 | The point of view (some talks and disputations) |  |
8
THE LIGHT OCCULT
(ADDRESSED TO ONE WHO HOLDS BY IT)
Upwards? Nay, nay, but downwards, friend,
Your boasted lights to dimmest twilight tend;
To twilights, and the old Cimmerian way
Where dumb Confusion and blind Chaos stray.
Not mid the tossings of hag-haunted sleep,
Where half-drugged souls their purblind vigils keep,
Live strength or vision, truth or light,
But yonder on the hard-won upland height,
Sun-kissed, but fanned by every wind,
There, as at morning's break, mankind
His ancient rallying-ground will find.
Your boasted lights to dimmest twilight tend;
To twilights, and the old Cimmerian way
Where dumb Confusion and blind Chaos stray.
Not mid the tossings of hag-haunted sleep,
Where half-drugged souls their purblind vigils keep,
Live strength or vision, truth or light,
But yonder on the hard-won upland height,
Sun-kissed, but fanned by every wind,
There, as at morning's break, mankind
His ancient rallying-ground will find.
Yet Memory's track lies here, you say
In dusk and shadows? True, it may—
The memories that goad and sting
Of club, and claw, and scaly wing,
Of Earth's dim inauspicious dawn
Ere truth-pursuing thought was born,
Ere, rising to his being's height,
Man smote the assailing hosts of night,
With all their gibbering shadowy train,
The bat-winged progeny of Fright
Which batten on the blood and brain.
Nay, rouse thee, brother! Fling away
Such “bugs and goblins”; common day,
The sun-kissed heights, green meadows free,
May sure suffice for thee and me?
Let the fond slave of magic still
Wallow in portents if he will,
Pursue the evasive mystery,
With chattering teeth and knocking knee
Adown dark haunted alleys creep.
Let us the wind-blown summits keep,
Let storm and thunder, cloud and rain,
The friendly hill, the grassy plain,
Cry “Courage” to our heart and brain;
And when at eventide our eyes
Grow dim to these accustomed skies,
When work is done and tales are told,
Let us in no dim trance behold,
Spent with the labours of his day,
Wrinkled, and bronzed, and bent, and grey,
Yet fighting ever in the van,
Earth's sturdy old colossus—Man,
Outstriding Fate's invidious bars,
And mounting still from slime to stars!
In dusk and shadows? True, it may—
The memories that goad and sting
Of club, and claw, and scaly wing,
Of Earth's dim inauspicious dawn
Ere truth-pursuing thought was born,
Ere, rising to his being's height,
Man smote the assailing hosts of night,
9
The bat-winged progeny of Fright
Which batten on the blood and brain.
Nay, rouse thee, brother! Fling away
Such “bugs and goblins”; common day,
The sun-kissed heights, green meadows free,
May sure suffice for thee and me?
Let the fond slave of magic still
Wallow in portents if he will,
Pursue the evasive mystery,
With chattering teeth and knocking knee
Adown dark haunted alleys creep.
Let us the wind-blown summits keep,
Let storm and thunder, cloud and rain,
The friendly hill, the grassy plain,
Cry “Courage” to our heart and brain;
And when at eventide our eyes
Grow dim to these accustomed skies,
When work is done and tales are told,
Let us in no dim trance behold,
Spent with the labours of his day,
Wrinkled, and bronzed, and bent, and grey,
Yet fighting ever in the van,
Earth's sturdy old colossus—Man,
Outstriding Fate's invidious bars,
And mounting still from slime to stars!
| The point of view (some talks and disputations) | |