 | A Lost Epic and Other Poems |  |
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THE STONE FACE.
Lo! here the first sun strikes the cold grey peak—
Broad August! and in shining wreaths the mist
Creeps up from crag to crag against the dawn,
While far below, still sleeping in the dusk,
Ringed from the great world's trouble and unrest,
The little mountain village lies a-row,
Fringed with the fragrant selvage of the pines.
Broad August! and in shining wreaths the mist
Creeps up from crag to crag against the dawn,
While far below, still sleeping in the dusk,
Ringed from the great world's trouble and unrest,
The little mountain village lies a-row,
Fringed with the fragrant selvage of the pines.
Descend the glimmering pass, and as you go,—
The sun outrunning you with golden feet
Till all the red-tiled, white-walled rustic world
Laughs out, from grass to gilded weather-cock,
With gladsome colour and with breezy life—
Look backward to the peak! Look back and pause!
For lo! the huge grey crags will all have blent
And grown into a countenance of stone:
An aged, sweet, majestic face, whose eyes,
With wondrous human tenderness, look down
Upon the valley and the little lives
That come and go in their eternal gaze.
The sun outrunning you with golden feet
Till all the red-tiled, white-walled rustic world
Laughs out, from grass to gilded weather-cock,
With gladsome colour and with breezy life—
Look backward to the peak! Look back and pause!
For lo! the huge grey crags will all have blent
And grown into a countenance of stone:
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With wondrous human tenderness, look down
Upon the valley and the little lives
That come and go in their eternal gaze.
In the dim days of old, when snowy beards
Belied the childlike hearts that ne'er grew grey,
A strange tradition in the valley told
How in the golden future should be born,
Within the range of those calm kindly eyes,
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face should be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave, sweet face of stone.
Belied the childlike hearts that ne'er grew grey,
A strange tradition in the valley told
How in the golden future should be born,
Within the range of those calm kindly eyes,
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face should be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave, sweet face of stone.
The little lives went ever to and fro,
Toiled, suffered, loved, enjoyed, and passed away;
The generations died—the legend lived!
A legend only—a legend often told,
Cherished and half believed, for, evermore,
The aged and majestic face looked down
With wondrous human tenderness and truth.
Toiled, suffered, loved, enjoyed, and passed away;
The generations died—the legend lived!
A legend only—a legend often told,
Cherished and half believed, for, evermore,
The aged and majestic face looked down
With wondrous human tenderness and truth.
'Twas Christmas night, two hundred years ago.
Deep on the hills the snow lay; deep and white,
Lay hushing all the valley, road and roof,
Until the clock struck midnight. Then the bells
Rang in the holly and the mistletoe;
Rang in the merry maskers and the waits;
Rang in all gentle thoughts and generous cheer;
And lanterns glimmered on the fleecy roads,
And sounds of singing moved from house to house.
Soft rosy lights filled all the frosty heavens
With tremulous floating splendour, and the stars
Shone keen and golden through it, and the wind
Blew little flakes of cloud like leaves of flowers
Across the night; and in the magical
Warm flush of colour, every icy peak,
And all the long white ridges of the hills,
The snowy village roofs, the ghostly pines,
Sprang out with startling clearness; and the face—
The great stone face, now bearded with the snow,
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair—
Seemed to lean closer in the rosy light;
And that same night a peasant's child was born!
Deep on the hills the snow lay; deep and white,
Lay hushing all the valley, road and roof,
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Rang in the holly and the mistletoe;
Rang in the merry maskers and the waits;
Rang in all gentle thoughts and generous cheer;
And lanterns glimmered on the fleecy roads,
And sounds of singing moved from house to house.
Soft rosy lights filled all the frosty heavens
With tremulous floating splendour, and the stars
Shone keen and golden through it, and the wind
Blew little flakes of cloud like leaves of flowers
Across the night; and in the magical
Warm flush of colour, every icy peak,
And all the long white ridges of the hills,
The snowy village roofs, the ghostly pines,
Sprang out with startling clearness; and the face—
The great stone face, now bearded with the snow,
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair—
Seemed to lean closer in the rosy light;
And that same night a peasant's child was born!
The babe throve lustily and grew apace;
The years went by, and when the great blue eyes
Had learned to trace that visage on the heights,
The mother told the legend of old days,
The promise of that happy future time.
And marvelling, the lad drank in the tale,
Mused on it, watched the aged face of stone,
And longed for that bright future—longed to see
In living flesh and blood that gracious mien,
And those dark eyes of majesty. Strange dreams
Awakened in his heart, as day by day
He raised his ardent eyes up to the peaks—
Strange dreams of helpfulness to all the world,
Of wisdom and of power to right all wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
The years went by, and when the great blue eyes
Had learned to trace that visage on the heights,
The mother told the legend of old days,
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And marvelling, the lad drank in the tale,
Mused on it, watched the aged face of stone,
And longed for that bright future—longed to see
In living flesh and blood that gracious mien,
And those dark eyes of majesty. Strange dreams
Awakened in his heart, as day by day
He raised his ardent eyes up to the peaks—
Strange dreams of helpfulness to all the world,
Of wisdom and of power to right all wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
He nurtured his keen boyhood on the thoughts
Of great dead men, nor overlooked the lore
Of that green throbbing world of flower and plant,
Bird, reptile, insect, rock, and passing cloud;
And all he learnt grew into melody
Within his heart.
Of great dead men, nor overlooked the lore
Of that green throbbing world of flower and plant,
Bird, reptile, insect, rock, and passing cloud;
And all he learnt grew into melody
Within his heart.
The Vicar marked the lad,
Advised him, lent him books, and gave him aid
To master those great tongues, now tongues no more—
Eye-symbols and a music of the brain—
Until at length, when he had quite outgrown
His little wondering self and now could look
Upon the mighty face of stone and smile
To think with what a simple passionate faith
He had believed that myth,—the rocky mask
Had half-fulfilled the promise of the myth,
And stamped some semblance of its tenderness
And large sweet power upon the student's mind.
Advised him, lent him books, and gave him aid
To master those great tongues, now tongues no more—
Eye-symbols and a music of the brain—
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His little wondering self and now could look
Upon the mighty face of stone and smile
To think with what a simple passionate faith
He had believed that myth,—the rocky mask
Had half-fulfilled the promise of the myth,
And stamped some semblance of its tenderness
And large sweet power upon the student's mind.
Friends were not wanting to the youth, and soon
He left his humble cottage in the hills
And laboured in the city's learnèd halls,
Toiled day and night to win the glorious meed
Of being helpful unto all the world,
Of being wise with power to right some wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
He left his humble cottage in the hills
And laboured in the city's learnèd halls,
Toiled day and night to win the glorious meed
Of being helpful unto all the world,
Of being wise with power to right some wrong,
To lift the fallen, soothe the sick at heart,
Make life more beautiful and brighten death.
Nor laboured vainly; for when he returned
Once more and saw the face among the peaks—
And smiled at childish memories, his friend,
The aged Vicar, was content to rest
And let the younger man achieve for both.
Once more and saw the face among the peaks—
And smiled at childish memories, his friend,
The aged Vicar, was content to rest
And let the younger man achieve for both.
Years sped in glad whole-hearted toil. He served,
From early manhood to a reverend age
The peaceful peasant people; ministered
In helpful sympathetic ways; fulfilled
In days of famine, sickness, hopeless need,
The golden promise of the legend old;
Became, unconsciously and unobserved,
All that the village folk had hoped in him
Who should resemble that great face of stone.
From early manhood to a reverend age
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In helpful sympathetic ways; fulfilled
In days of famine, sickness, hopeless need,
The golden promise of the legend old;
Became, unconsciously and unobserved,
All that the village folk had hoped in him
Who should resemble that great face of stone.
When old age came upon him, oft he stood
And gazed with dim fond eyes upon the face
Whose gracious semblance of humanity
Had thrilled his childish heart and filled his life
With noblest duties; often too he told,
With frail hand laid upon the little head
Of lass or lad, the legend of the face.
And gazed with dim fond eyes upon the face
Whose gracious semblance of humanity
Had thrilled his childish heart and filled his life
With noblest duties; often too he told,
With frail hand laid upon the little head
Of lass or lad, the legend of the face.
Like all the little lives that come and go
Before the steadfast gaze of those stone eyes,
He too departed, full of years and honour.
And as he lay dead, cold; his beard like snow
Scattered in silvery masses on his breast;
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair
Loose on the pillow; and his people gazed
The last time on those kindly lineaments,
They felt a sudden tremor round their hearts,
For lo! the face seemed changed—familiar still,
But changed in some wise strangely. Then at length
One gazed and turning to the window drew
The curtains open. Snow was on the hills,
And snow hushed all the valley, and rosy lights
Filled all the frosty heavens, and the face—
The vast stone visage, in the tremulous flush
Seemed to lean closer, and the gazers saw
His and those great stone features were the same.
Before the steadfast gaze of those stone eyes,
He too departed, full of years and honour.
And as he lay dead, cold; his beard like snow
Scattered in silvery masses on his breast;
And looking old—so old—with hoary hair
Loose on the pillow; and his people gazed
The last time on those kindly lineaments,
They felt a sudden tremor round their hearts,
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But changed in some wise strangely. Then at length
One gazed and turning to the window drew
The curtains open. Snow was on the hills,
And snow hushed all the valley, and rosy lights
Filled all the frosty heavens, and the face—
The vast stone visage, in the tremulous flush
Seemed to lean closer, and the gazers saw
His and those great stone features were the same.
And this was Christmas night, but all was still!
A hundred years ago and folk yet lived
Who saw those faces, knew they were the same.
But generations die and legends live!
The little lives beneath those eyes eterne
Toil, suffer, love, enjoy, and pass away;
And still the people in the valley tell
How in the golden future will be born
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face shall be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave sweet face of stone!
A legend only, never gravely told,
Not even half believed in these shrewd days
When childhood listens with a grey-beard's heart!
Who saw those faces, knew they were the same.
But generations die and legends live!
The little lives beneath those eyes eterne
Toil, suffer, love, enjoy, and pass away;
And still the people in the valley tell
How in the golden future will be born
A child, the need and succour of his times,
A boy whose face shall be in flesh and blood
A reflex of that grave sweet face of stone!
A legend only, never gravely told,
Not even half believed in these shrewd days
When childhood listens with a grey-beard's heart!
186
SONG.
[Making morning-mirth]
Making morning-mirth
Larks were singing loud
Over flowery earth,
Under shining cloud;
Golden-haired and gay
Started on his way
The laughing lad;
Time lay bright before,
And a branch he bore
With blossoms clad.
Larks were singing loud
Over flowery earth,
Under shining cloud;
Golden-haired and gay
Started on his way
The laughing lad;
Time lay bright before,
And a branch he bore
With blossoms clad.
O'er the wintry wold
Fell the twilight snow;
Homeward, hoarse and cold,
Flapped the famished crow.
Haggard, frail, forlorn,
On his rugged thorn
The grey-beard bent;
Night before him lay;
No star gleamed; the way
No further went.
Fell the twilight snow;
Homeward, hoarse and cold,
Flapped the famished crow.
Haggard, frail, forlorn,
On his rugged thorn
The grey-beard bent;
Night before him lay;
No star gleamed; the way
No further went.
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MENA THE LIBYAN.
“The boy so long delighteth in his play;
The youth so long pursues his maid; so long
The old man broods upon uneasiness,
That none can find the time—not even one—
In all the regions of the level world
To meditate upon the very God!”
The youth so long pursues his maid; so long
The old man broods upon uneasiness,
That none can find the time—not even one—
In all the regions of the level world
To meditate upon the very God!”
And Mena, rising, fled the babbling streets;
And climbing through the shadow of the woods,
Gained one great ledge which shelved above the mass
Of billowy foliage, and beheld beneath
The Libyan city on this hand, and on that
The plain of western waters. From below
No murmur save the woodland's reached his ear:
And resting on the rocky ledge, he crossed
His arms upon his bosom and withdrew
His spirit from all things living, fixed it fast
Upon the Life, and grew entranced in God.
And climbing through the shadow of the woods,
Gained one great ledge which shelved above the mass
Of billowy foliage, and beheld beneath
The Libyan city on this hand, and on that
The plain of western waters. From below
No murmur save the woodland's reached his ear:
And resting on the rocky ledge, he crossed
His arms upon his bosom and withdrew
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Upon the Life, and grew entranced in God.
And God upheld him, and he leaned on God
And knew no fleshly need, no touch of time.
And knew no fleshly need, no touch of time.
In the long summers—for the varying year,
Even as the sylvan waters of a brook
Divide against a boulder in the brook,
And now the sunny current carries down
Blue gleams of sky and leaves and flowers, and now
Grey shadows, but through all the changeful day
The boulder feels no change, even so the year
Brought lapse of seasons, even so the man
Of seasons and of years was unaware—
In the long summers moss and tendrils grew
About his limbs; the spider wove her web
Around his head. In wintry moons the trees
Were shattered by the tempest in the woods;
But Mena heard not. Neither felt he rain
Nor hoar-frost blanching tangled hair and beard
Within his beard the small birds built in spring
And, later, trills and chirps and gladdened wings
Made happy music to the early sun
Upon his bosom; but he heard no sound.
Even as the sylvan waters of a brook
Divide against a boulder in the brook,
And now the sunny current carries down
Blue gleams of sky and leaves and flowers, and now
Grey shadows, but through all the changeful day
The boulder feels no change, even so the year
Brought lapse of seasons, even so the man
Of seasons and of years was unaware—
In the long summers moss and tendrils grew
About his limbs; the spider wove her web
Around his head. In wintry moons the trees
Were shattered by the tempest in the woods;
But Mena heard not. Neither felt he rain
Nor hoar-frost blanching tangled hair and beard
Within his beard the small birds built in spring
And, later, trills and chirps and gladdened wings
Made happy music to the early sun
Upon his bosom; but he heard no sound.
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And Mena waxed—like all things mortal—old,
A haggard frame! But still despite the years
His spirit drooped nor withered—wrapt in God!
The woodlands fell and rotted in their place;
The Libyan city crumbled, thundered down
Like snow in April, drifted wide in dust
Along the four great winds which purge the world;
And lo! the waters of the western sea
Drew ever further westward, sank and shrank,
And left but sand and salt and thirst and fire,
Mirage and dumb tremendous solitude.
A haggard frame! But still despite the years
His spirit drooped nor withered—wrapt in God!
The woodlands fell and rotted in their place;
The Libyan city crumbled, thundered down
Like snow in April, drifted wide in dust
Along the four great winds which purge the world;
And lo! the waters of the western sea
Drew ever further westward, sank and shrank,
And left but sand and salt and thirst and fire,
Mirage and dumb tremendous solitude.
And Mena, with a hopeless sigh, awoke:
“O Thou unknowable and holy God,
How shall I hope to know Thee as Thou art?
Long hours I seek Thee, till my weary soul
Sinks back to rest her weakness on the earth.
O God, will ever thought be more than babe
Which stretches to the moon its simple hands?—
The Lord be my protector, what is this?”
“O Thou unknowable and holy God,
How shall I hope to know Thee as Thou art?
Long hours I seek Thee, till my weary soul
Sinks back to rest her weakness on the earth.
O God, will ever thought be more than babe
Which stretches to the moon its simple hands?—
The Lord be my protector, what is this?”
He rubbed his eyes and gazed, amazed, and shook
With awe and speechless wonder; for behold!
The desert flared before him, and he stood
Near trunks of forest changed to stumps of stone,
And saw the solitude of salt and sand
Where no man in the living world had trod.
With awe and speechless wonder; for behold!
The desert flared before him, and he stood
Near trunks of forest changed to stumps of stone,
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Where no man in the living world had trod.
And Mena, while he gazed, became aware
Of hoariest age and utter nakedness.
He turned his face against the rock and wept.
Of hoariest age and utter nakedness.
He turned his face against the rock and wept.
Then lo! upon the east the desert changed,
As in a dream, to fields and homely trees
And glittering waters; and the weeping man
Beheld them and his heart was lifted up;
And hastening on with feeble steps, he strove
To reach that blessed isle of living land.
