The Judgement of the Flood :: :: University of Virginia Library

And now came on the End, by Vision shewn
To Japhet, as it was to Noah once.
—The Prophet-Sculptour, on his handy-work
Bestowing his last pains, beheld it stand,
Before him in its glory: such as he
Had in his heart conceived—a perfect form.

Bow ye, and adore. The God abides in stone,
Incarnate thus. Divinely halcyon,
His pregnant brow is bathed in deity.
His attitude, how eloquent: one hand
Thus mildly raised, the other held aloft
Pointing to heaven. From his disparted lips
There seemed to gush a rill of soothing speech,
Yet awful; for a God's sublimity
Girt gentleness celestial,—girt with power.
There was a sorrow in his gracious mien,
And in his sorrow a regality,
As he were uttering that doom fulfilled,
Of desolation to Jerusalem,
Whose children, but she would not, he had gathered
Under his wing omnipotent.

‘Behold:
The sun is quelled—the moon is quenched—the stars
Die in the darkled ether, and from out

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Their golden cressets drop—the sky doth quake,
And all its powers do quail. From midst the gloom,
Appeareth, like a supernatural dawn
The symbol of his coming. Mourn, O Earth.
Pavilioned in the clouds, the Son of Man
Comes;—and his Angels, with a trumpet-sound,
That the four winds, to the four ends of air,
Bear on their rushing pennons vehement,
Gather from every part the Elect of God,
And Heaven, and Earth before him pass away.’

So spake the Prophet-Sculptour, and adored . .
Words uttered since by him to whom he knelt,
And then inspired. A trance came over him.

The Vision was from Heaven: the thunder pealed:
A voice angelical cried, ‘Come, and see.’
Rose Japhet, and beheld the prophecy.
—Lo, a White Horse of purest hue . . the stream
That overflowed the star-paved court of heaven,
And blanched the purple lily, as fables tell,
Less white . . less pure. Moved by the will divine,
He bore, in steps of music, glory-crowned,
A peaceful Conquerour; clothed with life, and light,
And, by the vision of beatitude,
His aspect kindled in serenity.
Armed with a bow, his arrows quivered all;
His presence vanquished, and his coming won
Afar. Before him Paradise—behind
He left no desolation. But not thus
The rider of the Sanguine Steed—a sword
Was in the hero's hand, and he destroyed.
The black-maned charger, fierce for fields of blood,
Champing his bit until the hot foam seethed,
Raised clouds of war beneath his fiery hoofs—
The mighty there were hid. The warriour's gaze,
His sunk and savage gaze, from underneath
The forehead-burying helm, glared greedily

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On the surrounding wreck. He gnashed his teeth,
And his unslaked mouth gaped, athirst for gore.—
What Son of Night succeeds? That Sable Steed.
He comes involved in darkness palpable—
Fit witness of such scene. His Rider who?
Whence that dim speck in each suspicious eye,
Scanning the shaken balance in his hand,
Whose slant beam made him pause? Hoar sceptic, he.
Death followed him; mysterious Death: his pall
That robe funereal, darkening where it flew—
Well suited its dim skirts to that slant beam.
In fury on they came, that Sable Steed,
And the Pale Horse; Death's own; one centaur they,
Wrought of cold ice, parching the air with cold:
From their dire nostrils went consuming plague.
Hell rode on lurid clouds. Now, Death's right hand
Upraised the living serpent, that coiled up
His eager arm; and from both hands aloft
Were launched brands of blue lightning all abroad.
All leaden was his foot, and spectre neck,
And his unnatural head was strangely crowned.
And, like a whirlwind, came that icy steed,
In his unreinèd wrath; and his grey mane
Tossed in abrupt disorder, like dark waves
Sieging a steep rock in a night of storms.
And the dark features of that ghastly king
Gleamed with a hideous smile: his eyeballs rolled
Baleful in triumph, and his ominous mouth
Threatened extermination—and he looked
Into the distance—for destruction there,
While havoc revelled round. Over the wife,
His beautiful wife, the princely husband hangs,
Scarce pale with recent death, her offspring yet
In her embrace—that last kiss took one with her,
From her relaxèd grasp the sweet boy fell;
The daughter deems her mother in a swoon,

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And strives with filial care to stay her fall,
In vain. Gaunt Famine there, an old man, knelt,
Digging the uncharitable earth for roots,
With his lank fingers; and his daughter couched,
The livid Pestilence, on a mat beside,
Shivering. Still neighboured Death that Sable Steed,
And he who sate thereon, Errour's sharp judge,
Minute in estimate, in decision stern,
Weighing, in his unsteady balance, deeds
And men: one scale with woe surcharged, and one
With virtue insufficient: passionless:
Doubt hard by Death, with squint diagonal,
Gloating on misery, and afraid of joy,
So oft deluded, truth it even suspects.

Beast raged, and strove with man: and men were slain.
The horse, and rider to the lion yield;
And Strength's undaunted countenance was weak,
And Fortitude. Youth's lance was broke, and he
Tossed in the wind. The firmament was rent,
And the skies warred 'gainst man: the thunder smote
The lover; and in terrour woman fled,
With gaze reverted, as in love, or awe.
The eagle with the heron in the clouds
Held contest wild; and o'er her slaughtered mate
The galless dove, a widow, drooped in grief.

He looked again . . and lo, beneath the foot
Of him that gentle Conquerour, crushed, and slain,
The old Serpent lay, head-bruised: and far above
Soared saints, and martyrs to beatitude,
For whom he conquered. Thus the Vision closed.

The reader who is acquainted with West's picture of “Death on the Pale Horse” will perceive that the above description is derived from a study of the painting.

Whoso had seen the Prophet-Sculptour then,
In this his trancèd dream, had not perceived

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Aspect perturbed, or changed with strange event,
Albeit thus passing strange, and fraught with doom.
A whirlwind had outsnatched his spirit, and rapt
Above the Olympian hill: yet what he saw,
And heard into his marrow searched, like fire.
Like the still whispering wind at eventide,
To him prediction came not, as it comes
Oft to the dying saint, to soothe his soul,
And softly speak of heaven. The flood was up;
Tempest abroad. Anon, a gradual calm,
A gentle breeze, a quiet finishing;
And peace companioned his returning soul.

Now through each vein the electric fluid glowed,
And he awoke, inspired. Long time he mused:
‘A mighty thing hath been to me revealed—
How shall the stone express it?’ And his hand
Dashed o'er the marble with a spirit's power,
His artist-hand. The head of that Pale Horse
Snorts fire; each nostril to each eye constrained
In nigh-disrupting rage, dilated—tort.
A perfect labour, which, had it survived,
Genius would question like an oracle;
Yet, weak resemblance of its archetype,
The genius that created it despised.
—‘It is in vain,’ said Japhet; ‘human art
Strives not with skill celestial—Art, farewell.
The hand forgets its cunning. Human sight
May not behold it—but my spirit burns—
'Twas not revealed for silence—I will forth.
This weapon of ethereal tempering,
Which thus God's Spirit hath in mine inclosed,
As in a sheath, or plunged as in a bath,
To sharpen in my soul; my father, thou
Shalt pluck out thence, and prove its double edge.’

Forthwith he sought his sire; his brethren, too,
Moved by paternal mandate, also came.

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Then Japhet told his vision. As he spake
His frame dilated, and his port assumed
Strange grandeur, and impulsive energy
Of concentrated import and deep awe.
Noah his son embraced.

‘A Prophet thou;
And to thy Sire, and Brethren sent from God.’
—Shem worshipt: but tears fell from Ham's sad eyes,
He knew not why; he could not chuse but weep.