
'Mong weary women and men,—
This night we gather around his sleep
He has summers seven and ten—
Sound asleep in the white moonbeam
His head on his arm he lies,—
Come with our flowers from the Land of Dream
And rain them on his eyes!

A VOICE.
What will you give him?

ANOTHER.
The gift of dreaming.

FIRST VOICE.
And you?

ANOTHER VOICE.
The gift of loving tears.

FIRST VOICE.
And you, bright Fays around him beaming?

VOICES.
The melody that the Silence hears!

FIRST VOICE.
And you, O Kelpie, with human eyes
Rolling there 'neath the Waterfall?

THE KELPIE.
Unrest and trouble and strife like mine,
And the aching heart that is under all!

FIRST VOICE.
And you, O Good Folk, thronging round
The King and Queen of the Elfin band?

410

VOICES.
Summer gladness and summer sound,
And all the pity of Fairyland!

THE POET.
Vision divine! How soon it passed away!
While God abides, hard, cold, and unforgiving!

THE ÆON.
Time snows upon thee, and thy hair grows gray,
And yet that Golden Boyhood still is living!
Here 'mong the mountains still thy soul may see
The light of Fairyland that fadeth never,
And all those gifts the Elfins brought to thee
Abide and live within thy soul for ever!

A VOICE.
Γ)/παγε, Σατανα, οπισω μου!
Why cheat the fool and give his dreams persistence?
Have we not proved that Spirits such as thou
Are visions like those Elves, without existence?
The man is gray,—his race is almost run.—
Through Death's dark gate his feet full soon must wander;
Like lights on some sad feast-day, one by one
The stars have been put out in Heaven yonder.

THE ÆON.
What toad is this that croaks here in the shade?
Out!—let us see thee,—old Abomination!

VOICE.
Thou pose as friend of Man? Stick to thy trade
Of cheats and lying, filth and fornication.
Thou knowest men are mad such dreams to cherish,
Since they are beasts, and like the beasts must perish!
Teach them to live their lives and eat and revel,
Tell them to snatch their pleasure ere it flies,—
A retrospective sentimental Devil
Is but a priest or parson in disguise.

THE ÆON.
Brekekex! koäx, koäx!.
Toads and frogs, they are croaking still!
Round bald heads and slimy backs
Huddle together under the hill.
Ever thus since Time began
They've crawled and spat on the path of Man,—
Up to the heights where the moon shines clear!
Leave the infernal croakers here!

VOICES.

If I desire to end my days at peace with all theologies,
To win the pennv-a-liner's praise, the Editor's apologies,
Don't think I mean to cast aside the Christian's pure beatitude,
Or cease my vagrant steps to guide with Christian prayer and platitude.
No, I'm a Christian out and out, and claim the kind appellative
Because, however much I doubt, my doubts are simply Relative;
For this is law, and this I teach, tho' some may think it vanity,
That whatsoever creed men preach, 'tis Essential Christianity!

In Miracles I don't believe, or in Man's Immortality—
The Lord was laughing in his sleeve, save when he taught Morality;
He saw that flesh is only grass, and (tho' you grieve to learn it) he
Knew that the personal Soul must pass and never reach Eternity.
In short, the essence of his creed was gentle nebulosity
Compounded for a foolish breed who gaped at his verbosity;
And this is law, and this I teach, tho' you may think it vanity,
That whatsoever creed men preach, 'tis Essential Christianity!

THE ÆON.
They're having a little spread of their own
In a ruin'd Church with a crumbling steeple—
Priests and parsons, eclectic grown,
Hob and nob with the scribbling people.

411

Journalists, poets, and criticasters
Join in the literary revel.
Salutation, my merry masters!
Don't you know me? Your friend, the Devil!

VOICES.
Go away, for you don't exist!
God and yourself have reached finality;
All now left in a World of Mist
Is the creed of sensuous Morality.

A VOICE.

I freely tipple Omar's wine with ladies scant of drapery;
I think Mahomet's Heaven fine, tho' somewhat free and capery;
I feel a great respect for Joss, altho' he's none too beautiful;
To fetishes, as to the Cross, I'm reverent and dutiful;
I creep beneath the Buddhist's cloak, I beat the tom-tom cheerily,
And smile at other Christian folk who take their creed too drearily;
For this is law, and this I teach aloud to all gigmanity,
That whatsoever creed men preach, 'tis Essential Christianity!

To all us literary gents the future life's fantastical,
And both the Christian Testaments are only ‘wrote sarcastical;’
They're beautiful, we all know well, when viewed as things poetical,
But all their talk of Heaven and Hell is merely theoretical.
But we are Christian men indeed, who, striking pious attitudes,
Raise on a minimum of creed a maximum of platitudes!
For this is law, and this we teach, with grace and with urbanity,
That whatsoever creed men preach, 'tis Essential Christianity!

THE ÆON.
Phantoms of men, that never knew
The golden Boyhead and the Fable,
Leave them to feast, as dogs may do,
On fragments from the Churchman's table—
Trimmers and tinkers, neither false nor true,
Low foreheads, sensual mouths, and minds unstable!
Away, away! the peaks up yonder
Grow brighter yet while we are upward soaring;
Between us and the moon wild spirits wander,
Their eyes on that divine white Light, adoring.

THE ELVES.
The bugles are blowing from height to height,
Under the heavens so blue;
Hark, they are ringing from height to height
With a hark and a hey halloo!

ECHOES.
Halloo! halloo! halloo!

THE POET.
Where art thou, Master?

THE ÆON.
(far off)
Here above thee!
Follow on through the shadows grey,
And if thy limbs are too slow to move thee,
Grasp the skirt of a passing Fay!

VOICES.
Fast through the night, from height to height,
In thy train, O Queen, we flee—
There is Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,
And Mary Carmichael, and me!

THE POET.
In a blood-red robe that parts to show,
The wondrous bosom white as snow,
Around her neck a thin red line,
A pale crown on her golden hair,
She flitteth through the grey moonshine,
For ever sweet, for ever fair.
Haggard and fierce, with dripping sword,
Beside her stalks her savage lord,
And following her, the Maries share
Her loveliness and her despair.
O rose-red mouth, O sphinx-like eyes
That witched the Boy and fired his blood—
Still on my soul, O Mary, lies
Thy spell of woeful womanhood!

412

Deathless, a Queen thou reignest still
In memory's desolate domain,
And as we gaze, our pulses thrill
To share thy passion and thy pain!

VOICES.
Fast through the night, from height to height,
O Queen, we follow thee,—
There is Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,
And Mary Carmichael, and me!

THE POET.
Fairyland of Love and Sorrow,
Thickly close your shadows round me!
Once again your dreams I borrow,
Love hath kiss'd me, clasp'd me, crown'd me!
Out of every dell and hollow
Bright shapes beckon, and I follow!
Forms of olden myth and fancy
Witch the night with necromancy;
Elf and Lover, Gnome and Lady,
Kiss and clasp in woodlands shady;
From the torrent Kelpies crying
Hail the Fays above them flying;
Hither, thither, upward streaming
To the stars above them beaming,
To the heights by dream-shapes haunted,
Fly the Fairy Folk enchanted!

VOICES.
The bugle is blowing from height to height
Under the heavens of blue,—
We fly, we fly through the mists of night,
With a hark and a hey halloo!

ECHOES.
Halloo! halloo! halloo!

THE ÆON.
On the topmost peak I stand,
Come, ye Dreams and Shadows, come!
At the lifting of my hand
Kneel around me and be dumb!
O crowd of woeful things,
Gods, and Demi-gods, and Fays,
Hush your hearts and fold your wings,
While the Emblem I upraise!

VOICES.
See! see! see!

THE POET.
Why gaze they downward, hungering from the peaks
To some dim Shape that climbeth from below?
Why turn thine own eyes thither, while thy cheeks
Seem wan with some new woe?

