The Year of the World A Philosophical Poem on "Redemption from The Fall". By William B. Scott |
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 | The Year of the World |  |
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THE YEAR OF THE WORLD.
I. PART FIRST. THE GOLDEN AGE.
Instinctive Life. The descent into Consciousness, and the separation of the active Understanding from the transcendent faculty that dwells only in the light of the Spirit.
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I.
Some depth unknown, some inner life unlived,
Some thirst unslaked, some hunger which no food
Gathered from earthly thorn or by the knife
In gory shambles stricken can allay,—
Man hopes for or endeavors against hope:
Still hath endeavored; by the law of life
Looking still on; still toiling for some rest
Passing the understanding. This great faith
Who hath not felt? Who hath not in an hour
Of august consciousness beheld descend
Around him (as the exile on the rock
Of Patmos) this Jerusalem, although night
Shut round him as before, and the cold moon
Passed over the horizon of his soul?
And ye past centuries! since the infant-god,
The child-man hath kept count of these his thoughts—
Which of ye hath not heard the loud acclaim,—
Seen the palm leaves spread some Redeemer's path
Leading the way to peace? For ever on
The hope, the toil is borne, and the great torch
Transmitted burns more bright from every tomb.
Some thirst unslaked, some hunger which no food
Gathered from earthly thorn or by the knife
In gory shambles stricken can allay,—
Man hopes for or endeavors against hope:
Still hath endeavored; by the law of life
Looking still on; still toiling for some rest
Passing the understanding. This great faith
Who hath not felt? Who hath not in an hour
Of august consciousness beheld descend
Around him (as the exile on the rock
Of Patmos) this Jerusalem, although night
Shut round him as before, and the cold moon
Passed over the horizon of his soul?
And ye past centuries! since the infant-god,
The child-man hath kept count of these his thoughts—
Which of ye hath not heard the loud acclaim,—
Seen the palm leaves spread some Redeemer's path
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The hope, the toil is borne, and the great torch
Transmitted burns more bright from every tomb.
Some good there is man strives for. This long strife
Through darkness, and in mythos, and in faith,
And in the aggrandizement of self, and in
The weary work of knowledge—shows itself,
Varying yet the same—not pausing, save
To gather strength or garner in the past;
Or turning like the gleaner—not despairing
But in the fear of loss, and oftentimes
Trembling with revelation, but too blind
To learn the many-sided Simpleness
So closely round him, hath the symbol risen
To be the god, and mystery been enshrined—
Domes built with art more perfect than the creed,
Garnished with marble truth, and altars red
With living sacrifice, and rites prescribed,
On days divine, vestments and light of lamps,
Choral rejoicings, censers through whose pores
Issue fine odours, old age ministering
Darkly before a visible sign—that thus
The pain of doubt be felt no more—that thus
We may hold fast the good, draw angels down,
And walk in the cool shades with God in Eden.
Through darkness, and in mythos, and in faith,
And in the aggrandizement of self, and in
The weary work of knowledge—shows itself,
Varying yet the same—not pausing, save
To gather strength or garner in the past;
Or turning like the gleaner—not despairing
But in the fear of loss, and oftentimes
Trembling with revelation, but too blind
To learn the many-sided Simpleness
So closely round him, hath the symbol risen
To be the god, and mystery been enshrined—
Domes built with art more perfect than the creed,
Garnished with marble truth, and altars red
With living sacrifice, and rites prescribed,
On days divine, vestments and light of lamps,
Choral rejoicings, censers through whose pores
Issue fine odours, old age ministering
Darkly before a visible sign—that thus
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We may hold fast the good, draw angels down,
And walk in the cool shades with God in Eden.
And thus the Hierarch of the Phantasy
This shattered image of the soul reforms
By sensuous tools—and man adores himself—
But everlasting fate holds all; and time
Scatters the chaff as doth the winnowing fan
After the wearied flail. Not this, not this!
Each age repeats, productive not the less;
Exploring still the more; till half the world
Finds wisdom in negation—and a truth
That there is no truth—ending like the search
Of Ceres in the Eleusinian verse,
Who passed with skirt succint through many lands
And over many seas with numerous tears
And prayers for her fair daughter, whom she found
After her mournful tears and prayers no more
Able to rise to Enna and the sun.
This shattered image of the soul reforms
By sensuous tools—and man adores himself—
But everlasting fate holds all; and time
Scatters the chaff as doth the winnowing fan
After the wearied flail. Not this, not this!
Each age repeats, productive not the less;
Exploring still the more; till half the world
Finds wisdom in negation—and a truth
That there is no truth—ending like the search
Of Ceres in the Eleusinian verse,
Who passed with skirt succint through many lands
And over many seas with numerous tears
And prayers for her fair daughter, whom she found
After her mournful tears and prayers no more
Able to rise to Enna and the sun.
Nathless the great idea reigneth still;
The tendency hath neither swerve nor stay;
In all things we behold objective selves,
Part of us yet against us, and within
Kingliness yet unsceptred, and by night
Pillars of fire!
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In all things we behold objective selves,
Part of us yet against us, and within
Kingliness yet unsceptred, and by night
Pillars of fire!
II.
In the unknown awakening of the morn,
When the red light was in the east, (if east
There was, from whence the first day-dawn arose,)
And the true forms of gods lived everywhere,
Whose shadows yet some mortal minds discern
From time to time; in this fair year, within
An island now unknown, the tree of life
Beside the home of the Unseen did grow;
A boy, Lyremmos, fed upon its fruits,
A maiden, Mneme, lived within that home—
Then time was not, nor was there any past,
Nor any distance, for the infinite leaves
Of that great tree were over all the heaven;
And depths were on each side, and yet no depths,
For spirits filled them all.
When the red light was in the east, (if east
There was, from whence the first day-dawn arose,)
And the true forms of gods lived everywhere,
Whose shadows yet some mortal minds discern
From time to time; in this fair year, within
An island now unknown, the tree of life
Beside the home of the Unseen did grow;
A boy, Lyremmos, fed upon its fruits,
A maiden, Mneme, lived within that home—
Then time was not, nor was there any past,
Nor any distance, for the infinite leaves
Of that great tree were over all the heaven;
And depths were on each side, and yet no depths,
For spirits filled them all.
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Before that boy
Three visible forms advance, a vanward three
Of endless throngs that until now had been
Unseen by him. One from the sea, and one
Exhaled as from the earth, and from above
Another came: and lo! he trembled—then
Stricken as by a terror he fell back,
And an unspeakable change on all those spirits
Drew them back from him, downward and still back
Sinking and fading, as the dew of even
Sinks down into the herbs with dusk and cold.
Three visible forms advance, a vanward three
Of endless throngs that until now had been
Unseen by him. One from the sea, and one
Exhaled as from the earth, and from above
Another came: and lo! he trembled—then
Stricken as by a terror he fell back,
And an unspeakable change on all those spirits
Drew them back from him, downward and still back
Sinking and fading, as the dew of even
Sinks down into the herbs with dusk and cold.
Upon a couch of shining leaves, the nest
Of many lovely snakes, the man-boy lay,
Silent and motionless and without breath:
It might be centuries, it might be throbs
Of the sun's pulse I know not, but the eye
Of Brama opened only through the lapse
Of a thousand years. His luminous limbs gave light
Around him over all the leaves, and throngs
Of insects none have ever seen since then
Approached about his hair; still moved he not
But gazed right upward, as a dead man's eye
Looks and yet sees not. In this trance he knew
Cycles of ages with their phantoms pass
Out of him, as if he had been all these.
“Are they, or are they not? those spirits that come
Answering to no voice, those snakes, and I,
Am I, or am I not?” he asked, with pauses
Of silence, underneath those ample leaves
That now were shrinking. Then the sky expanded
With many clouds, and rays of white sunshine,
And he was many—not one naked youth
But many, each adorned with various tires,
Not all in equal beauty yet all fair,
And on good offices intent, attended
By beasts and all that had the gift of life—
Such offices as the spirits erst fulfilled
Whom now he saw not—and his sister Mneme
Was beside each in every act—not one
But now a thousand sisters, yet unchanged
By any new adornment, in all place
And act, beside himself with like intent
To his; but soon her utter perfectness
Seemed to remove her from his sphere. In time,
Proceeding as the stars proceed at eve,
More visions were evolved, and from a land
Of white flowers, soft and noiseless-footed beings
Floated with rhythmic motion, more and more
Towards him, then with both hands each one raised
Her yard-long hair, and lo, the eyes of women,
The light upon the passionate face of joy—
The bosom warm of mundane love!
Of many lovely snakes, the man-boy lay,
Silent and motionless and without breath:
It might be centuries, it might be throbs
Of the sun's pulse I know not, but the eye
Of Brama opened only through the lapse
Of a thousand years. His luminous limbs gave light
Around him over all the leaves, and throngs
Of insects none have ever seen since then
Approached about his hair; still moved he not
But gazed right upward, as a dead man's eye
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Cycles of ages with their phantoms pass
Out of him, as if he had been all these.
“Are they, or are they not? those spirits that come
Answering to no voice, those snakes, and I,
Am I, or am I not?” he asked, with pauses
Of silence, underneath those ample leaves
That now were shrinking. Then the sky expanded
With many clouds, and rays of white sunshine,
And he was many—not one naked youth
But many, each adorned with various tires,
Not all in equal beauty yet all fair,
And on good offices intent, attended
By beasts and all that had the gift of life—
Such offices as the spirits erst fulfilled
Whom now he saw not—and his sister Mneme
Was beside each in every act—not one
But now a thousand sisters, yet unchanged
By any new adornment, in all place
And act, beside himself with like intent
To his; but soon her utter perfectness
Seemed to remove her from his sphere. In time,
Proceeding as the stars proceed at eve,
More visions were evolved, and from a land
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Floated with rhythmic motion, more and more
Towards him, then with both hands each one raised
Her yard-long hair, and lo, the eyes of women,
The light upon the passionate face of joy—
The bosom warm of mundane love!
From thence
He took no note of aught as heretofore,
A unity in multitude; but now
The term of his cognizance was twofold,
The motive and the act; the outward nay,
The inward affirmation—He, the gifted;
She, the true answering beauty—
He took no note of aught as heretofore,
A unity in multitude; but now
The term of his cognizance was twofold,
The motive and the act; the outward nay,
The inward affirmation—He, the gifted;
She, the true answering beauty—
III.
Pause awhile
In this grave argument (as poets term
The tenor of their tales) till between thee,
Reader, and I the writer, some few words
Be said. In truth I look up from my page,
And smile—no smile of self complacency,
For not with steel on stone, by hieroglyphs
Shadowed, nor with cithera sung, nor spoken
With apostolic singleness as of old,
This shadowing of the most august first time—
This speculation of the course of ages—
Is fashioned; but with watchful care of words
The artist now compiles; and with the steps
Of analytic consciousness he goes—
Backward and forward goes the theorist,
Upon his Seerath-bridge: and round him men
Whose time is parcelled into hours, (the clock,
The town-clock, at this instant you may hear
Telling the lapse exact of this day's transit,)
Scarce steady themselves an instant without price,
Bent constantly on short dates and per cents.
And I would not be quite apart from such;
They bear the latest social form, and Change
Acts through them nobly, and conventions thicken
Net-like so thick, that it may be, ere long,
We can no further be removed from nature.
But more—about this room from whence I see
The innumerable snow-flakes wandering down
Upon the sapless boughs and turfless ground,—
Are many books, three thousand years of books;
Elora, Mount Sinai, and the Porch,
Are printed there, and wordy condensations
Making eclectic garments for quick thinkers:
And poets, eyes of time, observers only;
And of all these the earliest still the best.
Nor are those walls of other histories void,
Things sacred from the hand of art are here,
Penates from the Nile, Pompeian pictures,
Masks—that of Homer, and of the Redeemer
Traced from an altar magnified by pilgrims.
And in this presence touch I pen and pencil—
And in this presence dare I theorize
Even of the infinite and the real!
In this grave argument (as poets term
The tenor of their tales) till between thee,
Reader, and I the writer, some few words
Be said. In truth I look up from my page,
And smile—no smile of self complacency,
For not with steel on stone, by hieroglyphs
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With apostolic singleness as of old,
This shadowing of the most august first time—
This speculation of the course of ages—
Is fashioned; but with watchful care of words
The artist now compiles; and with the steps
Of analytic consciousness he goes—
Backward and forward goes the theorist,
Upon his Seerath-bridge: and round him men
Whose time is parcelled into hours, (the clock,
The town-clock, at this instant you may hear
Telling the lapse exact of this day's transit,)
Scarce steady themselves an instant without price,
Bent constantly on short dates and per cents.
And I would not be quite apart from such;
They bear the latest social form, and Change
Acts through them nobly, and conventions thicken
Net-like so thick, that it may be, ere long,
We can no further be removed from nature.
But more—about this room from whence I see
The innumerable snow-flakes wandering down
Upon the sapless boughs and turfless ground,—
Are many books, three thousand years of books;
Elora, Mount Sinai, and the Porch,
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Making eclectic garments for quick thinkers:
And poets, eyes of time, observers only;
And of all these the earliest still the best.
Nor are those walls of other histories void,
Things sacred from the hand of art are here,
Penates from the Nile, Pompeian pictures,
Masks—that of Homer, and of the Redeemer
Traced from an altar magnified by pilgrims.
And in this presence touch I pen and pencil—
And in this presence dare I theorize
Even of the infinite and the real!
Friend reader, is the north wind cold? bring coals
Unto the sinking embers till new flames
Crackle and leap; in this we are agreed,
Yesterday's fires no second heats exhale.
Is not the Past all gone, and code or myth
Treatise or history that now remain
Are but the chambers whence the Spirits passed
Into the world of Deeds, through which to work
In infinite mutation to the present:
As circles on the water still expand
When the dead stone that caused them lies below.
I speak not of the poet; wisdom even
Is like a giant's garment borne but once;
As was the cross of Jesus, after whom
Who followeth bears a cross but not like his;
Not more like his than did the labourers
Whom crowned Saint Helen guided in their search
Till they exhumed the holy wood? Was not
The impulse vital from which those wise works
Proceeded; went it not abroad then, searching
Into the roots of action?—thought no more,
But action—antiquating the embalméd word
Which was its voice at first. Woe unto him
Who sees not this, alas for him that thwarts it!
Unto the sinking embers till new flames
Crackle and leap; in this we are agreed,
Yesterday's fires no second heats exhale.
Is not the Past all gone, and code or myth
Treatise or history that now remain
Are but the chambers whence the Spirits passed
Into the world of Deeds, through which to work
In infinite mutation to the present:
As circles on the water still expand
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I speak not of the poet; wisdom even
Is like a giant's garment borne but once;
As was the cross of Jesus, after whom
Who followeth bears a cross but not like his;
Not more like his than did the labourers
Whom crowned Saint Helen guided in their search
Till they exhumed the holy wood? Was not
The impulse vital from which those wise works
Proceeded; went it not abroad then, searching
Into the roots of action?—thought no more,
But action—antiquating the embalméd word
Which was its voice at first. Woe unto him
Who sees not this, alas for him that thwarts it!
IV.
“Lyremmos, whereHidden or wandering art thou? I have sought
Throughout thy haunts and found thee not in any.
Answer, Lyremmos! the calm sea is blue,
And from the porch gleams dismal cold, and dark;
The kind sunbeams shoot no more through the stems
Of the living woods, nor any one of all
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Keeps the still evening wakeful.”—“Mark that star,
Sister, it is a lovely thing, and well
May I have lingered watching its increase.
I have had clouds about me—Thoughts, strange thoughts;
I know not what they were, and call them thoughts:
I never singled out one star before,
But looked upon them all unheedingly.
I have been far away with throbbing pulses,
And terrible joy, and almost utter absorption;—
Art thou assuredly my sister still,
After those ages and those changes all—?
When first I laid me here, and on that roof
Of the great leafage of the tree of life
I fixed my eye, the upper light made shine
Their veinéd green like fire. At first that star
Was scarcely brighter than the heaven around,
And as the near grew darker, it, the distant,
Peered eminently out. My sister! thou
Hast been a guardian to me—from the first
Birth of my memory thou art to me
As that star still increasing in delight
Is to the sky—oh, far more governing!
