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JEPHTHAH; AND OTHER MYSTERIES LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC
“Let my Lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen in some high lonely Tower, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphear The spirit of Plato, to unfold What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook; And of those Dæmons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true content With planet, or with Element. Some time let Gorgeous Tragedy In Sceptr’d Pall come sweeping by.” II Penseroso.
JEPHTHAH
AND OTHER MYSTERIES LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC BY ALEISTER CROWLEY
LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER AND COMPANY, LTD. 1899
All rights reserved
Τάδε νũν έταίραις Ταῖς έμαισι τέρπνα χάλως αείσω. Sappho.
“It need not appear strange unto you that this Book is not all like unto so many others which I have, and which are composed in a lofty and subtle style.”—The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage.
THE DEDICATION
IS TO
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
IN the blind hour of madness, in its might, When the red star of tyranny was highest; When baleful watchfires scared the witless night, And kings mocked Freedom, as she wept: “Thou diest!” When priestcraft snarled at Thought: “I crush thee quite!” Then rose the slendid song of thee, “Thou liest!” Out of the darkness, in the death of hope, Thy white star flamed in Europe’s horoscope.
The coffin-nails were driven home: the curse Of mockery’s blessings flung the dust upon her: The horses of Destruction dragged the hearse Over besmirchèd roads of Truth and Honour: The obscene God spat on the Universe: The sods of Destiny were spattered on her:— Then rose thy spirit through the shaken skies: “Child of the Dawn, I say to thee arise!”
Through the ancestral shame and feudal gloom, Through mediæval blackness rung thy pæan: Let there be light!—the desecrated tomb Gaped as thy fury smote the Galilean. Let there be light! and there was light: the womb Of Earth resounded, and the empyrèan Roared: and the thunder of the seas averred The presence of the recreating word.
The stone rolls back: the charioted night, Stricken, swings backwards on her broken pinions: Faith sickens, drunken tyranny reels, the spite Of monarchs, ruinous of their chained dominions: The splendid forehead, crowned with Love and Light, Flames in the starry air: the fallen minions Drop like lost souls through horrid emptinesses To their own black unfathomable abysses!
Now Freedom, flower and star and wind and wave And spirit of the unimagined fire, Begotten on the dishonourable grave Of fallen tyranny, may seek her sire In the pure soul of Man, her lips may lave In the pure waters of her soul’s desire, Truth: and deep eyes behold thine eyes as deep, Fresh lips kiss thine that kissed her soul from sleep.
See Italy, the eagle of all time, Triumphant, from her coffin’s leaden prison, Soar into freedom, seek the heights sublime Of self-reliance, from those depths new-risen, Stirred by the passion of thy mighty rhyme: Eagle and phoenix: shrill, sharp flames bedizen The burning citadel, where crested Man Leaps sword in hand upon the Vatican.
Those dire words spoken, that thine hammer beat, Of fire and steel and music, wrath god-worded, Consuming with immeasurable heat, The styles and kennels of priest and king, that girded The loins of many peoples, till the seat Of Hell was shaken to its deep, and herded Hosts of the tyrant trembled, faltered, fled, When none pursued but curses of men dead:—
See, from the Calvary of the Son of Man, Where all the hopes of France were trodden under; See from the crucifixion of Sedan, Thy thought the lightning, and thy word the thunder! See her supreme, kingly, republican, New France arisen, with her heart in sunder— Yet throned in Heaven on ever-burning wheels, Freedom resurgent, sealed with seven seals.
The seal of Reason, made impregnable: The seal of Truth, immeasurably splendid: The seal of Brotherhood, man’s miracle: The seal of Peace, and Wisdom heaven-descended: The seal of Bitterness, cast down to Hell: The seal of Love, secure, not-to-be-rended: The seventh seal, Equality: that broken, God sets his thunder and earthquake for a token.
Now if on France the iron clangours close, Corruption’s desperate hand, and lurking treason, Or alien craft, or menace of strange blows Wrought of her own sons, in this bitter season: Lift up thy voice, breathe fury on her foes, Smite bigots yet again, and call on Reason, Reason that must awake, and sternly grip The unhooded serpent of dictatorship!
Or, if thou have laid aside the starry brand, And scourge, whose knots with their foul blood are rotten Whom thou didst smite; if thine unweary hand Sicken of slaughter; if thy soul have gotten Its throne in so sublime a fatherland, Above these miscreants and misbegotten; If even already thy spirit have found peace, Among the thronged immortal secrecies;
If with the soul of Æschylus thy soul Talk, and with Sappho’s if thy music mingle; If with the spirit infinite and whole Of Shakespeare thou commune; if thy brows tingle With Dante’s kiss; if Milton’s thunders roll Amid thy skies; if thou, supreme and single, Be made as Shelley or as Hugo now And all their laurels mingle on thy brow—
Then (as Elijah, when the whirling fire Caught him) stoop not thy spiritual splendour, And sacred-seeking eyes to our desire, But mould one memory yet, divinely tender, Of earth, and leave thy mantle, and thy lyre, A double portion of thy spirit to render, That yet the banner may fling out on high, And yet the lyre teach freemen how to die!
Master, the night is falling yet again. I hear dim tramplings of unholy forces: I see the assembly of the foully slain: The scent of murder steams: riderless horses Gallop across the earth, and seek the inane: The sun and moon are shaken in their courses: The kings are gathered, and the vultures fall Screaming, to hold their ghastly festival.
Master, the sons of Freedom are but few— Yea, but as strong as the storm-smitten sea, Their forehead consecrated with the dew, Their heart made mighty: let my voice decree, My spirit lift their standard: clear and true Bid my trump sound, “Let all the earth be free!” With thine own strength and melody made strong, And filled with fire and light of thine own song.
Only a boy’s wild songs, a boy’s desire, I bring with reverent hands. The task is ended— The twilight draws on me: the sacred fire Sleeps: I have sheathed my sword, my bow unbended: So for one hour I lay aside the lyre, And come, alone, unholpen, unbefriended, As streams get water of the sun-smit sea, Seeking my ocean and my sun in thee.
Yea, with thy whirling clouds of fiery light Involve my music, gyring fuller and faster! Yea, to my sword lend majesty and might To dominate all tumult and disaster, That even my song may pierce the iron night, Invoking dawn in thy great name, O Master! Till to the stainless heaven of the soul Even my chariot-wheels on thunder roll.
And so, most sacred soul, most reverend head, The silence of deep midnight shall be bound, And with the mighty concourse of the dead That live, that contemplate, my place be found, Even mine, through all the seasons that are shed Like leaves upon the darkness, where the sound Of all high song through calm eternity Shall beat and boom, thine own maternal sea.
For in the formless world, so swift a fire Shall burn, that fire shall not be comprehended; So deep a music roll, that our desire Shall hear no sound; shall beam a light so splendid That darkness shall be infinite: the lyre Fashioned of truth strung with men’s heart-strings blended, Shall sound as silence: and all souls be still In wisdom’s high communion with will.
CONTENTS
Dedication Prelude Jephthah, a Tragedy Mysteries: Lyrical and Dramatic: The Five Kisses. I. After Confession II. The Flight III. The Spring After IV. The Voyage Southward V. The Ultimate Voyage The Poem. A Little Drama in Four Scenes The Honourable Adulterers: I. His Story II. Her Story The Legend of Ben Ledi A Descent of the Moench An Ode Dreams The Dreaming Death A Sonnet in Spring De Profundis Two Sonnets on Hearing the Music of Brahms and Tschaikowsky A Valentine Ode to Poesy Sonnets to the Author of the Phrase: “I am not a Gentleman, and I Have no Friends” Sonnet: A Dream The Eve of Love The Morning of Disillusionment Beside the River Man's Hope Sonnet for G. F. Kelly's Drawing of an Hermaphrodite “Perfect Love castest out Fear” A Woodland Idyll Perdurabo On Garret Hostel Bridge Love Sonnet to Clytie A Valentine, ’98 Penelope Love on the Island A Sonnet of Rape of Death In the Woods with Shelley A Vision upon Ushba Elegy, August 27th, 1898 Epilogue
PRELUDE
“I say fearlessly to the fanatics and bigots of the present day: You have cast down the Sublime and Infinite One from His throne, and in his stead have placed the demon of unbalanced force; you have substituted a deity of disorder and jealousy for a God of order and Love; you have perverted the teachings of the Crucified One!”—MacGregor Mathers.
BEFORE the darkness, earlier than being, When yet thought was not, shapeless and unseeing, Made misbegotten of diety on death, There brooded on the waters the strange breath Of an incarnate hatred. Darkness fell And chaos, from prodigious gulphs of hell. Life, that rejoiced to travail with a man, Looked where the cohorts of destruction ran, Saw darkness visible, and was afraid, Seeing. There grew like Death a monster shade, Blind as the coffin, as the covering sod Damp, as the corpse obscene, the Christian God. So to the agony dirges of despair Man cleft the womb, and shook the icy air With bitter cries for light and life and love. But these, begotten of the world above, Withdrew their glory, and the iron world Rolled on its cruel way, and passion furled Its pure wings, and abased itself, and bore Fetters impure, and stooped, and was no more. But resurrection’s ghastly power grew strong, And Lust was born, adulterous with Wrong, The Child of Lies; so man was blinded still, Garnered the harvest of abortive ill, For wheat reaped thistles, and for worship wrought A fouler idol of his meanest thought: A monster, vengeful, cruel, traitor, slave, Lord of disease and father of the grave, A treacherous bully, feeble as malign, Intolerable, inhuman, undivine, With spite close girded and with hatred shod, A snarling cur, the Christian’s Christless God. Out! misbegotten monster! with thy brood, The obscene offspring of thy pigritude, Incestuous wedlock with the Pharisees That hail the Christ a son of thee! Our knees Bend not before thee, and our earth-bowed brows Shake off their worship, and reject thy spouse, The harlot of the world! For, proud and free, We stand beyond thy hatred, even we: We broken in spirit beneath bitter years, Branded with the burnt-offering of tears, Spit out upon the lie, and in thy face Cast back the slimy falsehood; to your place, Ye Gadarean swine, too foul to fling Into the waters that abound and spring! Back, to your mother’s filth! With hope, and youth Love, light, and power, and mastery of truth Armed, we reject you; the bright scourge we ply, Your howling spirits stumble to your sty: The worm that was your lie—our heel its head Bruises, that bruised us once; the snake is dead. Who of mankind that honours man discerns That man of all men, whose high spirit burns, Crowned over life, and conqueror of death, The godhood that was Christ of Nazareth— Who of all men, that will not gird his brand And purge from priestcraft the uxorious land? Christ, who lived, died, and lived, that man might be Tameless and tranquil as the summer sea, That laughs with love of the broad skies of noon, And dreams of lazy kissings of the moon, But listens for the summons of the wind, Shakes its white mane, and hurls its fury blind Against oppression, gathers its steep side, Rears as a springing tiger, flings its tide Tremendous on the barriers, smites the sand, And gluts its hunger on the breaking land; Engulphing waters fall and overwhelm:— Christ, who quelled the wrath of God, And rose triumphant over faith and trod With calm victorious feet the icy way When springtide burgeoned, and the rosy day Leapt from beneath the splendours of the snow:— Christ, ultimate master of man’s hateful foe, And lord of his own soul and fate, strikes still From man’s own heaven, against the lord of ill; Stage thunders mock the once terrific nod That spoke the fury of the Christian God, Whose slaves deny, too cowardly to abjure, Their desecrated Moloch. The impure Godhead is powerless, even on the slave, Who once could scar the forehead of the brave, Break love’s heart pitiful, and reach the strong Through stricken children, and a mother’s wrong, Day after darkness, life beyond the tomb! Manhood reluctant from religion’s womb Leaps, and sweet laughters flash for freedom’s birth That thrills the old bosom of maternal earth. The dawn has broken; yet the impure fierce fire Kindles the grievous furnace of desire Still for the harpy brood of king and priest, Slave, harlot, coward, that makes man feast Before the desecrated god, in hells Of darkness, where the mitred vampire dwells, Where still death reigns, and God and priests are fed, Man’s blood for wine, man’s flesh for meat and bread, The hands of murder, of the obscene things That snarl at freedom, broken by her wings, That prop the abomination, cringe and smile, Caressing the dead fetich, that defile With hideous sacraments the happy land. Destruction claims its own; the hero’s hand Grips the snake’s throat; yea, on its head is set The heel that crushes it, the serpent wet With that foul blood, from human vitals drained, From tears of broken women, and sweat stained From torturers’ cloths; the sickly tide is poured, And all the earth is blasted; the green sward Burns where it touches, and the barren sod Rejects the poison of the blood of God. Yet, through the foam of waters that enclose Their sweet salt bosoms, through the summer rose, Through flowers of fatal fire, through fields of air That summer squanders, ere the bright moon bare Her maiden bosom, through the kissing gold Where lovers’ lips are molten and breasts hold Their sister bodies, and deep eyes are wed, And fire of fire enflowers the sacred head Of mingling passion, through the silent sleep Where love sobs out its life, and new loves leap To being, through the dawn of all new things, There burns an angel whose amazing wings Wave in the sunbright air, whose lips of flame Chant the almighty music of One Name, Whose perfume fills the silent atmosphere, Whose passionate melodies caress the ear; An angel, strong and eloquent, aloud Cries to the earth to lift the final shroud, And, having burst Faith’s coffin, to lay by The winding-sheet of Infidelity, And rise up naked, as a god, to hear This message from the reawakened sphere; Words with love clothed, with life immortal shed:— “Mankind is made a little part of God.” Till the response, full chorus of the earth, Flash through the splendid portals of rebirth, Completing Truth in its amazing span:— “Godhead is made the Spirit that is Man.” To whose white mountains, and their ardous ways, Turn we our purpose, till the faith that slays Yield up its place to faith that gives us life, The faith to conquer in the higher strife; Our single purpose, and sublime intent, With their spilt blood to seal our sacrament, Who stand among the martyrs of the Light; Our single purpose, by incarnate might Begotten after travail unto death, To live within the light that quickeneth; To tread base thoughts as our high thoughts have trod, Deep in the dust, the carrion that was God; Conquer our hatreds as the dawn of love Conquered that fiend whose ruinous throne above Broke lofty spirits once, now falls with Fate, At last through his own violence violate; To live in life, breathe freedom with each breath, As God breathed tyranny and died in death; Secure the sacred fastness of the soul, Uniting self to the absolute, the whole, The universal marriage of mankind, Free, perfect, broken from the chains that bind, Force infinite, love pure, desire untold, And mutual raptures of the age of gold, The child of freedom! So the moulder, man, Shakes his grim shoulders, and the shadows wan Fall to forgetfulness; so life revives, And new sweet loves beget diviner lives, And Freedom stands, re-risen from the rod, A goodlier godhead than the broken God; Uniting all the universe in this Music more musical than breezes’ kiss, A song more potent than the sullen sea, The triumph of the freedom of the free, One stronger song than thrilled the rapturous birth Of stars and planets and the mother, earth; As lovers, calling lovers when they die, Strangle death’s torture in love’s agony; As waters, shaken by the storm, that roar, Sea unto sea; as stars that burn before The blackness; as the mighty cry of swords Raging through battle, for its stronger chords; And for its low entrancing music, made As waters lambent in the listening glade; As Sappho’s yearning to the amorous sea; As Man’s Prometheus, in captivity Master and freeman; as the holy tune All birds, all lovers, whisper to the moon. So, passionate and pure, the strong chant rolls, Queen of the mystic unity of souls; So from eternity its glory springs King of the magical brotherhood of kings; The absolute crown and kingdom of desire, Earth’s virgin chaplet, molten in the fire, Sealed in the sea. betokened by the wind: “There is one God, the Spirit of Mankind!”
JEPHTHAH,
A TRAGEDY
O Jephthah! judge of Israel!”—Hamlet
TO
GERALD KELLY,
POET AND PAINTER
I Dedicate
THIS TRAGEDY.
Cambridge, November, 1898.
CHARACTERS.
Jephthah. Adulah, his Daughter. Jared, A Gileadite, cousin to Jephthah. A Prophet of the Lord. Eleazar, Chief of the Elders of Israel. Ahinoam, an aged Priest. First Messenger. Second Messenger. First Herald. Second Herald. Soldiers of Jephthah. Soldiers of Israel. Chorus of Elders of Israel. Maidens of Israel.
Scene:—An Open Place before Mizpeh. In the midst an Altar.
Time:—The duration of the play is from noon of the first day to dawn of the third.
Jephthah.
Eleazar. Prophet. Chorus.
CHORUS.