VOICES.
See! see! see!
He cometh hither, the Jew,
The Weariful One they slew
'Tween thief and thief on the Tree!
With hair as white as snow
He climbeth from below,
His feet and hands drip blood,—
Alack! He traileth on,
Though old and woebegone,
His heavy Cross of wood!

THE JEW.
How long, O God, how long!

THE POET.
O piteous cry,
For ever heard while the swift years rush by!
Vapour and mist enfold the feeble form,
Beneath Him as he goes the abysses loom,
Answer'd by woeful Spirits of the Storm
Moaning He trails His Cross through gulfs of gloom.

VOICES.
Dry thy tears and raise thy head,
He is quick that once was dead!

THE POET.
Christ of the broken Heart, and is it Thou
Who standest 'mong Thy brethren there on high?
Erect and silver-hair'd, Thou takest now
The gentle benediction of the Sky;
Tumultuous, multitudinous, as the crests
Of storm-vex'd billows on a moonstruck sea,
The gods flock round and smite their naked breasts,
Calling aloud on Thee!

413

And towering o'er them, ring'd with Shapes divine,
Osiris, Zeus, Apollo, Vishnu, Brahm,
Forms of the Phallus, Virgins of the Shrine,
Thou standest starry-eyed, supreme and calm,
And on Thy mirror'd head the waves of Light
Creep soft and silvern from a million spheres,
Sprinkling ablution from the baths of Night
And shining on Thy face worn thin with tears.
Saviour of men, if Thou hast spoken truth,
Blesser of men, if men by pain are blest,
Scorner of darkness, star of Love and ruth,
Grey time-worn Phantom of the world's unrest,
Now to the heights Thou comest, and before Thee
All gods that men have made are kneeling low,
Thy brother and sister stars in Heaven adore Thee,
Lord of Eternal Woe!
And yet, O Father Christ, I seek not Thee,
Though to Thy spell I yearn and bend the knee;
Thou hast no power my empty heart to fill,
Thou hast no answer to my soul's despair,
Thine eyes are holy but Thy touch is chill,
Heaven still is homeless though Thou shinest there!

MATER SERAPHICA.
Son of my Soul! light of my eyes!
Still with my blessing on thy brow,
Cast off thy burthen, and arise!

THE POET.
Holy of Holies, is it thou?
Thou livest, thou art not dead and cold!
Thy touch is warm, as 'twas of old!
And on thy face there shines anew
The Love Divine from which I grew!
O mother! all Eternity
Burns to one steadfast light in thee,
And all the tears of all Creation
Cease, to thy glad transfiguration!

SHE SPEAKS.
Lean thy head on my breast!

THE POET.
O the bliss, O the rest!
It is worth all the pain
To be with thee again!

SHE SPEAKS.
All thy sorrows are done,—
I am with thee, my son!

EPODE.

This is the Song the glad stars sung when first the Dream began,
This is the Dream the world first knew when God created Man,
This is the Voice of Man and God, blent (even as mine and thine!)
Where'er the soul of the Silence wakes to the Love which is Divine!

How should the Dream depart and die since the Life is but its beam?
How should the Music fade away, since the Music is the Dream?
How should the Heavens forget their faith, and the Earth forget its prayer,
When the Heavens have plighted troth to Earth, and the Love Divine is there?

The Song we sing is the Starry Song that rings for an endless Day,
The endless Day is the Light that dwells on the Love that passeth away,
The Love that ever passeth away is the Love (like thine and mine!)
That evermore abideth on in the heart of the Love Divine!

‘The Devil's Case: A Bank Holiday Interlude.’

414

Miscellaneous Poems.

TWO SONS.

I

I have two Sons, Wife—
Two, and yet the same;
One his wild way runs, Wife,
Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and fights across the sea,
The other is a little son who sits upon your knee.

II

One is fierce and cold, Wife,
As the wayward Deep:
Him no arms could hold, Wife,
Him no breast could keep.
He has tried our hearts for many a year, not broken them; for he
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon your knee.

III

One may fall in fight, Wife—
Is he not our son?
Pray with all your might, Wife,
For the wayward one;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights across the sea,
Because you love the little son who smiles upon your knee.

IV

One across the foam, Wife,
As I speak may fall;
But this one at home, Wife,
Cannot die at all.
They both are only one; and how thankful should we be,
We cannot lose the darling Son who sits upon your knee!

PAT MULDOON; OR, JACK THE GIANT-KILLER UP TO DATE.

‘Boys, give the divil his due! He's a man like me and you,
No wild baste!’ cried Drum-Major Pat Muldoon
To the new recruits from home, sailing southward o'er the foam
In the troopship, 'neath the shining tropie moon—
‘Give the blooming Boer his due; he's a man, like me or you,
Tho' like me or you he's rusty when he's riled—
If you scrape his rough old hide sure you'll find a heart inside
That's tinder to a woman or a child!

‘D'ye mind the time long past, when we met the beggars last?
(And begor’, they gave us beans on 'Juba Hill!)
I'd a cousin, Jack Molly, who had join'd as drummer boy,
A devil's imp—all mischief, never still!
And sure that same spalpeen, though only just fifteen,
And looking less than that—he was so small,
Could hold his own in jaw with the bloodiest Johnnie Raw
That ever hoped to dodge a cannon ball!

‘“Sure they're Giants,” Jack would say, like the ones Jack wint to slay,
When he hid hisself and heard their “Fee! faw! fum!”
“It's our English blood they smell, but we're going to give them Hell,
And it's me that will be there to strike 'em dumb!

415

I'm a soger! Jack's my name! like that other known to fame!
And they'll find me just as sharp and wide awake!”
We slapt him on the back, and cried, laughing, “Bravo, Jack!
You're Jack the Giant-killer, no mistake!”

‘Well, our work was cut out soon, right up country,’ cried Muldoon,
‘And begorra, we'd our bellyfull at last,
For the Boers, like Giants grim, fierce of face, and strong of limb,
Came thronging all around us thick and fast!
But the drum and fife still played, and we faced thim undismayed,
Though many a gallant soger had to fall,
And 'twas Hell and Tommie there, and no time to think or spare,
And that little imp of Cain was in it all!

‘Well, not far from 'Juba Hill (where at last we got our fill,
Outnumber'd, squarely beat, as you've been told),
One night our camp was stormed, and the Dutchmen round us swarmed
Like flocks of hungry wolves around a fold!
Faith, like Giants thin indeed looked those men of mighty breed,
As they popt their shaggy heads out one by one!
And at every shot they sint, down a British soger wint,
And at last they made a dash—and we was done!

‘Back to back we gather'd there, facing grim death and despair,
While plop and ping the leaden rain did fall,
And 'twas thin I chanced to spy that young imp of Cain close by,
Still standing up, though wounded by a ball!
His drum was riddled through, but he shrick'd and cried “Hurroo!”
And waved a small six-shooter in his fist,
And he emptied his last shot from the barrels smoking hot
At a Giant wid a bushy beard—and missed!

‘Sure, boys, it was a sight I remember day and night,
Though it lasted but a moment, as it were:
That shrieking soger imp, like a little redbiled shrimp,
And that Ogre wid the shaggy beard and hair!
He look'd right down at Jack, waved the other Giants back,
As they rush'd along that shrieking kid to slay—
Then smiled (I saw him do it!), then, almost before I knew it,
Tuck'd Jack beneath his arm, and walked away!

‘Thin thinks I, his time is come! and I thought of “Fee! faw! fum!”
And the bloody tales I'd read before that day;
Tho' we heard him squeal and call, sure we couldn't help at all,
For the inemy were round us like the Say—
And before that Say we ran, back to back and man to man,
Till safe within our lines we breath'd once more.
“Well, good-bye to Jack,” I said, for I gave him up for dead,—
Yis, gobbled up and aten by the Boer!

