 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
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;
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,
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,
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;
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;
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;
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;
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;
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
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!’
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!
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!
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 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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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;
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.
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—
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!
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.
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!’
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.
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!
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.
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.
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 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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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).
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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
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!
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 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 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!
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!
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!’
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.
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!
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!’
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!
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.
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.
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 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!
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.
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!’
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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
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,—
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.’
‘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.
Tho' ever and ever, at pale Moonrise,
The spirits of Elfland haunt the spot
Where ‘Heinrich Heine’ lies.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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.
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 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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!’
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!’
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.
“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 cryOf 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 worldFlash'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 tooIn 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 prideBlind 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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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.!
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!
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,
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!
‘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.
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!
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!
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!’
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.!
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!
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 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!’
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!
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.!
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.
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;
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!
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
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!
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.
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.
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!
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
‘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!
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. . . .
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!
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!
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 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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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!’)
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.
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!
(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!
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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!
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!’
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.
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!. . .
‘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.Walking the winds with solemn tread,
Two shapes are hanging, their faces shrouded,—
They talk as they hearken overhead.
Why rocks this ship upon the main
When all the waves repose?
When all the waves repose?
SPIRIT OF GOETHE.
The breeze is only in the brain,
And so they think it blows!
And so they think it blows!
SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.
But all is calm—'tis summer-time—
Soft sighs the silken swell!
Soft sighs the silken swell!
SPIRIT OF GOETHE.
Still, you and I dream'd ere our prime
Our Teacup Storms as well!
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!
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!’
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!
So oft it hath been sung!
SPIRIT OF GOETHE.
That very vessel thro' a gale
I steered, when I was young!
I steered, when I was young!
SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.
Why do they rave of tempests thus?
The weather's wondrous fair!
The weather's wondrous fair!
SPIRIT OF GOETHE.
Herr God! 'tis too ridiculous—
There's not a breath of air!
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
Ended is all the mirth and song,
Fled are the merry Music-makers;
And what remains? The Dismal Throng
Of literary Undertakers!
The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,
The Gods have left us one by one,
And the last Poets, too, are going!
400
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!’
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.’
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 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!
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!
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.
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!’
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!
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!
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!
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!
Blue china ceases to delight
The dear curl'd darling of society,
Changed are his breeches, once so bright,
For foreign breaches of propriety!
Dark'ning the air that should be sunny,
Here's Oscar growing dismal too,
Our Oscar who was once so funny!
401
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!
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
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!
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!
(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!
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!
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!
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 spokeFills 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 riseThe 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
Who pledge our Poet's fame,
And echoing your toast, I call
A blessing on his name!
IV
The heritage he left behindHas 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 seedsDeep 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 indeedWhen 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!
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! . . .
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;
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!
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 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!
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!
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!
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!’
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!’
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;
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!
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!
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;
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;
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!
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!
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 againThat 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 madeNo 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 wornThe 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 nightingaleSinging 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 fairAnd 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
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 indeedThou 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 rainThe 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.
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
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
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
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
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
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!
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 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
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!
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!
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
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
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!
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?
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 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 Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |