Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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TO THE AUTHOR OF ZISKA. |
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141
TO THE AUTHOR OF ZISKA.
Not like the Sophist, of his phosphor-light
Enamoured so, that he would blot out one
By one God's lofty candles, fain in night
To plunge the nations, so that for a sun
They come to bow before his counterfeit;
And not like him—of mocking smile, the dull
Cold Scorner, ill-content the heart to cheat
Of Heaven, but trampling out the Beautiful
From Earth, to make life's ruin more complete,—
Art Thou, oh, erring Genius! not for thee
Their high emprise, to drag Humanity
About the miry streets, and hold to scorn
This vesture God hath fashioned, God hath worn;
Dry, hopeless hearts, dry, loveless, tearless eyes!
Thou Youth of lofty dreams, of generous prayers,
Come out from them, and better recognise
Thy place! thy lot can never be with theirs!
For speaking to the Father thou hast said,
“Give Thou to me, oh, give that I may share
With them that need, Thought's true and living bread,
Whereon the soul that feedeth hath to spare.”
Then turning to thy brethren, taking up
Thy country's ancient war-cry, thou dost call
With Him, her blind old Chief, “I claim a Cup,
The Cup of freedom and of light for all;”
Oh, never be thy prayer, thy claim denied
Of God or Man, but as thy soul doth yearn
May'st thou receive in measure far more wide
Than thou dost ask! thy thirst be satisfied
By waters wrung from out a fuller urn
Than thou dost dream of now;
Enamoured so, that he would blot out one
By one God's lofty candles, fain in night
To plunge the nations, so that for a sun
They come to bow before his counterfeit;
And not like him—of mocking smile, the dull
Cold Scorner, ill-content the heart to cheat
Of Heaven, but trampling out the Beautiful
From Earth, to make life's ruin more complete,—
Art Thou, oh, erring Genius! not for thee
Their high emprise, to drag Humanity
About the miry streets, and hold to scorn
This vesture God hath fashioned, God hath worn;
Dry, hopeless hearts, dry, loveless, tearless eyes!
Thou Youth of lofty dreams, of generous prayers,
Come out from them, and better recognise
Thy place! thy lot can never be with theirs!
For speaking to the Father thou hast said,
“Give Thou to me, oh, give that I may share
142
Whereon the soul that feedeth hath to spare.”
Then turning to thy brethren, taking up
Thy country's ancient war-cry, thou dost call
With Him, her blind old Chief, “I claim a Cup,
The Cup of freedom and of light for all;”
Oh, never be thy prayer, thy claim denied
Of God or Man, but as thy soul doth yearn
May'st thou receive in measure far more wide
Than thou dost ask! thy thirst be satisfied
By waters wrung from out a fuller urn
Than thou dost dream of now;
Oh, goodly tree,
Though set so deep within the jungle-brake,
The trees that in God's garden planted be
Might envy thee thy beauty! yet they take
A mourning up for thee, because the snake
Is gliding 'twixt thy roots; with burning breath
These flowers of thine, of Loveliness and Death
Show forth the fearful spousals; from the Vine
That hath thee in its clasp drops poison-wine.
Yet dost thou struggle upwards from this lair
Of doleful things, and even now the air
Of open heaven hath fanned thy topmost bough.
Lift higher o'er these under-growths thy brow,
And look on Jacob's tents that whitening lie
Within the sunshine; hearken to the cry
That rises from among them: in their shout
For One. a Brother and a King, thy prayer
Doth meet its answer. Spirit, that through doubt
Hast kept thy hold on fervent Love, come out
From this dim shade, thy portion waits thee there!
Though set so deep within the jungle-brake,
The trees that in God's garden planted be
Might envy thee thy beauty! yet they take
A mourning up for thee, because the snake
Is gliding 'twixt thy roots; with burning breath
These flowers of thine, of Loveliness and Death
Show forth the fearful spousals; from the Vine
That hath thee in its clasp drops poison-wine.
Yet dost thou struggle upwards from this lair
Of doleful things, and even now the air
Of open heaven hath fanned thy topmost bough.
Lift higher o'er these under-growths thy brow,
And look on Jacob's tents that whitening lie
Within the sunshine; hearken to the cry
143
For One. a Brother and a King, thy prayer
Doth meet its answer. Spirit, that through doubt
Hast kept thy hold on fervent Love, come out
From this dim shade, thy portion waits thee there!
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