‘Boys, some six weeks after that, as in camp our Tommies sat,
The news of peace thin spreading far and wide—
Up and down before our tint, smoking angry-like I wint,
For I thought of little Jack, and how he'd died—
And I longed to stand once more, wid my hand against the Boer,
To revenge the little divil caught and slain—
When I heard a loud laugh near, and a voice cried, “Pat, look 'ere!
It's Jack the Giant-killer—back again!”

416

‘Holy Moses, it was him! There he stood, the divil's limb,
In his regimintals old, but patch'd and neat—
And upon his head he wore a big hat (just like a Boer!)
And a pair of buckskin boots upon his feet;
And pale and worn and thin, wid a kind of sheepish grin,
He came among the laughing, shouting throng—
“Is i: you, Jack, or your ghost? Sure we thought ye dead and lost!
Where the thunder have ye hid yourself so long?”

‘Thin he told us . . . such a tale! (and his face looked queer and pale,
Wid a quiet look it never had before)
How he'd lain for many a day, sick and wounded, far away,
A prisoner in the keepin’ of the Boer!
And the men began to laugh, crying round him in their chaff,
“Thin the Giants didn't ate ye, Jack, me boy!”
“Garn! give the Boer his due, he's a man like me or you,
Not a bloody raging baste,” said Jack Molloy.

‘Thin he told us how that night, when he vanish'd from our sight,
'Neath the armpit of that Giant wid the beard,
He felt the warm blood flow down his wounded side and so
He screech'd and swoon'd away—he was so skeered!
When he waken'd from that swoon—and he did wake!’ said Muldoon,
‘He thought that he was gone to Kingdom Come,
For 'twas darkness all around, and he couldn't hear a sound,
And all the world seem'd far away and dumb!

‘But, boys, he wasn't dead! He was lying in a bed,
Still and warm, in folds of linen white as snow,
And around him in the gloom was a quiet, cosy room,
Wid a clock a-ticking, peaceful, soft, and low;
And he drew a long deep breath, thinking, “Sakes, if this is death,
It's as comfy, sure, as any crib I've tried!”
Thin he tried to rise, in vain, for a quick, sharp stitch of pain
Ran through him, from the red wound in his side!

‘Just thin, as he lookt round, he seem'd to hear a sound
Close beside him, like a soft and quiet tread—
And he saw to his surprise, thro' the mist that fill'd his eyes,
A shape that stood and listen'd by his bed.
'Twas a Woman, and thinks he (being fever-struck, d'ye see),
“Why, it's mother!—I'm at home, though sick and weak!”
And “Mother!” faint he cried, and the Woman by his side
Bent above him, and a tear fell on his cheek!

‘Thin—the mist before his eyes seemed to clear away and rise,
And he saw she was a stranger, strong and tall,
Wid a cap on her white hair such as thim Boer women wear,
And not his own poor mother after all;
But the face he lookt upon, though 'twas sad and woe-begone,
Was kindly, and she took his little hand,
And smiling gintly now, while she stoopt and kissed his brow,
Said something that he could not understand!

‘Thin while, too weak to rise, he lookt up into her eyes,
He started, for he heard another tread,
And he saw, and sank back skeer'd, that big Giant wid the beard
Standing near him, blinking down upon the bed!

417

And thinks he, “My time is come,” for be thought of “Fee! faw! fum!”
And that Bloodybones was there at last to slay . . .
But the Giant's face meanwhile wore a cur'ous kind o' smile
And he nodded in a friendly sort o' way!

‘Boys, what need to tell you more? He'd been carried by the Boer
To his farm among the mountains, as you've guessed,
And the Giant and his wife they had nurst him back to life,
And kept him like a young bird in a nest!
For they'd lost an only boy, who had been their hope and joy,
Jack's own age, too, and his very size and make!
So when the Boer caught sight of young Jack amidst the fight,
He had saved him—for the little Dutchman's sake. . .

‘O the rest, and O the calm, in that quiet upland farm,
Where Jack was nurst through thim long summer hours!
To watch in a half-dream, while the sleepy old mill-stream
Lay sprawling its fat fingers through the flowers!
Thin to sit in the sweet air, propt up in his armchair,
And to see the happy light across the land,
While the Mother bent her head o'er the Holy Book and read
In the lingo that he didn't understand.

‘And the Giant? He'd come there, wid his shaggy beard and hair,
And grunt and grin and nod at Master Jack!
Or stretching out his paw, like a kindly grizzly bear,
He'd laugh and pat him gintly on the back!
O to feel the life increase, wid the sense of love and peace,
Forgetful of the world and all its care,
As Jack did! Little Jack! till they sent him smiling back!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! I was there!

‘Yis, ye blooming Johnnie Raws, cease your lies and hold your jaws—
It's a noble foe you'll find across the Say!
Give the good old Boer his due—he's a man like me or you—
Not an Ogre, or a ragin' baste of prey!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! Sure I'm livin' here to show it!
Say I'm lyin', and I'll make ye change your tune;
For the name of that same boy wasn't Jack, nor yet Molloy,
'Twas me that's now Drum-Major Pat Muldoon!’

THE WIDOW: A WAR SONG.

‘I know that you will always do your duty to your Sovereign and country, wherever that duty may lead you, and I pray God to protect you and bring you back safely home.’—The Queen to her Soldiers.

‘Stand, Watchman, on the Castle height,
And southward gaze for me,
Beyond the day, across the night,
And say—What dost thou see?’
‘I see the clouds of battle lower,
Our hosts flock forth to slay! . . .’
The Widow, in her Palace bower,
Stood listening, old and gray.

‘Oh, Watchman, is it well with those
Who 'neath my banners stand,
Whose swords are drawn to smite my foes
In yonder far-off Land?’
‘Lady, their camps are red with blood,
Their kinsmen's and their own . . .’
As pale as Death the Widow stood,
Sad-hearted and alone.

‘Oh, Watchman, look again and hark,
What dost thou hear and see?’
‘I hear a sobbing in the dark
Of widow'd souls like thee,—

418

I hear a sound that drowns in tears
The War-cry far away!’
That sound of sorrow in her ears,
The Widow knelt to pray.

‘Oh, Watchman, gaze across the night
And watch my hosts again,
For surely troops of Angels bright
Are hovering round the slain?’
‘Angels of Death in raiment red
Pass, but in wrath divine!’
The Widow moaned, ‘God help the Dead,
And loving hearts like mine!’

‘Oh, Watchman, seek the night afar
For Him, our God and Lord,—
Among those thunder-clouds of War
Doth He not wield the sword?’
‘Lady, indeed I see Him there,
But bow'd in woe like thee!’
The Widow, moaning in despair,
Pray'd still on bended knee.

‘Oh, look again! doth He not stay
To crown my glorious Dead?’
‘Lady, He rather turns away
To bless the widow's bread,
To dry the weeping children's eyes
Throughout the stricken Lands!’
Her gaze uplifted to the skies,
The Widow wrung her hands.

‘Oh, Watchman, doth He speak no word,
To be our strength and guide?’
‘Nay!—for the hand that draws the Sword
Must cast the Sword aside!
Thy Master is the Prince of Peace,
But holds no soul in thrall,—
'Tis theirs to bid the tempest cease
Who prayed that it should fall!’

‘Oh, Watchman, mark my sons once more!
Do they not pause and kneel?’
‘Lady, thy legions trample o'er
The necks beneath their heel;
They cry for Him, thy Lord, to bless
Their bloody loss and gain!’
She sobbed, ‘Christ, help the fatherless!’
And wrung her hands again.

‘Oh look and see, more near,’
The weeping Widow said,
‘How fare the men who loosen'd here
Those storms of wrath and dread,
Who swore to me that Christ our Lord
Would bless the Dream and Deed?’
‘Lady, around the laden board
They feast, while thousands bleed!’

