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

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.