He travelled all that day through sand and salt,
Through valleys where in long-forgotten time
Water had rolled the boulder, worn the cliff,
But now from eye to eye 'twas stone and stone;
Then fell, outworn, and slumbered where he fell,
But rose ere dawn and journeyed, wild with hope,
Saying: “Those waters and delightsome trees
Were surely a gracious vision sent of God
To lead me onward.” Then at length he marked
Where limestone in a dark sierra jagged
The scarlet of the morning. Here he climbed
And saw beyond the ridge—oh, joy of joys!
The broad Nile flowing through a fruitful land,
And sphinx and temple and pyramid and palm,
Green fields, and men and women. And he lay
And wept for gladness.
As in a dream, to fields and homely trees
And glittering waters; and the weeping man
Beheld them and his heart was lifted up;
And hastening on with feeble steps, he strove
To reach that blessed isle of living land.
He travelled all that day through sand and salt,
Through valleys where in long-forgotten time
Water had rolled the boulder, worn the cliff,
But now from eye to eye 'twas stone and stone;
Then fell, outworn, and slumbered where he fell,
But rose ere dawn and journeyed, wild with hope,
Saying: “Those waters and delightsome trees
Were surely a gracious vision sent of God
To lead me onward.” Then at length he marked
Where limestone in a dark sierra jagged
The scarlet of the morning. Here he climbed
And saw beyond the ridge—oh, joy of joys!
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And sphinx and temple and pyramid and palm,
Green fields, and men and women. And he lay
And wept for gladness.
After he had reached
That marvellous city of a later race,
He rested many days—a shadow of man—
And watched with awe the new old life, the same
Old joys and sorrows of the ancient world;
And while he watched, the ancient thought recurred
In language no man spoke, and “Ah!” he sighed,
“The boy so long delighteth in his play;
The youth so long pursues his maid; so long
The old man broods upon uneasiness,
That none can find the time—not even one—
To meditate upon the very God!”
That marvellous city of a later race,
He rested many days—a shadow of man—
And watched with awe the new old life, the same
Old joys and sorrows of the ancient world;
And while he watched, the ancient thought recurred
In language no man spoke, and “Ah!” he sighed,
“The boy so long delighteth in his play;
The youth so long pursues his maid; so long
The old man broods upon uneasiness,
That none can find the time—not even one—
To meditate upon the very God!”
And even as he thought, another thought
Broke slowly on him, like a tardy dawn
Which colours weed and stone and common earth,
And makes the homeliest seem divine and strange:
“Perchance—it may be, though it seems so strange,—
Perchance the truest and the holiest life
Is his who acts in God, not his who stands
Enmarbled in a many-centuried dream
Of who but God knows what he thinks is God!”
Broke slowly on him, like a tardy dawn
Which colours weed and stone and common earth,
And makes the homeliest seem divine and strange:
“Perchance—it may be, though it seems so strange,—
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Is his who acts in God, not his who stands
Enmarbled in a many-centuried dream
Of who but God knows what he thinks is God!”
And Mena sighed but spoke not, only mused—
“I am but a babe delighted with Thy light,
That hath stretched out to Thee its simple hands—
A babe, O God, that now must die a babe
And trust for growth in Thine eternal years!”
“I am but a babe delighted with Thy light,
That hath stretched out to Thee its simple hands—
A babe, O God, that now must die a babe
And trust for growth in Thine eternal years!”
'Twas in these later days the man was named
By those who knew him “Mena,” for that he
Through all that wind of change and whirl of waste
Had stood the one man constant in the world.
By those who knew him “Mena,” for that he
Through all that wind of change and whirl of waste
Had stood the one man constant in the world.
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CHRISTMAS EVE.
The midnight Mass.
'Twas a snowy night;
But the great Cathedral was warm and bright—
Ablaze with flame and colour, and filled
With a mist of incense, and music that thrilled
The motley audience drawn together,
Despite late hours and the wild white weather—
Partly from sentiment, partly from piety,
Partly in quest of a pleasing variety—
To view the strange spectacular ritual
(For which, O Catholics, Protestants twit you ill,
For why should one rank under worship of images
This beautiful scene handed down from the dim ages?)