‘My curse,’ she cried, ‘for evermore
On those false Chiefs and vain
Who drew by night across my door
The crimson cross of Cain!’
‘Lady, from land to land there runs
The sob of broken hearts,
While the brave life-blood of thy sons
Is priced in yonder marts!’

The royal Widow rose her height.
‘My path is dark,’ she said,
‘I prayed the Lord to lend me Light,
He sends me Death instead!’
‘Lady, when men forsake their Lord
His Light is ne'er their guide;
Only the hand that draws the sword
Can cast the sword aside.’

THE BURIAL OF PARNELL.

(Spoken in the Person of one of his Followers.)

‘We come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.’

I

We come to bury Cæsar, not
To praise him!—yet our eyes
Grow dim above the holy spot
Where our dead Monarch lies.
The hungry millions, weeping too,
Mourn their lost Lord and Friend,
While here we stand, the faithful few
Who loved him till the end!

II

Cæsar lies dead!—yea, Cæsar! Tho
His brows were never crown'd,
He reigned, until the assassin's blow
First struck him to the ground;
He walk'd imperial in command,
While angry factions raved—
Sad Cæsar of the woeful Land
Which he redeemed and saved!

419

III

Cæsar is dead!—no golden throne
Or purple robes sought he,
But led, in darkness and alone,
Legions that would be free;
His armies were the famish'd throng
That rose and march'd by night,
A living Host that swept along
To some great Land of Light!

IV

The dim Light grows, the Dawn is nigh,
But he who led us on,
Who held the fiery Cross on high
Thro' the long night, is gone!
Full at his heart the cowards smote
With many a trait'rous thrust,
While Falsehood fasten'd on his throat
And dragg'd him to the dust! . . .

V

Ev'n as a Lion fixing eyes
On something far away,
He stood alone 'neath sunless skies
On his great triumph-day;
Then, while he march'd, the battle-place
His jackals gather'd in . . .
And now? The things which fear'd his face
Fight for the Lion's skin!

VI

What one of these shall put it on?
Thou, weakest of the weak,
Who, when thy Lord lay woe-begone,
First kiss'd, then smote, his cheek?
Or thou, who mock'd him in his fall
With foul and impious jest?
Or thou, the basest of them all,
Who gnaw'd the bleeding breast?

VII

Jackals and cowards, mourn elsewhere!
Not near the mighty Dead!
Your breath pollutes the holy air
Around a Martyr's bed.
Go! fatten with the Scribes and Pricsts
Who led your foul array,
Or crouch, with all the timorous beasts
Who follow'd him for prey!

VIII

Who slew this man? The cruel Foe
That stabb'd our Erin first;
Then Brutus, loth to strike the blow;
Then Casca, the accurst;
Then freedmen by his hands unbound,
And slaves his hands had fed,
Joining the throng that ring'd him round,
Stoned him till he was dead!

IX

Lo, where the English Brutus stands,
With white and reverend hair,
Bloodstains upon the wrinkled hands
He calmly folds in prayer;
Facing all ways beneath the sky,
Strong still, tho' worn and wan,
This Brutus is (so all men cry)
‘An honourable man’!

X

Casca and Cassius haggard-eyed,
Their gaze on Brutus' face,
Say, ‘Surely Cæsar had not died
If thou had given him grace!’
O thrice-bound Freeman, in whose name
They proved this dead Man base,
Still keep from unbelief and shame
Thy Marriage Market-place!

XI

There, where the White Slave, Woman, stands,
Wearing her gyves of gold,
Soothe with the ointment of the creeds
The body ere 'tis sold;
Preach the high Law of Purity,
Find out all stains and slurs,
And keep the great Slave-market free
To righteous purchasers!

XII

But, Brutus, thou who conjurest
In Freedom's sacred name,
Back from this grave, mar not this rest,
Breathe not this Martyr's name!
Priests on thy left hand and thy right
Stand up and prate of God,
While he thou didst betray and smite
Lies dead beneath the sod!

420

XIII

Still, where thou standest, bending o'er
Thy head, and blessing thee,
Broods the pale Babylonian Whore
They name ‘Morality:’
Making a noble spirit blind
With her polluting breath,
She found the means Hate could not find,
And plann'd the deed of Death!

XIV

Who slew this man? Thou, Christian Land,
Who sendest o'er the foam
Mammon and Murther hand in hand
To shame the Christ at home!
The Christ? His painted I mage, nurst
By knaves who cast on men
The curse of Priestcraft—last and worst,
The Priestcraft of the Pen!

XV

Not till our King lay bleeding there,
Crept forth with cruel eyne
The venomed things which make their lair
Beneath the Seven-Hill'd Shrine:
Then, in the name of him they priced,
Degraded, and betrayed,
They poisoned, these false priests of Christ,
The wounds a Judas made!

XVI

We come to bury, not to praise
Our Cæsar—yet his knell
Joins with the cry of wrath we raise
Gainst those through whom he fell!
While Freemen pass from hand to hand
The Fiery Cross he waved,
His fame shall lighten thro' the Land
Which he redeemed and saved!

THE GOOD PROFESSOR'S CREED.

(INSCRIBED TO PROFESSOR HUXLEY.)

My creed, without circumlocution,
I thus deliver clear and pat:
I do believe in Evolution,
In Protoplasm, and all that!
I do believe in all the 'ologies,
(Except The-ology, of course!)
But common, cocksure, useful knowledge is
The compass which directs my course.

I don't believe in God or Gammon,
In powers above or priests below,
But I've some slight respect for Mammon
As representing status quo;
I hate all efforts revolutionary,
All systems that subvert the State,
For Law is slow and evolutionary,
And those low down have got to—wait.

Unless (that fact I should have stated!)—
Unless they're led by Lights like me;
For Evolution, though 'tis fated,
By gentle Force may further'd be;
In fact, I hold like my existence,
Since nothing in the world is free,
That Force to which there's no resistance
Is always justified, per se!

I turn from all insipid dishes
Cook'd by the fools of Laissez faire,
And much prefer the loaves and fishes,
So long as I can get my share;
I think the Land is not the Nation's,
But those who grab'd it in the past;
Statutes, therefore, of limitations,
Should make all thieves secure, at last!

I don't believe men free and equal
(I think so? Feel my bumps, and tell!)
Of all such fads the sorry sequel
Is anarchy and social Hell;
I do believe in ‘facts’ prodigiously,
Class, label, place them on the shelf,
I do believe (almost religiously!)
In that most precious Fact, Myself!

I'm many-sided, many-coloured,
Socialist, Individualist;
I do believe that man a dullard
Who seeks philanthropies of mist:
I hold that General Booth's tyrannical,
And all his scheme of social aid
Is just Religion turn'd mechanical—
A Barrel-organ badly played!

I think that Liberty's a swindle!
We look upon it with a smile—
I and my dear Professor Tyndall,
The Peter Parleys of Carlyle!
He knew the ‘nigger’ was a ‘servant’
By law of God, or (what's the same)
By laws proclaimed by prophets fervent
Of Nature's Tory end and aim!

421

I turn from every sect and schism,
God and all gods I leave behind,
I sneer at even Positivism,
Because it deifies Mankind:
Such creeds are either false or flighty,
Since men are flesh and flesh is grass . . .
And yet . . . one knowing God Almighty
Regards me—from the looking-glass!

I do believe that Superstition,
And what they call ‘the larger Hope,’
Have fled before the new condition
Of self-reliance and of soap:
Free from the falsehoods of Divinity,
Breaking the bonds by preachers spun,
I leave the old creed of the Trinity
For the new creed of Number One!

Moral and physical diseases
May be effaced in course of time,
But, left to do whate'er he pleases,
Man leaps from folly into crime:
We've got to wash and comb and teach him,
Learn him the laws of self-control,
Wean him from doctrinaires who teach him
Rubbish about that gas, his soul!