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Since I have known none other counsellor,—
For those fair spirits who were wont to throng
About us were but servants, and within
Our central home, our shrine, I cannot ask.
Am I not now a conscious God, yet mad;
A snake, but without instinct; a mere question,
With ever-bursting heart, and must remain so
Until I re-arrange those tumults, powers—
External to me, yet reciprocal,
To which I am subjected, yet free born.”
—‘Brother! we have been happy 'till this hour,
Happy as all around us; be thou still
A boy!” she cried, and shaded back his hair
To look into his eyes, and held his hand
Up to her neck, and bent her pliant form
Down to him even 'till her breast met his.
“Be still a boy!” she said as they lay still,
Her yellow sandal by his foot, her arm
With its slim bracelet lifting up his hand,
His eye upon the heaven, and hers on his.
And thus replied he. “Would it might be so!
But 'tis a foolish wish, though thou art old
To my mere youth. 'Tis happiness I seek,
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Enjoyed because I know it for my own—
That whate'er is should be. Now tell me why,
Maternal Sister, tell me why this garb—”
And lo! he had the insignia of Osiris
Upon his head, upon his loins, and arms!
“There is some strange deformity abroad
From this our home, and I, who midst these sweets
Have swam till now, can reconcile it not;
Nor will! But nature whilst I slept has borne
Me up to manhood, and I wake to search
For what was constant in my heart before.”
“Be still a boy!” she tremulously breathed,
Scarce heard by him, although her brow was pressed
Upon his neck. While thus they lay, the voice
Of some bird sheltered in the dark arose,
Rose clear and loud—then silent was for ever.
V.
They passed into the temple, and with soft
Brow-kisses parted, as if all had been
Past and dispelled, a transient influence
From twilight and the depths of wolfish woods.
But he looked out again upon the sea
Sounding alone. A life like that in sleep
Flowed throughout all: a change had fallen on him!
He pondered,—thought upon his thoughts! Alas,
He saw not where the waves of this new sea
Pursued their unseen tides: if onward still
Wave followed wave beyond the sea bird's flight,
Or where from its cave loosed, the salt-weed floats,
Darkling for ever: or if some high land
Might slope its pearly strand unto his keel,
Where rainbow-hued, like our retreating storms,
Beautiful things might live, beside the courts
Of Vesper's slumber and the Moon's repose.
What place in this new world will her smile cheer?
Sweet Sister Mneme! shall she be with him
Wherever he may be? so thought he, with
A fond remorse that he had ever willed
To leave her. Thou wilt be a spirit throughout
The air he breathes: thou wilt sit on the prow
And smile on him while his hand guides the helm
Through the revulsion of the cloven waves.
Thy song will blend with his, if happily
He finds a paradise, a sheltered nook
From that new pain, that glimpse of knowledge now
Streaking his silvery happiness with blood.
Brow-kisses parted, as if all had been
Past and dispelled, a transient influence
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But he looked out again upon the sea
Sounding alone. A life like that in sleep
Flowed throughout all: a change had fallen on him!
He pondered,—thought upon his thoughts! Alas,
He saw not where the waves of this new sea
Pursued their unseen tides: if onward still
Wave followed wave beyond the sea bird's flight,
Or where from its cave loosed, the salt-weed floats,
Darkling for ever: or if some high land
Might slope its pearly strand unto his keel,
Where rainbow-hued, like our retreating storms,
Beautiful things might live, beside the courts
Of Vesper's slumber and the Moon's repose.
What place in this new world will her smile cheer?
Sweet Sister Mneme! shall she be with him
Wherever he may be? so thought he, with
A fond remorse that he had ever willed
To leave her. Thou wilt be a spirit throughout
The air he breathes: thou wilt sit on the prow
And smile on him while his hand guides the helm
Through the revulsion of the cloven waves.
Thy song will blend with his, if happily
He finds a paradise, a sheltered nook
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Streaking his silvery happiness with blood.
No sound of feet was on the awful floor
Of the interior of the shrine, all dark
That shrine which cannot be described or known.
A tripod-lamp stood there: behold a light,—
An arrow head of flame, sprang up from thence,
Scarce strong enough to make the slim shaft seen,
And a fair hand that hovered over it
With animating oil. The fair hand bears
The tripod through the darkness. Mneme bends
Upon the curtained steps, and with her hands
On the flower-hidden feet beseechingly
Up to the mighty Goodness smiles, and speaks.
Of the interior of the shrine, all dark
That shrine which cannot be described or known.
A tripod-lamp stood there: behold a light,—
An arrow head of flame, sprang up from thence,
Scarce strong enough to make the slim shaft seen,
And a fair hand that hovered over it
With animating oil. The fair hand bears
The tripod through the darkness. Mneme bends
Upon the curtained steps, and with her hands
On the flower-hidden feet beseechingly
Up to the mighty Goodness smiles, and speaks.
“Spirit supreme of all!
To whom all turn with re-inspired acclaim
And eyes refreshed; apart from whom our life
Wanes into the inane, thou who art here
Sheltered among the darknesses of birth,
Yet vivid now before me with white light
Looking into my wishes. Thou whose breath
Made vital all the air of this wide world,
From thenceforth musical with bird in spring,
And beast, and insect in the drowse of even,
And the young gods who guide the change of days,
And lover's songs with stringed art less rich,
Wandering in child-like beauty of their own.
Before whose advent there were none of these,
But moanings passed along the yeast of waves,
Where cumberous death rolled sightless through the dense
And slimy waste. Ideal power! whose form
Is here before mine eyes in living truth,—
Evermore varying with infinite changes
As hopes or fears prevail in this poor heart;
Thou who inspiredst the creative hand
Of nature, (may I not irreverently
Speak such great verity?)—whom I have served
From everlasting, and thereby have lived
Here where Uranus' children come, all clothed
With the ineffable light of trusting worship,
And wonderful voices that declare all things,
Without articulate words of hymn or prayer:
Round whom they circling dance mysteriously,
With chaplets on their arms, and ministering doves,
That enter white-winged through thy shrine at will,—
Light on thine altars—or with thirsting bills
Break the clear waters that refresh thy flowers,—
Spirit! oh, fold him in thy starry robe
Again, and make him thine and mine unchanged,
(Although he cannot understand me now,)
As he hath been! hide from him the new shore
He longs for; hide the hopes, the fears, of which
I nothing know but that they are not thine.”
She ceased: her brother knelt upon the step
Beneath: he held her hand with both his own,
And won her earnest gaze to his own face
Which by his gloomy hair was almost hidden.
“Weave me a tunic, sister, through black storm,
If need be, I may wear; a sandal firm
Fashion for me, that may keep whole these feet
For many a stadium of travel; yea,
Through burning soil or shell-strewn deeps. Alas!
Mneme, my sister, henceforth wilt thou be
A memory alone, for thou can'st not.—
And this deep shrine, doth it not blind me now,
I have grown callous to the power thou feel'st—
The perfectness of silence, the profound—
Those beautiful great limbs, are they not stone—
Marble, and fire, and gold—I see them not—
They are withdrawn, sister! where art thou! still,
I see the dark trees, and the stars, the sea,
All things without the porch—but nought within—
The winds arise, the shadows of lions pass,
A voice is in the air, and from beneath
A sound of thunder comes. I am alone.”
To whom all turn with re-inspired acclaim
And eyes refreshed; apart from whom our life
Wanes into the inane, thou who art here
Sheltered among the darknesses of birth,
Yet vivid now before me with white light
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Made vital all the air of this wide world,
From thenceforth musical with bird in spring,
And beast, and insect in the drowse of even,
And the young gods who guide the change of days,
And lover's songs with stringed art less rich,
Wandering in child-like beauty of their own.
Before whose advent there were none of these,
But moanings passed along the yeast of waves,
Where cumberous death rolled sightless through the dense
And slimy waste. Ideal power! whose form
Is here before mine eyes in living truth,—
Evermore varying with infinite changes
As hopes or fears prevail in this poor heart;
Thou who inspiredst the creative hand
Of nature, (may I not irreverently
Speak such great verity?)—whom I have served
From everlasting, and thereby have lived
Here where Uranus' children come, all clothed
With the ineffable light of trusting worship,
And wonderful voices that declare all things,
Without articulate words of hymn or prayer:
Round whom they circling dance mysteriously,
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That enter white-winged through thy shrine at will,—
Light on thine altars—or with thirsting bills
Break the clear waters that refresh thy flowers,—
Spirit! oh, fold him in thy starry robe
Again, and make him thine and mine unchanged,
(Although he cannot understand me now,)
As he hath been! hide from him the new shore
He longs for; hide the hopes, the fears, of which
I nothing know but that they are not thine.”
She ceased: her brother knelt upon the step
Beneath: he held her hand with both his own,
And won her earnest gaze to his own face
Which by his gloomy hair was almost hidden.
“Weave me a tunic, sister, through black storm,
If need be, I may wear; a sandal firm
Fashion for me, that may keep whole these feet
For many a stadium of travel; yea,
Through burning soil or shell-strewn deeps. Alas!
Mneme, my sister, henceforth wilt thou be
A memory alone, for thou can'st not.—
And this deep shrine, doth it not blind me now,
I have grown callous to the power thou feel'st—
The perfectness of silence, the profound—
22
Marble, and fire, and gold—I see them not—
They are withdrawn, sister! where art thou! still,
I see the dark trees, and the stars, the sea,
All things without the porch—but nought within—
The winds arise, the shadows of lions pass,
A voice is in the air, and from beneath
A sound of thunder comes. I am alone.”
23
II. PART SECOND. THE JOURNEY.
The retirement of the pure faculty into the Sanctuary. The workman begins his work. The workman sleeps. The Doctrine of contemplative Absorption.
27
I.
How like to ours the ancient tale of Psyche!
Happy in her enrichéd palace, stored
With pleasant sights, and sounds, and dainty fare,
By day; and Love himself her guest by night;
Until she longed to know him, and the lamp
Held to his sleeping face,—from thence no more
Her guest; and she an outcast from that hour.
Alike yet different. For the feminine
Was not then sanctioned by the great advent
Which Gabriel announced with bended knee
And sceptre of white lilies unto Mary:
She the appointed medium between God
Descending and the man redeemed. Nor then
The sufferer had been deemed divine—the Moral
Come into light! the Moral which will lead us
Out of the realm of pain. Such change again
May be, and future fables hold the man
More perfect; when the Strong and Just shall be
One Will, as force was virtue in old times.
Meanwhile I make the Energy the error,
Masculine power, a birth and death power only.
Happy in her enrichéd palace, stored
With pleasant sights, and sounds, and dainty fare,
By day; and Love himself her guest by night;
Until she longed to know him, and the lamp
Held to his sleeping face,—from thence no more
Her guest; and she an outcast from that hour.
Alike yet different. For the feminine
Was not then sanctioned by the great advent
Which Gabriel announced with bended knee
And sceptre of white lilies unto Mary:
She the appointed medium between God
Descending and the man redeemed. Nor then
The sufferer had been deemed divine—the Moral
Come into light! the Moral which will lead us
Out of the realm of pain. Such change again
May be, and future fables hold the man
More perfect; when the Strong and Just shall be
28
Meanwhile I make the Energy the error,
Masculine power, a birth and death power only.
Upon the sand strewn with sea-baubles, she,
Mneme, the sister of the wanderer, stands.
The chill breeze beats upon her sorrowing breast
And bares her lustrous limbs: the alternate wave
Enamoured of her trembling feet heaps up
The snowy foam around them.
Mneme, the sister of the wanderer, stands.
The chill breeze beats upon her sorrowing breast
And bares her lustrous limbs: the alternate wave
Enamoured of her trembling feet heaps up
The snowy foam around them.
Thus she stood,
Nor ever turned she from that cheerless sea
Her eye so placid, yet so earnest-sad:
She follows him upon the nether shore,
Among opposing boughs of swarthy forests,
And broken bones of a degraded world,
Stony ravines and rocks, and obscure life.
“Would that he could have understood me! would
That he had read upon my yearning face
Those things which must be felt, or be unknown;
Which words articulate may not convey!
Alas! new wonders are before him, all
The changes of the sea's green countenance,
The solitude of winds and hills, the moaning
Of waves in hollow caves and deep dank lairs
Between the jaws and gorges of the dark.
With these he strives—and walled by those obstructions
Doth he forget this heart that beats for him,
And these soft arms that cradled him so oft,
And these lips fading now that kissed his sleep
In the dove-shelter of our living groves.
Lave me, my handmaids! from your pebbly home
Come up, with freshening salutation come;
Ye sparkle round my feet, while I am faint,
And all my immortality decays
Into a fleeting breath, while demon forms
Stand in the path of the adventurous child
Of fire from heaven, and fabricated mortals—
Dædaléan things with life but seeming—
Invite him to be one of them—to rush
Downwards into the seething toils of change.
Ye spirits who delight
In crowded sisterhood beneath the stir
Of the great waves, upon your ambient hair
Reclined, in close embracement of curved limbs:
Ye who delight to gather shells and pearls,
And cast them on the sands with gleaming heads
Through the white tide-foam. Ye whom I behold
By the red peak or morning mountain sides,
Flying aslant with feet to feet among
The sun-fringed clouds, upon whose dance the rainbow
Its azure and its violet doth shed.
And ye who ever sit i' the boles of woods
Deafened with moss;—where even the aspen-boughs
Waver not in the still air:—couched in leaves,
With eyes fixed all day on some sapling stem
Strengthening in spring time. Ye whose lucid limbs
Sleep in the quiet fountain undisturbed,
Save by a veering leaf from shadowy tree
Alighting with faint circle by the reeds.
Minister to me that I wane away
Not altogether:—be around Him still,
To bear his memory back to this warm breast.
Nor ever turned she from that cheerless sea
Her eye so placid, yet so earnest-sad:
She follows him upon the nether shore,
Among opposing boughs of swarthy forests,
And broken bones of a degraded world,
Stony ravines and rocks, and obscure life.
“Would that he could have understood me! would
That he had read upon my yearning face
Those things which must be felt, or be unknown;
Which words articulate may not convey!
29
The changes of the sea's green countenance,
The solitude of winds and hills, the moaning
Of waves in hollow caves and deep dank lairs
Between the jaws and gorges of the dark.
With these he strives—and walled by those obstructions
Doth he forget this heart that beats for him,
And these soft arms that cradled him so oft,
And these lips fading now that kissed his sleep
In the dove-shelter of our living groves.
Lave me, my handmaids! from your pebbly home
Come up, with freshening salutation come;
Ye sparkle round my feet, while I am faint,
And all my immortality decays
Into a fleeting breath, while demon forms
Stand in the path of the adventurous child
Of fire from heaven, and fabricated mortals—
Dædaléan things with life but seeming—
Invite him to be one of them—to rush
Downwards into the seething toils of change.
Ye spirits who delight
In crowded sisterhood beneath the stir
Of the great waves, upon your ambient hair
Reclined, in close embracement of curved limbs:
30
And cast them on the sands with gleaming heads
Through the white tide-foam. Ye whom I behold
By the red peak or morning mountain sides,
Flying aslant with feet to feet among
The sun-fringed clouds, upon whose dance the rainbow
Its azure and its violet doth shed.
And ye who ever sit i' the boles of woods
Deafened with moss;—where even the aspen-boughs
Waver not in the still air:—couched in leaves,
With eyes fixed all day on some sapling stem
Strengthening in spring time. Ye whose lucid limbs
Sleep in the quiet fountain undisturbed,
Save by a veering leaf from shadowy tree
Alighting with faint circle by the reeds.
Minister to me that I wane away
Not altogether:—be around Him still,
To bear his memory back to this warm breast.
“Wonderful that he left this land of light
And peace to be a ruler in a world
Whose happiness is pain, whose beauty and joy
Are tears and wounds; my eye-lids droop in fear
Before the passing vision that reveals
A constant interchange of sentient death.