NOW is our sin requited of the Lord. For, scorning Jephthah for an harlot’s son, We cast him forth from us, and said: Begone, Thou shalt not enter in with us; thy mouth Shall thirst for our inheritance in vain; Thou hast no lot nor part in Gilead. And now, he gathers to himself vain men, Violent folk, and breakers of the law, And holds aloof in rocky deserts, where The land, accurst of God, is barren still Of any herb, or flower, or any tree, And has no shelter, nor sweet watersprings, Save where a lonely cave is hollow, and where A meagre fountain sucks the sand. Our folk Are naked of his counsel and defence Against the tribe of Ammon, and stand aghast; Our feeble arms sway doubtfully long swords, And spears are flung half-heartedly; and he With warlike garrison and stronger arms Who might have helped us, laughs, and violence Threatens the white flower of our homes: our wives, Daughters, and sons are as a prey to them, And where the children of the Ammonites Throng not swift hoofs for murder, Jephthah’s men Blaspheme our sanctuaries inviolate, And rob us of our dearest. Woe on woe, The overwhelming summit of a wave Too black, too concentrate, too impious, And culminating in a double death, Hangs imminent to crush the slender sides And battered bulwarks of our state. O thou Whose hoary locks and sightless eyes compel Our pity and our reverence, and whose mouth Foams with the presence of some nearer god Insatiate of thy body frail, give tongue, If tongue may so far master deity As give his fury speech, or shape thy words From the blind auguries of madness.
PROPHET.
Ha! The rose has washed its petals, and the blood Pours through its burning centre from my heart. The fire consumes the light; and rosy flame Leaps through the veins of blue, and tinges them With such a purple as incarnadines The western sky when storms are amorous And lie upon the breast of toiling ocean, Such billows to beget as earth devours In ravening whirlpool gulphs. My veins are full, Throbbing with fire more potent than all wine, All sting of fleshly pangs and pleasures. Oh! The god is fast upon my back; he rides My spirit like a stallion; for I hate The awful thong his hand is heavy with.
ELEAZAR. Speak, for the god compels, and we behold.
PROPHET. A harlot shall be mother of Israel.
CHORUS. He speaks of her who sighed for Gilead.
PROPHET. A maiden shall be slain for many men.
CHORUS. A doubtful word, and who shall fathom it?
PROPHET. Thy help is from the hills and desert lands.
CHORUS. Our help is from the hills: we know the Lord.
PROPHET. Death rides most violently against the sun.
CHORUS. And who shall bridle him, or turn his way? For Fate alone of gods, inflexible, And careless of men’s deeds, is firm in heaven.
PROPHET. I see a sword whose hilt is to thy hand.
CHORUS. But which of us shall wield the shining blade?
PROPHET. I see a dove departing to the hills.
CHORUS. I pray it bring an olive-branch to us.
PROPHET. The god has overcome me, I am silent.
CHORUS. He lies as one lies dead; none wakens him. Nor life nor death must touch him now: beware!
ELEAZAR. Beware now, all ye old wise men, of this. For high things spoken and unjustly heard, Or heard and turned aside, are fruitless words, Or bear a blossom evil and abhorred, Lest God be mocked: consider well of this.
CHORUS. A sword, a sword, to smite our foes withal!
ELEAZAR. A help shall come from desert lands to us.
CHORUS. Toward what end? For present help is much, But uttermost destruction more, for we Have no strong hope in any hand of man: God is our refuge and our tower of strength. In Him if any man abide; but if He put his faith in horsemen, or the sword, The sword he trusted shall be for an end.
ELEAZAR. But evils fall like rain upon the land.
CHORUS. Let us not call the hail to give us peace.
ELEAZAR. Nor on the sun, lest he too eat us up.
CHORUS. The heart of a man as the sea Beats hither and thither to find Ease for the limbs long free, Light for the stormy mind, A way for the soul to flee, A charm for the lips to bind; And the struggle is keen as the strife to be, And the heart is tossed by the thankless wind.
ELEAZAR. Nay, for a man’s sure purpose is of God.
CHORUS. The large pale limbs of the earth are tanned With the sun and the sea and the yellow sand And the face of earth is dark with love Of the lords of hell and the spirits above That move in the foggy air of night, And the spirit of God, most like a dove, Hovers, and lingers, and wings his flight, Spurned and rejected and lost to sight; But we desire him, a holy bird, And we turn eyes to the hollow hills; For God is strong , and His iron word Mocks at the gods of the woods and rills.
For our God is as a fire That consumeth every one That is underneath the sun, And our uttermost desire Must abase, with rent attire, Souls and bodies to His throne, Where above the starry choir Stands the jasper, where alone Palest seraphim respire Perfumes of a precious stone, Where beneath His feet the dire World of shells is pashed with mire, And the evil spirits’ ire Steams and fumes within the zone Girt with minaret and spire Broken, burst, and overthrown, Dusty, and defiled, and dun, Palled with smoke of fruitless altars Cast beneath the ocean now, Ruined symbols, changéd psalters, Where no lip no longer falters, And the priest’s deep brow Pales not, flushes not for passion, Clouds not with concealéd thought, And the worshipper’s eye, wrought To the stars in subtle fashion, By no magic is distraught.
For our hope is in His holy Places, and our prayers ascend Fervent, and may sunder slowly The blue darkness at the end. For we know not where to send For a sword to cleanse the land, For a sharp two-edgéd brand, All our homesteads to defend. For amid the desert sand Lives an outcast of our race, Strong, immutable, and grand, And his mighty hand Grips a mighty mace. He would shatter, did we call, Sons of Ammon one and all, Did we fear not lest his eye Turn back covetous to try For our palaces, to rule Where the far blue Syrian sky Stretches, where the clouds as wool Mark the white Arabian border, To become a tyrant king Where his sword came conquering. Out of chaos rises order On her wide unwearying wing, But the desolate marauder Never over us shall swing Such a sceptre as should bring Sorrow to one home of ours. Better bear the heavy hours Under God’s avenging breath, Better brave the horrid powers, Nor avoid the foreign death, Humbling all our pride before God’s most holy throne, abasing Every man’s strong soul, and facing All the heathen Ammon bore On the angry shore, Trusting to the mercy rare Of Jehovah, than to bare Hearts and bosoms to a friend Who high truth and faith may swear, And betray us at the end To his robber bands. So we clasp our humble hands, Praying God to lift His sword From our bleeding state, that stands Tottering to its fall. Though we call not Jephthah back To repel the harsh attack, Nor his followers call, Hear thou, O Most High, give ear To our pitiful complaint: Under woes of war we faint. Pity, Lord of Hosts, our fear! Hear, Most High, oh, hear!
Enter Messenger.
MESSENGER. My lords, take heed now, prayer is good to save While yet the foemen are far off; but now They howl and clamour at our very gates.
ELEAZAR. Blaspheme not God, but tell thy woeful news.
CHORUS. I fear me for the sorrow that he speaks.
MESSENGER. The tribe of Ephraim went forth to fight Armed, and with bows, and turned them back to-day. For in the South a cloud of many men, And desert horsemen fiery as the sun, Swarmed on the plains, a crescent from the hills That girdle Mahanaim: and behold! Our men were hemmed before the city gates, The elders having fortified them: so They fled about the city, and the horsemen, Dashing, destroyed them as the wind that sweeps Sere leaves before its fury: then the city With arrows darkened all the air; and luck Smote down some few pursuing; but their captain, Riding his horse against the gate, drove in His spear, and cried to them that followed him: Who plucks my spear out shall be chief of all That ply the short spear: and who breaks the gate Shall lead my horsemen into Mizpeh: then, Rushing, their spearmen battered in the gate And overpowered the youths and agéd men, That put up trembling spears, and drew slack bows, And flung weak stones that struck for laughter’s sake. And so the city was the spoil of them, And all our women-folk are slain or violate, And all our young men murderously slain, And children spitted on their coward spears.
CHORUS. How heavy is Thy hand upon us, Lord!
MESSENGER. Nor stayed they there; but, firing Mahanaim, Sweep toward Mizpeh like a locust-cloud.
ELEAZAR. Get thee to horse and carry me this message: The Elders unto Jephthah, greeting: Help! No single cry beyond that Help! Be gone!
Exit Messenger.
CHORUS. I fear me our necessity is sure. But they come hither. Shall we rather flee?
ELEAZAR. I stand here manly, and will die a man.
CHORUS. For cowardice not pleases God, nor fear. Shall we not take up weapons? Or shall He Rather defend us with His Holy Arm, We not presuming in our arrogance To come with cunning, and defend ourselves?
ELEAZAR. Nay, but God smites with sharpness of our swords.
CHORUS. The sword is made sharp in our hands, but the point He shall guide; We grasp the tough ash of the spear, but His hand is beside; We drive in a cloud at the foe, but His chariots ride Before us to sunder the spears. We trust in His arms, and His prowess shall fledge our song’s wing; Our triumph we give to His glory, our spoil to the King; Our battles He fights as we fight them, our victories bring For His temple a tribute of tears.
Enter Jephthah amid his Soldiers, with many young men of Israel.
JEPHTHAH. Yea, for a man’s sword should not turn again To his own bosom, and the sword of fear Smites not in vain the heart of cowardice. But who hath called me hither to what end?
ELEAZAR. For these, and for the sake of Israel.
JEPHTHAH. And who are these? And who are Israel?
CHORUS. Turn not thy face from us in wrath, for we Are thine own father’s children, and his loins With double fervour gat a double flower; And we indeed were born of drudging wives, Pale spouses whom his heart despised, but thou Wast of a fairer face and brighter eyes, And limbs more amorous assuaged thy sire; And fuller blood of his is tingling thus Now in thy veins indignant at our sin. But thou art strong and we are weak indeed, Nor can we bear the burden, nor sustain The fury of the Children of the East That ride against us, and bright victory Is thronéd in their banners, and on ours Perches the hideous nightbird of defeat. Mourn, mourn and cry; bow down unto the dust O Israel, and O Gilead, for your son Comes with unpitying eyes and lips compressed To watch the desecration of thy shrine, Jehovah, and the ruin of our hearth.
JEPHTHAH. I am your outcast brother. At my birth My father did not smile, nor she who bore These limbs dishonourable did not smile, Nor did my kisses soothe a mother’s woe, Because my thews grown strong were impotent To reign or be a captain any more, Though I might serve the children who had grown Less godlike from his loins who made me god. So when the day was ripe, my brethren turned And gnashed upon me, mocking, with their teeth: Thou art the son of a strange woman, thou! Begone from honest folk!—and I in wrath Smote once or twice with naked hand, and slew Two gibing cowards, and went forth an outcast, And gathered faithful servitors, and ruled Mightiest in the desert, and was lord Of all the marches where my spear might throw Its ominous shadow between night and noon. Yet always I considered my revenge, And purposed, seeking out those kin of mine, To make them as those kings that Gideon slew Hard by the bloody waters of a brook. And now ye call me to your help, forsooth!
CHORUS. Let no ill memory of an ancient wrong, Most mighty, edge thy sword Against the prayer of this repentant song. Dire sorrow of the Lord Consumes our vital breath, and smites us down, And desecrates the crown. For we have sinned against thee, and our souls Scathe and devour as coals, And God is wroth because of thee, to break The spirit of our pride, our lips to make Reverent toward thee, as of men ashamed. And now we pray thee for our children’s sake, And thine own pity’s sake, to come untamed, And furiously to ride against our foes, And be our leader, till one sanguine rose Spread from thy standard awful leaves of blood, And thy swords pour their long insatiate flood Through ranks of many dead, and then to close The wounds of all the land, and bid it bud And blossom; as when two-and-thirty men, The sons of Jair, on milk-white asses rode, And judged us righteously, and each abode Safe in the shadow of his vine; as when The peace of Joshua lay upon the land, And God turned not away His piteous eyes, Nor smote us with the fury of His hand, Nor clouded over His mysterious skies, And storm and wind had no more might at all, And death and pestilence forgotten were, And angels came to holy men that call, And gracious spirits thronged the happy air; When God was very gracious to all folk, And lifted from us the Philistian yoke, And all the iron power of Edom broke, And all the Earth was fair! Now, seeing that we are sinners, wilt not thou Relent thy hateful brow, And bend on us a forehead full of peace, And bid thine anger cease, And speak sweet words most comfortable, and lose The bitter memory of the wrong long dead And be the lord and prince we gladly choose And crown the mercy of thy royal head, And be the chief, and rule upon thy kin, And be not wroth for sin? For surely in the dusty days and years There is a little river flowing still That brings forgetfulness of woes and fears And drinks up all the memory of ill. Wherefore our tribute to thy feet we bring; Conquer our foes, and reign our king!
JEPHTHAH. Ye have no king but God: see ye to that!
ELEAZAR. Behold, these people are as children, hiding Thoughts beautiful and true in profuse words, Not meaning all the lofty flight that fancy And the strong urgement of a tune discover. Be thou our judge, as Joshua long ago.
JEPHTHAH. Swear by the Name unspoken that the truth Flashes between the lips that tremble thus! Ye love me not; ye fear me; ye might thrust Some petty obstacle before my hands When I would grasp your promise, and betray Your faith for fear of me. I read thy thoughts, Old man; I trust no word of thine, but these Full-hearted mourners, them will I believe Upon their oath most solemn and secure. But take thou warning now, I shall not spare Grey hairs or faltering limbs for treachery.
ELEAZAR. Lift up your hands, all people of this land, And swear with me this oath my lips pronounce: By Wisdom, father of the world, we swear; By Understanding, mother of the sea, By Strength and Mercy, that support the throne, By Beauty, Splendour, Victory, we swear, And by the strong foundations, and the Kingdom, Flower of all kingdoms, and by the holy Crown Concealed with all concealments, highest of all, We swear to be true men to thee and thine.
JEPHTHAH. I thank you, people. Let the younger men Gather their swords and spears, and pass before This spear I strike into the earth, that so I see how many fight for Israel.
CHORUS. The young men are girded with swords, And the spears flash on high, and each shield Gleams bright like the fury of lords Through the steam of the well-foughten field, And the children of Ammon are broken, their princes and warriors yield.
The captain is chosen for fight, The light of his eye is as fire, And his hand is hardy of might And heavy as dead desire; And the sword of the Lord and of Jephthah shall build our dead women a pyre. The people were sad for his wrath, The elders were bowed with despair, And Death was the piteous path; With ashes we covered our hair; The voice of the singer was dumb, the voice of the triumph of prayer.
But God had pity upon us, Our evil and fallen way; His mercy was mighty on us; His lips are as rosy as day Broken out of the sea at the sunrise, as fragrant as flowers in May.
Our sin was great in His sight: We chased from our gates our brother, We shamed his father’s might, We spat on the grave of his mother, We laughed in his face and mocked, looking slyly one to another.
But God beheld, and His hand Was heavy to bring us grief; He brought down fire on the land, And withered us root and leaf Until we were utterly broken, lost men, without a chief. But whom we scorned we have set A leader and judge over all; His wrong he may not forget, But he pitieth men that call From the heart that is broken with fear and the noise of funeral.
JEPHTHAH. Are all these ready for their hearth and altars To perish suddenly upon the field, Pavilioned with the little tents at noon, And ere the nightfall tented with the dead, And every hollow made a sepulchre, And every hill a vantage ground whereon Hard-breathing fighting men get scanty sleep Till the dawn lift his eyebrows, and the day Renew the battle? Will ye follow me Through slippery ways of blood to Ephraim To beat with sturdy swords unwearying Our foemen to their Ammon, and to grapple With red death clutching at the throat of us, With famine and with pestilence, at last To reach a barren vengeance, and perchance An hundred of your thousands to return Victors—so best God speed us—and for worst Death round our cities horrible and vast, And rape and murder mocking at our ghosts?
A SOLDIER. Better they taunt our ghosts than us for cowards! Live through or die, I will have my sword speak plain To these damned massacring invaders. Say, My fellows, will ye follow Jephthah? Hail!
SOLDIERS. We follow Jephthah to the death. All hail!
JEPHTHAH. Go then, refresh yourselves, and sleep to-night. I will send messages to their dread lord Demanding his fell purpose, threatening My present aid to you with men of valour Chosen of all your tribes, and charging him As he loves life, and victory, to content His army with their present brief success, Lest he pass by the barrier of our suffering, And find our wrath no broken sword, and find Despair more terrible than hope. Go now.
A SOLDIER. We go, my lord, less readily to sleep Than if you bade us march. No man of us But stirs a little, I warrant, in his dreams, And reaches out for sword-hilt. All hail, Jephthah!
SOLDIERS. Jephthah! a leader, a deliverer. Hail! [Exeunt Soldiers and Young Men.