Be clean, be calm, be thrifty! These are
My chief injunctions to the Poor,
Give Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar,
Don't even begrudge a little more!
Be very careful in your reading,
Avoid imaginative stuff;
Study the rules of cattle-breeding,
And when you pair, cry ‘quantum suff.’

To advance the human race I'm willing,
So long as it is shrewdly done,
But never will I give one shilling
To any ‘fad’ beneath the sun;
While the worst fad of all is ‘Piety,’
With all its cant of Heaven o'erhead,
Philanthropy's a bad variety
Of that same fad, when all is said!

And so I sit with calm pulsations,
Watching the troubled human fry,
Examining their agitations
With careful microscopic eye!
I, Thomas, Omnium Scrutator,
Finding most creatures mean or base,
Despite your Hominum Salvator!
Man's duty is—to keep his place!

A DEDICATION.

I. To An Old Enemy.

I would have snatch'd a bay leaf from thy brow,
Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head;
In peace and tenderness I bring thee now
A lily-flower instead.

Pure as thy purpose, blameless as thy song,
Sweet as thy spirit may this offering be!
Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong,
And take the gift from me!

October 1881.

II. To Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Calmly, thy royal robe of Death around thee,
Thou sleepest, and weeping Brethren round thee stand;
Gently they placed, ere yet God's angel crown'd thee,
My lily in thy hand!

I never knew thee living, O my brother!
But on thy breast my lily of love now lies;
And by that token we shall know each other,
When God's voice saith ‘Arise!’

August 1882.

COLONEL SHARK.

I was raised in the land where the sun don't set,
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes;
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is.
I guess I rile when I see a snake,
And I jedge a dog by his bark,
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake;
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.

The Cunnle he was the pride of the place,
And his ways were most amazin';
The hair was singed from his cheeks and face
With etarnal powder blazin’;

422

His skin was covered with red tattoo
Like a tree with a streaked-up bark;
He'd been ripp'd and riddled till all was blue,—
You'd star' a spell if you heard a few
Of the ways of Cunnle Shark.

One eye was glass, and the other real,
His cheeks were scarred and bony,
A bullet had blown away his heel,
So he limped on an iron pony;
For hands he'd only a thumb on his right,
And nothin' else to remark;
With his left, I guess, he used to fight,
And to see his style was a pleasant sight,
For a cur'ous man was Shark.

The Cunnle he had a hickory stick,
All notches you couldn't number,
For he took his knife and he made a nick
When he sent a man to slumber;
He notched it neat as an almanack,
Or a ledger kept by a clerk;
'Twas ‘Blood and thunder! stick slick! crick! crack!’
And he wiped his tools, and he turned his back
To nick the slain, did Shark.

His style in the street was a sight to see,
And the way'd be cleared politely,
And he'd chaw and swagger and spit so free,
With his glass eye glaring brightly.
At the bar he'd stand and the paper read,
As ready to bite as bark,
And the folk would whisper, they would indeed,
‘Ah, there's a man who's no pumkin seed!’
The pride o' the place was Shark.

What hed he done? Why, he'd fought and bled,
And was ready late and early;
He shot his own brother as dead as lead,
On a p'int of honour, fairly.
He'd never flinch and he paid his way,
And he never drew in the dark;
He'd been known to sarse six men in a day,—
And sure as ever there rose a fray,
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.

Though the bullets were thick as hail somehow
He'd keep as fresh as a tulip,
Then out he'd come and wipe his brow,
And call for a sherry-julep.
His life by a sort of charm was kept,
And the smartest missed their mark;
So when on the shady side he stept,
To the other side creation crept,
At the sight o' Cunnle Shark.

The Cunnle drank with his friends down here,
And let 'em pay for the liquor;
But his way with strangers was rayther queer,
Sharper, I guess, and quicker.
When a stranger entered he'd rile a few,
And his brow would wrinkle dark:
‘Stranger,’ he'd say, ‘I'll liquor with you!’
And if the poor cuss said, ‘I'm dern'd if you do,’
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.

There was a man!—Jest the sort o' grit
You don't raise out of Ameriky,
Honest and ready, lickety-split,
For white man, nigger, or Cherokee;
And useful in bringin' of Cain to book
When thieves were beginnin' to lark;
And the Sheriff of Grizzly, R. S. Rooke,
Was the only party that dared to look
In the eye of Cunnle Shark.

Whenever the Sheriff had work on hand,
And a dern'd deep case to tunnel,
He'd load his persuaders and dress up grand,
And send up town for the Cunnle;
Then off they'd slip, and the thieves pursue,
And hunt 'em light and dark,
And livin' or dead they'd nail the crew;
And drunk for a week they'd be, them two,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.

Now when two men are particklar great,
Of the same proud flesh and feather,
The same free airth, by a kind o' fate,
Won't hold them both together.
And it came about that these two fine cocks,
All flitter, flutter, and squark,

423

Began to fret in the same old box;
And each grew sarsier in his socks,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.

Friends they had been, and wal content!
But the best o' weather grows windy,
And they saw the chaps wherever they went
Lookt out by rights for the shindy;
To funk because they were bosom friends,
Would be to miss the mark,
And so, for to serve the public ends,
To Cheriss's Store each party wends,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.

Wal, how it riz, and which side began,
I know no more 'n a nigger,
But the Cunnle he clean ript up his man
Before he could touch a trigger;
And R. S. Rooke, for a partin' spell,
Made this yer dyin' remark,
‘Cunnle, yur hand!’ (then he flopped and fell):
‘Of all the game critters that's out o' hell.
The gamest is Cunnle Shark!’

So Cunnle Shark was left alone
For our particklar glory,
And he stalk'd about, and the place was his own,
And was praised in song and story:
And when the Sheriff had run his race,
And been snuff'd like any spark,
It soon was settled in all the place
That the Sheriff's post, as an act of grace,
Should go to Cunnle Shark.

So we wash'd our faces and fixed our clothes,
And got up a deputation,
And down to the end of the town we goes
For the Sheriff's consecration;
And cockin' under his Kansas hat
His old glass eye to mark,
With his legs in the air, as lean as a rat,
Squirting the juice around him, sat
The pride o' the people, Shark.

‘Cunnle!’ says I; and ‘Sir!’ he says,
And ‘Cunnle!’ again I utter'd,
‘You are the pride of the human race,
And your bread ain't yet half butter'd!
Hon'rable, chipper, bold, and free,
A man for the world to mark—
Grit of the earth and salt of the sea;’
And there I stopt, and the Cunnle he
Says, ‘My name is Cunnle Shark!’

‘Ongcore!’ cries one, and the Cunnle set
His eye in the chap's direction.
‘I was born in the sunny South, I bet!
And to sarse I've some objection;
My words is few, and my deeds is known—
I never kept 'em dark.
You want me to be your Sheriff? Done!’
And he rose and stretch'd his limbs in the sun;
‘Let's liquor!’ says Cunnle Shark.

That very moment we hear a cry,
And in rush'd Abner Yoker
(Though Abner's small, he's fierce and spry,
And as hard as any poker).
His cheeks were hollow and all aghast,
And he spoke with a gulp and a jark;
‘Stop! stop!’ he shrieks, all fierce and fast:
‘I've found who stole my hosses at last—
Thet cuss of the airth, E. Shark!’

We stared and shiver'd, and gasped for breath,
And each was a panting funnel,
For we thought that Abner was in for death,
To talk so fierce to the Cunnle;
But the Cunnle he was pale a few,
And he seem'd all staring stark
‘He stole my hosses, and sold 'em too!’
Pale and shivering through and through,
‘It's a Lie!’ gasped Cunnle Shark.

He skew'd one eye, and he twitched his mouth,
And the glass eye glared and glisten'd;
‘O yes! I was riz in the sunny South,
And Ephraim Shark I was christen'd!’
‘What's this? The Cunnle a thief!’ we cried—
‘Thet man—of honour the spark!
Couldn't be true! What—creation's pride!’
‘Wal, here's my witnesses at my side,’
Cried Abner; ‘I charges Shark!’

424

Then before the Cunnle could draw or speak,
The little one sprang and tript him;
While we admired at his thunderin' cheek,
Slick hand and foot he clipt him:
And he drew his teeth (one big bowie,
And pistols) with no remark—
Then tied him fast with a grin o' glee!
‘I call for a Court to sit,’ says he,
‘In the case of Cunnle Shark!’

It's orful how guilt unnerves a cuss—
The Cunnle was clean dumfounded;
And now no longer he'd charms for us,
Though his dern'd old teeth he grounded,
But I confess I was full o' grief
To see a man o' mark,
Respected, happy, of all the chief,
Turn out that scum of the airth, a thief,
And I wept for Cunnle Shark.

For a moral place was Grizzly Creek,
No spot to pilfer and pick in.
If a thief was caught, 'twas slickity squeak,
And up he was sent a-kickin’.
The preciousest thing in the Creek was a Hoss,
As dear as the dove to the Ark!
But a man or two was no grit loss,
And life, you guess, was a pitch and a toss
To more than Cunnle Shark.

We form'd a court on the spot jest there,
With his geese around us sissin’,
Jedge and jury, and all things square,
And a Testament for kissin’.
The bob'link cried from the laylock spray
And answer'd the meadow-lark;
The corn was yellow upon thet day,
And the mornin' glories lookt bright and gay
Round the hut o' Cunnle Shark.

Natur' is natur'! When Shark was bound,
And beyond more ruination,
No end o' witnesses were found
Who'd been part of the deputation!
And they said they'd allays long'd to speak
Of his doin's in the dark,
Only—they'd never found the cheek
T' accuse such a pop'lar man in the Creek
As the fightin' Cunnle Shark.

‘Guilty!’—Guilty, and no mistake,
For the proofs were black as thunder.
I saw the Cunnle tremble and shake,
And his knees a-knocking under.
With a voice that shook, for the Cunnle he
Had been sech a man o' mark,
I spoke his sentence, and it should be
‘To be swung by the neck to the nearest tree!’
‘Euchred!’ shrieked Cunnle Shark.

‘Pris'ner,’ says I, ‘it unnerves a man
To hev this ugly duty,
And to think how promisin' you began—
A character full of beauty.
In the ways of virtue you shot ahead,
War' honour'd both light and dark;
And you've come to this! To be jedged,’ I said,
‘To be hung by the neck till you air dead.’
‘O Lord!’ cried Cunnle Shark.

Yes, he stared at fust like a skeery child,
And all his game departed.
I could have kick'd him—I felt so riled
To find him chicken-hearted.
But, you see, to be stript of his hard-eern'd fame
And life at one big jark,
To find his glory all brought to shame,
And to go from life with so bad a name,
Was dern'd hard lines on Shark.

But when he saw his last kerd was play'd,
The Cunnle show'd his mettle.
‘Wal, boys,’ says he, ‘it's a mess I've made,
And this durn'd old neck must settle.
Let this yer teach ye to mind the law,
And play no tricks in the dark.
Abner Yoker, jest shake my paw!
Neow, feel in my pants, and give me a chaw!’
Was the last words spoke by Shark.

He could see the men in the corn-patch nigh,
And could hear the lark a-singin’,
As we carried him to the wood jest by,
Where the hang-birds cried a-swingin’;

425

For Abner Yoker he found a cord
On the hitchin'-post in the park:
We gave him one minute to pray to the Lord,
And with glass eye glaring and cheeks scarscored,
Swish! up ran Cunnle Shark!

I was raised in the land where the sun don't set,
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes!
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is;
But I never have seen a career to break
So bright, and to end so dark;
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake,
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.

THE FISHER BOY: A SONG IN TIME OF WAR.

[_]

[On Saturday, October 28, 1890, the fishing-boat ‘Truelight,’ of Gordon, Kincardineshire, manned by a fisherman named Taylor and his four sons, foundered and sank. The old man saw three of his sons swept away, but managed to get hold of an oar; and by and by his second son, Alexander, appeared swimming by his side. Seeing that the oar would be unlikely to support more than one, the lad calmly said to his father, ‘Weel, father, it's time I was awa',’ and sank beneath the waves.]

Perchance 'tis well that lips should tell
The fallen Warrior's praise:
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays;
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!

Turn from the scene where dark and dread
The Storms of Battle grow,
Follow the Christ whose feet still tread
The Sea, as long ago;—
He leaves afar the strife of War
And o'er the waves walks He,—
Yea, through the night He bears a Light
For loving eyes to see!

There's Storm, too, here!—with shrieks of strife
The angry Ocean runs:
In their frail boat strive hard for life
A father and four sons;
An old Scots Fisher of the Deep,
Four lads, his flesh and blood,—
Around them fierce and angry leap
The waves of that fierce flood!

A blast,—a crash,—the little boat
Hath sunk,—but look once more!
The old man on the flood doth float,
Clinging to one frail oar;
Three of his sons have sunk and died,
Their death-cry fills his ears,—
When, struggling by his father's side,
The fourth, and last, appears!

God help them! to their piteous cries
Deaf is the angry Deep,
Still darker grow the stormy skies,
Higher the white waves leap!—
The wild winds roar,—too frail the oar
That weight of two to bear,—
Then crieth one, the Fisher's son,
'Mid the black storm out there,—

‘The oar's too weak to carry twa,—
And one must surely dee,—
Faither, 'tis time I was awa',
For God can best spare me!’
His hands just touch but do not clutch
The floating oar,—and then
‘Farewell!’ he saith, and down to Death
Sinks, ne'er to rise again!

On the wild waves the gray old wight
Now floateth safely on,—
He is saved from Death this woeful night
Though his brave son hath gone! . . .
O surely He who on the sea
Walks yet, looks down in joy
Flashing His light this woeful night
To bless that Fisher Boy!

Doubtless 'tis well that lips should tell
The fallen Warrior's praise.
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays!
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,—
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!

426

THE DUMB BAIRN.

My tale is brief yet strange (the Elder said);
Altho' the days of miracles are fled,
Hear it and mark, all ye who smile at prayer!

John Sutherland, a minister of Ayr,
Stern and unbending, yet a man of worth,
Had one weak child, who, deaf and dumb from birth,
Had never spoke a word or heard a sound.
The mother, with her wild arms folded round
The breathing babe, and eyes upraised to see
Her husband's face set hard in agony,
Had blest them both, the father and the child,
And sank to slumber, even as she smiled
That last farewell and tryst to meet again
Beyond earth's clouds of cruelty and pain.
Thus was the weary widower left alone
To keep sad watch o'er his afflicted son,
A tiny tender waif of feeble breath,
Wordless and still, a thing of life-in-death.

Now God, who to this little child forbad
The pretty speech that makes a parent glad
Who shut the tender doorways of his head,
Closing his soul in silence deep and dread,
Had made him very beautiful and bright,
With golden hair and eyes of heavenly light,
As sweet and bright a bairn in sooth was he
As ever crowed upon a father's knee!
And lo! the father loved him with a love
Passing the love of women and above
All dreams of men more lonely and more blest,
Fondly he reared him, sleeping and at rest,
And ever as he grew more strong and fair
Watching him with a haggard eye of care.
And so, though in that lonely house was heard
No baby prattling and no half-lisp'd word
To show the little spirit was astir,
The child became a silent messenger
Of love and blessing to the afflicted man;
And after, when the little one began
To move upon its feet, and when it knew
The joy of life as happier children do,
The minister thanked God that it was sent
To be his loving comfort and content.
But ever in his hour of happiness
One thought to this good man brought dire distress,
Exceeding pity, and a nameless fear,
'Twas that the little one could never hear
The living voice of prayer,—nor understand
The Book of blessing writ by God's own hand.
How, then, since our salvat on we must reach
Only by what the holy gospels teach
(Nay, smile not, for his faith was absolute!),
Could that afflicted stem bear heavenly fruit?
How, never having even heard Christ's name,
And how to atone for Adam's fall He came,
Could this poor child be saved?