And peace to be a ruler in a world
Whose happiness is pain, whose beauty and joy
Are tears and wounds; my eye-lids droop in fear
31
A constant interchange of sentient death.
“Lonely I turn, oh spirits meek, to you
All our great mother's ministers of love:
As a thin shade evanishing away,
As music hovering o'er a drowsy ear
I lean on your immortal breasts!”
All our great mother's ministers of love:
As a thin shade evanishing away,
As music hovering o'er a drowsy ear
I lean on your immortal breasts!”
They heard,—
The beautiful things of nature heard her moan,
And buoyed her up reclining on their arms.
The countless spirits from the shrine she served
Flocked down upon the sward without a sound;
The blue flowers shone like children's trusting eyes
From the green turf, and undulating snakes
With glistening skins come round her; while the waves
Whose constant alternations fill the shells
As if in sport, a silver moaning made,
That sank with infinite quiet to her heart:
And the gay breeze thoughout the thornless groves
Seeking to win its way to every nook,
Whispered such music as the Dryads love,
When the strong sun upon their heavy hair
Sheds gold, and deep repose, and indolent dreams.
“Fear not, fair priestess, whose kind wonderment
Hath followed far the wanderer grievingly,
Fear not but yet this Eden breeze will lift
His mantle hurrying towards his natal home.
Fear not that Storm and Strife have power so strong
That he may never disentwine their woof,
Or that the lank lips and the muffled brow
Of Meditation gloomily bowed down
In starless funeral crypt, can fascinate
His heart: or that she may his willing hands
Clasp in her own for ever: he will stoop
And gaze into her face, and disenchant
The evil power, and she will die away,
And her home open to his franchised steps
That has no bourne but here. Fear not that he
Who tasted the cool berries of these trees
Will ever lose his immortality.
Enter—we are around thee, perfect one,
The sisters of the waves their emerald cells
Strew with strange beauty that thou mays't repose
Among them: the brown daughters of the woods
Smooth their mazed brakes that thy fine foot may fall
Pleasantly: and the oozing fountain drops,—
Drops placidly from its cold cave, where oft
The lizard venomless with guiding tail
Crosses from rim to rim, and lilies float
With snowy cup full spread. Thou shalt live on
Amidst the endless trance of day and night;—
The evening star will pass into the morn,
And the sun's chariot verge towards the south
And back due eastward; trees shall shed their leaves,
The birds their feathers, and the prancing deer
His antlers: but no other change shall press
Upon thy peace. No Dædaléan seeming
Of Life and Good; no ruling men in mail,
Or burden bearing, or loud-tongued complaint,
Or love spasmodic, or desires forbidden,
Or dying murmurs of regretful pains,
Shall penetrate into thy hidden home.”
The beautiful things of nature heard her moan,
And buoyed her up reclining on their arms.
The countless spirits from the shrine she served
Flocked down upon the sward without a sound;
The blue flowers shone like children's trusting eyes
From the green turf, and undulating snakes
With glistening skins come round her; while the waves
Whose constant alternations fill the shells
As if in sport, a silver moaning made,
That sank with infinite quiet to her heart:
And the gay breeze thoughout the thornless groves
Seeking to win its way to every nook,
32
When the strong sun upon their heavy hair
Sheds gold, and deep repose, and indolent dreams.
“Fear not, fair priestess, whose kind wonderment
Hath followed far the wanderer grievingly,
Fear not but yet this Eden breeze will lift
His mantle hurrying towards his natal home.
Fear not that Storm and Strife have power so strong
That he may never disentwine their woof,
Or that the lank lips and the muffled brow
Of Meditation gloomily bowed down
In starless funeral crypt, can fascinate
His heart: or that she may his willing hands
Clasp in her own for ever: he will stoop
And gaze into her face, and disenchant
The evil power, and she will die away,
And her home open to his franchised steps
That has no bourne but here. Fear not that he
Who tasted the cool berries of these trees
Will ever lose his immortality.
Enter—we are around thee, perfect one,
The sisters of the waves their emerald cells
Strew with strange beauty that thou mays't repose
Among them: the brown daughters of the woods
33
Pleasantly: and the oozing fountain drops,—
Drops placidly from its cold cave, where oft
The lizard venomless with guiding tail
Crosses from rim to rim, and lilies float
With snowy cup full spread. Thou shalt live on
Amidst the endless trance of day and night;—
The evening star will pass into the morn,
And the sun's chariot verge towards the south
And back due eastward; trees shall shed their leaves,
The birds their feathers, and the prancing deer
His antlers: but no other change shall press
Upon thy peace. No Dædaléan seeming
Of Life and Good; no ruling men in mail,
Or burden bearing, or loud-tongued complaint,
Or love spasmodic, or desires forbidden,
Or dying murmurs of regretful pains,
Shall penetrate into thy hidden home.”
II.
Man hath begun his journey: farewell rest,
And light, and harmony and beauty, all
Spontaneous or instinctive sense, farewell.
No retrograde, no turning the tired foot
Even for respite or repose, a force
Of infinite impulsion drives him on;
No looking back along the path he clears
As he advances, for the wings of clouds
Close after him. No silence, for the boughs
Are rent, and with his giant arms the rocks
Are broken and removed, and mammoth beasts
Howl at him from afar. He builds himself
A throne—he passes on, and in that throne
A shadow of himself remains, a form
Like a phosphoric mist amid the blackness.
Whose limbs are chained as if an agony
Had fixed them in that coil for evermore,
And in whose hand a flaming torch appears
To which the stars are weak. With shouts of joy
At each new light, man raises as he goes
Torches and fires, strange light and warmth exhaling,
Through which cloud, rock, and beast with gleaming eyes,
Shrink terror stricken. Now another throne
He rears, another demigod is crowned,—
The mighty hunter! whose unerring arm
Holds the death-loaded reed, and his clear eye
Looks from a smooth brow—while the herded wolves,
And panthers, and the lion, fly in vain:
A shout exulting doth the laborer send
Along the world, and round his loins the skin
Of the striped tiger now behold, and on
His feet the wild bull's hide. Again I hear
Acclaim, a mixed acclaim, and to his rest
The pastoral patriarch ascends—the plain
Spreads out, a vast expanse girt in by hills;
Obedient flocks and herds are gathered here,
Obedient birds frequent. Upon the grass
The shepherd's crook is seen. Upon the earth
The sower's wallet—Evoe! the wheat sheaves!
Io! oh joy, the vine with trained stems
Fills the great vat with wine. Close following him
A form heroic and yet matronly
Gathers her woven skirts, and round her head
Draws the fair woven hood, as in the gloom
Of antique mythos she becomes enthroned:
The distaff holds she and the twirling spindle,
Comfort with blessings rife. Again the line
Of thrones which will encompass yet the world
Receives another reared of molten brass.
And he who now ascends those brazen steps,
Is he not Tubal Cain, beyond all honor,
Father of Crafts, and conqueror of toils?
The armed wanderer quickens in his speed,
The laborer works now easily, advancing
As if with wingéd speed. Anon he looks
Upon his blackened limbs, and in the stream
Laving, resumes his travail more composed.
Again the line of giants is increased,
The sweet inaugural hymn prolongs even yet
Through these millenniums of past history
Its happy echoes; for this spirit holds
A stringéd shell, and with exhaustless words
Evolves the sense of nature, and reforms
The solid world, that man and woman sees
The paradise they long for, the true vision
Of the interior heart of all things. Ha!
What dubious giant follows this, the loved one?
Light flames around him, but the form is dark,
And terrible his lidless eyes look out
As when he slew the dragon and its teeth
Sowed in the furrowed ground, to bear a crop
Of strife unending: or as when he taught
The record of the past its permanence
Upon the graven tablet and the scroll.
Who next appears?
Another lovely and beloved, behold!
The perfect shall be with us from henceforth—
And the deformed, debased, shall not alone
Environ life, the beautiful appears
Answering the Idea, plastic will
Grasps at the Symbol. In unfading youth
He leans upon the pillar of his shrine,
The brown hair falls around his neck, the brow
Warm as a living mortal's, and the style
Hangs in his subtle hand.
And light, and harmony and beauty, all
34
No retrograde, no turning the tired foot
Even for respite or repose, a force
Of infinite impulsion drives him on;
No looking back along the path he clears
As he advances, for the wings of clouds
Close after him. No silence, for the boughs
Are rent, and with his giant arms the rocks
Are broken and removed, and mammoth beasts
Howl at him from afar. He builds himself
A throne—he passes on, and in that throne
A shadow of himself remains, a form
Like a phosphoric mist amid the blackness.
Whose limbs are chained as if an agony
Had fixed them in that coil for evermore,
And in whose hand a flaming torch appears
To which the stars are weak. With shouts of joy
At each new light, man raises as he goes
Torches and fires, strange light and warmth exhaling,
Through which cloud, rock, and beast with gleaming eyes,
Shrink terror stricken. Now another throne
He rears, another demigod is crowned,—
The mighty hunter! whose unerring arm
35
Looks from a smooth brow—while the herded wolves,
And panthers, and the lion, fly in vain:
A shout exulting doth the laborer send
Along the world, and round his loins the skin
Of the striped tiger now behold, and on
His feet the wild bull's hide. Again I hear
Acclaim, a mixed acclaim, and to his rest
The pastoral patriarch ascends—the plain
Spreads out, a vast expanse girt in by hills;
Obedient flocks and herds are gathered here,
Obedient birds frequent. Upon the grass
The shepherd's crook is seen. Upon the earth
The sower's wallet—Evoe! the wheat sheaves!
Io! oh joy, the vine with trained stems
Fills the great vat with wine. Close following him
A form heroic and yet matronly
Gathers her woven skirts, and round her head
Draws the fair woven hood, as in the gloom
Of antique mythos she becomes enthroned:
The distaff holds she and the twirling spindle,
Comfort with blessings rife. Again the line
Of thrones which will encompass yet the world
Receives another reared of molten brass.
36
Is he not Tubal Cain, beyond all honor,
Father of Crafts, and conqueror of toils?
The armed wanderer quickens in his speed,
The laborer works now easily, advancing
As if with wingéd speed. Anon he looks
Upon his blackened limbs, and in the stream
Laving, resumes his travail more composed.
Again the line of giants is increased,
The sweet inaugural hymn prolongs even yet
Through these millenniums of past history
Its happy echoes; for this spirit holds
A stringéd shell, and with exhaustless words
Evolves the sense of nature, and reforms
The solid world, that man and woman sees
The paradise they long for, the true vision
Of the interior heart of all things. Ha!
What dubious giant follows this, the loved one?
Light flames around him, but the form is dark,
And terrible his lidless eyes look out
As when he slew the dragon and its teeth
Sowed in the furrowed ground, to bear a crop
Of strife unending: or as when he taught
The record of the past its permanence
37
Who next appears?
Another lovely and beloved, behold!
The perfect shall be with us from henceforth—
And the deformed, debased, shall not alone
Environ life, the beautiful appears
Answering the Idea, plastic will
Grasps at the Symbol. In unfading youth
He leans upon the pillar of his shrine,
The brown hair falls around his neck, the brow
Warm as a living mortal's, and the style
Hangs in his subtle hand.
They fade behind me in their state: and still
Others arise more potent and august,
A human god aye adding to the past.
But yet the wanderer in his fitful joys
Stood still despondingly, for endless seemed
The struggle, and much evil everywhere.
It is indeed a generous joy to feel
The impress of myself on outward things.
But why this doubt, this palpitation strange?
Where am I, and whence came I in this guise,—
E'er I dispelled the boyhood of the heart?
Is there indeed a less conditional joy?
Is there indeed a fixed truth?—do I dream
Of what I hope until the dream becomes
Confused with memory,—do I hope until
The fable of my hopes becomes like truth?
Dim memories of faded cycles these—
Or nought, perhaps, but the unfilled desire;
The longings of the soul that feels its power
Superior to the dull oft-trodden round
Leading again unto the starting point:
The refuge of the heart when life's frail lamp
Glimmers beneath the troublous glooms of care,
And Fancy's wing alone remains untired.
Others arise more potent and august,
A human god aye adding to the past.
But yet the wanderer in his fitful joys
Stood still despondingly, for endless seemed
The struggle, and much evil everywhere.
It is indeed a generous joy to feel
The impress of myself on outward things.
But why this doubt, this palpitation strange?
Where am I, and whence came I in this guise,—
38
Is there indeed a less conditional joy?
Is there indeed a fixed truth?—do I dream
Of what I hope until the dream becomes
Confused with memory,—do I hope until
The fable of my hopes becomes like truth?
Dim memories of faded cycles these—
Or nought, perhaps, but the unfilled desire;
The longings of the soul that feels its power
Superior to the dull oft-trodden round
Leading again unto the starting point:
The refuge of the heart when life's frail lamp
Glimmers beneath the troublous glooms of care,
And Fancy's wing alone remains untired.
The vision dies away like the sound of waves
Borne on the distant winds, then swells again
Clearly and beautifully amidst all
The tongues of multitudes in dissonant clang—
Or tyrant-patriarchs toiling with their slaves;—
Or horrid war, hands trenchant on the life!—
Above the riot of the wine-inspired,
Throughout all melody and words and forms—
Over the noise of labor and disease,
Above all voice of passion, on my soul
A reminiscent conscience often steals.
Borne on the distant winds, then swells again
Clearly and beautifully amidst all
The tongues of multitudes in dissonant clang—
Or tyrant-patriarchs toiling with their slaves;—
Or horrid war, hands trenchant on the life!—
Above the riot of the wine-inspired,
Throughout all melody and words and forms—
39
Above all voice of passion, on my soul
A reminiscent conscience often steals.
III.
Here stood he still, the Ganges ebbed and flowed
Up to his feet, and as he gazed, the river,—
The river and the air articulate thoughts
Uttered thus to him.
Up to his feet, and as he gazed, the river,—
The river and the air articulate thoughts
Uttered thus to him.
“Give reverence, O man, to mystery,
Keep your soul patient, and with closed eye hear.
Know that the Good is in all things, the whole
Being by him pervaded and upheld.
He is the will, the thwarting circumstance,
The two opposing forces equal both—
Birth, Death, are one. Think not the Lotus flower
Or tulip is more honored than the grass,
The bindwind, or the thistle. He who kneels
To Cama, kneeleth unto me; the maid
Who sings to Ganga sings to me; I am
Wisdom unto the wise, and cunning lore
Unto the subtle. He who knows his soul,
And from thence looketh unto mine; who sees
All underneath the moon regardlessly,
Living on silent, as a shaded lamp
Burns with steady flame:—he sure shall find me—
He findeth wisdom, greatness, happiness.
Keep your soul patient, and with closed eye hear.
Know that the Good is in all things, the whole
Being by him pervaded and upheld.
He is the will, the thwarting circumstance,
The two opposing forces equal both—
Birth, Death, are one. Think not the Lotus flower
Or tulip is more honored than the grass,
The bindwind, or the thistle. He who kneels
40
Who sings to Ganga sings to me; I am
Wisdom unto the wise, and cunning lore
Unto the subtle. He who knows his soul,
And from thence looketh unto mine; who sees
All underneath the moon regardlessly,
Living on silent, as a shaded lamp
Burns with steady flame:—he sure shall find me—
He findeth wisdom, greatness, happiness.
“Know, further, the Great One delighteth not
In him who works, and strives, and is against
The nature of the present. Not the less
Am I the gladness of the conqueror—
And the despair of impotence that fails.
I am the ultimate, the tendency
Of all things to their nature, which is mine.
Put round thee garments of rich softness, hang
Fine gold about thine ancles, hands, and ears,
Set the rich ruby and rare diamond
Upon thy brow.—I made them, I also
Made them be sought by thee; thou lack'st them not?
Then throw them whence they came, and leave with them
The wish to be aught else than nature forms.
In him who works, and strives, and is against
The nature of the present. Not the less
Am I the gladness of the conqueror—
And the despair of impotence that fails.
I am the ultimate, the tendency
Of all things to their nature, which is mine.
Put round thee garments of rich softness, hang
Fine gold about thine ancles, hands, and ears,
Set the rich ruby and rare diamond
Upon thy brow.—I made them, I also
Made them be sought by thee; thou lack'st them not?
41
The wish to be aught else than nature forms.
“Know that the great Good in the age called First,
Beheld a world of mortals, 'mong whom none
Enquired for Truth, because no falsehood was:
Nature was truth: man held whate'er he wished:
No will was thwarted, and no deed was termed,
Good, Evil. In much wisdom is much grief.
He who increases knowledge sorrow also
Takes with it, till he rises unto me,
Knowing that I am in all, still the same:
Knowing that I am Peace in the contented.
I, Great, revealed unto the Seer, how man
Had wandered, and he gave a name and form
To my communings and he called it Veda.
To him who understands it is great gain—
Who understandeth not, to him the Sign
And ritual is authority and guide
A living and expiring confidence.”
The voice ceased, and the laborer strove no more.
Songs swoon amidst the roses of Cashmere,
India's dark-browed daughters as they weave
The leaves of marigolds with pinky hands,
Hymn their own Cama. Scarcely may his ear
Note the rich sound—and scarce his eyes perceive.
A deep and lasting slumber falls on him:
He spreads his limbs so wondrous in their grace
Upon the lulled shore for a lasting sleep.
The sun sinks down and wakes again to breathe
Vigor into the year: he slumbers on:
His regular breathing evermore exhales
Into the air, but his wild eye is closed,
And his arm listless drops upon the sand
Whose shelled things crawl around it in the cold.
Beheld a world of mortals, 'mong whom none
Enquired for Truth, because no falsehood was:
Nature was truth: man held whate'er he wished:
No will was thwarted, and no deed was termed,
Good, Evil. In much wisdom is much grief.
He who increases knowledge sorrow also
Takes with it, till he rises unto me,
Knowing that I am in all, still the same:
Knowing that I am Peace in the contented.
I, Great, revealed unto the Seer, how man
Had wandered, and he gave a name and form
To my communings and he called it Veda.
To him who understands it is great gain—
Who understandeth not, to him the Sign
And ritual is authority and guide
A living and expiring confidence.”
42
Songs swoon amidst the roses of Cashmere,
India's dark-browed daughters as they weave
The leaves of marigolds with pinky hands,
Hymn their own Cama. Scarcely may his ear
Note the rich sound—and scarce his eyes perceive.
A deep and lasting slumber falls on him:
He spreads his limbs so wondrous in their grace
Upon the lulled shore for a lasting sleep.
The sun sinks down and wakes again to breathe
Vigor into the year: he slumbers on:
His regular breathing evermore exhales
Into the air, but his wild eye is closed,
And his arm listless drops upon the sand
Whose shelled things crawl around it in the cold.
III. PART THIRD. THE JOURNEY RENEWED.
The Labors of Man advance, and become multiform. The going forth of multitudes into historic nations. The Doctrine of Self-elevation.
47
I.
And sleeps he still, the Man melodious-tongued,
He, born of harmony in heaven's depths
And primal light—Lyremmos, sleeps he still
Like the young god upon the lotus leaf,
Floating in silence through a waveless calm?
Or like a child who hath no hurt nor grief,
Nestling between the breasts of its great mother?
No sleep was his like that, for evil airs
Brought dreams continuous over him, a flock
Endless, and shadowing with their unbound skirts
The sunlight and the moon. And he arose
With open eye that saw not, still constrained
To do as heretofore he had done: then,
Stood still in perilous wakefulness and fear,
Shuddering as if he stood upon the edge
Of an annihilation, lest that speech
Which issued from the Ganges might gain strength
Over him. But it could not be: “Ah, Ha!”
He cried anon, “is not the power whose voice
Uttered these words, himself the furthest off
From this unconscious heaven! or shall my strife
And labor have an end without a goal,
An end without acquirement, a mere sleep?
He, born of harmony in heaven's depths
And primal light—Lyremmos, sleeps he still
Like the young god upon the lotus leaf,
Floating in silence through a waveless calm?
Or like a child who hath no hurt nor grief,
Nestling between the breasts of its great mother?
No sleep was his like that, for evil airs
Brought dreams continuous over him, a flock
Endless, and shadowing with their unbound skirts
The sunlight and the moon. And he arose
With open eye that saw not, still constrained
To do as heretofore he had done: then,
Stood still in perilous wakefulness and fear,
Shuddering as if he stood upon the edge
Of an annihilation, lest that speech
Which issued from the Ganges might gain strength
Over him. But it could not be: “Ah, Ha!”
48
Uttered these words, himself the furthest off
From this unconscious heaven! or shall my strife
And labor have an end without a goal,
An end without acquirement, a mere sleep?
“Be this my trust, that it is not in vain
From step to step I have emerged thus far,
That not in vain those questions rise within—
From whence? and whither? for what end am I?
That this soul-travail is not all in vain,
That all is well, and that the Will to rise
Shall be creative of the power, shall cause
The wing to shoot that I may reascend
Through sign and sphere unto my native home.
But where is home? I know not, but must know—
And I am wandering for it now, have wandered
Long as I can remember, still anon,
Raising a loud rejoicing as I meet
Some glimmering sign, or hear some demon-voice
Muttering in the night.”
From step to step I have emerged thus far,
That not in vain those questions rise within—
From whence? and whither? for what end am I?
That this soul-travail is not all in vain,
That all is well, and that the Will to rise
Shall be creative of the power, shall cause
The wing to shoot that I may reascend
Through sign and sphere unto my native home.
But where is home? I know not, but must know—
And I am wandering for it now, have wandered
Long as I can remember, still anon,
Raising a loud rejoicing as I meet
Some glimmering sign, or hear some demon-voice
Muttering in the night.”
49
II.
So he passed on:
Westward or northward, which I may not say,
Or southward, for not one Lyremmos now
But many seem to travel: some in gloom,
Some fierce as maniacs; one, the stateliest form,
Passes to Egypt, yet how changed is he!
His step hath lost the buoyancy of hope,—
He seems to doubt the firmness of the earth;—
Uncertainty his quick eye hath subdued,—
Disgust and apathy have swollen his lips;—
Fierceness and tenderness extreme have blent
Around him,—and he goes forth yet to bear,
And search, and suffer, and enjoy, and weep,
And laugh, and slumber evermore, between
The gusts of his midsummer-day of life.
His hair alone remains unchanged and bright,
Like clouds through which the sun sheds red and gold.
Heavy upon his shoulders bent and browned
It falls, as by the Euphrates and Nile
Those whispering demons cluster round his path,
Feeding his dizzy ear with fabulous lore.
Westward or northward, which I may not say,
Or southward, for not one Lyremmos now
But many seem to travel: some in gloom,
Some fierce as maniacs; one, the stateliest form,
Passes to Egypt, yet how changed is he!
His step hath lost the buoyancy of hope,—
He seems to doubt the firmness of the earth;—
Uncertainty his quick eye hath subdued,—
Disgust and apathy have swollen his lips;—
Fierceness and tenderness extreme have blent
Around him,—and he goes forth yet to bear,
And search, and suffer, and enjoy, and weep,
And laugh, and slumber evermore, between
The gusts of his midsummer-day of life.
His hair alone remains unchanged and bright,
Like clouds through which the sun sheds red and gold.
Heavy upon his shoulders bent and browned
It falls, as by the Euphrates and Nile
Those whispering demons cluster round his path,
Feeding his dizzy ear with fabulous lore.
50
1.
“We hold the wondrous records that embalmThis youngling world. Sprang it not forth, a birth
Of rending flames and sunless waves, that rolled
Without a shore? We sing of Gods—of God—
Of that time when the triple-spirit woke,
A time beyond time, spirit beyond Gods.
The eye of the great snake, is it not seen
By the enlightened? The primordial shell
Of the slow mover, bears it not the small-eyed,
Upon whose head this crowning world doth rest?”
2.
“We have with mystic chisel in the depthsOf hollow mountains symbolled truths on stone,
Revealed by Crishna and the darkest Hermes,
Ere Typhon made men slaves of sin. Behold!
Ten thousand steps go down to these great caves,
Steps unseen, save by those whose hand we hold.
Descend to wisdom and forgotten lore!
The iron gates, the brazen and the golden,
Open we now. The hieroglyphs reveal we
When the great oath and curse have been imposed.
Our hands have formed—shall we not understand
The horned and the hundred-handed, bright
51
Processions infinite, and death-boats filled
By nether species, and winged runners armed
With lion's claws, those statues multiform,
Whose eyelids have not closed upon the dark,
Nor their ears slumbered in the silentness,
Throughout a thousand years of chance and change
In the sun's light, whom Spring hath not approached,
Save as a drop from the incumbent world
Of vegetation oozing. Are not all
Instinct with fire, with vital truth replete?
And wilt thou not explore?”
3.
“We are the guides!With rings, and cups, and potions that revive
The everlasting in the weak and dark,
Breaking the grave-sleep; to our ears, through force
Of terrible ordeals made to hear,—
Minister gods and spirits, by sweet fires,
Circles, and charms, evoked. Now firmly hold
This key red-heated, this green serpent bind
Around thy temples—hear ye not the sounds
Of voices everywhere, all beasts, all trees,
Streams, hills, declaring unto thee?”
52
4.
“We hear!We will instruct! Look upward, and not down:
Passions disperse and visible things despise:
The multitudes of hands of laboring castes
Obedient, make a way into the clouds.
We shall ascend to stars, and on the path
Imperial of the zodiac be no more
Controlled, but the controllers strong become.
Ether's recesses entering by our fire,
With zonéd deities o'er the corporal heaven
Consorting, and beholding the great Sire.
For all live by one fire, and by one light
All see, although the father, having formed
The Earth, consigned it to the second mind,
Which men, mistaken, call the soul and First.”
5.
“Come with us—we are the elected ones,And we will lead thee: raise the altar, slay
The spotless beast, pour out the oils, and wave
In aromatic smoke the sacrifice.
Is there not magic, and oracular cries
Of demons—natural magic, to drive back
Pestilence, blight; theurgic to command
53
The infinite secret. Come with us alone,
Is not the truth in nature, and the curse
Is it not in the bone;—for science can
Exorcise Death with arcane rites, and knowledge
Of constellated planets. Joyful are we!
For knowledge doth exempt us from all toils.
Yet are the laborers and the princes ours
As instruments of civilizing might:
Nailing strong boughs to stem the unknown seas;
Penetrating into the northern ice,
Conquering every force by land or sea,
Traversing every wilderness, exploring
Cavern, snowy peak, and forest endless,
Where live chimeras on the verge of chaos.
Do we not know, and is not knowledge life—
Shall we not fashion temples for new gods.
Gods of our own whose thrones Lyremmos reared
In his hard strife with mundance obstacles.
And adding to ourselves new luxuries,
Make rainbow-light with art upon the walls,
And odorous airs obey us, we shall live
In melody and song and mirth disrobed,
And an accumulated luxury,
54
Laurel, nepenthé, and the clouds of incense,
Couched on the golden and gemmed height, shall power
Stretch out his sceptre, and the trembling slave
Stand between him and pain, care, toil, or age,
For are not kings the sons of gods—themselves
Beloved by Gods and by the priests revered?”
III.
So muttered the good demons, good yet wrong—
Good—for ambition is the thirst for better,
And in an untried waste all paths explores;
Wrong—for a part is not the whole—nor sense
The avenue of spirit and of truth,
Nor happiness a conquest. But anon
The earth was overwhelmed with towers and shrines,
Various as insects, numerous as the stars,
Terrible as the soul of man. Behold!
Is it not still the same, a spectacle
Of wonder to the gods who visit us
From time to time, and who as yet have been
Only additions to these phantasies.
Good yet wrong—for sense remains the same,
Nor can man e'er be free but by the spirit,—
The Reason working by the Will, a will
Involuntary as the acts of Nature.
Good—for ambition is the thirst for better,
And in an untried waste all paths explores;
Wrong—for a part is not the whole—nor sense
The avenue of spirit and of truth,
Nor happiness a conquest. But anon
The earth was overwhelmed with towers and shrines,
Various as insects, numerous as the stars,
Terrible as the soul of man. Behold!
Is it not still the same, a spectacle
Of wonder to the gods who visit us
From time to time, and who as yet have been
Only additions to these phantasies.
55
Nor can man e'er be free but by the spirit,—
The Reason working by the Will, a will
Involuntary as the acts of Nature.
This Will with co-existent force, a creed
Lends to the mind,—men call it Faith: the soul
Meanwhile, within its sanctuary void,
Remaining silent.
Lends to the mind,—men call it Faith: the soul
Meanwhile, within its sanctuary void,
Remaining silent.
Reader! it may be
Thy law of life to live by knowledge only;
And what cannot be known precisely, is not
At all to thee. If so, there are few words
Beyond experience for thee, and few truths
Beyond the outward. All that may not bear
This test thou callest mystical and vain.
I too would fain have knowledge for my guide,
In every day a common life to lead,
Conforming to the mould of time. But not
Utterly thus confined, I would revere
All language of the spirit, and announce
A mighty sphere, in which the Known revolves
Narrowly circumscribed; the mystical
Being the throes and longings of the soul
To realize this sphere to its own Present.
And, Reader! is not this thy faith likewise?
Some church or chapel hast thou not, with prayers;
Which, though thou may'st suppose thy reasoning reaches,
Yet leads thee inward to the Infinite?
Thy law of life to live by knowledge only;
And what cannot be known precisely, is not
At all to thee. If so, there are few words
Beyond experience for thee, and few truths
Beyond the outward. All that may not bear
This test thou callest mystical and vain.
I too would fain have knowledge for my guide,
In every day a common life to lead,
Conforming to the mould of time. But not
Utterly thus confined, I would revere
All language of the spirit, and announce
56
Narrowly circumscribed; the mystical
Being the throes and longings of the soul
To realize this sphere to its own Present.
And, Reader! is not this thy faith likewise?
Some church or chapel hast thou not, with prayers;
Which, though thou may'st suppose thy reasoning reaches,
Yet leads thee inward to the Infinite?
Moreover, if this form which thou dost hold
Is unto thee the only form of life—
I also am thy brother, not by bond
Of sympathy, but being fixed like thee.
For hitherto my nature hath advanced
Steadily to a peaceful faith. And so,
(Because each man his own soul must redeem—
And only for those ready to receive
I write, whose eyes could speak to mine) at once,
I pray thee lay the book upon the shelf.
Is unto thee the only form of life—
I also am thy brother, not by bond
Of sympathy, but being fixed like thee.
For hitherto my nature hath advanced
Steadily to a peaceful faith. And so,
(Because each man his own soul must redeem—
And only for those ready to receive
I write, whose eyes could speak to mine) at once,
I pray thee lay the book upon the shelf.
This mystical, oh! is it not the food
Of hope which makes all nature glad; the gift
Of stars which recompenses us for night.
And fable is the garb which to our eyes
Makes visible the spiritual subtilties;
And poetry is the harmonious voice
Of thought and feeling, moving so together
That words acquire the bridal sound of song.
57
Of stars which recompenses us for night.
And fable is the garb which to our eyes
Makes visible the spiritual subtilties;
And poetry is the harmonious voice
Of thought and feeling, moving so together
That words acquire the bridal sound of song.
IV.
A noise ascends into the firmament
From the broad world; the noise of many feet
Passing continually to and fro;
Of many hands employed with helpful tools;
Of many tongues directing, or in prayer
To be directed. Also is there heard
Much joy, though mostly in the young; much mirth,
Though often fevered; and the bounteous year
Continually changing, scatters flowers,
Nurturing secret smiles; and yet withal
Is there not pain and many sighs and groans
From overladen and exhausted hearts?
For not to them the due sun rises fair,
Or providential Ceres plenty brings,
Or life is angel visited, or by gods
Pervaded with ecstatic influences.
Their brows have sunk above the lustreless
Pale eyes; untwisted is the genial curve
Of lip, where horrent the stark teeth appear.
Dreadful to tell, the beaten back is scarred,
The limbs are shrunken, and they must obey.
Over the desert north they swarm amain,
Fleeing before the elder and the tyrant,—
Adventuring with untired prows through storms,—
Courage still waving her inspiring arm
In the dark van—encamping in the waste
With claim of novel sov'reignties and wants.
From the broad world; the noise of many feet
Passing continually to and fro;
Of many hands employed with helpful tools;
Of many tongues directing, or in prayer
To be directed. Also is there heard
Much joy, though mostly in the young; much mirth,
Though often fevered; and the bounteous year
Continually changing, scatters flowers,
Nurturing secret smiles; and yet withal
Is there not pain and many sighs and groans
From overladen and exhausted hearts?
For not to them the due sun rises fair,
58
Or life is angel visited, or by gods
Pervaded with ecstatic influences.
Their brows have sunk above the lustreless
Pale eyes; untwisted is the genial curve
Of lip, where horrent the stark teeth appear.
Dreadful to tell, the beaten back is scarred,
The limbs are shrunken, and they must obey.
Over the desert north they swarm amain,
Fleeing before the elder and the tyrant,—
Adventuring with untired prows through storms,—
Courage still waving her inspiring arm
In the dark van—encamping in the waste
With claim of novel sov'reignties and wants.
What madness seizes him, what strife he bears
Everywhere with him, and devouring thirst
To have, and have alone unshared. I lack!
I lack! continually groaning cries
The man, and in this want creates new cares.
The glittering bands advance, with knife and bow
Guarded; old men with gold upon their breasts,
And soddened eyes, and withered ears, give gold,—
Give and receive,—bartering slaves, the young,
The well-beloved of nature; men unbent,
Save by the curse in Eden uttered; women
With unawakened hearts. How many tears
Must fall e'er resignation can embalm
The arid spirit, and how many pains
Distort the limbs till sense forsakes. I see
Humility and love by their long hair
Dragged on the ground, and the sweet voice become
Jabbering frenzy: for that power is cruel
Which cannot make, but only can command.
Within his cedern walls and veils, secure
That the wind flares not his myrrhed tripod-light,
The powerful, with dark visage, on his couch
Leans, listening to the travail of the storm;
And with vile vows of offered hecatombs,
For force still ministers with fear, he prays!
And evermore the weary are released
By death regenerating; Death, the king
Unhonored, arbiter of man with nature.
In mountain and in valley doth the priest
Resign him to the soil; the waves also
Claim their just share; the north-wind rends the sail.
Fair sea-nymphs! ye have seen him in your caves
Abhorred fall.
Everywhere with him, and devouring thirst
To have, and have alone unshared. I lack!
I lack! continually groaning cries
The man, and in this want creates new cares.
The glittering bands advance, with knife and bow
Guarded; old men with gold upon their breasts,
And soddened eyes, and withered ears, give gold,—
59
The well-beloved of nature; men unbent,
Save by the curse in Eden uttered; women
With unawakened hearts. How many tears
Must fall e'er resignation can embalm
The arid spirit, and how many pains
Distort the limbs till sense forsakes. I see
Humility and love by their long hair
Dragged on the ground, and the sweet voice become
Jabbering frenzy: for that power is cruel
Which cannot make, but only can command.
Within his cedern walls and veils, secure
That the wind flares not his myrrhed tripod-light,
The powerful, with dark visage, on his couch
Leans, listening to the travail of the storm;
And with vile vows of offered hecatombs,
For force still ministers with fear, he prays!
And evermore the weary are released
By death regenerating; Death, the king
Unhonored, arbiter of man with nature.
In mountain and in valley doth the priest
Resign him to the soil; the waves also
Claim their just share; the north-wind rends the sail.
Fair sea-nymphs! ye have seen him in your caves
Abhorred fall.
60
What shouts, what clang of arms,
What gathering of multitudes all armed,—
Much is there which cannot be borne, and much,
Children of men, not thus to be destroyed!
Kings crowned advance on crownéd Kings, with gleam
Of purple housings and mailed giants. Now
They meet with stunning clang and sound of trump,
Trampling of horse, and fire. Knee strained to knee,
And eye to eye with basilisk destruction,
The thirsting iron spills the wine of life;
Eyes darken in the blood-bath,—over them
New foes contending meet, and forward, still
Hurtling towards this whirlwind, young and old,
Smitten with madness, rush. The trumpet's cry
Continues still throughout the shrieking streets—
Over the palaces and pyramids.
Woman and sphynx and priest are ghastly pale
Behind the brazen gates; but on the wall
The mailed are thronging—from without ascend
Exultingly a thousand climbers. Down!
The crushing stones descend, and arrowy shower!
The alien athletæ sink; yet more
Succeed with straining engines. Ha! what flames
Lash round them! gates expand—the sword completes
The work with flight and triumph and still death.
High prows are veering round unto the waves
Shrouded in smoke, while clapping of glad hands
Sounds on all paths, and round about each shrine
The multitude of dancers sing for joy.
What gathering of multitudes all armed,—
Much is there which cannot be borne, and much,
Children of men, not thus to be destroyed!
Kings crowned advance on crownéd Kings, with gleam
Of purple housings and mailed giants. Now
They meet with stunning clang and sound of trump,
Trampling of horse, and fire. Knee strained to knee,
And eye to eye with basilisk destruction,
The thirsting iron spills the wine of life;
Eyes darken in the blood-bath,—over them
New foes contending meet, and forward, still
Hurtling towards this whirlwind, young and old,
Smitten with madness, rush. The trumpet's cry
Continues still throughout the shrieking streets—
Over the palaces and pyramids.
Woman and sphynx and priest are ghastly pale
Behind the brazen gates; but on the wall
The mailed are thronging—from without ascend
Exultingly a thousand climbers. Down!
The crushing stones descend, and arrowy shower!
The alien athletæ sink; yet more
Succeed with straining engines. Ha! what flames
Lash round them! gates expand—the sword completes
The work with flight and triumph and still death.
61
Shrouded in smoke, while clapping of glad hands
Sounds on all paths, and round about each shrine
The multitude of dancers sing for joy.
Lyremmos! have these whispering dreams all fled,
That wolfish yells now reach thine ears alone;
Hast thou resigned all hope, all memory lost
Of primal peace and thy great aspiration?
By Sinai wandering long, what caravan
Escaped from the Egyptian, fed by heaven,
And guided by a kingly patriarch, rests?
Unto those eyes the wonders of the God
Have been revealed; unto those hands consigned
The written law with thunder and through fire.
Is this the wanderer still, from land to land
Passing untired? With ephod, and the sound
Of bells about his skirts, within the veil
He enters, and the past in parable
Is unto him revealed,—the pure repose
Of Eden—the declension and the toil:
Thy toil, Lyremmos, and thy future joy—
Conqueror through Divinity descending.
Appears he yet again upon the deck
Of ships on Adrian and on Ægean waves,
Whose prores are painted with Egyptian eyes,—
Fair in eternal youth he doth appear,
Although with pride debased and wilful force,—
Upon his potent arm an ægis hangs,
Molten with conclave gods; upon his head
The Phrygian tire with stars; and on his brow,
Great as a lion's, calmness, and the joy
Supreme and sweet of arts and flowing numbers.
The dark green waves rejoice around his helm,
And Tritons herald him with shell and shout,
And gambollings grotesque with supple nymphs.
The shores to which he sails with love awake
And claim their lordly bridegroom, everywhere
Vocal with sweetest verse, oracular
With nature deified; and genial shrines
Men dedicate to man, with hands inspired,
Appear. Among the isles, by Carian strands,
Within Etrurian towns, fair gods are born
From human attributes,—Strength, with his club;
Beauty and earthly Love are there; and Force,
With bloody arms; and Art, with hammer clanging.
And Wisdom robed, and Manhood over heaven
Guiding the sun, and Womanhood the moon,
Partially understood, but very fair;
Ceres the bountiful, and reverend Pan,
Lover of silence and of music. Now
He stoops into the Eleusinian shades,
Beautiful fables of Arcadian years
About his heart. The arcane comedy
Fills him with gladness, like a pleasant dream.
From the bright flowers of Enna's meads she sinks,—
Proserpine sinks with Pluto; she looks back,
But she hath tasted, and she must abide
What change the mixéd potion shall perform;
Until emerging she beholds again
Her mother Ceres and autumnal plains.
“I've taken from the Cista's sacred verge
Things arcane: into the Calathus formed
For terrene fruits I've flung them. Hence again
I must retake them.” Thus he doth repeat,
And trembles as he feels that of his search
This might be hieroglyphic. The great sage
Of Samos speaks to him revivingly.
That wolfish yells now reach thine ears alone;
Hast thou resigned all hope, all memory lost
Of primal peace and thy great aspiration?
By Sinai wandering long, what caravan
Escaped from the Egyptian, fed by heaven,
And guided by a kingly patriarch, rests?
Unto those eyes the wonders of the God
Have been revealed; unto those hands consigned
The written law with thunder and through fire.
Is this the wanderer still, from land to land
Passing untired? With ephod, and the sound
Of bells about his skirts, within the veil
He enters, and the past in parable
Is unto him revealed,—the pure repose
Of Eden—the declension and the toil:
Thy toil, Lyremmos, and thy future joy—
Conqueror through Divinity descending.
62
Of ships on Adrian and on Ægean waves,
Whose prores are painted with Egyptian eyes,—
Fair in eternal youth he doth appear,
Although with pride debased and wilful force,—
Upon his potent arm an ægis hangs,
Molten with conclave gods; upon his head
The Phrygian tire with stars; and on his brow,
Great as a lion's, calmness, and the joy
Supreme and sweet of arts and flowing numbers.
The dark green waves rejoice around his helm,
And Tritons herald him with shell and shout,
And gambollings grotesque with supple nymphs.
The shores to which he sails with love awake
And claim their lordly bridegroom, everywhere
Vocal with sweetest verse, oracular
With nature deified; and genial shrines
Men dedicate to man, with hands inspired,
Appear. Among the isles, by Carian strands,
Within Etrurian towns, fair gods are born
From human attributes,—Strength, with his club;
Beauty and earthly Love are there; and Force,
With bloody arms; and Art, with hammer clanging.
And Wisdom robed, and Manhood over heaven
63
Partially understood, but very fair;
Ceres the bountiful, and reverend Pan,
Lover of silence and of music. Now
He stoops into the Eleusinian shades,
Beautiful fables of Arcadian years
About his heart. The arcane comedy
Fills him with gladness, like a pleasant dream.
From the bright flowers of Enna's meads she sinks,—
Proserpine sinks with Pluto; she looks back,
But she hath tasted, and she must abide
What change the mixéd potion shall perform;
Until emerging she beholds again
Her mother Ceres and autumnal plains.
“I've taken from the Cista's sacred verge
Things arcane: into the Calathus formed
For terrene fruits I've flung them. Hence again
I must retake them.” Thus he doth repeat,
And trembles as he feels that of his search
This might be hieroglyphic. The great sage
Of Samos speaks to him revivingly.
“Revere the gods immortal, first fo all;
Next thine own verity; the Oath revere:
Revere the heroes: to terrestrial demons
Render the natural worship: to thy sire
And to thy mother honor give likewise,
And love unto thy friend with constancy.
64
Revere the heroes: to terrestrial demons
Render the natural worship: to thy sire
And to thy mother honor give likewise,
And love unto thy friend with constancy.
“These things are well: and next for fleshly ills.
Much, I beseech thee, much command, for life
Is nourished through those appetites which cry
Give, give! continually, and would fain
Be themselves rulers and not ministers.
Nor eating, nor reposing, nor in wrath,
Nor in desire, be more nor less than just;
For shame is raised by these 'twixt us and heaven,
And good becomes reversed, no more with light
Descending, but exhaling from beneath.
For is not man the temple and the god
At once? So reverence thyself, O man,
Above all things.
Much, I beseech thee, much command, for life
Is nourished through those appetites which cry
Give, give! continually, and would fain
Be themselves rulers and not ministers.
Nor eating, nor reposing, nor in wrath,
Nor in desire, be more nor less than just;
For shame is raised by these 'twixt us and heaven,
And good becomes reversed, no more with light
Descending, but exhaling from beneath.
For is not man the temple and the god
At once? So reverence thyself, O man,
Above all things.
“The body and the soul
Are two; the active mind between them reigns.
Observe the right in action and in word;
Beware of Custom, reason evermore
Still turning to this truth, that fortune's wares
Are mobile as the withering leaves of trees—
Value them not: patience! and persevere
Without them; fate is wise unto the good,
And all men die—yea, death is ever near.
Strange theorems, beware of them; give place;
Be not seduced; by understanding act;
By reasoning believe; deliberate:
In all things mediocrity is best.
When night descends, and to the couch comes sleep
Softly on tiptoe, let her not, until
With forehead on thy hand thou scrutinize
The past day, good or ill, but hour by hour,
If ill, determine, and if good rejoice.
These ways are true, they are divine; I swear
By Him who made the Soul, and planted there
The fixed idea of the universe.
Are two; the active mind between them reigns.
65
Beware of Custom, reason evermore
Still turning to this truth, that fortune's wares
Are mobile as the withering leaves of trees—
Value them not: patience! and persevere
Without them; fate is wise unto the good,
And all men die—yea, death is ever near.
Strange theorems, beware of them; give place;
Be not seduced; by understanding act;
By reasoning believe; deliberate:
In all things mediocrity is best.
When night descends, and to the couch comes sleep
Softly on tiptoe, let her not, until
With forehead on thy hand thou scrutinize
The past day, good or ill, but hour by hour,
If ill, determine, and if good rejoice.
These ways are true, they are divine; I swear
By Him who made the Soul, and planted there
The fixed idea of the universe.
“Of spirit: pray to God; by use of prayer
Thou wilt approach Divinity, and know
The constitution both of gods and men.
Men shut their eyes and go astray; the good
Is nearest, but they see it not, alas!
Erring, still erring. Zeus, father-power!
Deliver us, or show us our own souls.
Courage, my brethren! are we not divine?
All sacred nature's holiest mysteries
To us are given, and when life's coil is wound,
Transformed the wise shall verily be gods.”
Thou wilt approach Divinity, and know
The constitution both of gods and men.
66
Is nearest, but they see it not, alas!
Erring, still erring. Zeus, father-power!
Deliver us, or show us our own souls.
Courage, my brethren! are we not divine?
All sacred nature's holiest mysteries
To us are given, and when life's coil is wound,
Transformed the wise shall verily be gods.”
IV. PART FOURTH. THE JOURNEY CONTINUES.
The Advent. Pantheism gives place to Unity; the worship of the Comparative Best to the Doctrine of Divine Love. The Song of the Moral. Modern life.
71
I.
So spake the wise. Upon Athenian streets
Each man his ample tunic wore, confined
By golden clasp, self-satisfied and built
In the proud arrogance of kingliest rights;
While the large cubs beside the Tyber nursed,
Strengthened into ungovernable wolves.
Everywhere gods—but gods like men—and men
Aspiring to be gods, Lyremmos saw,—
Saw, and was wildered by the depths of things;
For is it not the partial truth that swims
Beneath, or gilds the surface of all creeds,
Laws, arts, which fights against the absolute truth?
Truth, and not error, is our enemy—
A relative and half-seen truth, which seems
Perfect, because the flower of its own age,—
Because it is more fair than all the past,
And burns against the blackness of the future.
White tunics, brazen arms, and cinctured brows,
In charioteered array, are thronging past.
Oxen, milk white and filleted with flowers,
Follow the small bright axes of the priests.
Thickens the hum in the dense theatre,—
The rushing wheels are heard, and rival steeds
Pawing the crimson dust—both gods and men
Pause, breathless; crownéd heads bend o'er the poles,
And shake the impetuous lash. The sinewy-armed
Leap into the arena, and contend
With measured grasp and sudden artifice;
A stately nation deifies the victor,
And an imperious poetry uplifts
Her wondrous torch, and on the poet's brow
The evergreen of honorable fame
Alights, and he, too, is a god: behold,
The incense is before him, and its breath
Intoxicating floats around his throne.
The Teian lyre at intervals is heard,
And to its call the fair-limbed dancers throng.
The sweet pipe wanders through its high discourse,
Tongued softly,—now a louder measure stirs
The languid blood, like quivering lightning: hushed
At once, as the choragus strikes the ground,
Silence leads in the terrors of the scene,
With its grand argument of fate and death,
Heroic passions, mortal demigods.
Everywhere shines the sun on marble shrines,
Everywhere on the emblems of the gods.
Oh, fairest work that yet the soul and hand
Jointly have realized, advancing even
Up to the speechless presence of the perfect;
Even to the Idea by which power
Is one with rest: the casual and the false,
And the express annulled! With golden staff
And crimson mantle stands the honored sculptor.
Each man his ample tunic wore, confined
By golden clasp, self-satisfied and built
In the proud arrogance of kingliest rights;
While the large cubs beside the Tyber nursed,
Strengthened into ungovernable wolves.
Everywhere gods—but gods like men—and men
Aspiring to be gods, Lyremmos saw,—
Saw, and was wildered by the depths of things;
For is it not the partial truth that swims
Beneath, or gilds the surface of all creeds,
Laws, arts, which fights against the absolute truth?
Truth, and not error, is our enemy—
A relative and half-seen truth, which seems
Perfect, because the flower of its own age,—
Because it is more fair than all the past,
And burns against the blackness of the future.
White tunics, brazen arms, and cinctured brows,
72
Oxen, milk white and filleted with flowers,
Follow the small bright axes of the priests.
Thickens the hum in the dense theatre,—
The rushing wheels are heard, and rival steeds
Pawing the crimson dust—both gods and men
Pause, breathless; crownéd heads bend o'er the poles,
And shake the impetuous lash. The sinewy-armed
Leap into the arena, and contend
With measured grasp and sudden artifice;
A stately nation deifies the victor,
And an imperious poetry uplifts
Her wondrous torch, and on the poet's brow
The evergreen of honorable fame
Alights, and he, too, is a god: behold,
The incense is before him, and its breath
Intoxicating floats around his throne.
The Teian lyre at intervals is heard,
And to its call the fair-limbed dancers throng.
The sweet pipe wanders through its high discourse,
Tongued softly,—now a louder measure stirs
The languid blood, like quivering lightning: hushed
At once, as the choragus strikes the ground,
Silence leads in the terrors of the scene,
73
Heroic passions, mortal demigods.
Everywhere shines the sun on marble shrines,
Everywhere on the emblems of the gods.
Oh, fairest work that yet the soul and hand
Jointly have realized, advancing even
Up to the speechless presence of the perfect;
Even to the Idea by which power
Is one with rest: the casual and the false,
And the express annulled! With golden staff
And crimson mantle stands the honored sculptor.
A sense of change creeps through the earth like spring;
Another change; the Journey lies still on,
And the refreshéd traveller from the Porch,
Whither with hope and joy he had repaired,
Hurries to meet the birth of coming years.
The giant of the Tyber towards all shores
Thrusts his insatiate spear; no more the waste
Harbours chimeras, or a ridge of hills
Bounds the known world. Is not the strongest king?
The sword interrogates, nor waits reply,
But ruthlessly affirms his right with blood.
Isis appears in Rome, and Roman gods
Share with Osiris Alexandria's fanes,—
Adonis is forgot by Syrian maids
With annual outgoings and lamentings sweet,—
The voice from Delphi's cavern faltering fails,—
Mithras bewails th' unfrequent sacrifice,
As magi gaze upon propitious stars,
And with mute confidence await their Lord;
The Hebrew groans beneath the iron hand
Of the sword-bearer, and prophetic shrieks,
With gnostic mysticism by the gates
Of Solomon, have long been heard: all eyes
Wait for the advent of the Holy One.
Who shall describe Him, the new conqueror,
The promised one of old? With greater force
Opposing force, shall he with sound of trump
Be a triumphant swordsman? Shall he come
Learnéd and wise, a sage among the sage,
Illumining the great profound. He comes!
“Great Pan is dead,” the pilot hears becalmed;
“Great Pan is dead,” he hears repeated thrice
On the wide sea, as if it were the moon
Uttering to the deep this mystery.
Crumble all temples, and expire all flames
Hitherto ever burning on the shrines:
Let the white smoke upon all altars cease;
Free ye the filleted heifer and the lamb!
Another change; the Journey lies still on,
And the refreshéd traveller from the Porch,
Whither with hope and joy he had repaired,
Hurries to meet the birth of coming years.
The giant of the Tyber towards all shores
Thrusts his insatiate spear; no more the waste
Harbours chimeras, or a ridge of hills
Bounds the known world. Is not the strongest king?
The sword interrogates, nor waits reply,
But ruthlessly affirms his right with blood.
74
Share with Osiris Alexandria's fanes,—
Adonis is forgot by Syrian maids
With annual outgoings and lamentings sweet,—
The voice from Delphi's cavern faltering fails,—
Mithras bewails th' unfrequent sacrifice,
As magi gaze upon propitious stars,
And with mute confidence await their Lord;
The Hebrew groans beneath the iron hand
Of the sword-bearer, and prophetic shrieks,
With gnostic mysticism by the gates
Of Solomon, have long been heard: all eyes
Wait for the advent of the Holy One.
Who shall describe Him, the new conqueror,
The promised one of old? With greater force
Opposing force, shall he with sound of trump
Be a triumphant swordsman? Shall he come
Learnéd and wise, a sage among the sage,
Illumining the great profound. He comes!
“Great Pan is dead,” the pilot hears becalmed;
“Great Pan is dead,” he hears repeated thrice
On the wide sea, as if it were the moon
Uttering to the deep this mystery.
Crumble all temples, and expire all flames
75
Let the white smoke upon all altars cease;
Free ye the filleted heifer and the lamb!
A youth sits singing on a fair flower-field,
Of marvellous beauty and of strength unknown.
Naked as at his birth, save that his neck,
His ancles, and his wrists, bore many strings
Of diamond and of amber, and his hair
Fell black unto his loins, with fragrant oil
Anointed. Through this hair his gracious eyes
Looked lovingly around upon all things;
Albeit the long eyelash seemed to lend
An indolence, and threaten hasty night
To each emotion, and his parted lips
Wavered between a sorrow and a joy,
As if surprise was their continual guest.
Upon the green earth, thick with flowers, he sat:
But chief of all these flowers narcissus grew,
And by the Nile, which kissed that flowery mead,
The lotus. With a subtle active hand
Wrought he in red clay from the caverned ground,
Small lares and penates infinite
In symbols and device, and as he wrought,
Orphic rhapsodies to the earth sang he,
And the sweet tale of Psyche lately taught
By the great sage.
Of marvellous beauty and of strength unknown.
Naked as at his birth, save that his neck,
His ancles, and his wrists, bore many strings
Of diamond and of amber, and his hair
Fell black unto his loins, with fragrant oil
Anointed. Through this hair his gracious eyes
Looked lovingly around upon all things;
Albeit the long eyelash seemed to lend
An indolence, and threaten hasty night
To each emotion, and his parted lips
Wavered between a sorrow and a joy,
As if surprise was their continual guest.
Upon the green earth, thick with flowers, he sat:
But chief of all these flowers narcissus grew,
And by the Nile, which kissed that flowery mead,
The lotus. With a subtle active hand
Wrought he in red clay from the caverned ground,
Small lares and penates infinite
76
Orphic rhapsodies to the earth sang he,
And the sweet tale of Psyche lately taught
By the great sage.
So sat he and so sang,
While the world went rejoicing through the heaven,
And the sun passed from sign to sign, and they,
The Man, the Woman, and the Child, appeared,
Pilgrims from Bethlehem. On an ass sat she,
And in her arms the child; her innocent hair
Drawn smoothly back beneath a dark blue hood,
Her meek eyes resting on her child's head: He,
The God and man at once, and yet a child,
Clad in a white shirt with a hem of gold;
Over his head a circle in the air,
An orbit as it seemed of subtlest lightning,
And holding in his hand a golden ball,
Looked with calm eyes right forth unto the youth
Singing beneath the curtain of his hair
Hymns to the earth, and carving symbol-gods.
While yet far off the influence of those eyes
So penetrated him — he stayed his work.
The old man led the ass straight on, intent
As it would seem on nought but harborage
At fitting hour at eve, but it stood still.
Throwing his wild head back, the vehement youth
And the calm child converséd, eye with eye.
“Who passes through this land from pyramid
To pyramid; from the gray distant east,
By lotus-bearing waters, to the west
Gray distant; from the golden gate of birth,
Where the sphynx watches, to the ebon doors
Where likewise sits she, though with closed eyelids.
Who can so journey by my flowery field,
Seeing me, whom mortal vision worships,
Without a votive or a suppliant sign,—
Belongeth he to water, or to air,—
Is he a brother? yet I know him not.”—
“Brother, in sooth,” replied the child, “in sooth
A brother, come to help thee. From all time
I have been coming; from the Infinite
I have been coming, and behold me now
Passing with tears into the Infinite.
Thy eyes are not as my eyes, yet behold
Thou understandest me, and seest the light
That burns around my head.”—“I see thee fair,
But not the fairness of our mighty mother
See I in thee; I feel thou art much love,
Yet art thou not the quiver-bearing god
With whom I fly into Elysium oft:
Still art thou great, for I, the Vigorous,
Before thy humble presence hold my breath;
But how canst thou be feared,—a nurse-borne child,—
An ass,—an old man? I am strong; these arms
Strong against all that live; am rich in shrines
Numberless; rich in arts, albeit live
Like the wild bee; but in thy nerveless arms
I see no ægis, no caduceus, staff,
Sceptre, nor club.”—“Thou sayest well; I know
That thou art strong as life, that never fails,
But is reborn of death; that thou art strong
Against the wind and wave and all that is:
Strong am I, also, as that life that flows
Outward from all minds, inward from all things,
To death unknown; strong not against but with.
For love most surely makes the mightiest serve
With sweet consent of soul, but not with bonds.
And for the signs of rule that thou hast named,
Are they not each peculiar to some act
Of force or knowledge all unfit for me?
But in their place behold this cross-crowned ball,
Sign of supremacy on earth; a sign
Thou knowest not, of sorrow dominant.”—
“Such speech is Typhon's: speakest thou of love,
Yet rulest thou by suffering? saidst thou not,
Thou wert my brother,—mine,—the singer ever
Of varied hymns unto the procreant earth
From whom I sprang, from whom sprang gods and men,
Who ordereth power, from whom flows happiness;
Who giveth laws to wisdom, by which laws
The souls of men ascend, becoming gods?”—
“I am thy brother, not alone of earth,
Which is as nothing, but because of spirit:
Spirit alike in all, for of himself
Man is but evil, and all men the same.
The universal Spirit I adore,
In Him I live, nor are there any gods
Save Him. The earth is manifold, but he
Is one; the mind of man hath many joys,
And of these joys the gods are fancied wards;
But there is one thing needful, one alone,
Which is to know the truth that all can learn,
And to have faith therein:—so that all joy,
All sorrow, learning, power, will be but seeming.”—
“Of Demogorgon I have heard, the spirit;
Com'st thou from him? if so, pass on thy way,
For I can never see his terrible sphere,
But shrink with fear extreme even at his name.
Pass on, dread child, who sing'st of unity:
In multitude I live with constant change,
With beauty everywhere, deformity
Everywhere also, and the ideal poised
In still recurring orbit overhead—
Many ideals, many orbits, lo!
I fashion them in pliant clay. And oft
An ear reluctant have I given to those
Who speak of Demogorgon, but no joy
Have they yet added to mine own. First came
An obscure utterance from the east, a voice
From the great Ganges, saying,—Energy,
Why livest thou so bold in good and ill,
In pain and pleasure; hold thyself retired;
Deny, be still, within the cause perceive
The action and result: content thyself
Without them; they are transient, turn thyself
Into the permanent within? I tried
With many pains, and with obliviousness,
Nor found I permanence. Then many came;
Voices from Egypt; voices from the schools
Hear I even now, in which rejoice I much,
Yet fear I more—for speak they not of spirit?
Pass on, dread child, who sing'st of unity.”—
“Pass I not on, for I have come to thee;
And this is what I bear from the great God,
Who made the creature man, to whom I speak.
That not by learning shall he reascend
Into the primal quiet of his being,
But as a little child he must become:
That not by sensuous pleasure shall he step
Within the circle of his happiness,
But as a virgin, with simplicity
Shielding her round and round, he must become.
Not by the rule of sceptre shall he gain
Nearer to sov'reignty, but by the heart
Shall he find rest in life; for happiness
Is an outgoing sympathy, and he
Who giveth most receiveth most: yea, He
Who giveth life receiveth life eternal.
Even for this cause came I into the world.”
The youth turned down his supplicating eyes
Unto the earth, as if to ask for help.
No answer did the earth return; those strange
And cunning figures that his hand had made
Melted away, the likeness of a cross
Remaining only; on his knees the youth
Bent humbly to the child with clasped hands.
While the world went rejoicing through the heaven,
And the sun passed from sign to sign, and they,
The Man, the Woman, and the Child, appeared,
Pilgrims from Bethlehem. On an ass sat she,
And in her arms the child; her innocent hair
Drawn smoothly back beneath a dark blue hood,
Her meek eyes resting on her child's head: He,
The God and man at once, and yet a child,
Clad in a white shirt with a hem of gold;
Over his head a circle in the air,
An orbit as it seemed of subtlest lightning,
And holding in his hand a golden ball,
Looked with calm eyes right forth unto the youth
Singing beneath the curtain of his hair
Hymns to the earth, and carving symbol-gods.
While yet far off the influence of those eyes
So penetrated him — he stayed his work.
77
As it would seem on nought but harborage
At fitting hour at eve, but it stood still.
Throwing his wild head back, the vehement youth
And the calm child converséd, eye with eye.
“Who passes through this land from pyramid
To pyramid; from the gray distant east,
By lotus-bearing waters, to the west
Gray distant; from the golden gate of birth,
Where the sphynx watches, to the ebon doors
Where likewise sits she, though with closed eyelids.
Who can so journey by my flowery field,
Seeing me, whom mortal vision worships,
Without a votive or a suppliant sign,—
Belongeth he to water, or to air,—
Is he a brother? yet I know him not.”—
“Brother, in sooth,” replied the child, “in sooth
A brother, come to help thee. From all time
I have been coming; from the Infinite
I have been coming, and behold me now
Passing with tears into the Infinite.
Thy eyes are not as my eyes, yet behold
Thou understandest me, and seest the light
That burns around my head.”—“I see thee fair,
78
See I in thee; I feel thou art much love,
Yet art thou not the quiver-bearing god
With whom I fly into Elysium oft:
Still art thou great, for I, the Vigorous,
Before thy humble presence hold my breath;
But how canst thou be feared,—a nurse-borne child,—
An ass,—an old man? I am strong; these arms
Strong against all that live; am rich in shrines
Numberless; rich in arts, albeit live
Like the wild bee; but in thy nerveless arms
I see no ægis, no caduceus, staff,
Sceptre, nor club.”—“Thou sayest well; I know
That thou art strong as life, that never fails,
But is reborn of death; that thou art strong
Against the wind and wave and all that is:
Strong am I, also, as that life that flows
Outward from all minds, inward from all things,
To death unknown; strong not against but with.
For love most surely makes the mightiest serve
With sweet consent of soul, but not with bonds.
And for the signs of rule that thou hast named,
Are they not each peculiar to some act
Of force or knowledge all unfit for me?
79
Sign of supremacy on earth; a sign
Thou knowest not, of sorrow dominant.”—
“Such speech is Typhon's: speakest thou of love,
Yet rulest thou by suffering? saidst thou not,
Thou wert my brother,—mine,—the singer ever
Of varied hymns unto the procreant earth
From whom I sprang, from whom sprang gods and men,
Who ordereth power, from whom flows happiness;
Who giveth laws to wisdom, by which laws
The souls of men ascend, becoming gods?”—
“I am thy brother, not alone of earth,
Which is as nothing, but because of spirit:
Spirit alike in all, for of himself
Man is but evil, and all men the same.
The universal Spirit I adore,
In Him I live, nor are there any gods
Save Him. The earth is manifold, but he
Is one; the mind of man hath many joys,
And of these joys the gods are fancied wards;
But there is one thing needful, one alone,
Which is to know the truth that all can learn,
And to have faith therein:—so that all joy,
80
“Of Demogorgon I have heard, the spirit;
Com'st thou from him? if so, pass on thy way,
For I can never see his terrible sphere,
But shrink with fear extreme even at his name.
Pass on, dread child, who sing'st of unity:
In multitude I live with constant change,
With beauty everywhere, deformity
Everywhere also, and the ideal poised
In still recurring orbit overhead—
Many ideals, many orbits, lo!
I fashion them in pliant clay. And oft
An ear reluctant have I given to those
Who speak of Demogorgon, but no joy
Have they yet added to mine own. First came
An obscure utterance from the east, a voice
From the great Ganges, saying,—Energy,
Why livest thou so bold in good and ill,
In pain and pleasure; hold thyself retired;
Deny, be still, within the cause perceive
The action and result: content thyself
Without them; they are transient, turn thyself
Into the permanent within? I tried
With many pains, and with obliviousness,
81
Voices from Egypt; voices from the schools
Hear I even now, in which rejoice I much,
Yet fear I more—for speak they not of spirit?
Pass on, dread child, who sing'st of unity.”—
“Pass I not on, for I have come to thee;
And this is what I bear from the great God,
Who made the creature man, to whom I speak.
That not by learning shall he reascend
Into the primal quiet of his being,
But as a little child he must become:
That not by sensuous pleasure shall he step
Within the circle of his happiness,
But as a virgin, with simplicity
Shielding her round and round, he must become.
Not by the rule of sceptre shall he gain
Nearer to sov'reignty, but by the heart
Shall he find rest in life; for happiness
Is an outgoing sympathy, and he
Who giveth most receiveth most: yea, He
Who giveth life receiveth life eternal.
Even for this cause came I into the world.”
82
Unto the earth, as if to ask for help.
No answer did the earth return; those strange
And cunning figures that his hand had made
Melted away, the likeness of a cross
Remaining only; on his knees the youth
Bent humbly to the child with clasped hands.
II.
The traveller urges on again, refreshed,Exalted, and yet humbled. Now at last
The heaven, his birthright, was revealed to him,
And in the dreams of his fond memory
That female form upon the Syrian ass
Seemed to have soothed him in his infancy.
But what obstruction meets him, and what pain;
For that redeeming advent brought no peace.
Yet travelled he with strenuous desire,
Kissing the broken-hearted, lifting up
The fallen; uttering thus his hopefulness:
“All now are brethren, and all sisters now!
Pan is not dead, but from the outer world,
83
And concourses of nature, to the heart
Of our humanity he hath come down:
Which beats now in clear harmony with heaven,
Harmony universal. Oh, good spirit!
Now childhood hath been glorified, henceforth
Respected as the perfect yet the helpless.
And manhood for the false shall strive no more,
But yield himself unto humility:
And womanhood shall walk with reverence
And honor, until this sweet hour unknown:
For sanctity existed but with fear
When man, the strong-armed, worshipped but himself.
And I rejoice that I have found at last
The treasure I have sought so blindly long,
The law of love divine, which reconciles
The world of careful pain with happy heaven.
Oft have I turned my face with weariness
From the proud passages of priests and kings,—
My ear from the discourses of the wise,
With arrogant eyes upraised as if they saw
Their own apotheosis in the clouds.—
Now the white lily at each gate shall grow,
And meekness as a handmaid wait within.
84
Answering prayer, and all the world rejoice.
Blessed are ye, my brethren, who are poor;
Blessed are the unlearnéd, unto whom
Our Father can more freely enter in:
Blessed the merciful, for they shall have
Mercy,—the earnest after righteousness,
For surely they shall find it. Free the slave
From villain bonds, and let the greatest serve!
Oft have I listened to the sage, who deemed
His logic reached unto the verge of things,
Out-through the terrene and the spiritual world,
Who yet saw nought, but his own eloquent arms
Waved in the dusk air; neither could he hear,
Save his own tongue responsive to blind dream.
He shall no more be reverenced by men.
The great apostles have gone forth to teach;
Love, Zeal. and Perseverance be the names
Of the three best belovéd by their Lord—
They have gone forth to teach, and unto death
Shall they fulfil their mission, and all lands
Resign the sword, the sceptre, and the chain.”
85
Who hath not tired nor ever hath despaired,
Rejoicéd he had known the blameless man,
Rejoicéd in the region of the moral!
And saw the cross from man to man sent on,
From woman to woman given with grateful tears
And kisses, saintly kisses. Ah, my God!
That it had ever been as it was then.
From Church to Church the sign transmitted spreads,
Till all the coasts of the mid-terrene sea
Sing praises to Messiah: through the ice
Of the Sarmatian winter—through the storms
And mists to Thule is the soft hymn heard.
III.
Whence is this novel doctrine, spiritual theme
Of strange equality, renouncing state,
Order, subordination, war, and gain?
Who is the king they place above us all,
So honoring his speech beyond our edicts?
Bring him forth, those who follow him bring forth—
That they may die, and so our power, whom Jove
Doth make to rule on earth may firm remain.
Do they not hold by him whose shameful end
Was prayed for by his tribe; do they not hold
That sacred Delphi is a demon-voice,
That all the gods are demons or mere dreams?
Atheists are they not, unheard-of men,
Who are as beasts, whom reason cannot reach?
Bring them before us, that by their just death
The pure theocracy be sacred held.
Of strange equality, renouncing state,
Order, subordination, war, and gain?
Who is the king they place above us all,
So honoring his speech beyond our edicts?
Bring him forth, those who follow him bring forth—
That they may die, and so our power, whom Jove
Doth make to rule on earth may firm remain.
86
Was prayed for by his tribe; do they not hold
That sacred Delphi is a demon-voice,
That all the gods are demons or mere dreams?
Atheists are they not, unheard-of men,
Who are as beasts, whom reason cannot reach?
Bring them before us, that by their just death
The pure theocracy be sacred held.
Citizens! what impiety appears
Amongst us, knocking even at our doors,
Unveiling women, drinking children's blood!
Shall we have games and festivals no more?
Triumphs no more, nor arts, nor capitols,
Nor golden tissue for the weavers' trade?
All learning and all knowledge,—shall they cease,
And we stand naked to barbarians' swords?
The people's voice hath said that they must die.
Amongst us, knocking even at our doors,
Unveiling women, drinking children's blood!
Shall we have games and festivals no more?
Triumphs no more, nor arts, nor capitols,
Nor golden tissue for the weavers' trade?
All learning and all knowledge,—shall they cease,
And we stand naked to barbarians' swords?
The people's voice hath said that they must die.
Such were the loud responses to those hymns,
Heard with sweet concords through the under paths
Of social life; and such the fierce reply
To the love-prompted utterers of the word.
They died, but perished not. Above all pain,
By which antagonism strives for power,
Those sweet concords increased: with changing words
Increaséd they; alas! with changeful words:
With words which are the mortal vestments thought
Appears in at the altar of the mind,—
Thought, the immortal and untangible,
The ruler of the act;—with changeful words
Those sweet concords increased upon the ear,
And left the heart as barren as before.
Too simple for the learning of the past,
Too unadorned to reign above the senses,
Too naked for the buskined pride of youth,
Which then was this world's epoch; gnostic lore
Came with its theologic fantasy,
Building hierarchies, and seven heavens
With their degrees of beatific joys,
And a like mystic number of dark hells.
Initiatory sacrament and sign
Drew the hushed flocks together in the night.
Missives of shepherds become canons holy:
The shepherds tribute-gifted, and their crooks
Gem-crusted gold!
Heard with sweet concords through the under paths
Of social life; and such the fierce reply
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They died, but perished not. Above all pain,
By which antagonism strives for power,
Those sweet concords increased: with changing words
Increaséd they; alas! with changeful words:
With words which are the mortal vestments thought
Appears in at the altar of the mind,—
Thought, the immortal and untangible,
The ruler of the act;—with changeful words
Those sweet concords increased upon the ear,
And left the heart as barren as before.
Too simple for the learning of the past,
Too unadorned to reign above the senses,
Too naked for the buskined pride of youth,
Which then was this world's epoch; gnostic lore
Came with its theologic fantasy,
Building hierarchies, and seven heavens
With their degrees of beatific joys,
And a like mystic number of dark hells.
Initiatory sacrament and sign
Drew the hushed flocks together in the night.
Missives of shepherds become canons holy:
The shepherds tribute-gifted, and their crooks
Gem-crusted gold!
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Away unto the waste,
In sackcloth with a girdle of horsehair,
Flies the ascetic from the growing honors;
No sandal and no linen and no food,—
He trusts unto the hand that bird and beast
Feeds ever. In high places shines the cross,
The sign that aided the imperial arms—
Strangest of aids!—upon the battle field.
In highest places, and on altars girt
With princes, and in councils:—for the priests
Have this most wondrous duty, to sift out
The God's word from the scribe's word. Shall we not
Be one in faith? Yea, he who otherwise
Than that believes—pursue him from the fold,
Unto Gehenna: never more let men
Reason on that, for it shall not be changed.
And thus the modern world grew up to flower:
One God, one bishop, and one creed — one man
To rule—let every state have its own king:
A hierarchy in heaven, and in the church
A hierarchy; another in the state.
The outstretched basis of this pyramid,
A feudal serfdom cleaving to the soil,
Yet reaching freely up from class to class,
For all souls are the same with God, all powers
His instruments. The Idea everywhere—
Of God, of man, of nature, of creation—
Without which there is no rest for the worker,
No aim towards which to work—this general scheme
By revelation fixed: the modern mind
Concentrated within the narrow sphere
Of Understanding, Science substitutes
For Reasoning, and beneath the wings of Faith
Sits in the school of Knowledge patiently;
Investigates, explores, even to the core
And centre of the sensuous, to the depth
Where soul and sense unite; till step by step
He shall come out into another sphere,
From Faith and Knowledge equally removed—
Evolve the resurrection of the real,
And be at last the master!
In sackcloth with a girdle of horsehair,
Flies the ascetic from the growing honors;
No sandal and no linen and no food,—
He trusts unto the hand that bird and beast
Feeds ever. In high places shines the cross,
The sign that aided the imperial arms—
Strangest of aids!—upon the battle field.
In highest places, and on altars girt
With princes, and in councils:—for the priests
Have this most wondrous duty, to sift out
The God's word from the scribe's word. Shall we not
Be one in faith? Yea, he who otherwise
Than that believes—pursue him from the fold,
Unto Gehenna: never more let men
Reason on that, for it shall not be changed.
And thus the modern world grew up to flower:
One God, one bishop, and one creed — one man
To rule—let every state have its own king:
A hierarchy in heaven, and in the church
A hierarchy; another in the state.
The outstretched basis of this pyramid,
A feudal serfdom cleaving to the soil,
Yet reaching freely up from class to class,
89
His instruments. The Idea everywhere—
Of God, of man, of nature, of creation—
Without which there is no rest for the worker,
No aim towards which to work—this general scheme
By revelation fixed: the modern mind
Concentrated within the narrow sphere
Of Understanding, Science substitutes
For Reasoning, and beneath the wings of Faith
Sits in the school of Knowledge patiently;
Investigates, explores, even to the core
And centre of the sensuous, to the depth
Where soul and sense unite; till step by step
He shall come out into another sphere,
From Faith and Knowledge equally removed—
Evolve the resurrection of the real,
And be at last the master!
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V. PART FIFTH. THE FUTURE.
The modern mind working under the authority of Revelation, discovers science. A true Beginning found at last. The near future. The distant future.
95
I.
Thus hath Lyremmos, from the ante-past,
Which words in this degenerated life
Cannot reveal,—descended through the strife
Of consciousness and forces from without,
Of good and evil, disobedient both,—
Descended to the prison-house of sense
To be a laborer. We have traced him far,
Toiling from out the dark; from land to land,
Mythus to mythus, age to age, his steps
Advance upon us, gathering as he goes
Spiritual dominion; as the child
Becomes the man, the green stalk shoots to flower,
The constellated year from iron frost
Melts into white-flowered spring and rosy morn
Of summer, thence to autumn, even now,
Science, the gleaner, brings into our hands
Earnest of harvest.
Which words in this degenerated life
Cannot reveal,—descended through the strife
Of consciousness and forces from without,
Of good and evil, disobedient both,—
Descended to the prison-house of sense
To be a laborer. We have traced him far,
Toiling from out the dark; from land to land,
Mythus to mythus, age to age, his steps
Advance upon us, gathering as he goes
Spiritual dominion; as the child
Becomes the man, the green stalk shoots to flower,
The constellated year from iron frost
Melts into white-flowered spring and rosy morn
Of summer, thence to autumn, even now,
Science, the gleaner, brings into our hands
Earnest of harvest.
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But the Holy Child—
How fared he? As the laborer overjoyed,
Carried the tidings to Sarmatian wastes,
And through Norwegian forests, where swart dwarves
Forge arms for maniac warriors. Overhead
Odin doth summon to the feast of death.
The chant of the invincible fierce jarls,—
The dying warrior's song as his blood flows,—
Hears the commissioned traveller, hears with joy;
For there too is the fixedness of faith,
The indestructible: no idle game,
Nor indolence with ghastly logic mumbling,
Nor old authority with eyeless fables
Living in lack of better: and his voice
Pierced like a charm, prophetic of the power
In future years to come from this cold north,
Sea-kings of industry and princely men
Ministering between nature and her God.
Here stayed he, and along his fruitful path,
Cast back a glance of triumph. Wo is me!
Peace there was none, force more than ever reigned,
Force strangely standing in defence of Truth,
The naked yet inviolable essence.
And now rejoice we over all those years,
Rational instincts springing constantly
Into the young heart of a world revived,
Rousing a wild impatience time alone
Could recompense. And more beheld he strange,—
That reflex Christ Arabia hath received,
That energy abortive, in a time
Of vital energy.
How fared he? As the laborer overjoyed,
Carried the tidings to Sarmatian wastes,
And through Norwegian forests, where swart dwarves
Forge arms for maniac warriors. Overhead
Odin doth summon to the feast of death.
The chant of the invincible fierce jarls,—
The dying warrior's song as his blood flows,—
Hears the commissioned traveller, hears with joy;
For there too is the fixedness of faith,
The indestructible: no idle game,
Nor indolence with ghastly logic mumbling,
Nor old authority with eyeless fables
Living in lack of better: and his voice
Pierced like a charm, prophetic of the power
In future years to come from this cold north,
Sea-kings of industry and princely men
Ministering between nature and her God.
Here stayed he, and along his fruitful path,
Cast back a glance of triumph. Wo is me!
Peace there was none, force more than ever reigned,
Force strangely standing in defence of Truth,
The naked yet inviolable essence.
And now rejoice we over all those years,
97
Into the young heart of a world revived,
Rousing a wild impatience time alone
Could recompense. And more beheld he strange,—
That reflex Christ Arabia hath received,
That energy abortive, in a time
Of vital energy.
The Holy Child,
Who came with tears to give the blind their sight,
Where now was he? With longing infinite
The brotherhood of men desired the light
Of his dear countenance, and turned with prayer
Unto the triple-crowned, his delegate,
Crying that he might be revealed to them.
But barren save in feudal pride, the priest
Sitting on cloth of gold, that in his pomp
His master might be honored, with rebukes
Answered them, and mere words, anathemas!
Cords, flames of death, more urgent questioners,
Receive in answer, 'till the heaven grows black,
And providence becomes like evil fate.
Sadly unto another world, the eyes
Are turned: the poet, fancy-led no more
Coldly invents, but retributive hate
And sorrow are the muses after whom
He follows to the shades, or into heaven.
Oh, plaintive even in joy, what sacred grief
With the hard-handed arts of those days dwells!
Severe and weary, and yet sanctified
By innocent faith, they stood still in the way
That time continually clears. Anon,
The under-working mind, with knowledge armed,
Answered the question that mankind had asked
Of the thrice-crowned: and doubters with strong lungs
Rise to do battle with the lawgiver,
Each one establishing his positive law,
Half argument, half faith, from age to age
Changing and to be changed: upon the strand
Of future centuries to leave the bones
Of extinct churches, when the Holy Child
Shall be in truth made manifest.
Who came with tears to give the blind their sight,
Where now was he? With longing infinite
The brotherhood of men desired the light
Of his dear countenance, and turned with prayer
Unto the triple-crowned, his delegate,
Crying that he might be revealed to them.
But barren save in feudal pride, the priest
Sitting on cloth of gold, that in his pomp
His master might be honored, with rebukes
Answered them, and mere words, anathemas!
Cords, flames of death, more urgent questioners,
Receive in answer, 'till the heaven grows black,
And providence becomes like evil fate.
Sadly unto another world, the eyes
98
Coldly invents, but retributive hate
And sorrow are the muses after whom
He follows to the shades, or into heaven.
Oh, plaintive even in joy, what sacred grief
With the hard-handed arts of those days dwells!
Severe and weary, and yet sanctified
By innocent faith, they stood still in the way
That time continually clears. Anon,
The under-working mind, with knowledge armed,
Answered the question that mankind had asked
Of the thrice-crowned: and doubters with strong lungs
Rise to do battle with the lawgiver,
Each one establishing his positive law,
Half argument, half faith, from age to age
Changing and to be changed: upon the strand
Of future centuries to leave the bones
Of extinct churches, when the Holy Child
Shall be in truth made manifest.
But in
Those years of gloom, not less to king than priest,
Did the impatient voice of suffering cry:
Not less but more; for the monarchic arm,
Held up by law and by the right divine,—
How much authoritative words have done,—
Was as it were the representative
Of all possession; and the popular voice,
Even when chivalry with barbed heel
Rode over naked vassals, rose to kings,
And to the privileged phalanx with allegiance,
And lusty admiration.—Let us not
Call up the tyrannies of truncheoned hands,
Nor name them in a song for future years;
For sand they have been sown upon the wind,
And sometimes hath the serf-born energy
Exacted retribution, though but small;
Moreover, through them hath come down to us
What yet there is alive in passive souls,
Looking like Faith, but which shall certainly
Give place and disappear as better comes;
For ever when the fruit is ripe it falls:
And over them hath grown the power of gold,
A mightier convention, that hath sent
Sea-kings around the world; untiring prows,
Leaving no cavern or creek for wonder;
No darkness unexplored, nor soil untilled,
But with her handmaid, Knowledge, levelling,
Weighing, building; with much politic speech
Loquacious, and with science infinite,
Torturing the inanimate to serve;
While all the cycles of the past, dissolved
In vulgar truths, became as thin as dreams!
Those years of gloom, not less to king than priest,
Did the impatient voice of suffering cry:
99
Held up by law and by the right divine,—
How much authoritative words have done,—
Was as it were the representative
Of all possession; and the popular voice,
Even when chivalry with barbed heel
Rode over naked vassals, rose to kings,
And to the privileged phalanx with allegiance,
And lusty admiration.—Let us not
Call up the tyrannies of truncheoned hands,
Nor name them in a song for future years;
For sand they have been sown upon the wind,
And sometimes hath the serf-born energy
Exacted retribution, though but small;
Moreover, through them hath come down to us
What yet there is alive in passive souls,
Looking like Faith, but which shall certainly
Give place and disappear as better comes;
For ever when the fruit is ripe it falls:
And over them hath grown the power of gold,
A mightier convention, that hath sent
Sea-kings around the world; untiring prows,
Leaving no cavern or creek for wonder;
No darkness unexplored, nor soil untilled,
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Weighing, building; with much politic speech
Loquacious, and with science infinite,
Torturing the inanimate to serve;
While all the cycles of the past, dissolved
In vulgar truths, became as thin as dreams!
Thus breathless on the verge of the abyss,
The nigh to-morrow, stand we in the cold;
Rejoicing in our freedom from the past
Increasing constantly, and in our power
Over the lower world so rapidly
Increasing, very proud: at last, at last,
After much stumbling, and much aspiration,—
Much grasping at the stars amidst the dark,—
Theories of spirit without basis,—
Theories of death and reasonless creeds—
Reasoning where mere knowledge should be guide,—
Seeking knowledge in the sphere of reason,—
Corrosive cogitations manifold—
Which the uncounted multitudes of men
Heard not, pursued in cloistered solitude
By few; a true beginning we approach—
A true earth have we found, whereon to build
The temple of the Real; where to plant
The ladder of ascent, which step by step
Shall guide us from the prison. But as yet
Man's mighty labor lies around him piecemeal:
Much done but more remains, before the tree
Now planted bears; before the marble steps
Now planned shall lead into a worthy home;
Before the capitals now carving rise,
Sustaining walls whose frieze shall represent
The wondrous ways of man the Perfected.
The nigh to-morrow, stand we in the cold;
Rejoicing in our freedom from the past
Increasing constantly, and in our power
Over the lower world so rapidly
Increasing, very proud: at last, at last,
After much stumbling, and much aspiration,—
Much grasping at the stars amidst the dark,—
Theories of spirit without basis,—
Theories of death and reasonless creeds—
Reasoning where mere knowledge should be guide,—
Seeking knowledge in the sphere of reason,—
Corrosive cogitations manifold—
Which the uncounted multitudes of men
Heard not, pursued in cloistered solitude
By few; a true beginning we approach—
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The temple of the Real; where to plant
The ladder of ascent, which step by step
Shall guide us from the prison. But as yet
Man's mighty labor lies around him piecemeal:
Much done but more remains, before the tree
Now planted bears; before the marble steps
Now planned shall lead into a worthy home;
Before the capitals now carving rise,
Sustaining walls whose frieze shall represent
The wondrous ways of man the Perfected.
II.
Here I pause.
Because I would not like a prophet speak!
Daring with unblessed feet the burning path
Of divine instinct, or with hand unblessed
To touch the cherubim:—
Because I would not willingly offend,—
Seeing I venerate the present hour,
Also the past I venerate—and because
The number is but few who do not sneer
At hope, the sacred angel of the future,
Thus gladly violating even nature,
If thereby they exhibit the astute—
The vice of prudent men. And furthermore,
The time that passes is too multiform,
The true and false unsifted, all too close
Pressing upon us, to be largely read.
But certainly the spring-time comes apace,
The songs of birds have certainly been heard;
Also, the snake, not wholly without pain,
Doth leave his old skin in the last year's dust.
Because I would not like a prophet speak!
Daring with unblessed feet the burning path
Of divine instinct, or with hand unblessed
To touch the cherubim:—
Because I would not willingly offend,—
Seeing I venerate the present hour,
Also the past I venerate—and because
The number is but few who do not sneer
102
Thus gladly violating even nature,
If thereby they exhibit the astute—
The vice of prudent men. And furthermore,
The time that passes is too multiform,
The true and false unsifted, all too close
Pressing upon us, to be largely read.
But certainly the spring-time comes apace,
The songs of birds have certainly been heard;
Also, the snake, not wholly without pain,
Doth leave his old skin in the last year's dust.
Let us advance in faith, by which each one
In simpleness shall persevere towards
The one Idea of the universe,
The longing of all finite life; the Good,
Which we can compass not,
Which yet sustaineth us.
In simpleness shall persevere towards
The one Idea of the universe,
The longing of all finite life; the Good,
Which we can compass not,
Which yet sustaineth us.
To whom the soul points, moving either way
Around its dial-sphere, by which it holds
Power above the finite: whom the sense owns
Visibly seen in all things round us here.
All this phantasmal time
Existing as his type.
Around its dial-sphere, by which it holds
Power above the finite: whom the sense owns
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All this phantasmal time
Existing as his type.
He who established from of old the law
Of generation; movement without end,
Inevitable, widening from the centre,
Circling and evolving all that is,
Of unity, diversity,
Antagonism, life.
Of generation; movement without end,
Inevitable, widening from the centre,
Circling and evolving all that is,
Of unity, diversity,
Antagonism, life.
III.
FIRST CHORUS.Where is the poison and the blight, my friends,
That rose with evil incense to the stars?
Where the destroying worm, that in the rose
Made beauty but the emblem of decay?
Where the strong limbs of ravenous beasts, whose life
Was by destruction nurtured? where the storm
That triumphed through the air with winged clouds,
104
The mariner went down; the deadened waste
Of winter, and the houseless traveller,
Where are they? where the iron and the brass—
The countless fabrications of all crafts,
Wearing the human tools unto the dust,
Raising strange wants and adventitious life,
And misery made a guest in every home:
All things deforming, thwarting, beneath which
Humanity was an o'erlabored steer,
A suffering—where are they? for no more
They press upon us: who hath wrought the change?
Say, friends, Oh say.
ANSWERING CHORUS.
Who? who but He hath wrought the change, the man,
The laborer himself; for by the law
Of the Infinite, change there can be none
But from within,—evolved, not altered,—born,
Not superadded. He who hath gone round
His habitation as the sun goes round;
Who hath left nought unknown, but heaven and earth
105
Everywhere finding, the entangled web
Of mixed and broken forces, heretofore
Antagonists, unravelling; end to end
Linking the chain anew; those evil things
Which bear not towards a better, going down
Into the void and unimagined past.
Thus hath he hushed the moaning voice of pain,
The cycle of his labors thus fulfilled.
He, he alone.
FIRST CHORUS.
The bow, the spear, the sword, the shield,
That late were borne as symbols by the strong,
Once more than symbols—as the echoed songs
From poets of the past inform us still;
Poets with burning souls and hopes of fame,
Drunk with precipitate joys; the hopelessness
That had no future; pride unto itself
All things, in purple and in gilded pomp,
Rejoicing in the bitterness of envy:
All the sad tears that on the fairest face
106
That made man, men; and each to each a friend
Or foe or slave: the self-aggrandizement,
And deep self sacrifice for vain command—
Where are they all, those madnesses of heart?
Or who hath charmed the angel peace, to come
Even into the bosoms of all souls,
Making our lives impassive happiness—
Even immortal?
ANSWERING CHORUS.
From whom hath come this harmony? from him
The sufferer himself, for by the law
Of the Infinite, change there can be none
But from within. Oh, from the earliest hour
Hath it not been towards this his sufferings bore,
Towards this his prayers ascended, and for this,
Patience, the child of weariness, from house
To house the words of comfort whispered still?
Behold her wanderings ended, she becomes
The angel of sweet peace for evermore.
For now the mission of the Holy Child
107
By which the body was condemned to toil,
Even unto death, hath been redeemed, and man
Emerging shall be yet again divine;
He hath uncrowned the passions, and transformed
Earth into heaven.
FIRST CHORUS.
The oracle, the spectre, and the sign,
Of influence mysterious; all the rites
Of the anointed, and the sweet resolve
Of the disconsolate to be made glad,
When the full heart o'erflowed by children's graves:
The strange analogies by which kind hope
Embalmed mortality, the honey and myrrh,
For the poor wounded life: the avenging gulf
Of Hades: where are they? nor hear we now
The multitude of disputants, each one,
Faithless to the divinity within,
Filling the ear with words by which to clothe
The goddess Truth, and o'er her nakedness,
Terrible in its beauty, to prevail:
108
The spirit, not then from vile bonds released.
Melodious voices hear we now alone,
Throughout the conscious air: whose tuneful tongue
Hath done this, friends, oh, say?
ANSWERING CHORUS.
His, even his, whose words so falsely strove
As ye have said—who symbol raised and sign,
When better could not be; for every time
Hath had its work, and relatively true
Was its voice heard—yea, oft in symbol dark
Was the unspeakable shadowed, and the realm
Of the unlimited verity approached.
He, sure it was, who slept by Ganges wave
Contemplative, with fables manifold
And images unshapely: he who came
Successively, avatar and new god:
He who, with logic's tools and Attic grace,
Contended for the empire of the mind,
Hence rising to the permanent: he who,
In tribulation and much suffering, found
109
Redemption from the uncertain, and at last
Felt as he longed to be: he who sojourned
So long with knowledge, that the hand and eye
Resumed their ancient sovereignty o'er all,
Vast regions of sensation new explored,—
A consciousness interior and removed—
And in divinest instinct lived at last.
ALL.
Awake ye echoes from the hills and woods;
Awake ye murmurs from the seas and winds,
Not now with tyrannous voices, but attuned
And fixed in harmony with regular pause:
Open the hymn unto this spiritual power
By which ye are.
SONG OF THE ECHOES.
We are the serenities,Born coeval with the soul,
110
In her love and in her smile.
We are the answering ministers
Of whom man speaks, through whom he thinks,
By whom life manifests itself.
The pebble glimmers in the stream,
The fly swims round the sleeping pool,
The chrysalis in the corner hangs;
The fish beneath, the bird above;
And we are with each one everywhere.
They have wandered not, nor closed
Their ears unto our guardian voice,
Though blind and deaf indeed are they:
While man hath left us long.
But we have felt throughout our homes
His sympathy again:
We have heard his high commands:
We have seen his gate thrown wide
That we may dwell with him again:
And he hath come to us. Behold!
He hath been dead, but he lives again.
Feed him with honey from the cups
Of charméd flowers that never more
He may long for poisoned food;
With milk from the immortal breasts,
That he may for ever live.
Sisters! though we come to him
In nakedness he doth not faint
(As mortals wont to faint of old,
If us they saw in stream or wood
With our girdles thrown aside):
Sisters! now he doth not faint;
We can gaze into his eye,
We can press our lips to his,
We can sing the faintest lay
Ever learned in cavern old,
Or amongst the summer clouds
When the hills are whispering,
And he can hear, as he hears us now!
LYREMMOS.The fly swims round the sleeping pool,
The chrysalis in the corner hangs;
The fish beneath, the bird above;
And we are with each one everywhere.
They have wandered not, nor closed
Their ears unto our guardian voice,
Though blind and deaf indeed are they:
While man hath left us long.
But we have felt throughout our homes
His sympathy again:
We have heard his high commands:
We have seen his gate thrown wide
That we may dwell with him again:
And he hath come to us. Behold!
He hath been dead, but he lives again.
111
Of charméd flowers that never more
He may long for poisoned food;
With milk from the immortal breasts,
That he may for ever live.
Sisters! though we come to him
In nakedness he doth not faint
(As mortals wont to faint of old,
If us they saw in stream or wood
With our girdles thrown aside):
Sisters! now he doth not faint;
We can gaze into his eye,
We can press our lips to his,
We can sing the faintest lay
Ever learned in cavern old,
Or amongst the summer clouds
When the hills are whispering,
And he can hear, as he hears us now!
Now at last I reach my home:
Now again those multitudes
112
And the great leaves of life's vast tree
Cover all the heaven.
As a traveller at eve,
I journeyed to the dusky East,
But I have met the morning's light!
Although the shades were dark, although
The stars were dim and intermixed
With vapour, and the sickly moon
Was chill, as is a bleachéd corse
By the salt foam of the sea;
And the owl with croak obscure
Greeted me upon the wold,
And the beetle blindly smote me,
In the darkness, on the face.
Now I meet the morning light!
And the circle is complete!
But where is she I left of old
In Eden; she whose memory
Hath drawn me on; she who unseen
Sends these glorious ones to greet
My steps to boyhood's nooks returned:
For now it seems as if my search
Had been a search for her alone,
113
With weary feet throughout the dark
I strayed, her voice had been my guide:
And that I now remember all
The words and songs wherewith she strove
To wake me from my fever-sleep—
To guide me into this, her heaven.
ECHOES.
Sisterhood! let him behold
Mneme; whom with sheltering arms
We have clustered round so long:
Lyremmos! Energy! behold
The white flower, Peace, thy sister, brings:
Behold her now descend, she bends
Her radiant face to thine.
END.
| The Year of the World | |