Enter a Herald.
JEPHTHAH. Hearken, Jehovah, to thy servant now; Fill Thou my voice with thine own thunders; fill My swift sharp words with such a lightning-fork As shall fall venomous upon the host Of these idolatrous that thus invade Our fencéd cities, these that put to sword Our helpless. Hear the cry of widowed men! And young men fatherless! And old men reft Of children! Grant us victory to avenge Their innocent shed blood, and ruined land. So, to gain time for prayer and penitence For grievous trespass of idolatry Done to th’ accurséd Baalim, and time To gather fugitives, and make them men, And straggling herdsmen for our armament, We send thee, herald, to the furious king Who lies with all his power encamped somewhere Hence southward toward Mahanaim. Say Unto the king of Ammon: Thus saith Jephthah: Why hast thou come with bloody hands against us? Our holy God, that bound the iron sea With pale frail limits of white sand, and said: Thus far, and not one billowy step beyond! Saith unto thee in like commandment: Thou Who hast destroyed my people from the land So far, shalt not encroach upon their places One furlong more, lest quickly I destroy Thee and thy host from off the earth. Say thus; Ride for thy life, and bring me speedy word. [Exit Herald.
CHORUS. Not wingéd forms, nor powers of air, Nor sundered spirits pale and fair, Nor glittering sides and scales, did bring The knowledge of this happy thing That is befallen us unaware. In likeness to the lips that sing Ring out your frosty peal, and smite Loud fingers on the harp, and touch Lutes, and clear psalteries musical, And all stringed instruments, to indite A noble song of triumph, such As men may go to fight withal. For freedom on her fiery wings Flies over camps and tented kings, And bears a sword avenging us, And turns her face to Israel thus. For now a captain brave and strong Shall break the fury of the thong Wherewith the sons of Ammon scourge Our country; and his war shall urge Long columns of victorious men To blackest wood and dimmest den, Wherever fugitive and slave Shall seek a refuge, find a grave; And so pursue the shattered legions Through dusty ways and desert regions Back to the cities whence they came With iron, massacre, and flame, And turn their own devouring blade On city fired and violate maid, That Israel conquer, and men know God is our God against a foe.
For the web of the battle is woven Of men that are strong as the sea, When the rocks by its tempest are cloven, And waves wander wild to the lee; When ships are in travail forsaken, And tempest and tumult awaken; When foam by fresh foam overtaken Boils sanguine and fervent and free.
For its sides are a million of paces; Its centre is Death as he stands Pale-horsed, where the iciest places Chill blood in the furious hands. He stands like a spectre, and urges The horsemen in thunderous surges On columns where blood not asperges The splashing of struggling bands.
The sword is like lightning in battle, The spear like the light of a star; It strikes on the shield, and the rattle Of arrows is hail from afar. For the ways of the anger of lords Are bloody with widowing swords, And the roar of contention of chords Rolls back from the heart of the war.
But Victory lights on the banner Of Israel like to a bird; It flaps in the air, and Hosanna! Flings up to the sky for a word! Long streams of light horsemen are flashing Through fields where the tempest was lashing, Through the pools of the battle-blood splashing, Long swords to the rout of the herd.
For fighters slip down on the dying, And flying folk stumble on dead, And the sound of the pitiless crying Of slaughter is heavy and red, The sound of the lust of the slayer As fierce as a Persian’s prayer, And the sound of the loud harp-player Like the wind beats to their tread.
A royal triumph is waiting For the captain of Heaven’s choice, A noise as of eagles mating, A cry as of men that rejoice. For victory crowns with garlands Of fame his valour in far lands, And suns sing back to the starlands His praise with a perfect voice.
JEPHTHAH. Leave prophecy until I come again.
CHORUS. A prophet told us thou shouldst fight for us And save thy people from the Ammonites.
JEPHTHAH. Why look you so? He told you other thing.
CHORUS. Nay, lord, no saying that we understood.
JEPHTHAH. Speak thou its purport; I may understand. For, know you, in the desert where I dwelt I had strange store of books obscure; books written Not openly for fools, but inwardly Toward the heart of wise men. And myself Studied no little while upon these things, And, seeking ever solitude, I went Nightly upon a rock that stood alone Threatening the sandy wilderness, and prayed. Where many visions came before mine eyes So strange—these eyes have started from my head, And every hair, grown fearful, like a steed Reared in its frenzy; see, these lips of mine Have blanched, these nails have bitten through my flesh For sundry things I saw—and these informed My open spirit by their influence, And taught mine ears to catch no doubtful sound Of prophecy, but fix it in my mind, A lambent liquid fire of poetry Full of all meaning as the very stars. Yet of my own life they have never breathed One chilly word of fear, or one divine Roseate syllable of hope and joy. Still less of love. For no sweet life of love Lies to my hand, but I am bound by Fate To the strong compulsion of the sword; my lips Shall fasten on my wife’s not much; nor those Pure lips of innocent girlhood that call me Father; but my lips must wreathe smiles no more, But set in fearful strength of purpose toward The blood of enemies, in horrid gouts And hideous fountains leaping from great gashes, Rather than that belovéd blood that wells Fervent and red-rose-wise in loving breasts, And little veins of purple in the arms, Or cheeks that are already flushed with it, To crimson them with the intense delight Of eyes that meet and know the spirit dwells Beyond their profound depth in sympathy. Nay, my delight must find some dearest foe, And cleave his body with a lusty stroke That sets the blood sharp tingling in my arm. Yet tell me if perchance I lay aside One day the harness of cold iron, bind on The lighter reins of roses deftly twined By children loving me, to be a harness To drive me on the road of happiness To the far goal of heaven. Would to God It might be so a little ere I die!
CHORUS OF ELDERS. This doubtful word his fuming lips gave forth: A maiden shall be slain for many men. This only of his fury seemed obscure.
JEPHTHAH. A maiden shall be slain for many men. Surely, O people, and men of Israel, The prophecy is happy to the end. For see yon moon that creeps inviolate Against the corner of the mountains so, Slowly and gracefully to lighten us. So, ere three nights be gone, the course of heaven Shall be most monstrously o’erwhelmed for us Ere sundown, as for Joshua, and the moon, The maiden moon, be slain that we may see By the large moveless sun to slay and slay, More utterly proud Ammon to consume. This is the omen. Shout for joy, my friends! But who comes whirling in yon dusty cloud With trampling charger dimly urging him Toward our conclave? ’Tis our messenger.
Re-enter Herald.
Sir, you ride well. I pray your news be good.
HERALD. So spake the haughty and rebellious Ammon Defying your most gentle words with scorn: Tell Jephthah: Israel took away my land When they came out of Egypt from the river Of Ammon unto Jabbok, and unto Jordan. Wherefore, I pray thee, sheathe thy sword, restore Peaceably these my lands, and go in peace, Lest wrath, being kindled, consume thee utterly.
JEPHTHAH. Let yet another herald stand before me Fresh, and go thou, swiftest of messengers, And sleep and eat a little, and to-morrow Thou shalt have guerdon of thy faithfulness. [Exit Herald.
Enter Second Herald.
But now, sir, go to this rebellious king And say to him: Thus Jephthah, judge of Israel, With gentle words answers thy greediness: Israel took not thy land, nor that of Moab: But, coming out of Egypt, through the sea And over wilderness, to Kadesh came. Our people sent a message unto Edom Unto the king thereof, and prayed his grace, To let them pass through his dominions And unto Moab: and they answered Nay. So Israel abode in Kadesh: then Passing through all the desert round about Edom and Moab, pitched their weary tent Beyond the bank of Ammon; and they sent Messengers thence to Sihon, Heshbon’s king, The lord of Amorites, and said to him: I prithee, let us pass to our own place Through thy dominions: but his crafty mind, Fearing some treachery, that was not, save In his ill mind that thought it, did determine To gather all his people, and to pitch Tents hostile in the plains before Jahaz. And there he fought with Israel; but God Delivered Sihon to our hands, and all That followed him: whom therefore we destroyed With many slaughters: so we dispossessed The envious Amorites, and had their land, A land whose borders were the Ammon brook On the one hand, and on the other Jabbok And Jordan: we, who slew the Amorites. What hast thou, king of Ammon, here to do? How thinkst thou to inherit their possessions That the Lord God hath given us? Go to! Chemosh your god hath given you your land; Possess that peaceably; but whomsoever The Lord our God shall drive before our spears, His lands we will possess. And thou, O king, Art thou now better than that bloody Balak Whose iron hand was upon Moab? He, Fought he against us, while three hundred years We dwelt in Heshbon and her towns, and Aroer And her white cities, and by Ammon’s coast? Why therefore did ye not recover them Then and not now? I have not sinned against thee; But thou dost me foul wrong to bring thy sword And torch of rapine in my pleasant land. Between the folk of Ammon and the folk Of Israel this day be God the judge. [Exit Second Herald.
ELEAZAR. Well spoken: but the ear that will not hear Is deafer than the adder none may charm.
JEPHTHAH. I know it, and will not await the answer. But dawn shall see a solemn sacrifice, And solemn vows, and long swords glittering, And moving columns that shall shake the earth With firm and manly stride; and victory Most like a dove amid the altar-smoke.
CHORUS. We, passing here the night in prayer, will wait And with thee offer up propitious doves, And firstling males of all the flocks of us.
JEPHTHAH. Not so: but I will have you hence in haste To gather food and arms and carriages, That all our soldiers may have sustenance, And fresher weapons. I alone will spend The long hours with Jehovah, at His throne, And wrestle with th’ accuser. So, depart!
CHORUS OF ELDERS. When the countenance fair of the morning And the lusty bright limbs of the day Race far through the west for a warning Of night that is evil and gray, When the light by the southward is dwindled, And the clouds as for sleep are unfurled, The moon in the east is rekindled, The hope of the passionate world. The stars for a token of glory Flash fire in the eyes of the night, And the holy immaculate story Of Heaven is flushed into light. For the night has a whisper to wake us, And the sunset a blossom to kiss, And the silences secretly take us To the well of the water that is; For the darkness is pregnant with being, As earth that is glad of the rain, And the eyes that are silent and seeing Are free of the trammels of pain. Like light through the portals they bounded, Their lithe limbs with cruelty curled, And the noise of their crying resounded To kindle the death of the world. For the heaven at sunset is sundered, Its gates to the sages unclose, And through waters that foamed and that wondered There flashes the heart of a rose; For its petals are beauty and passion, For its stem the foundation of earth, For bloom the incarnadine fashion Of blessings that roar into birth; And the gates that roll back on their hinges The soul of the sage may discern, Till the water with crimson that tinges Beyond them miraculous burn; And the presence of God to the senses Is the passion of God in the mind, As the string of a harp that intenses The note that its fire may not find. For here in the tumult and labour And blindness of cowering man, The spirit has God for a neighbour, And the wheels unreturning that ran Return to the heart of the roses, And curl in the new blossom now, As the holiest fire that encloses Gray flame on the holiest brow. So midnight with magic reposes, And slumbers to visions bow. For the soul of man, being free, shall pass the gates of God, And the spirit find the Sea by the feet of Him untrod, And the flesh, a lifeless ember, in ashen fear grow cold, As the lives before remember the perished hours of gold. [Exeunt all but Jephthah.
JEPHTHAH. Surely, my God, now I am left alone Kneeling before Thy throne, I may grow beautiful, even I, to see Thy beauty fair and free. For on the vast expanses of the wold I hear the feet of gold, And over all the skies I see a flame That flickers with Thy Name. Therefore, because Thou hast hid Thy face, and yet Given me not to forget The foaming cloud that shaped itself a rose, Whose steady passion glows Within the secretest fortress of my heart, Because, my God, Thou Art, And I am chosen of Thee for this folk, To break the foreign yoke, Therefore, Existence of Existence, hear! Bend low Thine holy ear, And make Thyself, unseen, most terrible To these fierce fiends of hell That torture holiest ears with false complaint: Bend down, and bid me faint Into the arms of night, to see Thine hosts March past the holy coasts, A wall of golden weapons for the land, And let me touch Thy hand, And feel Thy presence very near to-night! I sink as with delight Through places numberless with fervid fires Of holiest desires Into I know not what a cradle, made Of subtle-shapéd shade, And arms most perdurable. I am lost In thought beyond all cost— Nay, but my spirit breaks the slender chain That held it down. The pain Of death is past and I am free. Nay, I, This body, dead, must lie Till Thou come home again, O soaring Soul. The gates supernal roll! Flash through them, O white-winged, white-blossom ghost! Ah, God! for I am lost. [Jephthah remains motionless. [Morning dawns.
Enter Jared, Soldiers, Prophet.
SOLDIERS. Hail, captain! We are ready now for death, Or victory, if shining wings are fain To hover over dauntless hearts. Behold Our ready bands to follow to the fray.
JEPHTHAH. Welcome! hail ye this happy dawn as one That shall see freedom smile on us, and peace, And victory, and new hours of happiness.
CHORUS OF SOLDIERS. Out of the waters of the sea Our father Abraham beheld The lamp of heaven arise and be The monarch quenchless and unquelled; But we on this far Syrian shore See dawn upon the mountains pour.
The limit of the snows is bright; As spears that glitter shine the hills; The foaming forehead of the light All air with cloudy fragrance fills; And, born of desolation blind, The young sweet summer burns behind.
The Altar of the Lord is set With salt and fire and fervid wine, And toward the east the light is let For shadow for the holiest shrine: One moment hangs the fire of dawn Until the sacrament be sworn.
Behold, the priest, our captain, takes The sacred robes, the crown of gold, The light of other sunlight breaks Upon his forehead calm and cold And other dawns more deep and wise Burn awful in his holy eyes.
A moment, and the fire is low Upon the black stone of the altar, The spilt blood eagerly doth glow, And lightnings lick the light, and falter, Feeling the vast Shekinah shine Above their excellence divine.
The Lord is gracious to His own, And hides with glory as a mist The sacrifice and smitten stone, And on the lips His presence kissed Burn the high vows with ample flame That He shall swear to by the Name.
JEPHTHAH. Highest of Highest, most Concealed of all, Most Holy Ancient One, Unnameable, Receive for these Thy servants this our oath To serve none other gods but Thee alone. And for my own part who am judge of these I vow beyond obedience sacrifice, And for the victory Thou shalt give, I vow To sacrifice the first of living things That with due welcome shall divide the doors Of my house, meeting me, an offering Burnt before Thee with ceremony meet To give Thee thanks, nor take ungratefully This first of favours from the Hand Divine.
SOLDIERS. A noble vow: and God is glad thereat.
PROPHET. I charge you in the name of God, go not! I see a mischief fallen on your souls Most bitter. Aye! an evil day is this If ye go forth with such a sacrifice, And vows most hideous in their consequence.
SOLDIERS. It is the prophet of the Lord.
JEPHTHAH. Possessed By Baal; scourge him hence; he lies, for God With powerful proof and many lightnings came Devouring up the offering at the altar.
PROPHET. O Jephthah, it is thou on whom it falls, The sorrow grievous as thy life is dear.
A SOLDIER. He is the prophet of the Baalim. We have enough of such: in God’s name, home! [Stabbing him.
PROPHET. Thy spear shall turn against thyself, alas! But welcome, death, thou looked-for spouse of mine! Thy kiss is pleasant as the shaded well That looks through palm leaves to the quiet sky. [Dies.
JEPHTHAH. Thou didst no evil in the slaying him, For God is a consuming fire; high zeal Against idolatry lacks not reward. And now the sun is up: for Israel, march!
JARED. Good luck be with your spears; and homecoming Gladden victorious eyes ere set of sun. [Exeunt Jephthah and Soldiers.
Enter Eleazar, Ahinoam, Chorus of Elders.
CHORUS. The sun is past meridian. No sound Of trampling hoofs assails th’ unquiet wind, Nor trembles in the pillared echo-places, And windy corridors of pathless snow. But let us wait, expecting victory. No fugitive returns, nor messenger: They have not shocked together, or perchance The grim fight rolls its sickening tide along Homeward or southward, undecided yet; Or victory made certain but an hour Lends no such wings to jaded horses as May bear a jaded rider to our gates; Wait only, friends, and calm our troubled mind, Nor stir the languid sails of our desire With breath of expectation or despair. Rather give place to those untroubled thoughts That sit like stars immobile in the sky To fathom all the desolate winds of ocean, And draw their secrets from the hidden mines Whose gold and silver are but wisdom, seeking Rather things incorruptible above Than sordid hopes and fears. But look you, friends, Where in the sun’s eye rolls a speck of cloud Lesser than the ephemeral gnat may make Riding for sport upon a little whirl Of moving breezes, so it glows and rolls, Caught in the furnace of the sun, opaque To eyes that seek its depth, but penetrable By those long filaments of light beyond. See, the spot darkens, and a horseman spurs A flagging steed with bloody flanks, and waves A cloudy sword to heaven—I am sure He brings us eagle-wingéd victory, And tiding of no battle lost for Israel. Yes, he grows great before the sun, and stands Now in his stirrups, and shouts loud, and waves A blade triumphant. Now the weary horse Stumbles with thundering strides along the last Furlong, and greets us with a joyous neigh As if he understood the victory.