In secret fear
He watched the child grow on from year to year,
Till it was four years old; and then at length,
Having in secret prayed with all his strength,
He said, ‘The bairn shall not forsaken be
Through any lack of fitting faith in me,
But daily in his presence I will read
A chapter of the Holy Book, and plead
That God, who works all wonders, may convey
The message to his soul in some strange way
I comprehend not.’

Ever after that
Each day with book in hand the father sat,
Reading a portion of the Holy Word
To his beloved, who neither spoke nor heard,
But ever with a silent sweet distress,
Shut in his little cloud of silentness,
Seem'd trying prettily to understand;
And sometimes he would stretch his tiny hand
And lay it softly on the leaves, meanwhile
Uplooking with a bright and heavenly smile.
And presently this time to read and pray
Became so loved a duty of the day

427

Ev'n to the child, that oft the little one,
Eager to see the silent service done,
Would run and lift the great book merrily,
And setting it upon his father's knee,
Look up, and wait, with sweet expectant gaze.

And ever after, on the Sabbath days
When in the church the father preached and taught,
Thither the little silent one was brought,
And while the deep hymn rose, or from above
The good man preached of God's great strength and love
(Nay, very often, if the truth be told,
Of God's avenging judgments manifold—
For the man's creed was gloomy enough and sad),
Below him, looking round with glances glad
Out of his cloud of silence, the pale boy
Beheld the service with mysterious joy,
Smiled, while the light on painted windows played,
Watch'd while the black-robed preacher preached and prayed,
Saw the folk rise and fall like waves of the sea,
Standing erect or kneeling on the knee,
And mimick'd dumbly what he saw them do,
Knelt when they knelt, and seemed to hearken too!
Ah, oftentimes the preacher from his place
Looking with blinding tears upon his face,
Seeing his darling listening as it were,
Quickened his cry of agony and despair,
And as he blest his congregation, blest
The little silent form o'er all the rest!

Thus over father and child the seasons rollèd
Until the little one was seven years old,
When suddenly, with some obscure disease
That wastes the tender blood by slow degrees,
The boy fell sick, and feebly, without pain,
The rosy light of life began to wane.
Doctors were called; they came with solemn tread
And coldly went. ‘He was not strong,’ they said.
‘Nay, 'twas a miracle that one so frail
Had lived so long and scarcely seemed to ail,
But now the end of all was surely nigh,
And in a little while the child must die.’

The father heard, and darkening in despair
Wrestled with God in agonies of prayer,
Then with the strength of loving faith moaned low,
‘My God knows best, maybe 'tis better so,
And in the air of heaven more sweet and clear
My bairn at last shall find a tongue, and hear
A music more divine than ours below!’
Thenceforward, grim as death, his hair like snow,
His body bent, with heavy hanging head,
He sat for hours beside the child and read
Out of the Holy Book! As the days passed
His hope grew stronger and less overcast,
And with a stronger voice of faith he poured
His soul forth, that his boy might know the Lord.
But ever when the seventh day came, alas!
Wearily to the pulpit would he pass,
And as he preached the news of heavenly grace
Look down and miss the upturn'd and smiling face,
The little kneeling form that once knelt there,
The tiny hands clasp'd tight in mimic prayer,
And oft his strong soul shook, his head was bowed,
And in the people's sight he sobbed aloud!

At last one quiet Sabbath eventide,
When home he hastened to the bairn's bedside,
He found him lying very wan and white,
His face illumed by the red sunset light

428

That crept across the pane, and on the bed
Like roses bright was luminously shed.
His eyes were closed, and on his face there fell
The shadow of some peace ineffable,
And very softly, thinking that he slept,
The father by the bedside knelt, and wept.
But suddenly the piteous eyes of azure
Were opened with a heavenly look of pleasure,
The little arms up-reach'd, the pale face yearned,
The soft mouth pouting for a kiss upturned,
And while the strong man in his anguish shook,
The sick bairn smiled, and pointing to the Book,
Which lay by open, made a sign he knew
That he should read as he was wont to do.
He took the Book, and on it fixed his eyes,
And choking down the tears that still would rise,
Read in a broken voice that chapter blest
Which tells of ‘Quiet Waters,’ peace and rest,
Where all the weary shall have comforting.

Now, mark what followed:—I but tell this thing,
As it was told to me, by one who heard
The very man relate it word by word.
Even as he sat and read, and seem'd to hear
Those heavenly waters softly murmuring near,
There came a cry, and startled at the sound
He raised his eyes and saw with glory crowned
The child's seraphic face! and lo! he heard,
With all his being mystically stirred,
The dumb lips speak! Yea, on his ears there fell
A faint last cry of rapture and farewell;
The bairn stretched out his little arms and cried,
‘Yes, papa!—quiet waters!’—smiled, and died! . . .

O faith divine of days ere faith was fled!
Light of a creed once quick that now is dead!
Was it reality or but a dream?
Did the voice call indeed, or only seem?
Who knows? and who can tell which most doth prove,—
A miracle of fact or one of Love?
Yet this is sure—could such deep faith have seat
Again in some few hearts of all that beat,
Mammon and Antichrist would cease to reign,
Doubts die, and miracles be wrought again!

PROEM TO ‘THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.’

Nineteen sad sleepless centuries
Had shed upon the dead Christ's eyes
Dark blood and dew, and o'er them still
The waxen lids were sealèd chill.
Drearily through the dreary years
The world had waited on in tears,
With heart clay-cold and eyelids wet,
But He had not arisen yet.
Nay, Christ was cold; and, colder still,
The lovely Shapes He came to kill
Slept by His side. Ah, sight of dread!
Dead Christ, and all the sweet gods dead!
He had not risen, tho' all the world
Was waiting; tho', with thin lips curl'd,
Pale Antichrist upon his prison
Gazed yet denying, He had not risen;
Tho' every hope was slain save Him,
Tho' all the eyes of Heaven were dim,
Despite the promise and the pain,
He slept—and had not risen again.

Meantime, from France's funeral pyre,
Rose, god-like, girt around with fire,
Napoleon!

—On eyes and lips
Burnt the red hues of Love's eclipse;
Beneath his strong triumphal tread
All days the human winepress bled!
And in the silence of the nights
Pale Prophets stood upon the heights,
And, gazing thro' the blood-red gloom
Far eastward, to the dead Christ's tomb,
Wail'd to the winds. Yet Christ still slept:—
And o'er His white Tomb slowly crept
The fiery Shadow of a Sword!
Not Peace; a Sword.

And men adored

429

Not Christ, nor Antichrist, but Cain;
And where the bright blood ran like rain
He stood, and looking, men went wild:—
For lo! on whomsoe'er he smiled
Came an idolatry accurst,
But chief, Cain's hunger and Cain's thirst
For bloodshed and for tears; and when
He beckon'd, countless swarms of men
Flew thick as locusts to destroy
Hope's happy harvests, sown in joy;
Yea, verily; at each finger-wave
They swarm'd—and shared the crimson grave
Beneath his Throne.

Then, 'neath the sun
One man of France—and he, indeed,
Lowest and least of all man's seed—
Shrank back, and stirr'd not!—heard Cain's cry,
But flew not!—mark'd across the sky
The Shadow of the Sword, but still
Despair'd not!—Nay, with steadfast will,
He sought Christ's Tomb, and lying low,
With cold limbs cushion'd on the snow,
He waited!—But when Cain's eye found
His hiding-place on holy ground,
And Cain's hand gript him by the hair,
Seeking to drag him forth from there,
He clutch'd the stones with all his strength,
Struggled in silence—and at length,
In the dire horror of his need,
Shrieked out on Christ!