Near the rails of the chancel the crib was seen,
Roofed and clustered with winter-green;
On a truss of straw from the manger smiled
The golden-nimbused celestial Child;
While over the crib gleamed the star which of old
Led the Kings with their myrrh and frankincense and gold.
'Twas a snowy night;
But the great Cathedral was warm and bright—
Ablaze with flame and colour, and filled
With a mist of incense, and music that thrilled
The motley audience drawn together,
Despite late hours and the wild white weather—
Partly from sentiment, partly from piety,
Partly in quest of a pleasing variety—
To view the strange spectacular ritual
(For which, O Catholics, Protestants twit you ill,
For why should one rank under worship of images
This beautiful scene handed down from the dim ages?)
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Roofed and clustered with winter-green;
On a truss of straw from the manger smiled
The golden-nimbused celestial Child;
While over the crib gleamed the star which of old
Led the Kings with their myrrh and frankincense and gold.
The service was odd, but of singular interest;
The strains of Mozart lulled all feelings of sin to rest;
The lights, fragrance, garlands of ivy and holly tree
Moved the senses to worship—(Can that be idolatry?)—
And all had been touched to a certain extent
With a cosy religious sentiment,
When the organ stopped and the singing ceased,
And the people sat down; and a grey-haired priest
Mounted the pulpit in alb and stole,
To save, if it might be, some sectary's soul.
The strains of Mozart lulled all feelings of sin to rest;
The lights, fragrance, garlands of ivy and holly tree
Moved the senses to worship—(Can that be idolatry?)—
And all had been touched to a certain extent
With a cosy religious sentiment,
When the organ stopped and the singing ceased,
And the people sat down; and a grey-haired priest
Mounted the pulpit in alb and stole,
To save, if it might be, some sectary's soul.
At the side of the altar in pride of place
Sat my Lord Archbishop enthroned; and his Grace
Smiled out of gladness of heart as he viewed
The half-heretic curious multitude
Waiting, like furrows in spring, to receive
The seed of the faith that Christmas Eve.
Sat my Lord Archbishop enthroned; and his Grace
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The half-heretic curious multitude
Waiting, like furrows in spring, to receive
The seed of the faith that Christmas Eve.
In beautiful language the preacher spoke
Of the Syrian hills and the shepherd folk
Who heard the Angels and saw the light
As they watched their flocks in that ancient night.
And then he marked how the Lord had come
To a world that knew Him not, men who were dumb;
But to-night, oh! it was not the Angels alone
Who sang; oh, not only to these was He known;
But the whole world rejoiced in the joy of His birth!
From the East to the West round the peopled earth
As the midnight travelled it carried along
The joy of that birth, the thanksgiving of song.
Of the Syrian hills and the shepherd folk
Who heard the Angels and saw the light
As they watched their flocks in that ancient night.
And then he marked how the Lord had come
To a world that knew Him not, men who were dumb;
But to-night, oh! it was not the Angels alone
Who sang; oh, not only to these was He known;
But the whole world rejoiced in the joy of His birth!
From the East to the West round the peopled earth
As the midnight travelled it carried along
The joy of that birth, the thanksgiving of song.
As the preacher proceeded a strange thing occurred.
My Lord Archbishop first fancied he heard
The wind rising without; then a tramping of feet;
Then a hoarse vague clamour of crowds in the street;
Then wailing and sobbing and agonised screams.
Then his Grace grew aware—as a man when he dreams—
That the walls of the church were absorbed by the night,
And the snow-flakes were falling.
My Lord Archbishop first fancied he heard
The wind rising without; then a tramping of feet;
Then a hoarse vague clamour of crowds in the street;
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Then his Grace grew aware—as a man when he dreams—
That the walls of the church were absorbed by the night,
And the snow-flakes were falling.
Then, lo! a strange light
Like a cloud hid the altar; and in it there stood
Christ crowned with His thorns—pale—and ghastly with blood
From the wounds of His scourging.
Like a cloud hid the altar; and in it there stood
Christ crowned with His thorns—pale—and ghastly with blood
From the wounds of His scourging.
Behind the bright cloud,
Dimly seen, swayed a moaning, tumultuous crowd
Round a shadowy cross, which they struggled to bear.
Dimly seen, swayed a moaning, tumultuous crowd
Round a shadowy cross, which they struggled to bear.