Enter Second Messenger.
SECOND MESSENGER. Rejoice, O Israel, for this day hath seen Utter destruction overtake, and death Ride furious over, trampled necks of men Desperate in vain, and seen red hell gape wide To swallow up the heathen. Victory Swells the red-gleaming torrent of pursuit, And Israel shakes her lazy flanks at last A lion famished, and is greedy of death.
CHORUS. O joyful day! And where is Jephthah now?
MESSENGER. Faint with the heat of a hard battle fought, But following hard after with the horse. For from Aroer even unto Minnith He smote them with a slaughter most unheard, And twenty cities saw from trembling walls Twice twenty thousand corpses; stragglers few Call to the rocks and woods, whose dens refuse Shelter and refuge to the fugitives, But, in revolt against the natural order, Gape like the ravening jaws of any beast To let the furious invaders down Into the bowels of the earth, and close Upon those grisly men of war, whose life Groans from the prison that shall crush it out.
CHORUS OF ELDERS. Be thou most blessed of the Lord for ever! But what shall he that hath delivered us Have for his guerdon when he comes in triumph? A milk-white ass shall bear him through the city, And wreaths of roses be instead of dust, And dancing girls, and feet of maidens most, Shall strike a measure of delight, and boys With bright unsullied curls shall minister Before him all the days of life God grants, And all his platters shall be made of gold, And jewels beyond price shall stud them all. What sayest thou, O wisest of our race, Ahinoam, the aged priest of God, Who weighest out the stars with balances, And knowest best of men the heart of man?
AHINOAM. Ye are as children, and nowise your tongues Speak sense. I never hear your voice but know Some geese are gabbling. Sing to him perchance! The voice of old men is a pleasant thing.
CHORUS. What say ye, brethren, shall we sing to him Some sweet low ditty, or the louder pæan?
AHINOAM. They verily think I speak, not mocking them.
CHORUS. Who shall uncover such a tongue for wiles, And pluck his meaning from his subtle words?
AHINOAM. Who shall speak plain enough for such as these To understand? Or so debase his thought As meet their minds, and seem as wisdom’s self?
CHORUS. Leave now thy gibing in the hour of joy, And lend sweet wisdom to awaiting ears. Thy voice shall carry it, thy words shall bear Full fruit to-day. Speak only, it is done.
AHINOAM. I am grown old, and go not out to wars. But in the lusty days of youth my face Turned from the battle and pursuit and spoil Only to one face dearer than my soul, And my wife’s eyes were welcome more desired Than chains of roses, and the song of children, And swinging palm branches, and milk-white—elders.
CHORUS. Fie on thy railing! But his wife is sick, And cannot leave the borders of her house.
AHINOAM. But he hath one fair only daughter! Friends, With maidens bearing timbrels, and with dances, Let her go forth and bring her father home.
JARED [aside]. Horrible! I must speak and silence this Monstrous impossible villainy of fate.
CHORUS. O wise old man, thou speakest cleverly.
AHINOAM. So do, and praise be given you from God.
ELEAZAR. God, Who this day has slumbered not, nor slept, He only keepeth Israel: He is God!
CHORUS. When God uplifted hands to smite, And earth from chaos was unrolled, And skies and seas from blackest night Unfurled, twin sapphires set with gold, And tumult of the boisterous deep Roared from its slow ungainly sleep, And flocks of heaven were driven to fold, Then rose the walls of Israel steep, For in His promise we behold The sworded Sons of glory leap Our tribes in peace to keep. Deep graven in the rocky girth Of Israel’s mountains, in the sky, In all the waters of the earth, In all the fiery steeds that ply Their champing harness and excel The charioteers of heaven and hell, In all the Names writ secretly And sacred songs ineffable, In all the words of power that fly About the world, this song they spell: He keepeth Israel.
AHINOAM. Ye praise God of full heart: I would to God Your minds were somewhat fuller, and could keep Discretion seated on her ivory throne. What folly is it they will now be at, Gray beards, and goatish manners? Hearken them!
CHORUS. In the brave old days ere men began To bind young hearts with an iron tether, Ere love was brief as life, a span, Ere love was light as life, a feather, Earth was free as the glad wild weather, God was father and friend to man.
AHINOAM. Then when with mildness and much joy our judge Draw hither, let us send to meet his steps In sackcloth clad, with ashes on their heads, His cruel brethren, that he spare their lives.
CHORUS. In the heart of a conqueror mercy sits A brighter jewel than vengeance wroken, And grace is the web that his people knits, And love is the balm for the hearts nigh broken. Peace is arisen, a dove for token, Righteousness, bright as the swallow flits.
JARED [aside]. So, in his victory is our disgrace.
CHORUS. Fair as the dawn is the maiden wise Pale as the poppies by still white water, Sunlight burns in her pure deep eyes, Love lights the tresses of Jephthah’s daughter; Kissing rays of the moon have caught her, Rays of the moon that sleeps and sighs.
JARED [aside]. In our disgrace, behold! Our vengeance strikes. I am inspired with so profound a hate— He shall not triumph: in the very hour When his o’ermastering forehead tops the sky I strike him to the earth. I need not move. Silence—no more—and all accomplishes. Leviathan, how subtle is thy path!
CHORUS. Not now may the hour of gladness fade, The wheel of our fate spins bright and beaming; God has fashioned a sun from shade, Mercy and joy in one tide are streaming, Fortune is powerless, to all good seeming; Fate is stricken, and flees afraid.
JARED. Bring me the sackcloth and the ashes now.
ELEAZAR. Behold! the crown of all our maiden wreath, Adulah, white and lissome, with the flames Of dawn forth blushing through her flower-crowned hair.
CHORUS. Behold a virgin to the Lord! Behold a maiden pale as death, Whose glance is silver as a sword, And flowers of Kedar fill her breath, Whose fragrance saturates the sward, Whose sunny perfume floating saith: From my ineffable desire is drawn The awful glory of the golden dawn.
Behold her bosom bare and bold Whose billows like the ocean swing! The painted palaces of gold, Where shell-born maidens laugh and sing, Are mirrored in those breasts that hold Sweet odours of the sunny spring. Behold the rising swell of perfect calm In breezy dells adorable of balm!
Behold the tender rosy feet Made bare for holiness, that move Like doves amid the waving wheat, Or swallows silver in the grove Where sylph and salamander meet, And gnome and undine swoon for love! Her feet that flit upon the windy way Twin fawns, the daughters of the rosy day.
Behold, the arms of her desire Wave, weave, and wander in the air, Vines life-endued by subtle fire So quick and comely, curving bare; The white diaphanous attire Floats like a spirit pale and fair; The dance is woven of the breeze, the tune Is like the ocean silvered by the moon.
Behold the maidens following, And every one is like a flower, Or like an ewe lamb of the king That comes from water at the hour Of even. See, the dancers swing Their censers; see, their tresses shower Descending flames, and perfumes teem divine, And all the air grows one pale fume of wine.
Their songs, their purity, their peace, Glide slowly in the arms of God; His lips assume their sanctities, His eyes perceive the period Of woven webs of lutes at ease, And measures by pure maidens trod, Till, like the smoke of mountains risen at dawn, The cloud-veils of the Ain are withdrawn.
Pure spirits rise to heaven, the bride. Pure bodies are as lamps below. The shining essence, glorified With fire more cold than fresh-fallen snow, And influences, white and wide, Descend, re-gather, kindle, grow, Till from one virgin bosom flows a river Of white devotion adamant for ever.
Enter Adulah and Chorus of Maidens.
ADULAH. Fathers of Israel, we are come to you With many maidens praising God, for this, The victory of my father. Happy girls! Whose brothers struck to-day for Israel, Whose fathers smote the heathen; happiest, Ye blushing flowers, beyond your younger spring
That bends in you toward summer, faint and fair, Whose lovers bared their swords to-day; and ye, O reverend heads, most beautiful for gray, The comely crown of age, that doth beseem Your wise sweet beauty, as the ivy wreathes The rugged glory of the sycamore, Have ye heard aught of Jephthah’s home-coming? For our cheeks tingle with th’ expected kiss Of hardy warriors dear to us, and now By double kinship rendered doubly dear. For O! my father comes to gladden me With those enduring kisses that endow Heart, hope, and life with gladness. Comes he soon?
ELEAZAR. Maiden most perfect, daughter of our lord, And ye, most fairest branches of our tree, Maidens of Israel, we await you here That ye, no other, may go forth to meet The chief victorious. And after you Those villains that once cast him out shall forth In sackcloth to his feet, if haply so He spare their vagabond and worthless lives.
ADULAH. Not so, my father. In my father’s name I promise unto all great happiness, And vengeance clean forgotten in the land; “Vengeance is mine, Jehovah will repay.” My father shall not frown on any man.
JARED [aside]. She is most gracious: I must speak and save. [Aloud.] Friends! [Aside.] Stay—Is this a tempter voice that soothes My conscience? Art thou that Leviathan, Thou lipless monster, gnashing at my soul Abominable teeth? Art thou the fiend Whom I have seen in sleep, and waking served? O horrible distortion of all truth That I must serve thee still. Thy word’s a lie, That if I keep my silence, I do good To her, the milk-white virgin sacrifice, And only smite the bloody father down! A lie, I say! A lie! Yet—dare I speak, Those eyes upon me, torturing my soul And threatening revenge? His fingers gross, Purple, and horrible, to blister me With infamous tearing at my throat. O Hell! Vomit thy monsters forth in myriads To putrefy this fair green earth with blood, But make not me the devilish minister Of such a deed as this! No respite?—Must? Irrevocable? I dare not call on God. Thou, thou wilt serve me if I do this thing? Oh, if this be a snare thou settest now, Who hast once already mocked our pact, I swear By God, I cast thee off. Leviathan! Accept the bargain. And I seal it—thus. [Writing in the air
I will keep silence, though they tear my tongue Blaspheming from my throat. My servant now!
ELEAZAR. Mingled emotions quickly following Fear upon fear, and joy and hope at last Crowning, have maddened Jephthah’s kinsman here. Mark his lips muttering, and his meaningless Furious gestures, and indignant eyes Starting, and hard-drawn breath! Him lead away Tenderly, as beseems the mercy shown To his repentance by this maiden queen. The Lord is merciful to them that show Mercy, and all such as are pure of heart; Thy crown, Adulah, wears a double flower Of these fair blossoms wreathed in one device Of perfect love in perfect maidenhood.
JARED [recovering himself]. Nay, but my voice must fill the song of joy With gratitude, and meet thanksgiving. Me More than these others it beseems, who love Less dearly for their innocence than I, Pardoned of my unpardonable sin.
ADULAH. The flowers turn westerward; the sun is down Almost among those clouds that kiss the sea With heavy lashes drooping over it, A mother watching her own daughter swoon To sleep. But look toward the southern sky; It is my father. Let us go to him, Maidens, with song and gladness of full hearts.
SEMICHORUS OF MAIDENS I. The conqueror rides at last To home, to love; The victory is past, The white-wing dove Sails through the crystal air of eve with a pæan deep and vast. Jephthah!
SEMICHORUS OF MAIDENS II. Forth, maidens, with your hands White with new lilies! Forth, maidens, in bright bands, Virgins whose one sweet will is To sing the victory of our God in all sky-girdled lands! Elohim!
SEMICHORUS I. With dancing feet, and noise Of timbrels smitten, With tears and tender joys, With songs unwritten, With music many-mouthed, with robes in snowy equipoise. Jephthah!
SEMICHORUS II. With hearts infused of fire, Eyes clear with many waters, With lips to air that quire, We, earth’s desirous daughters, Lift up the song of triumph, sound the lutes of our desire! Elohim!
SEMICHORUS I. With branches strewn before us, And roses flung In all the ways, we chorus With throat and tongue The glory of our warrior sires whose victor swords restore us Jephthah!
SEMICHORUS II. With angels vast and calm That keep his way, With streams of holy balm, The prayers of them that pray, We go to bring him home and raise to Thee our holy psalm, Elohim!
ELEAZAR. Go ye, make ready for the happy march. [Exeunt Adulah and Maidens.
And we too, changing these funereal vestments Will clothe in moonlike splendour, candid robes Of priestly purity, our joyous selves. O fortunate day! O measured steps of noon, Quicken, if once ye stayed for Joshua, To keep sweet music to our hearts. Away! [Exeunt all but Jared.
JARED. I will await, and hide myself away Behind yon bushes, to behold the plot Bud to fulfilment. Then, Leviathan, I am thy master. Mockery of a God That seest this thing prosper—Ha! thine altar! Let me give thanks, Jehovah! O thou God That rulest Israel as sheep and slaves, But over me no ruler; thou proud God That marshallest these petty thunder-clouds That blacken over the inane abyss But canst not tame one fierce desire of mine, Nor satiate my hatred, nor destroy This power of mine over thy devil-brood, The hatchment of thine incest, O thou God Who knowest me, me, mortal me, thy master, Thy master—and I laugh at thee, the slave! Down from Thy throne, impostor, down, down, down To thine own Hell, immeasurable—
A VOICE.
Strike!
[The storm, gathering to a climax, bursts in a tremendous flash of lightning, and Jared is killed.
Enter Jephthah and Soldiers.
JEPHTHAH. A terrible peal of thunder! And the sky Seems for an hour past to have been in labour And, safely now delivered, smiles again. For see, the sun! O happy sunlight hours— What is this blackened and distorted thing?
A SOLDIER. Some fellow by the altar that kept watch, Some faithful fellow—he is gone to God.
JEPHTHAH. How is’t the cattle have been driven home? I trusted we had found a tender lamb, A lamb of the first year, unblemished, white, To greet me, that we do meet sacrifice, Fulfilling thus my vow, and all our duty. [A noise of timbrels and singing. Surely some merriment—our news hath reached. Glad news and welcome: God is very good.
Enter Adulah, running, followed by singing Maidens.
ADULAH. Father!
JEPHTHAH. My daughter! [He suddenly stops, and blanches, understanding. Alas my daughter! [He continues in a dazed, toneless voice. Thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me; for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back.
ADULAH. My father, O my father!
Enter Eleazar and Chorus.
ELEAZAR. Most welcome, conqueror!
[Jephthah waves him aside. What is this? What is this?
CHORUS. Speak, Jephthah, speak! What ill has fallen? Speak!
[Silence. After a little the Chorus of Maidens understand, and break into wailing. The old men gradually understand, and fill the air with incoherent lamentations. Behind Jephthah the soldiers, with white lips, have assumed their military formation, and stand at attention by a visible effort of self-control.
ADULAH. My father, if thou hast openéd thy mouth Unto the Lord, fulfil the oath to me, Because the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee Of all thine enemies, the Ammonites. Let this be done for me, that I may go Two months upon the mountains, and bewail, I and my fellows, my virginity!
JEPHTHAH. Go!