Did Christ rise?

Read!

PROEM TO ‘GOD AND THE MAN.’

‘All men, each one, beneath the sun,
I hate, shall hate, till life is done,
But of all men one, till my race is run,
And all the rest for the sake of one!

‘If God stood there, revealed full bare,
I would laugh to scorn His love or care,—
Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer
Which He needs must grant—if a God He were!

‘And the prayer would be, “Yield up to me
This man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man, if a God Thou be!”’

Shape on the headland in the night,
Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee
He prays; his baffled prayers take flight,
Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light
That streams across the sleeping sea.
From the black depths of man's despair
Rose ever so accurst a prayer?
His hands clench and his eyeballs roll,
Hate's famine sickens in his soul.
Meantime the windless waves intone
Their peaceful answer to his moan,
The soft clouds one another chase,
The moon-rays flash upon his face,
The mighty deep is calm; but see!
This man is as a storm-swept tree.

And, silvern-sandall'd, still as death,
The white moon in her own pure breath
Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass
Over the glimmering water-glass?
Sees he the stars that softly swing
Like lamps around her wandering,
Sown thick as early snowdrops now
In the dark furrows of the Plough?
Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throb
Of the dark ocean where he stands,—
The great strong voice still'd to a sob,
Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands?
Nay, nay; but, even as a wight
Who on a mirror fixeth sight,
And screams at his own face of dread
Within the dimness picturèd,
He useth God's great sleeping sea
To image hate and agony.
He kneels, he prays,—nay, call it not
A prayer that riseth in his throat;
'Tis but a curse this mortal cries,
Like one who curses God and dies.

‘Yield up to me, to hate and me,
One man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man if a God Thou be!

‘But the cruel heavens all open lie,
No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky;
The earth is dark and the clouds go by
But there is no God, to hear me cry!

430

‘There is no God, none, to abolish one
Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done!
Wherefore I hate, till my race is run,
All living men beneath the sun!’

To-night he rose when all was still,
Left like a thief his darkened door,
And down the dale and o'er the hill
He flew till here upon the shore
Shivering he came; and here he trod
Hour after hour the glooms of God,
Nursing his hate in fierce unrest,
Like an elfin babe upon the breast!
And all his hunger and his thirst
Was vengeance on the man he cursed!
‘O Lord my God, if a God there be,
Give up the man I hate to me!
On his living heart let my vengeance feed,
And I shall know Thou art God indeed!’

Again rings out that bitter cry
Between the dark seas and the sky—
Then all is hushed, while quivering,
With teeth and claws, prepared to spring,
He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O hark
What solemn murmur fills the dark?
What shadows come and go up there,
Through the azure voids of the starry air?

The night is still; the waters sleep; the skies
Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes:
A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the sea:
‘I am; and I will give this man to thee!’

PROEM TO ‘THE NEW ABELARD.’

Shipwreck . . . What succour?—

On the gnawing rocks
The ship grinds to and fro with thundershocks,
And thro' her riven sides with ceaseless rush
The foam-fleck'd waters gush:
Above, the soot-black sky; around, the roar
Of surges smiting on some unseen shore;
Beneath, the burial-place of rolling waves—
Flowerless, for ever shifting, wind-dug graves!
A moment on the riven deck he stands,
Praying to Heaven with wild uplifted hands,
Then sees across the liquid wall afar
A glimmer like a star;
The lighthouse gleam! Upon the headland black
The beacon burns and fronts the stormy wrack—
Sole speck of light on gulfs of darkness, where
Thunder the sullen breakers of despair . . .

The ship is gone . . . Now in that gulf of death
He swims and struggles on with failing breath:
He grasps a plank—it sinks—too frail to upbear
His leaden load of care;
Another and another—straws!—they are gone!
He crles aloud, stifles, and struggles on;
For still thro' voids of gloom his straining sight
Sees the sad glimmer of a steadfast light!

He gains the rocks . . . What shining hands are these
Reached out to pluck him from the cruel seas?
What shape is this, that clad in raiment blest
Now draws him to its breast? . . .
Ah, Blessèd One, still keeping, day and night,
The lamp well trimmed, the heavenly beacon bright,
He knows Thee now!—he feels the sheltering gleam—
And lo! the night of storm dissolves in dream!

PROEM TO ‘THE MOMENT AFTER.’

I.

Between the Dead and the living the veil of the glamour lies,
But softly it melts asunder, just as the Spirit flies.

Wait by the bed of the Dying, wait till the last sharp breath,
Then sit in the silence watching the eyes that are closed in Death.

431

Thinkest thou all is o'er, now thy heart stands still for fear?
Nay, something stirs in the silence!—listen, and thou mayst hear!

Thou art closed around by the glamour, its darkness covers thy head,—
But something walks in the chamber, and looks in the face of the Dead!

Wait for a little season—be patient yet for a day—
Before the breath of thy going, the veil shall dissolve away;

Thou too shalt stir in the darkness, no man dreaming thee nigh,
And look on thy worn white raiment, before they put it by!

II.

Hast thou counted the stars? hast thou measured the mastodon's bed in the stone?
Rejoice, thou art wise who wast foolish! the days of thy dreaming are done!

Hast thou taken the Cross from thy spirit, and lifted the veil from thine eyes!
Hast thou emptied the heavens of their god-head?—Rejoice, for, O Fool, thou art wise!

And now that thou knowest the heavens and the Earth, the Beginning and End,
I will tell thee the last great Secret. . . Lie down on thy bed and attend!

Thou lookest, but dost not listen—thou seest but dost not rejoice—
Thou pickest the coverlit moaning, and shuttest thine ears to my voice.

I bend to thine car and whisper—thou turnest away with a tear. . .
'Tis but a childish Secret, yet all thou hast yet to hear!

Gather thy senses a moment and listen, low on thy bed. . .
Now, Hearken!—Alas, thou hast fallen asleep, ere the Secret is said!

By kind permission of Mr. Wm. Heinemann.

L'ENVOI.

I END AS I BEGAN.

I end as I began,
I think as first I thought;
Woe worth the world, if Man
Only of dust is wrought,
Only to dust must go
After his life's brief span;—
I think so still, and so
I end as I began.

When first I learnt to know
The common strife of all,
My boy's heart shared the woe
Of those who fail and fall,
For all the weak and poor
My tears of pity ran,—
And still they flow, ev'n more
Than when my life began!

I reverenced from the first
The Woman-Soul divine
(Mother, that faith was nurst
On that brave breast of thine!)
Pointing the heavenward way,
The angel-guide of man,
She seems to me to-day
As when my faith began!

Revolter, sword in hand,
Friend of the weak and worn,
A boy, I took my stand
Among the Knights forlorn;
Eager against the Strong
To lead the martyr'd van.
I strive 'gainst Lust and Wrong
As when the fight began!

Never to bow and kneel
To any brazen Lic,—
To love the worst, to feel
The least is ev'n as I,—
To hold all fame unblest
That helps no struggling man,—
In this, as in the rest,
I end as I began!

432

The creeds I've cast away
Like husks of garner'd grain,
And of them all this day
Does never a creed remain;
Save this, blind faith that God
Evolves thro' martyr'd Man;
Thus, the long journey trod,
I end as I began!

I dreamed when I began
I was not born to die,
And in my dreams I ran
From shining sky to sky;—
And still, now life grows cold
And I am grey and wan,
That infant's Dream I hold,
And end as I began!

THE LAST CRY.

Forget me not, but come, O King,
And find me softly slumbering
In dark and troubled dreams of Thee,
Then, with one waft of Thy bright wing,
Awaken me!