 | The Drama of Kings |  |
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Dedication. TO THE SPIRIT OF AUGUSTE COMTE I INSCRIBE THIS DRAMA OF EVOLUTION.
O thou of the great brow!
Fire hath thy City now:
Her wild scream shakes the earth and troubles Man.
O spirit who loved best
This City of the West,
See where she shatter'd lies—great centre of thy plan.
Fire hath thy City now:
Her wild scream shakes the earth and troubles Man.
O spirit who loved best
This City of the West,
See where she shatter'd lies—great centre of thy plan.
Spirit of the great brow!
Look back, and whisper now:
Dost thou despair? Was thy vast scheme a cheat?
Doth it move sad strange mirth
To think thou dreamedst Earth
A God to its own soul, a Light to its own feet?
Look back, and whisper now:
Dost thou despair? Was thy vast scheme a cheat?
Doth it move sad strange mirth
To think thou dreamedst Earth
A God to its own soul, a Light to its own feet?
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Out of the sphere of pain
All gods have warn'd in vain,
Brahm, Buddha, Balder, and the Man Divine—
Still blend in bloody strife,
Throat to throat, life for life,
Struggles the Human still, struggles this God of thine.
All gods have warn'd in vain,
Brahm, Buddha, Balder, and the Man Divine—
Still blend in bloody strife,
Throat to throat, life for life,
Struggles the Human still, struggles this God of thine.
Say, is there hope up there,
Or doth thy heart despair?
Out of the deep once more shall Man arise?—
Here on the dark earth see
Stricken Humanity,—
Is there no lamp indeed beyond his own sad eyes?
Or doth thy heart despair?
Out of the deep once more shall Man arise?—
Here on the dark earth see
Stricken Humanity,—
Is there no lamp indeed beyond his own sad eyes?
While thy poor clay sleeps sound
All hush'd beneath the ground,
Dost thou the quest thy soul denied pursue?
And on some heavenly height,
With pale front to the light,
Art dreaming still—what dream?—since thy first dream fell thro'.
All hush'd beneath the ground,
Dost thou the quest thy soul denied pursue?
And on some heavenly height,
With pale front to the light,
Art dreaming still—what dream?—since thy first dream fell thro'.
Lo, 'tis the old sad chance!
Comte, look this day on France—
Behold her struck with swords and given to shame,
She who on bended knee
First to Humanity
Knelt, and with blood of Man heap'd Man's new Altar-flame.
Comte, look this day on France—
Behold her struck with swords and given to shame,
She who on bended knee
First to Humanity
Knelt, and with blood of Man heap'd Man's new Altar-flame.
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She who first rose and dared;
She who hath never spared
Blood of hers, drop by drop, from her great breast;
She who, to free mankind,
Left herself bound and blind;
She whose brave voice let loose the Conscience of the West.
She who hath never spared
Blood of hers, drop by drop, from her great breast;
She who, to free mankind,
Left herself bound and blind;
She whose brave voice let loose the Conscience of the West.
Lo, as she passes by
To the earth's scornful cry,
What are those shapes who walk behind so wan?—
Martyrs and prophets born
Out of her night and morn:
Have we forgot them yet?—these, the great friends of Man.
To the earth's scornful cry,
What are those shapes who walk behind so wan?—
Martyrs and prophets born
Out of her night and morn:
Have we forgot them yet?—these, the great friends of Man.
We name them as they go,
Dark, solemn-faced, and slow—
Voltaire, with sadden'd mouth but eyes still bright;
Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau,
Lafayette, Mirabeau—
These pass, and many more, heirs of large realms of Light.
Dark, solemn-faced, and slow—
Voltaire, with sadden'd mouth but eyes still bright;
Turgot, Malesherbes, Rousseau,
Lafayette, Mirabeau—
These pass, and many more, heirs of large realms of Light.
Greatest and last pass thou,
Strong heart and mighty brow,
Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair;
Facing with those grand eyes
The light in the sweet skies,
While thy shade earthward falls, dark'ning my soul to prayer.
Strong heart and mighty brow,
Thine eyes surcharged with love of all things fair;
Facing with those grand eyes
The light in the sweet skies,
While thy shade earthward falls, dark'ning my soul to prayer.
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And I discern again
The perfect sphere of pain;
And there lies France, great heart of thy great plan—
In her dark hours of gloom,
In her worst sin and doom,
Hath she not ev'n by fire tested the soul of Man?
The perfect sphere of pain;
And there lies France, great heart of thy great plan—
In her dark hours of gloom,
In her worst sin and doom,
Hath she not ev'n by fire tested the soul of Man?