CHORUS OF MAIDENS. O the time of dule and teen! O the dove the hawk has snared! Fate the cruel and obscene, Fate that snaps us unprepared, We, who else had dared Every mountain cold and keen, Cleft and stricken in between By the joy our bosoms shared; Would to God we had not been, We, who see our maiden queen, Love has slain whom hate had spared. Sorrow for our sister sways All our maiden bosoms, bared To the dying vesper rays, Where the sun below the bays Of the West is stooping; All our hearts together drooping, Flowers the ocean bears. All the garb that gladness wears To a rent uncouth attire Changed with cares; Happy songs our love had made Ere the sun had sunk his fire, In the moonrise fall and fade, And the dregs of our desire Fall away to death; Tears divide our labouring breath That our sister—O our sister! Moon and sun and stars have kissed her She must touch the lips of death, Touch the lips whose coldness saith: Thou art clay. Let us fare away, away To the ice whose ocean gray Tumbles on the beach of rock, Where the wheeling vultures mock Our distress with horrid cries, Where the flower relenting dies, And the sun is sharp to slay; Where the ivory dome above Glimmers like the dawn of love On the weary way; Where the ibex chant and call Over tempest’s funeral; Where the hornéd beast is shrill, And the eagle hath his will, And the shadows fall Sharp and black, till day is passed Over to the ocean vast; Where the barren rocks resound Only to the rending roar Of the shattering streams that pour Rocks by ice eternal bound, Myriad cascades that crowned Once the far resounding throne Of the mountain spirits strong. All the treacherous souls that throng Desolate abodes of stone, Barren of all comely things, Given to the splendid kings, Gloomy state, and glamour dark, Swooping jewel-feathered wings, Eyes translucent with a spark Of the world of fire, that swings Gates of adamant below Lofty minarets of snow. Thence the towering flames arise, Where the flashes white and wise Find their mortal foe. Let us thither, caring not Anything, or any more, Since the sorrow of our lot Craves to pass the abysmal door; Never more for us shall twine Rosy fingers on the vine; Never maiden lips that cull Myriad blossoms beautiful; Never cheeks that dimple over At the perfume of the clover, With the laughing summer seas Of the smile of hearts at ease; Never bosoms bright and round Shall be garlanded and bound With the chain of myrtle, wreathed By the fingers of the maid Each has chosen for a mate, When the west wind lately breathed Murmurs in the wanton glade Of the day that dawneth late In a maiden’s horoscope, Dawning faith and fire and hope On the spring that only knew Flowers and butterflies and dew, Skies and seas and mountains blue, On the spring that wot not of Fruit and falling leaves and love; Never dew-dashed foreheads fair Shall salute the idle air; Never feet shall wander deep Where the fronds of fern, asleep, Kiss her rosy feet that pass On the spangled summer grass, Half awake, and drowse again; Never more our feet shall stain Purple with the joyous grape, Whence there rose a fairy shape In the fume and must and juice, Singing lest our eyes escape All his tunic wried and loose With the feet that softly trod In the vat the fairy god; Never more our eyes shall swim, Looking to the ocean brim In the magic moon that rose Through the archipelagos, When the Grecian woods were wet With our dewy songs, that set Quivering all seas and snows, Stars and tender winds that fret Lily, lily, laughing rose, Sighing, sighing violet, Dusky pansy, swaying rush, And the stream that flows Singing, ringing softly: Hush! Listen to the bird that goes Wooing to the brown mate’s bough; Listen to the breeze that blows Over cape and valley now At the silence of the noon, Or the slumber-hour Of the white delicious moon Like a lotus-flower. Let us sadly, slowly, go To the silence of the snow.
ADULAH [embracing Jephthah]. Whose crystal fastnesses shall echo back The lamentations of these friends of mine But not my tears. For I will fit myself By solitude and fasting and much prayer For this most holy ceremony, to be A perfect, pure, accepted sacrifice. Only this sorrow—O father, father, speak!
JEPHTHAH. Go!
ADULAH. Most unblameable, we come again. I would not weep with these; I dare not stay, Lest I weep louder than them all. Fare well, My father, O my father! I am passing Into the night. Remember me as drawn Into the night toward the golden dawn. [Exeunt Adulah and Maidens.
CHORUS. Toward the mountains and the night The fairest of all Israel go, Toward the hollows weird and white, Toward the sorrow of the snow; To desolation black and blind They move, and leave us death behind.
The Lord is great, the Lord is wise Within His temple to foresee With calm impenetrable eyes The after glory that shall be; But we, of mortal bodies born, Laugh lies consoling unto scorn.
The God of Israel is strong; His mighty arm hath wrought this day A victory and a triumph-song— And now He breathes upon His clay, And we, who were as idols crowned, Lie dust upon the empty ground.
She goes, our sorrow’s sacrifice, Our lamb, our firstling, frail and white, With large sweet love-illumined eyes Into the night, into the night. The throne of night shall be withdrawn; So moveth she toward the dawn.
All peoples and all kings that move By love and sacrifice inspired In light and holiness and love, And seek some end of God desired, Pass, though they seem to sink in night, To dawns more perdurably bright.
So priest and people join to praise The secret wisdom of the Lord, Awaiting the arisen rays That smite through heaven as a sword Remembering He hath surely sworn: Toward the night, toward the dawn!
Behold the moon that fails above, The stars that pale before the sun! How far, those figures light as love That laughing to the mountains run! Behold the flames of hair that leap Above her forehead mild and deep!
She turns to bless her people still: So, passes to the golden gate Where snow burns fragrant on the hill, Where for her step those fountains wait Of light and brilliance that shall rise To greet her beauty lover-wise.
The silver west fades fast, the skies Are blue and silver overhead; She stands upon the snow, her eyes Fixed fast upon the fountain-head Whence from Eternity is drawn The awful glory of the dawn!
ELEAZAR. Let every man depart unto his house.
CHORUS. He hath made His face as a fire; His wrath as a sword; He hath smitten our soul’s desire; He is the Lord. He hath given and taken away, hath made us and broken; He hath made the blue and the gray, the sea for a token; He hath made to-day and to-morrow; the winter, the spring; He bringeth us joy out of sorrow; Jehovah is King. [Exeunt. Jephthah is left standing with white set face. Presently tears come into his eyes, and he advances, and kneels at the altar.
THE END.
A NOTE ON “JEPHTHAH.”
A short explanation of the scheme of theology adopted in this play appears necessary. The Hebrews of the period had formulated the idea of Deity as manifesting from the fundamental conception of Negative Existence: The איו Ain, negativity, unfolded; the םור איו Ain Soph Aur, the limitless light. This limitless ocean of negative light concentrates a centre כתר, Kether, the Crown, and this is our first positive manifestation of Deity, or, as the Hebrews technically call it, an emanation or םפירא Sephira. Of these Sephiroth there are ten, each emanating from the last, and successively male or female toward the next below or above. These are I, the Kether; 2, חכמה, Chokmah, Wisdom; 3, בינה, Binah, Understanding, often symbolized as the great Sea; 4, חסר, Chesed, Mercy (or ברולה, Gedulah, Magnificence); 5, נבורה, Geburah, Strength; 6, תפארת, Tiphereth, Beauty; 7, נצח, Netzach, Victory; 8, הוד, Hod, Splendour; 9, יסוד, Jesod, the Foundation; and 10, מלכות, Malkuth, the Kingdom.
In the Tetragram יהות, translated in our Bible “Jehovah” or “the Lord” the last nine Sephiroth are summed up. The first also contains the idea of existence, the Divine Name connected with this Sephira being אהיה, Eheieh, Existence. Below this world of Atziluth or of God is that of Briah or Thrones; to this world belong the Archangels; still lower that of Yetzirah or Formation; to this world ten orders of angels are attributed; and lastly, the world of Assiah, or of action (the material world). The further development of these facts, their connection with the numerical system, the parts of the soul, and many other interesting details may be studied in the seventy-two volumes of the written Qabalah, though, perhaps (a word to the wise is enough), truth lies hidden deeper yet in the ten volumes of that Qabalah which is unwritten, and which is only granted to those who by previous incarnations have fitted themselves for so sublime a knowledge. The brief sketch above will, however, make clear the Oath of the people and the Prayer of Jephthah, among other phrases which may seem at first sight less unintelligible to ordinary analysis.
That I have made Jephthah a Magician is also in accordance with tradition. Great captains were always great priests, in the secret Qabalistical sense. The priests themselves, then as to-day, were foolish old men trained to bolster up the externals of religion. The real rulers, then as to-day, were not, officially, priests; the sceptre was wielded by those who, swathed in thick darkness, and enthroned on their own thunderclouds, looked with the eye of gods upon this earth, and carried out the designs of God with tranquil power. I have depicted such a Servant of God stepping down from his throne at the precise moment when his presence was required, and the tragedy represented in the play stands for the impotent spite of the Evil One, venting itself in personal malice.
In short, I have ventured (I trust that in so doing the human pathos of the story has lost nothing, even from the merely legendary point of view), behind the veil of man’s blindness, and the inexorable Até, to hint at the cloudy conflict of the mysterious forces that rule beyond our vision or our comprehension; and if, at the end, I have dared to lift that veil, and to put in the mouths of uninitiates words appreciative of those glorious destinies that overrule the cruelties of fate, let me find my excuse in that love for, and faith in, “the holy spirit of man,” which itself may do so much toward the final regeneration of humanity, and the uniting of man once more with that God of whom Porphyry has written, “We are but a little part of Him.”
MYSTERIES:
LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC.
THE FIVE KISSES.
I.
AFTER CONFESSION.
DAY startles the fawn from the avenues deep that look to the east in the heart of the wood: Light touches the trees of the hill with its lips, and God is above them and sees they are good: Night flings from her forehead the purple-black hood.
The thicket is sweet with the breath of the breeze made soft by the kisses of slumbering maids; The nymph and the satyr, the fair and the faulty alike are the guests of these amorous shades; The hour of Love flickers and falters and fades.
O, listen, my love, to the song of the brook, its murmurs and cadences, trills and low chords; Hark to its silence, that prelude of wonder ringing at last like the clamour of swords That clash in the wrath of the warring of lords.
Listen, oh, listen! the nightingale near us swoons a farewell to the blossoming brake; Listen, the thrush in the meadow is singing notes that move sinuous, lithe as a snake; The cushats are cooing, the world is awake.
Only one hour since you whispered the story out of your heart to my tremulous ear; Only one hour since the light of your eyes was the victor of violent sorrow and fear; Your lips were so set to the lips of me here.
Surely the victory ripens to perfect conquest of every- thing set in our way. We must be free as our hearts are, and gather strength for our limbs for the heat of the fray: The battle is ours if you say me not nay.
Fly with me far, where the ocean is bounded white by the walls of the northernmost shore, Where on a lone rocky island a castle laughs in its pride at the billows that roar, My home where our love may have peace evermore.
Yes, on one whisper the other is waiting patient to catch the low tone of delight. Kiss me again for the amorous answer; close your dear eyelids and think it is night, The hour of the even we fix for the flight.
II.
THE FLIGHT.
LIFT up thine eyes! for night is shed around, As light profound, And visible as snow on steepled hills, Where silence fills The shaded hollows: night, a royal queen Most dimly seen Through silken curtains that bedeck the bed, Lift up thine head! For night is here, a dragon, to devour The slow sweet hour Filled with all smoke of incense, and the praise More loud than day’s That swings its barren censer in the sky And asks to die Because the sea will hear no hollow moan Beyond its own, Because the sea that kissed dead Sappho sings Of strange dark things— Shapes of bright breasts that purple as the sun Grows dark and dun, Of pallid lips more haggard for the kiss Of Salmacis, Of eager eyes that startle for the fear Too dimly dear Lest there come death, like passion, and fulfil Their dreams of ill! Oh! lift thy forehead to the night’s cool wind! The meekest hind That fears the noonday in her grove is bold To seek the gold So pale and perfect as the moon puts on: The light is gone. Hardly as yet one sees the crescent maid Move, half afraid, Into the swarthy forest of the air And breast made bare, Gather her limbs about her for the chase Through starry space, And, while the lilies sway their heads, to bend Her bow, to send A swift white arrow at some recreant star. The sea is far Dropped in the hollows of the swooning land. Oh! hold my hand! Lift up thy deep eyes to my face, and let Our lips forget The dumb dead hours before they met together! The snowbright weather Calls us beyond the grassy downs, to be Beside the sea, The slowly-breathing ocean of the south. Oh, make thy mouth A rosy flame like that most perfect star Whose kisses are So red and ripe! Oh, let thy limbs entwine Like love with mine! Oh, bend thy gracious body to my breast To sleep, to rest! But chiefly let thine eyes be set on me, As when the sea Lay like a mirror to reflect the shape Of yonder cape Where Sappho stood and touched the lips of death! Thy subtle breath Shall flow like incense in between our cheeks, Where pleasure seeks In vain a wiser happiness. And so Our whispers low Shall dim the utmost beauty of thy gaze Through moveless days And long nights equable with trancéd pleasure: So love at leisure Shall make his model of our clinging looks, And burn his books To write a new sweet volume deeper much, And frail to touch, Being the mirror of a gossamer Too soft and fair. This is the hour when all the world is sleeping; The winds are keeping A lulling music on the frosty sea. The air is free, As free as summer-time, to sound or cease: God’s utmost peace Lies like a cloud upon the quiet land. O little hand! White hand with rose leaves shed about the tips, As if my lips Had left their bloom upon it when they kissed As if a mist Of God’s delicious dawn had overspread Their face, and fled! O wonderful fresh blossom of the wood! O purpling blood! O azure veins as clear as all the skies! O longing eyes That look upon me fondly to beget Two faces, set Either like lowers upon their laughing blue, Where morning dew Sparkles with all the passion of the dawn! The happy lawn Leads, by the stillest avenues, to groves Made soft by loves; And all the nymphs have made a mossy dell Hard by the well Where even a Satyr might behold the grace Of such a face As his who perished for his own delights, So well requites That witching fountain his desire that looks. Two slow bright brooks Encircle it with silver, and the moon Strikes into tune The ripples as they break. For here it was Their steps did pass, Dreamy Endymion’s and Artemis’, Who bent to kiss Across the moss-grown rocks that build the well: And here they tell Of one beneath the hoary stone who hid And watched unbid When one most holy came across the glade, Who saw a maid So bright that mists were dim upon his eyes, And yet he spies So sweet a vision that his gentle breath Sighed into death: And others say that her the fairies bring The fairy king, And crown him with a flower of eglantine, And of the vine Twist him a throne made perfect with wild roses, And gathered posies From all the streams that wander through the vale, And crying, “Hail! All hail, most beautiful of all our race!” Cover his face With blossoms gathered from a fairy tree Like foam from sea, So delicate that mortal eyes behold Ephemeral gold Flash, and not see a flower, but say the moon Has shone too soon Anxious to great Endymion; and this Most dainty kiss They cover him him withal, and Dian sees Through all the trees No pink pale blossom of his tender lips. The little ships Of silver leaf and briar-bloom sail here, No storm to fear, Though butterflies be all their mariners. The whitethroat stirs The beech-leaves to awake the tiny breeze That soothes the seas, And yet gives breath to shake their fairy sails; Young nightingales, Far through the golden plumage of the night, With strong delight Purple the evening with amazing song; The moonbeams throng In shining clusters to the fairy throat, Whose clear trills float And dive and run about the crystal deep As sweet as sleep. Only, fair love of this full heart of mine, There lacks the wine Our kisses might pour out for them; they wait, And we are late; Only, my flower of all the world, the thrush (You hear him? Hush!) Lingers, and sings not to his fullest yet: Our love shall get Such woodland welcome as none ever had To make it glad. Come, it is time, cling closer to my hand. We understand. We must go forth together, not to part. O perfect heart! O little heart that beats to mine, away Before the day Ring out the tocsin for our flight! My ship Is keen to dip Her plunging forehead in the silvering sea. To-morrow we Shall be so far away, and then to-morrow Shall shake off sorrow, And be to-morrow and not change for ever: No dawn shall sever The sleepy eyelids of the night, no eve Shall fall and cleave The blue deep eyes of day. Your hand, my queen! Look down and lean Your whole weight on me, then leap out, as light As swallow’s flight, And race across the shadows of the moon, And keep the tune With ringing hoofs across the fiery way. Your eyes betray How eager is your heart, and yet—O dare To fashion fair A whole long life of love! Leap high, laugh low! I love you—so!— One kiss—and then to freedom! See the bay So far away, But not too far for love! Ring out, sharp hoof, And put to proof The skill of him that steeled thee! Freedom! Set As never yet Thy straining sides for freedom! Gallant mare! The frosty air Kindles the blood within us as we race. O love! Thy face Flames with the passion of our happy speed! The noble steed Pashes the first gold limit of the sand. Ah love, thy hand! We win, no foot pursuing spans the brow! Yes, kiss me now!
III.
THE SPRING AFTER.
NORTH, by the ice-belt, where the cliffs appease Innumerable clamour of sundering seas, And garlands of ungatherable foam Wild as the horses maddening toward home, Where through the thunderous burden of the thaw Rings the sharp fury of the breaking flaw, Where summer’s hand is heavy on the snow, And springtide bursts the insuperable floe, North, by the limit of the ocean, stands A castle, lord of those far footless lands That are the wall of that most monstrous world About whose pillars Behemoth is curled, About whose gates Leviathan is strong, Whose secret terror sweetens not for song. The hoarse loud roar of gulphs of raging brine That break in foam and fire on that divine Cliff-base, is smothered in the misty air, And no sound penetrates them, save a rare Music of sombre motion, swaying slow. The sky above is one dark indigo Voiceless and deep, no light is hard within To shame love’s lips and rouse the silky skin From its dull olive to a perfect white. For scarce an hour the golden rim of light Tinges the southward bergs; for scarce an hour The sun puts forth his seasonable flower, And only for a little while the wind Wakes at his coming, and beats cold and blind On the wild sea that struggles to release The hard grip from its throat, and lie at ease Lapped in the eternal summer. But its waves Roam through the solitude of empty caves In vain; no faster wheels the moon above; And still reluctant fly the hours of love. It is so peaceful in the castle: here The night of winter never froze a tear On my love’s cheek or mine; no sorrow came To track our vessel by its wake of flame Wherein the dolphin bathed his shining side; No smallest cloud between me and my bride Came like a little mist; one tender fear, Too sweet to speak of, closed the dying year With love more perfect, for its purple root Might blossom outward to the snowy fruit Whose bloom to-night lay sleeping on her breast, As if a touch might stir the sunny nest, Break the spell’s power, and bid the spirit fly Who had come near to dwell with us. But I Bend through long hours above the dear twin life, Look from love’s guerdon to the lover-wife, And back again to that small face so sweet, And downwards to the little rosy feet, And see myself no longer in her eyes So perfectly as here, where passion lies Buried and re-arisen and complete. O happy life too sweet, too perfect sweet, O happy love too perfectly made one Not to arouse the envy of the sun Who sulks six months for spite of it! O love, Too pure and fond for those pale gods above, Too perfect for their iron rods to break, Arise, awake, and die for death’s own sake! That one forgetfulness may take us three, Still three, still one, to the Lethean sea; That all its waters may be sweet as those We wandered by, sweet sisters of the rose, That perfect night before we fled, we two Who were so silent down that avenue Grown golden with the moonlight, who should be No longer two, but one; nor one, but three. And now it is the spring; the ice is breaking, The waters roar; the winds their wings are shaking To sweep upon the northland; we shall sail Under the summer perfume of the gale To some old valley where the altars steam Before the gods, and where the maidens dream Their little lives away, and where the trees Shake laughing tresses at the rising breeze, And where the wells of water lie profound, And not unfrequent is the silver sound Of shepherds tuneful as the leaves are green, Whose reedy music echoes, clear and clean, From rocky palaces where gnomes delight To sport all springtime, where the brooding night With cataract is musical, and thrushes Throb their young love beside the stream that rushes Headlong to beat its foamheads into snow, Where the sad swallow calls, and pale songs flow To match the music of the nightingale. There, where the pulses of the summer fail, The fiery flakes of autumn fall, and there Some warm perfection of the lazy air Swims through the purpling veins of lovers. Hark! A faint bird’s note, as if a silver spark Struck from a diamond; listen, wife, and know How perfectly I love to watch you so. Wake, lover, wake, but stir not yet the child: Wake, and thy brow serene and low and mild Shall take my kisses, and my lips shall seek The pallid roses on thy perfect cheek, And kiss them into poppies, and thy mouth Shall lastly close to mine, as in the south We see the sun close fast upon the sea; So, my own heart, thy mouth must close on me. Art thou awake? Those eyes of wondering love, Sweet as the dawn and softer than the dove, Seek no quick vision—yet they move to me And, slowly, to the child. How still are we! Yes, and a smile betokens that they wake Or dream a waking dream for kisses’ sake; Yes, I will touch thee, O my low sweet brow! My wife, thy lips to mine—yes, kiss me now!
IV.
THE VOYAGE SOUTHWARD.
HOLY as heaven, the home Of winds, the land of foam, The palace of the waves, the house of rain, Deeper than ocean, dark As dawn before the lark Flings his sharp song to skyward, and is fain To light his lampless eyes At the flower-folded skies Where stars are hidden in the blue, to fill His beak with star-dropt dew, His little heart anew With love an song to swell it to his will; Holy as heaven, the place Before the golden face Of God is very silent at the dawn. The even keel is keen To flash the waves between, But no soft moving current is withdrawn: We float upon the blue Like sunlight specks in dew, And like the moonlight on the lake we lie: The northern gates are past, And, following fair and fast, The north wind drove us under such a sky, Faint with the sun’s desire, And clad in fair attire Of many driving cloudlets; and we flew Like swallows to the South. The ocean’s curving mouth Smiled day by day and nights of starry blue; Nights when the sea would shake Like sunlight where the wake Was wonderful with flakes of living things That leapt for joy to feel The cold exultant keel Flash, and the white ship dip her woven wings; Nights when the moon would hold Her lamp of whitest gold To see us on the poop together set With one desire, to be Alone upon the sea And touch soft hands, and hold white bosoms yet, And see in silent eyes More stars than all the skies Together hold within their limits gray, To watch the red lips move For slow delight of love Till the moon sigh and sink, and yield her sway Unto the eastern lord That draws a sanguine sword And starts up eager in the dawn, to see Bright eyes grow dim for sleep, And lazy bosoms keep Their slumber perfect and their sorcery, While dawny winds arise, And fast the white ship flies To those young groves of olive by the shore, The spring-clad shore we seek That slopes to yonder peak Snow-clad, bright-gleaming, as the silver ore Plucked by pale fingers slow In balmy Mexico, A king on thunder throned, his diadem The ruby rocks that flash The sunlight like a lash When sunlight touches, and sweeps over them A crown of light! Behold! The white seas touch the gold, And flame like flowers of fire about the prow. It is the hour for sleep, Lulled by the moveless deep To sleep, sweet wife, to sleep! Yes, kiss me now!
V.
THE ULTIMATE VOYAGE.
THE wandering waters move about the world, And lap the sand, with quietest complaint Borne on the wings of dying breezes up, To where we make toward the wooded top Of yonder menacing hill. The night is fallen Starless and moonless, black beyond belief, Tremendous, only just the ripple keeps, With music borrowed from the soul of God, Our souls from perishing in the inane. We twain go thither, knowing no desire To lead us; but some strong necessity Urges, as lightning thunder, our slow steps Upward. For on the pleasant meadow-land That slopes to sunny bays, and limpid seas That breathe like maidens sleeping, for their breast Is silver with the sand that lies below, Where our storm-strengthened dragon rests at last, And by whose borders we have made a home, More like a squirrel’s bower than a house. For in this blue Sicilian summertime The trees arch tenderly for lovers’ sleep, And all the interwoven leaves are fine To freshen us with dewdrops at the dawn, Or let the summer shower sing through to us, And welcome kisses of the silver rain That raps and rustles in the solitude. But in the night there came to us a cry: “The mountains are your portion, and the hills Your temple, and you are chosen.” Then I woke Pondering, and my lover woke and said: “I heard a voice of one majestical With waving beard, most ancient, beautiful, Concealed and not concealed; and I awoke, Feeling a stronger compulsion on my soul To go some whither.” And the dreams were one (We somehow knew), and, looking such a kiss As lovers’ eyes can interchange, our lips Met in the mute agreement to obey. So, girding on our raiment, as to pass Some whither of long doubtful journeying, We went forth blindly to the horrible Damp darkness of the pines above. And there Strange beasts crossed path of ours, such beasts as earth Bears not, distorted, tortured, loathable, Mouthing with hateful lips some recent blood, Or snarling at our feet. But these attacked No courage of our hearts, we faltered not, And they fell back, snake’s mouth and leopard’s throat, Afraid. But others fawning came behind With clumsy leapings as in friendliness, Dogs with men’s faces, and we beat them off With scabbard, and the hideous path wound on. And these perplexed our goings, for no light Gleamed through the bare pine-ruins lava-struck, Nor even the hellish fire of Etna’s maw. But suddenly we came upon a pool Dank, dark, and stagnant, evil to the touch, Oozing towards us, but sucked suddenly, Silently, horribly, by slow compulsion Into the slipping sand, and vanishing, Whereon we saw a little boat appear, And in it such a figure as we knew Was Death. But she, intolerant of delay, Hailed him. The vessel floated to our feet, And Death was not. She leapt within, and bent Her own white shoulders to the thwart, and bade Me steer, and keep stern watch with sword unsheathed For fear of something that her soul had seen Above. And thus upon the oily black Silent swift river we sailed out to reach Its source, no longer feeling as compelled, But led by some incomprehensible Passion. And here lewd fishes snapped at us, And watersnakes writhed silently toward Our craft. But these I fought against, and smote head from foul body, to our further ill, For frightful jelly-monsters grew apace, And all the water grew one slimy mass Of crawling tentacles. My sword was swift That slashed and slew them, chiefly to protect The toiling woman, and assure our path Through this foul hell. And now the very air Is thick with cold wet horrors. With my sword Trenchant, that tore their scaly essences— Like Lucian’s sailor writhing in the clutch Of those witch-vines—I slashed about like light, And noises horrible of death devoured The hateful suction of their clinging arms And wash of slipping bellies. Presently Sense failed, and—Nothing! Bye-and-bye we woke In a most beautiful canoe of pearl Lucent on lucent water, in a sun That was the heart of spring. But the green land Seemed distant, with a sense of aery height; As if it were below us far, that seemed Around. And as we gazed the water grew Ethereal, thin, most delicately hued, Misty, as if its substance were dissolved In some more subtle element. We heard “O passers over water, do ye dare To tread the deadlier kingdoms of the air?” Whereat I cried: Arise! And then the pearl Budded with nautilius-wings, and upward now Soared. And our souls began to know the death That was about to take us. All our veins Boiled with tumultuous and bursting blood, Our flesh broke bounds, and all our bones grew fierce, As if some poison ate us up. And lo! The air is peopled with a devil-tribe Born of our own selves. These, grown furious At dispossession by the subtle air, Contend with us, who know the agony Of half life drawn out lingering, who groan Eaten as if by worms, who dash ourselves Vainly against the ethereal essences That make our boat, who vainly strive to cast Our stricken bodies over the pale edge And drop and end it all. No nerve obeys; But in the torn web of our brains is born The knowledge that release is higher yet. So, lightened of the devils that possessed In myriad hideousness our earthier lives, With one swift impulse, we ourselves shake off The clinging fiends, and shaking even the boat As dust beneath our feet, leap up and run Upward, and flash, and suddenly sigh back Happy, and rest with limbs entwined at last On pale blue air, the empyreal floor, As on a bank of flowers in the old days Before this journey. So I think we slept. But now, awaking, suddenly we feel A sound as if within us, and without, So penetrating and so self-inspired Sounded the voice we knew as God’s. The words Were not a question any more, but said: “The last and greatest is within you now.” Then fire too subtle and omniscient Devoured our substance, and we moved again Not down, not up, but inwards mystically Involving self in self, and light in light. And this was not a pain, but peaceable Like young-eyed love, reviving; it consumed And consecrated and made savour sweet To our changed senses. And the dual self Of love grew less distinct and I began To feel her heart in mine, her lips in mine, Her spirit absolutely one with mine. Then mistier grew the sense of God without, And consciousness denied external things, And God was I, and nothing might exist, Subsist, or be at all, outside of Me, Myself Existence of Existences. ● ● ● ● ● We had passed unknowing to the woody crown Of the little hill, and entered an unseen Low chapel. All without the walls appeared As fire, and all within as icy light; The altar was of gold, and on it burnt Some ancient perfume. Then I saw myself And her together, as a priest, whose robe Was white and frail, and covered with a cope Of scarlet bound with gold. And on the head A golden crown, wherein a diamond shone, And in the diamond we beheld our self The higher priest, not clothed, but clothed upon With the white brilliance of high nakedness As with a garment. Then of our self there came A voice: “Ye have attained to That which Is; Kiss, and the vision is fulfilled.” And so Our bodies met, and, meeting did not touch But interpenetrated in the kiss. ● ● ● ● ● This writing is engraved on lamina Of silver, found by me, the trusted friend And loving servant of my lady and lord, In that abandoned chapel, late destroyed By Etna’s fury. Nothing else remained (Save in the ante-room the sword we knew So often flashing at the column-head) Within. I think my lord has written this. Now for the child, whose rearing is my care, And in whose life is left my single hope, This writing shall conclude the book of song His father made in worship and true love Of his fair lady, and these songs shall be His hope, and his tradition, and his pride. Thus have I written for the sake of truth, And for his sake who bears his father’s sword— I pray God under my fond guardianship As worthily. Thus far, and so—the end.
THE POEM.
A LITTLE DRAMA IN FOUR SCENES.
I dedicate this play to the gentleman who, on the evening of June 24th, 1898, turned back in Shaftesbury Avenue to give a halfpenny to a little girl, and thereby suggested to me the idea here rendered.
SCENES.
I. The Angel of PityY. II. The Angel of Love. III. The Angel of Death. IV. The Form of the Fourth was like the Son of God.
PERSONS.
Percy Brandon (a Poet). EsmÉ Vaughan. Mr. Vaughan (her Father). Mr. Brandon (Father of Percy). A Friend to Vaughan. Butler, Footmen, etc., etc.
SCENE I.
Shaftesbury Avenue, 8.30 p.m. A gentleman walking with a friend, both in evening dress. A little ragged girl. A young man. The gentleman stops and gives the little girl a halfpenny. The young man smiles. The gentleman notices the smile, and sees how great a sadness underlies it.
VAUGHAN. [Turning to the young man.] AND you—what are you doing here? Excuse my rudeness—you seem so sad.
PERCY. I am sad to-night. I am very lonely in this place.
VAUGHAN. There are plenty of people about.
PERCY. People—mere shells, husks of the golden wheat that might grow even here.
VAUGHAN. Why do you stay here?
PERCY. I cannot think at home.
VAUGHAN. Why think, if thinking makes you sad?
PERCY. That I may write. I have not long to live, and I must write, write always.
FRIEND [aside to Vaughan]. Il me semble qu’il a faim.
PERCY. I am hungry for a little love, a little pity. To-night you have shown me your soul, and I am not hungry any more.
VAUGHAN. But, boy, you are starving physically. Come home with me and have some dinner. Only my daughter will be there.
PERCY. You are very kind. Thank you.
FRIEND [aside] He is a gentleman.
VAUGHAN. But what are you doing to be alone in London?
PERCY. Where should I go?
VAUGHAN. Your father—
PERCY. Has shown me the door.
VAUGHAN. How have you quarrelled?
PERCY. Because I must write.
VAUGHAN. What do you write about that he dislikes?
PERCY. He calls it waste of time.
VAUGHAN. He may be right. What do you write about?
PERCY. I write about all the horrible things I see, and try to find beauty in them, or to make beauty; and I write about all the beautiful things I only dream of. I love them all; yes, even that woman yonder.
VAUGHAN. Do you find beauty in her?
PERCY. No, but I see in her history a poem, to which I trust that God will write an end.
VAUGHAN. What end can come but evil?
PERCY. O! if I had not hope for her I should have none for myself.
VAUGHAN. How? Have you then fallen?
PERCY. Oh, yes, I have fallen. I am older every hour. I have wasted time, I have wasted love.
VAUGHAN. Perhaps it is not all waste after all. There is a use for everything, nothing is destroyed—believe so, anyhow!
FRIEND. What about this dinner of yours, Vaughan? Esmé will think us a long while gone.
VAUGHAN. Hansom! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A year later. Vaughan's house in Mayfair. Percy's bedroom. Moonlight streams through open window in the corridor. Percy asleep. He dreams uneasily, and after a little wakes up with a start and a cry.
PERCY. OH! I had such a bad dream. I dreamt I was straining out after a beautiful bird, and suddenly it stopped, and then I held it in my hands, and it was happy, and then I dropped down somehow into the darkness and the bird had gone—only it got so confused, and I woke up. I hear steps!
ESMÉ. [in corridor]. Did you call, Percy? I heard a cry as if you were in pain.
PERCY. Esmé, I will come and talk to you in the moonlight. I want to say something that I couldn’t say before, because my heart choked me.
ESMÉ. Come out, Percy, the moon is so white, looking out of the black sky. The sky is quite black near the moon; only far down where there are no more bright stars it is a deep, deep blue. It is bluer and deeper than the sea.
PERCY. It is like your eyes. [Comes out into corridor.] Esmé! I have looked into your eyes as your eyes look into Heaven, and there I have found my Heaven. O serene depths! O faultless face of my desire! O white brow too clear! I sin against your holiness by my presence. Only the moon should see you, Esmé.
ESMÉ [half in tears]. You don’t mean like that, Percy, quite. Why do you say that?
Enter Vaughan in shadow. He draws back and stands watching.
PERCY. Oh, you are crying, my heart! Do you cry because I have spoken and touched with fire the sweet child-love we have lived in all this year? Or is it that you do not understand? Or are you sorry? Or are you glad?
ESMÉ. I am very, very glad. [They kiss. A little cloud passes across the moon without dimming its brightness.] Percy! Percy!
PERCY. My wife, my own wife, will you kiss me?
ESMÉ. I am too happy to kiss you!
PERCY. Esmé, my Esmé. And we will write our poem now together.
ESMÉ. I cannot write; we will live our poem now together.
PERCY. Dear heart, dear heart! And she will give us light, our dear moon out yonder, always a pure cold light: and our life shall answer a purer, warmer flame. She is like a maiden covered with lilies; your lilies have kissed roses.
ESMÉ. And when the moon’s light fails, the light of your song.
PERCY. Let that light be drawn from Heaven too!
ESMÉ. Oh, Percy, I am so glad, so glad!
PERCY. Esmé!
ESMÉ. When will you begin your great poem—now?
PERCY [as if in pain]. Ah! my poem. I am in despair! It is so great, and I am so little; it is so pure, and I am so dull of understanding. When I write I feel as it were the breath of an angel covering me with holiness, and I know—then! But now—I only write mechanically. I force myself. To-day I tore up all I wrote last night.
ESMÉ. Let us ask God to send you the angel, shall we? [They kneel, with arms intertwined, at the open window, and bow their heads silently. Vaughan also prays, with arms outspread in blessing. Curtain.
SCENE III.
Six months later.
The dining-room. Percy, Vaughan, Esmé at dinner.
Enter Butler.
BUTLER. If you please, sir, a gentleman has called; he says he must see you at once.
VAUGHAN. Have you told him we are at dinner?
BUTLER. Yes, sir; but he would not take that; begging your pardon, sir, he said it was only an excuse, and he wouldn’t stand any nonsense.
VAUGHAN. An excuse! Who is the fellow?
BUTLER. I think he is a friend of Mr. Percy’s, sir.
PERCY [alarmed]. It might be my father. [Aside.] And I could have finished to-night—the very last word. Something has been singing in me all day.
VAUGHAN. This is a serious matter John. I will come and speak to him. [Exit. The voices are heard out-side.
BRANDON [Stout, purple, “knobbed,” and ill-tempered]. Yes, sir. Either I see my son now, or I fetch in a policeman. Kidnapper! Yes, sir, that’s what I call you! Yes, sir! my name is Brandon. And your damned name is Vaughan, sir! And I’ll drag your damned name through a police-court, sir, as soon as—as—Where’s my son? [Is heard to move towards dining-room.
VAUGHAN. John! shut that door. Mr. Brandon, my daughter is at dinner in that room. I cannot allow you to enter
BRANDON. That’s where he is, you scoundrel. Out of the way, fool! [Knocking John over, bursts the door open and enters.] There you are, you snivelling little swine. My God! to think that damned puppy’s my son! Come out of it!
VAUGHAN [who has entered and rung the bell for the servants]. I shall have you locked up for assaulting my servant.
BRANDON. And you for abducting my son. He’s coming with me now or there’ll be a fuss. Mark my words, you rascal! [Enter two Footmen.
VAUGHAN. Seize that man. [They seize and hold him after a struggle.] Esmé go away to your room; this is no place for you. Now, sir, say all you have to say! [Esmé waits in the doorway.
BRANDON. Give me my son, and be damned to you! That’s all; and it’s plain enough, I hope.
PERCY. Father, I am leaving Mr. Vaughan’s house, as I shall only get him into trouble if I stay. But I will not come home with you, you who broke my mother’s heart, and turned me from your doors penniless.
BRANDON. Unnatural puppy!
PERCY. My mother’s spirit forgives you, and in my heart is no longer the desire for vengeance. So far have I risen, but not far enough to forget that you are the most abominable villain that plagues God’s beautiful world with his infesting life.
BRANDON [with sudden calmness]. This to his father! What does the Bible say, you wretch?
PERCY [To Vaughan]. I will go, my true new father. Kiss Esmé for me a hundred times!
BRANDON [breaking from Footmen]. Damn you; that’s your game, is it? No, you go with me, Sir Poet. [Rushing at his son, strikes. Percy, warding off the unexpected blow, staggers. Brandon, maddened by the idea of fighting, snatches up a knife and drives it into his heart. He falls with a low cry. Vaughan dashes forward and strikes Brandon heavily. He falls; footmen drag him off insensible.
VAUGHAN [bending over Percy]. Are you hurt?
PERCY. Oh, hardly hurt at all! Only my head a little, and I wanted so to finish the poem to-night.
ESMÉ. Let me come to him, father. Oh, Percy, Percy, look at me, look at me; you’re not hurt, are you?
PERCY. Am I ever hurt with your arms round me?
ESMÉ. Oh, but you grow whiter; you must be hurt.
VAUGHAN. A knife! He must have stabbed him. Fetch a doctor, one of you, sharp! [Exit a man.
ESMÉ. It is his heart; see, my hand is all covered with blood. Give me a handkerchief. Here, I will staunch the wound. [She attempts to prevent the bleeding with her handkerchief.] Oh! Percy! [A pause] Oh! Percy!
PERCY. I am going away, Esmé. I shall see you often. When you think of me I shall always be with you. One day you will come to me, Esmé! Kiss me! Your kisses must finish my poem. One day your pen must finish it.
ESMÉ. You know I cannot write a line. Oh, how sorry I am for that!
PERCY [to Vaughan]. Good-by, my dear, dear friend. Take care of Esmé for me. I shall watch over her myself, I and God together. She is so frail and white, and she understands. She sees my soul, and Heaven is always open to her eyes when she looks up, and she is so beautiful. Will it seem long, Esmé, till we kiss again beyond the moon there—it is the moon, isn’t it, come to see that Esmé is not too sad about my dying? Be kind to her always, moon, when I am gone beyond you! You must finish my poem, Esmé; there is only a little to do. Kiss me the last time! Good-bye, my dear friends. I wish I could take your hands, but I am so weak. Kiss me, Esmé, quickly. I feel the voice of God come like a shudder in my blood; I must go to Him. Esmé! Esmé! Esmé! I am so happy! [Dies. [Esmé flings herself passionately on to the body, weeping and kissing the dead face, while all the others kneel in prayer. Curtain.
SCENE IV.
The next morning. Esmé in bed asleep.
Enter Vaughan.
VAUGHAN. POOR child, poor child, how are you? You have not slept, I know. Why, she is still asleep! Hush! How calmly and regularly she breathes! How fresh she looks! How she smiles! It is wonderful! It is impossible! Esmé! Esmé! it is a pity you cannot always sleep so, and never wake up to the cruel sorrow of yesterday. Ah me! When we all thought to be so happy. And in a month he would have married her: in a day he would have finished the poem. What a wonderful poem it was! One could hear, above the angels that sang, the voice of God in that awful music that made his lines quiver and shimmer like live coals. And the end was to have been so perfect: there was on the last passage of his work a hush, a silence almost as if the world—his world—awaited the voice of some great one. And now the silence is not broken. Perhaps men were not ready for those final chords. Perhaps to hear them would be to pass where he has passed! But oh! the pity! To leave his greatest task undone! To be stricken down in the last charge, a good soldier to the end! Would God he could come back only for an hour to put the keystone to his palace that he built of running brooks and trees and buds and the sound of the sea, and all the lights of heaven to window it. [Esmé’s eyes open.] Esmé! you must wake up and kiss father!
ESMÉ [half awake]. He sang to me all night, not his voice only, but a deeper voice that I understood so well as I never understood, a voice like his poem, only more beautiful even than that, and I can’t remember one word, only that he kissed me all the night; and there was as it were a vapour, an incense-cloud, about me, and I could not see—and I am so happy.
VAUGHAN. Esmé, I am here, your father.
ESMÉ. Ah! it comes back. He is dead. Oh, God! Oh, God! And we were to have been married a month to-day.
VAUGHAN. And he left the poem and could not finish it.
ESMÉ [pointing to scattered papers on a table]. What have you been doing with those papers, father?
VAUGHAN [astonished]. They are not mine, child. I did not see them till you showed me. [Taking papers.] Why, they are in your handwriting; what are they? [Reading, gradually becomes aware that something strange has happened.] It is finished—it is finished! [Curtain.
THE HONOURABLE ADULTERERS.
I.
HIS STORY.
I LOOKED beneath her eyelids, where her eyes Like stars were deep, and dim like summer skies; I looked beneath their lashes; and behold! My own thought mirrored in their maiden gold. Shame drew to them to cloud their light with lies, And shrank back shamed; and Love waxed bright and bold.
The devilish circle of the fiery ring Became one moment like a little thing, And Truth and God were near us to withdraw The veil of Love’s unalterable law. We feared no fury of the jealous King, But, lest in honour love should find a flaw.
Only our looks and trembling lips we dread, And the dear nimbus of a lover’s head, The dreamy splendour and the dim delight That feels the fragrance fallen from the night, When soul to soul is locked, and eyes are wed, And lips not touched kiss secretly by sight.
These things we fear, and move as in a mist One from the other, and we had not kissed. Only the perfume of her lips and hair Love’s angel wafted slowly to me there, And as I went like death away I wist Its savour faded, nor my soul aware.
I turned and went away, away, away, Out of the night that was to me the day, And rode to meet the sun to hide in light The sorrow of the day that was the night. So I rode slowly in the morning gray, And all the meadows with the frost were white.
And lo! between the mountains there uprose The winter sun; and all the forest glows, And the frost burns like fire before my eyes, While the white breeze awoke with slumberous sighs And stirred the branches of the pine; it knows, It surely knows how weary are the wise.
Even my horse my sorrow understands, Would turn and bear me to those western lands; In love would turn me back; in love would bring My thirsty lips to the one perfect spring— My iron soul upon my trembling hands Had its harsh will; my bitterness was king.
So verily long time I rode afar. My course was lighted by some gloomy star That boded evil, that I would not shun, But rather welcome, as the storm the sun, Lowering and red, a hurtful avatar, Whose fatal forehead like itself is dun.
It was no wonder when the second day Showed me a city on the desert way, Whose brazen gates were open, where within I saw a statue for a sign of sin, And saw the people come to it and pray, Before its mouth set open for a gin.
And seeing me, a clamour rose among Their dwarfish crowds, whose barbarous harsh tongue Grated, a hateful sound; they plucked me down, And mocked me through the highways of the town, And brought me where they sang to censers swung A grotesque hymn before her body brown.
For Sin was like a woman, and her feet Shone, and her face was like the windy wheat; Her eyes were keen and horrible and cold, Her bronze loins girdled with the sacred gold; Her lips were large, and from afar how sweet! How fierce and purple for a kiss to hold!
But somehow blood was black upon them; blood In stains and clots and splashes; and the mud Trampled around her by the souls that knelt, Worshipping where her false lewd body dwelt Was dark and hateful; and a sleepy flood Trickled therefrom as magic gums that melt.
I had no care that hour for anything: Not for my love, not for myself; I cling Desperate to despair, as some to hope, Unheeding Saturn in their horoscope; But I, despair is lord of me and king; But I, my thoughts tend ever to the rope.
But I, unknightly, recreant, a coward, Dare not release my soul from fate untoward By such a craven’s cunning. Nay, my soul Must move unflinching to what bitter goal The angry gods design—if gods be froward I am a man, nor fear to drain the bowl.
And some old devil, dead no doubt and damned, But living in her life, had wisely crammed Her fierce bronze throat with such a foul device As made her belly yearn for sacrifice. She leered like love on me, and smiled, and shammed, And did not pity for all her breast of spice.
They thrust me in her hateful jaws, and I Even then resisted not, so fain to die Was my desire, so weary of the fight With my own love, so willing to be quite Sure of my strength by death; and eagerly Almost I crossed the barrier keen and white.
And lo! a miracle! Her carven hand Is lifted, and the little space is spanned, And I am plucked from out her maw, and set Down on the pedestals whose polished jet Shone like a mirror out of hell—I stand Free, where the blood of other men is wet.
So slowly, while the mob stood back, I went Out of the city, with no life content, And certain I should meet no death at least. And, riding ever to the stubborn east, I came upon a shore whose ocean bent In one long curve, where folk were making feast.
So with no heart to feast, I joined the mirth, Mingled the dances that resound the earth, And laughing looked in every face of guile, And answered fans with quick and subtle smile; Ten thousand little loves were brought to birth, Ten thousand loves that laughed a little while.
No; for one woman did not laugh, too wise, But came so close, and looked within my eyes So deeply that I saw not anything. Only her eyes grew, as a purple ring Shielding the sun, they grew, they uttered lies— They fascinate and cleave to me and cling.
And in their uttermost profound I saw The veil of Love’s unalterable law Lifted, and in the shadow far behind Dim and divine, within the shadow blind My own love’s face most amorously draw Out of the deep toward my cloudy mind.
And suddenly I felt a kiss enclose My whole live body, as a rich red rose Folding its sweetness round the honey-bee. I felt a perfect soul embracing me, And in my spirit like a river flows A passion like the passion of the sea.
II.
HER STORY.
HE did not kiss me with his mouth; his eyes Kissed mine, and mine kissed back; it was not wise, But yet he had the strength to leave me; so I was so glad he loved enough to go.
My arms could never have released his neck; He saved our honour from a single speck. And so he went away; and fate inwove The bitterest of treason for our love.
For scarce two days when sickness took the King, And death dissolved the violence of the ring, I ruled alone; I left my palace gate To see if Love should have the laugh at Fate.
And so I violated Death, and died; And in the other land my spirit cried For incarnation; conquering I came Within my soulless body as a flame.
Endowing which with sacred power I sought A little while, as thought that seeks for thought, And found his changeless love endure as mine, And all his passion round me as a vine.
So clinging fibres of desire control My perfect body, and my perfect soul Shot flakes of light toward him, and my eyes, Seeking his face, were made divinely wise.
So, solemn, silent, ’mid a merry folk I bound him by my forehead’s silver yoke, And grew immense about him and within, And so possessed him wholly, without sin.
For I had crossed the barrier and knew There was no sin. His lips reluctant grew Ardent at last as recognizing me, And love’s wild tempest sweeps upon his sea.
And I, I knew not anything, but know We are still silent, and united so, And all our being spells one vast To Be, A passion like the passion of the sea.
THE LEGEND OF BEN LEDI.
ON his couch Imperial Alpin In majestic grandeur lay, Dying with the sun that faded O’er the plain of granite gray.
Snowy white his beard descended, Flecked with foeman’s crimson gore, And he rose and grasped his broadsword, And he prayed to mighty Thor:
“God of thunder, god of battle, God of pillage and of war, Hear the King of Scotland dying On the Leny’s thundrous shore!
“Thrice three hundred have I smitten With my single arm this day; Now of life my soul is weary, I am old, I pass away.
“Grant me this, immortal monarch, Such a tomb as ne’er before, Such a tomb as never after Monarch thought or monarch saw.”
Then he called his Sons around him, And he spake again and cried: “Seven times a clansman’s bowshot Lay me from the Leny’s side.
“Where the plain to westward sinketh, Lay me in my tartan plaid, All uncovered to the tempest, In my hand my trusty blade.”
Hardly had he spake the order, When his spirit passed away; And his sons their heads uncovered As they bore him o’er the brae.
Seven times did Phail McAlpine Bend his mighty bow of yew; Seven times with lightning swiftness West the wingéd arrow flew.
Seven times a clansman’s bowshot From the Leny’s western shore, Laid they him where on to Achray Spread the plain of Ian Vohr.
Hard by Teith’s tumultuous waters Camped his sons throughout the night, Till the rosy blush of morning Showed a vast majestic sight.
Where of late the plain extended Rose a mighty mass of stone, Pierced the clouds, and sprang unmeasured In magnificence—alone!
There the clansmen stood and wondered, As the rock, supremely dire, Split and trembled, cracked and thundered, Lit with living flecks of fire.
Spake the chief: “My trusty clansmen, This is not the day of doom; This is honour to the mighty; Clansmen, this is Alpin’s tomb.”
Nympsfield Rectory, December, 1893.
JULY 14, 1896.