Christ spoke: “What availeth your praise or your prayer?
What profits to hallow the day of my birth,
Yet ignore that I still am among you on earth?
Of Christ ye but dream. I am here; but ye know
The mere legend of Christ—not the Christ in His woe,
In His Church, in His flesh.”
What profits to hallow the day of my birth,
Yet ignore that I still am among you on earth?
Of Christ ye but dream. I am here; but ye know
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In His Church, in His flesh.”
From behind the bright cloud
Rose the sorrowful moan of the shadowy crowd.
Rose the sorrowful moan of the shadowy crowd.
“And these, too, are Christ! Yet who is it sees
How he scourges and pierces and slays me in these?
Behold them and know them!”
How he scourges and pierces and slays me in these?
Behold them and know them!”
Then out of the night
Came the crowd, and were seen in the cloud's mystic light.
They swept by in thousands. The sound of their woe
Filled the midnight with terror!
Came the crowd, and were seen in the cloud's mystic light.
They swept by in thousands. The sound of their woe
Filled the midnight with terror!
Whatever men know
Of the ills of the world, it was there in some form,
Flitting out of the splendour and into the storm.
All tribes and all nations, each colour of skin,
All aspects of sorrow and suffering and sin,
All the poor of all cities, all shapes of disease,
Passed sobbing and writhing.
Of the ills of the world, it was there in some form,
Flitting out of the splendour and into the storm.
All tribes and all nations, each colour of skin,
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All the poor of all cities, all shapes of disease,
Passed sobbing and writhing.
And Christ was of these—
These were Christ in His flesh! And my Lord, as they passed,
Perceived that on all, from the first to the last,
Lay a cross like a shadow.
These were Christ in His flesh! And my Lord, as they passed,
Perceived that on all, from the first to the last,
Lay a cross like a shadow.
Then lo!—in a wink
All was changed.
All was changed.
His Grace yawned.
“Have been dozing, I think!”
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ANNO DOMINI XXXVII.
Grey dawn upon the mountain. Grey and cold,
O'er shivering pines and dripping boulders rolled
The great mist upward to the unseen peak.
The wind blew chill. The scant light, grey and bleak,
Showed haggard outlines.
In the stony waste
Knelt by a torrent one who seemed in haste
To cleanse his hands of some deep ghastly stain.
He washed and moaned. Again and yet again
He raised them to the bleak grey light, and scanned
Their horror with wild eyes; then gathered sand
And bent and washed with frenzy.
O'er shivering pines and dripping boulders rolled
The great mist upward to the unseen peak.
The wind blew chill. The scant light, grey and bleak,
Showed haggard outlines.
In the stony waste
Knelt by a torrent one who seemed in haste
To cleanse his hands of some deep ghastly stain.
He washed and moaned. Again and yet again
He raised them to the bleak grey light, and scanned
Their horror with wild eyes; then gathered sand
And bent and washed with frenzy.
Upward drew
The spectral mist. Far out, the day was blue
Above the tumbled forest slopes: but here,
Above the man, the icy atmosphere
Was filled with mist and shadow of mist.
No tree
Throve on these heights. No grass grew. One could see
But vast bald domes, and grim escarpments strewn
With block and shingle—stone, and stone, and stone,
All streaming with the vapours of the peak.
The spectral mist. Far out, the day was blue
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Above the man, the icy atmosphere
Was filled with mist and shadow of mist.
No tree
Throve on these heights. No grass grew. One could see
But vast bald domes, and grim escarpments strewn
With block and shingle—stone, and stone, and stone,
All streaming with the vapours of the peak.
The man beside the torrent with a shriek
Arose: “The waters mock at my despair;
Their jeering voices call me everywhere;
They madden me! The clouds upon the height
Drain all the depths of Heaven day and night,
And day and night I wash, but never more
Will these red hands—” He wrung them with the roar
Of some wild beast that cannot break its cage.
Arose: “The waters mock at my despair;
Their jeering voices call me everywhere;
They madden me! The clouds upon the height
Drain all the depths of Heaven day and night,
And day and night I wash, but never more
Will these red hands—” He wrung them with the roar
Of some wild beast that cannot break its cage.
Far down upon the boundless foliage
O' the valleys burst the sun. A brilliant green
Laughed out from rocky slope and deep ravine.
The low hills glittered. Silvery waters ran
Through clearings in the wilderness.
The man
Beneath his cloud as from a cavern gazed
And shuddered with the cold. The morning blazed—
A vast blithe fire which drew his steps below!
Blue flanks and shining summits capped with snow
Rose where the distant Alps walled in the wide,
Glad scene.
The man went down the mountain-side.
O' the valleys burst the sun. A brilliant green
Laughed out from rocky slope and deep ravine.
The low hills glittered. Silvery waters ran
Through clearings in the wilderness.
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Beneath his cloud as from a cavern gazed
And shuddered with the cold. The morning blazed—
A vast blithe fire which drew his steps below!
Blue flanks and shining summits capped with snow
Rose where the distant Alps walled in the wide,
Glad scene.
The man went down the mountain-side.
He reached the pines; then stopped.
What sudden fear
Caused him to crouch and tremble?
Hand to ear,
He listened, breathless! Rising from afar,
A strange wild sound, flung back from crag and scar,
Came floating through the hills—and sank and died.
Caused him to crouch and tremble?
Hand to ear,
He listened, breathless! Rising from afar,
A strange wild sound, flung back from crag and scar,
Came floating through the hills—and sank and died.
The man glared fiercely down the gorge and cried:
“Tiberius sends his bloodhounds forth at last!”
“Tiberius sends his bloodhounds forth at last!”
He turned to flee, but paused.
Then slowly passed
The look of terror from his hunted eyes.
“An end of all things comes for him who dies,”
He murmured, rising. “Earth can compass not
More hideous exile than this savage spot.
What worse can Cæsar do than take away
My life? What then! Who slays me will but slay
Hunger and thirst and weariness and cold;
And I shall sleep—and never more behold
Those awful eyes—that thorn-crowned head which fills
The nights with terror!”
Echoing through the hills
Once more the trumpets blew a long wild strain.
The man plunged downward through the woods to gain
The winding levels of the rugged pass.
Then slowly passed
The look of terror from his hunted eyes.
“An end of all things comes for him who dies,”
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More hideous exile than this savage spot.
What worse can Cæsar do than take away
My life? What then! Who slays me will but slay
Hunger and thirst and weariness and cold;
And I shall sleep—and never more behold
Those awful eyes—that thorn-crowned head which fills
The nights with terror!”
Echoing through the hills
Once more the trumpets blew a long wild strain.
The man plunged downward through the woods to gain
The winding levels of the rugged pass.
With sunlight flashed from spear-head and cuirass,
Through the green glen the Roman soldiers strode.
Red-plumed beyond the spears their tribune rode.
Through the green glen the Roman soldiers strode.
Red-plumed beyond the spears their tribune rode.
The man stood forth and with uplifted hand
Cried: “Halt!—It is your prisoner bids you stand;
The fugitive Tiberius seeks is here;
Bring forth your chains!”
The Roman chief rode near
And eyed the man.
The man stood gaunt and grim;
Half clad in wolf-skin; naked, breast and limb;
Through tangled hair his eyeballs blazed like flame.
Cried: “Halt!—It is your prisoner bids you stand;
The fugitive Tiberius seeks is here;
Bring forth your chains!”
The Roman chief rode near
And eyed the man.
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Half clad in wolf-skin; naked, breast and limb;
Through tangled hair his eyeballs blazed like flame.
“What man are you?” the tribune asked—“Your name?”
He answered: “Once I ruled Judea. Men
Bowed low and named me Pontius Pilate then.”
Bowed low and named me Pontius Pilate then.”
Wondering the soldiers gazed. The tribune said:
“You strangely err. Tiberius is dead.
We seek you not.”
The legionaries marched on
With iron tramp. Long after they had gone
The man still stared.
“You strangely err. Tiberius is dead.
We seek you not.”
The legionaries marched on
With iron tramp. Long after they had gone
The man still stared.
At set of sun that day
Unhappy Pilate cast his life away.
Unhappy Pilate cast his life away.
THE END.
| A Lost Epic and Other Poems | |