University of Virginia Library

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—
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,
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
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;
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!’