Sure as the great sun rolls,
The crown of mighty souls
Is martyrdom, and lo! she hath her crown.
On thy pale brow there weigh'd
Another such proud shade—
O, but we know ye both, risen or stricken down.
The crown of mighty souls
Is martyrdom, and lo! she hath her crown.
On thy pale brow there weigh'd
Another such proud shade—
O, but we know ye both, risen or stricken down.
Sinful, mad, fever-fraught,
At war with her own thought,
Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain,
France hath the dreadful part
To keep alive Man's heart,
To shake the sleepy blood into the sluggard's brain;
At war with her own thought,
Great-soul'd, sublime, the heir of constant pain,
France hath the dreadful part
To keep alive Man's heart,
To shake the sleepy blood into the sluggard's brain;
Ever in act to spring,
Ever in suffering,
To point the lesson and to bear the load,
Least happy and least free
Of all the lands that be,
Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God.
Ever in suffering,
To point the lesson and to bear the load,
Least happy and least free
Of all the lands that be,
Dying that all may live, first of the slaves of God.
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Hers is the martyr's part,—
To bear a hungry heart,
A bursting brain, brave eyes, an empty hand;
Such is the lot in store
For great souls evermore,
For her, for thee, great soul, for all God's chosen band.
To bear a hungry heart,
A bursting brain, brave eyes, an empty hand;
Such is the lot in store
For great souls evermore,
For her, for thee, great soul, for all God's chosen band.
Shall the cold lands stand by,
Each with proud pitying eye,
While by her own heart's fever she is torn?—
Shall the dull nations draw
Light from her woes—and law?
Yea! but her hour shall come; she too shall rest, some morn.
Each with proud pitying eye,
While by her own heart's fever she is torn?—
Shall the dull nations draw
Light from her woes—and law?
Yea! but her hour shall come; she too shall rest, some morn.
To try each crude desire
By her own soul's fierce fire,
To wait and watch with restless brain and heart,
To quench the fierce thirst never,
To feel supremely ever,
To rush where cowards crawl—this is her awful part.
By her own soul's fierce fire,
To wait and watch with restless brain and heart,
To quench the fierce thirst never,
To feel supremely ever,
To rush where cowards crawl—this is her awful part.
Ever to cross and rack,
Along the same red track,
Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain;
Blessed are those that give—
They die that man may live,
Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain.
Along the same red track,
Genius is led, and speaks its soul out plain;
Blessed are those that give—
They die that man may live,
Their crown is martyrdom, their privilege is pain.
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Spirit of the great brow!
I need no whisper now—
Last of the flock who die for man each day.
Ah, but I should despair
Did I not see up there
A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away.
I need no whisper now—
Last of the flock who die for man each day.
Ah, but I should despair
Did I not see up there
A Shepherd heavenly-eyed on the heights far away.
No cheat was thy vast scheme,
Tho' in thy gentle dream
Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the wild throng—
Thou walking the sad road
Of all who seek for God,
Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long.
Tho' in thy gentle dream
Thou saw'st no Shepherd watching the wild throng—
Thou walking the sad road
Of all who seek for God,
Blinded became at last, looking at Light so long.
Yet God is multiform,
Human of heart and warm,
Content to take what shape the Soul loves best,
Before our footsteps still
He changeth as we will—
Only,—with blood alone we gain Him and are blest.
Human of heart and warm,
Content to take what shape the Soul loves best,
Before our footsteps still
He changeth as we will—
Only,—with blood alone we gain Him and are blest.
O, latest son of her
Freedom's pale harbinger,
I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find;
But on thy great fair brow,
As thou did'st pass but now,
Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless mankind.
Freedom's pale harbinger,
I see the Shepherd whom thou could'st not find;
But on thy great fair brow,
As thou did'st pass but now,
Bright burnt the patient Cross of those who bless mankind.
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And on her brow, who lies
Bleeding beneath the skies,
The mark was set that will not let her rest—
Sinner in all men's sight,
Mocker of very Light,
Yet is she chosen thus, martyr'd,—and shall be blest.
Bleeding beneath the skies,
The mark was set that will not let her rest—
Sinner in all men's sight,
Mocker of very Light,
Yet is she chosen thus, martyr'd,—and shall be blest.
Go by, O mighty dead!
My soul is comforted—
The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers—
Best worshipper is he
Who suffers and is free—
That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and despairs.
My soul is comforted—
The Shepherd on the summit needs no prayers—
Best worshipper is he
Who suffers and is free—
That Soul alone blasphemes which trembles and despairs.
Robert Buchanan. May, 1871.
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