AN island of the mist. White companies Of clouds thronged wondrously against the hills, And in the east a darkening of the winds That held awhile their breath for very rage, Too wild for aught but vaporous quivering Of melting fleeces, while the sudden sun Fled to his home. Afar the Matterhorn Reared a gaunt pinnacle athwart the bank, Where towered behind it one vast pillar of cloud To thrice its height. Behold the ice-clad dome On which we stood, all weary of the way, And marked the east awaken into scorn, And rush upon us. Then we set our teeth To force a dangerous passage, and essayed The steep slope not in vain. We pushed our way Slowly and careworn down the icy ridge, Hewing with ponderous strokes the riven ice In little flakes and chips, and now again Encountered strange and fearsome sentinels, Gray pinnacles of lightning-riven rock Fashioned of fire and night. We clomb adown Fantastic cliffs of gnarlèd stone, and saw The vivid lightning flare in purple robes Of flame along the ridge, and even heard Its terrible crackle, ’mid the sullen roar Of answering thunder. And the driven hail Beat on our faces, while we strove to fling Aloft the axe of forgèd steel, encased In glittering ice, and smite unceasingly On the unyielding slope of ice, as black As those most imminent ghosts of Satan’s frown That shut us out from heaven, while the snow Froze on our cheeks. And thus we gained the field Where precipice and overwhelming rock, Avalanche, crag, leap through the dazzled air To pile their mass in one Lethean plain Of undulations of rolled billowy snow Rent, seamed, and scarred with wound on jagged wound, Blue-rushing to the vague expanse below O’ th’ unknown secrecies of mountain song. Dragging behind us beautiful weary limbs, We turned snow-blinded eyes towards the pass That shot a jasper wall above the mist Into the lightning-kindled firmament, Behind whose battlements a shelter lay, Rude-built of pine, whose parents in the storm Of one vast avalanche were swept away Into the valley. Thither we hasted on, And there, as night stretched out a broken wing Torn by the thunder and the bitter strife Of warring flames and tempest’s wrath, we came And flung ourselves within, and laid us down At last to sleep; and Sleep, a veinèd shape Of naked stateliness, came down to us, And tenderly stooped down, and kissed our brows.
AN ODE.
O VOICE of sightless magic Clear through day’s crystal sky, Blithe, contemplative, tragic, As men may laugh or sigh, As men may love or sorrow, Their moods thy music borrow To bid them live or die. So sweet, so sad, so lonely, In silent noontide only Thy song-wings float and lie On cloud-foam scarred and riven By God’s red lightnings shriven, And quiet hours are given To him that lingers nigh.
Fain would I linger near thee Amid the poppies red, Forget this world, and hear thee As one among the dead, Amid the daffadillies, Red tulips and white lilies, Where daisies’ tears are shed Where larkspur and cornflower Are blue with sunlight’s hour, And all the earth is spread As in a dream before me, While steals divinely o’er me Love’s scented spring to draw me From moods of dreamy dread.
O wingèd passion! Traveler Too near to God to see! O lyrical unraveller Of knotted life to me! O song! O shining river Of thought and sound! O giver Of goodly words of glee! Like to a star that singeth, A flower that incense bringeth, A love-song of the free! Oh! let me sing thy glories While spring winds whisper stories Of winter past, whose shore is Beyond a shoreless sea.
Spring, with the sea for raiment Adorned with winds of night; Summer, with fruit for payment Of a sun’s kiss too bright; Autumn, with golden tresses; Winter, with wildernesses Of steel-black frost, and might Of crystals for his garland, Are fled beyond the starland On wings beyond sound and sight. Only desire remaineth That death’s bright chalice draineth Of blood-red wine that staineth The brow of love with light.
World in thy music fadeth To what is scarce a sleep, Life’s darkest shadow shadeth Memories that chide and weep, Only delights grow clearer, More exquisite and nearer, And new life-arteries leap To fresh loves, into being, From blindness into seeing, Beyond God’s mountains steep. The words of promise spoken Flourish and flower unbroken, And for His holy token The mirror of the deep.
Sing on, thou lyric lover, Sing on, and thrill me long With such delights as cover The days and deeds of wrong. Live lyre of songs immortal That pierce Heaven’s fiery portal With shafts of splendour strong, Winged with thought’s sharpest fires, Arrowed with soul’s desires And sped from thunder’s thong; Heaven’s gates rock, rage, and quiver, Earth’s walls gape wide and shiver, While Freedom doth deliver Men’s spirits with thy song.
Ah, chainless, distant, fleeting, To lands that know no sea, Where ocean’s stormy greeting Fills no man’s heart with glee; Where lovers die or sever, And death destroys for ever And God bears slavery. Fly thither, so thou leave us That no man’s hand may reave us Of this—that we are free. Free all men that may heed thee, On freemen’s praises feed thee, Who chorus full, “God speed thee, Live lyre of Liberty!”
And me, ah! float above me Unseen in limpid air, Sing ever, “Love me, love me,” Or ever I despair. The longings thou hast given With death and dust have striven And risen doubly fair. The joys thy song createth No languorous spirit sateth, Nor things that are or were, Nor death, nor sorrows fated, May leave their sweet abated, With thy bright spirit mated, White warden of the air.
DREAMS.
WHAT words are these that shudder through my sleep, Changing from silver into crimson flakes, And molten into gold Like the pale opal through whose gray may sweep A scarlet flame, like eyes of crested snakes, Keen, furious, and too cold.
What words are these? The pall of slumber lifts; The veil of finiteness withdraws. The night Is heavier, life burns low: Yet to the quivering brain three goodly gifts The cruelty of Pluto and his might In the abyss bestow:
Change, foresight, fear. The pageant whirls and boils; Restricted not by space and time, my dream Foresees the doom of Fate; My spirit wrestles in the Dream-King’s toils Always in vain, and Hope’s forerunners gleam Alway one step too late.
Not as when sunlight strikes the counterpane, Half wakening, sleep rolls back her iron wave, And dawn brings blithesomeness; Not as when opiates lull the tortured brain And sprinkle lotus on the drowsy grave Of earth’s old bitterness;
But as when consciousness half rouses up And hurls back all the gibbering harpy crowd; And sleep’s draught deepeneth, And all the furies of hell’s belly sup In the brain’s palaces, and chant aloud Songs that foretaste of Death.
Maddened, the brain breaks from beneath the goad, Flings off again the foe, and from its hell Brings for a moment peace, Till weariness and her infernal load Of phantom memory-shapes return to quell The shaken fortresses.
Till nature reassert her empery, And the full tide of wakefulness at last Foam on the shore of sleep To beat the white cliffs of reality In vain, because their windy strength is past, And only memories weep.
Why is the Finite real? And that world So larger, so more beautiful and fleet, So free, so exquisite, The world of dreams and shadows, not impearled With solitary shaft of Truth? Too sweet, O children of the Night,
Are your wide realms for our philosophers, Who must in hard gray balance-shackles bind The essence of all thought: No sorrier sexton in a grave inters The nobler children of a poet’s mind Of wine and gold well wrought.
By the poor sense of touch they judge that this Or that is real or not. Have they divined This simplest spirit-bond, The joy of some bad woman’s deadly kiss; The thought-flash that well tunes a lover’s mind Seas and gray gulfs beyond?
So that which is impalpable to touch, They judge by touch; the viewless they decide By sight; their logic fails, Their jarring jargon jingles—even such An empty brazen pot—wise men deride The clouds that mimic whales.
My world shall be my dreams. Religion there And duty may disturb me not at all; Nor doubts, nor fear of death. I straddle on no haggard ghostly mare; Yea, through my God, I have leapt o’er a wall! (As poet David saith.)
The wall that ever girds Earth’s thought with brass Is all a silver path my feet beneath, And o’er its level sward Of sea-reflecting white flowers and fresh grass I walk. Man’s darkness is a leathern sheath, Myself the sun-bright sword!
I have no fear, nor doubt, nor sorrow now, For I give Self to God—I give my best Of soul and blood and brain To my poor Art—there comes to me somehow This fact; Man’s work is God made manifest; Life is all Peace again.
And Dreams are beyond life. Their wider scope, Limitless Empire o’er the world of thought, Help my desires to press Beyond all stars toward God and Heaven and Hope; And in the world-amazing chase is wrought Somehow—all Happiness.
“Then to me lying awake a vision Came without sleep over the seas and touched me.” Swinburne, Sapphics.
MY beauty in thy deep pure love Anchors its homage far above All lights of heaven. The stars awake; The very stars bend down to take From its fresh fragrance for the sake Of their own cloud-compelling peace. On earth there lies a silver fleece Of new-fallen snow, secure from sun In alleys, leafy every one This year already with the spring. The breeze blows freshly, thrushes sing, And all the woods are burgeoning With quick new buds; across the snow The scent of violets to and fro Wafts at the hour of dawn. Alone I wait, a figure turned to stone (Or salt for pain). A week ago Thine arms embraced me; now I know Far off they clasp the empty air:
NOTE.—The scene of this poem is a little spinney near the wooden bridge in Love Lane, Cambridge.
Thy lips seek home, and in despair Lament aloud over the frosted moor. Sad am I, sad, albeit sure There is no change of God above And no abatement of our love. For still, though thou be gone, I see In the glad mirror secretly That I am beautiful in thee. Thy love irradiates my eyes, Tints my skin gold; its melodies Of music run over my face; Smiles envy kisses in the race To bathe beneath my eyelids. Light Clothes me and circles with the might Of warmer rosier suns. Thy kiss Dwells on my bosom, and it is A glittering mount of fire, that burns Incense unnamed to heaven, and yearns In smoke toward thy home. Desire Bellies the sails of molten fire Upon the ship of Youth with wind Urgently panting out behind, Impatient till the strand appear And the blue sea have ceased to rear Fountains of foam against the prow. Hail! I can vision even now That golden shore. A lake of light Burns to the sky; above, the night Hovers, her wings grown luminous. (I think she dearly loveth us.) The sand along the glittering shore Is all of diamond; rivers pour Unceasing floods of light along, Whose virtue is so bitter strong That he who bathes within them straight Rises an angel to the gate Of heaven and enters as a king. Birds people it on varied wing Of rainbow; fishes gold and fine Dart like bright stars through fount and brine, And all the sea about our wake Foams with the silver water-snake. There is a palace veiled in mist. A single magic amethyst Built it; the incense burns alway; So the light stream upon it lay. There thou art dwelling. I am ware The music of thine eyes and hair Calls to the wind to chase our ship Faster toward; the waters slip Smoothly and swift beneath the keel. The pulses of the vessel feel I draw toward thee; now the sails Hang idly, for the golden gales Drop as the vessel grates the sand. Come, thou true love, and hold my hand, I tremble (for my love) to land. I feel thy arms around me steal; Thy breath upon my cheeks I feel; Thy lips draw out to mine: the breath Of ocean grows as still as death, The breezes swoon for very bliss. The sacrament of true love’s kiss Accomplishes: I feel a pain Stab my heart through and sleep again, And I am in thine arms for ever. ● ● ● ● ● There came a tutor, who had never Known the response of love to love; He wandered through the woods above The river, and came suddenly Where he lay sleeping. Purity And joy beyond the speech of man Dwelt on his face, divinely wan. “How beautiful is sleep!” he saith, Bends over him. There is no breath, No sound, no motion: it is death. And gazing on the happy head “How beautiful is Death!” he said.
A SONNET IN SPRING.
O CHAINLESS Love, the frost is in my brain, Whose swift desires and swift intelligence Are dull and numb to-day; because the sense Only responds to the sharp key of pain. O free fair Love, as welcome as the rain On thirsty fallows, come, and let us hence Far where the veil of Summer lies immense, A haze of heat on ocean’s purple plain.
O wingless Love, let us away together Where the sure surf rings round the beaten strand, Where the sky stands, a dome of flawless weather, And the stars join in one triumphal band, Because we broke the inexorable tether That bound our passion with an iron hand.
DE PROFUNDIS.
BLOOD, mist, and foam, then darkness. On my eyes Sits heaviness, the poor worn body lies Devoid of nerve and muscle; it were death Save for the heart that throbs, the breast that sighs.
The brain reels drowsily, the mind is dulled, Deadened and drowned by noises that are lulled By the harsh poison of the hateful breath. All sense and sound and seeing is annulled.
Within a body dead a deadened brain Beats with the burden of a shameful pain, The sullen agony that dares to think, And think through sleep, and wake to think again.
Fools! bitter fools! Our breaths and kisses seem Constrained in devilry, debauch, and dream: Lives logged in the morass of meat and drink, Loves dipped in Phlegethon, the perjured stream.
Behold we would that hours and minutes pass, Watch the sands falling in the eager glass; To wile their weariness is pleasure’s bliss; But ah! the years! like smoke They fade, alas!
We weep them as they slip away; we gaze Back on the likeness of the former days— The hair we fondle and the lips we kiss— Roses grow yellow and no purple stays.
Ah! the old years! Come back, ye vanished hours We wasted; come, grow red, ye faded flowers! What boots the weariness of olden time Now, when old age, a tempest-fury, lowers?
Up to high God beyond the weary land The days drift mournfully; His hoary hand Gathers them. Is it so? My foolish rhyme Dreams they are links upon an endless band.
The planets draw in endless orbits round The sun; itself revolves in the profound Deep wells of space; the comet’s mystic track By the strong rule of a closed curve is bound.
Why not with time? To-morrow we may see The circle ended—if to-morrow be— And gaze on chaos, and a week bring back Adam and Eve beneath the apple tree.
Or, like the comet, the wild race may end Out into darkness, and our circle bend Round to all glory in a sudden sweep, And speed triumphant with the sun to friend.
Love will not leave my home. She knows my tears, My angers and caprices; still my ears Listen to singing voices, till I weep Once more, less sadly, and set hounds on fears.
She will not leave me comfortless. And why? Through the dimmed glory of my clouded eye She catches one sharp glint of love for her: She will not leave me ever till I die:—
Nay, though I die! Beyond the distant gloom Heaven springs, a fountain, out of Change’s womb! Time would all men within the grave inter:— For Time himself shall no god find a tomb?
Glory and love and work precipitate The end of man’s desire—so sayeth Fate. Man answers: Love is stronger, work more sure, Glory more fadeless than her shafts abate.
Though all worlds fail, the pulse of Life be still, God fall, all darken, she hath not her will Of deeds beyond recall, that shall endure: For us, these three divinest glasses fill,
Fill to the brim with lustrous dew, nor fail To leave the blossom and the nightingale, Love’s earlier kiss, and manhood’s glowing prime, These us suffice. Shall man or Fate prevail?
Lo, we are blind, and dubious fingers grope In Despair’s dungeon for the key of Hope; Lo, we are chained, and with a broken rhyme Would file our fetters and enlarge our scope.
Yet ants may move the mountain; none is small But he who stretches out no arm at all; Toadstools have wrecked fair cities in a night, One poet’s song may bid a kingdom fall.
Add to thy fellow-men one ounce of aid— The block begins to shift, the start is made: The rest is thine; with overwhelming might The balance changes, and the task is paid.
Join’st thou thy feeble hands in foolish prayer To him thy brain hath moulded and set there In thy brain’s heaven? Such a god replies As thy fears move. So men pray everywhere.
What God there be, is real. By His might Begot the universe within the night; If he had prayed to His own mind’s weak lies Think’st thou the heaven and earth had stood upright?
Remember Him, but smite! No workman hews His stone aright whose nervy arms refuse To ply the chisel, but are raised to ask A visionary foreman he may choose
From the distortions of a sodden mind. God did first work on earth when womankind He chipped from Adam’s rib—a thankless task I wot His wisdom has long since repined.
Christ touched the leper and the widow’s son; And thou wouldst serve the work the Perfect One Began, by folding arms and gazing up To heaven, as if thy work were rightly done.
I tell thee, He should say, if ye were met: “Thou hadst a talent—ah, thou hast it yet Wrapped in a napkin—thou shalt drain the cup Of that damnation that may not forget
“The wasted hours!” Ah, bitter interest Of our youth’s capital—forgotten zest In all the pleasures of o’erflowing life, Wine tasteless, tired the brain, and cold the breast!
Ah! but if with it is one good deed wrought, One kind word spoken, one immortal thought Born in thee, all is paid; the weary strife Grows victory. “Love is all and Death is nought.”
Such an one wrote that word as I would meet, Lay my life’s burden at his silver feet, Have him give ear if I say “Master.” Yea! I know no heaven, no honour, half so sweet!
He passed before me on the wheel of Time, He who knows no Time—the intense sublime Master of all philosophy and play, Lord of all love and music and sweet rhyme.
Follow thou him! Work ever, if thy heart Be fervent with one hope, thy brain with art, Thy lips with song, thine arm with strength to smite: Achieve some act; its name shall not depart.
Christ laid Love’s corner-stone, and Cæsar built The tower of glory; Sappho’s life was split From fervent lips the torch of song t’ ignite: Thou mayst add yet a stone—if but thou wilt.
And yet the days stream by; night shakes the day From his pale throne of purple, to allay The tremors of the earth; day smiteth dark With the swift poignard dipped in Helios’ ray.
The days stream by; with lips and cheeks grown pale On their indomitable breast we sail. There is a favouring wind; our idle bark Lingers, we raise no silk to meet the gale.
The bank slips by, we gather not its fruit, We plant no seed, we irrigate no root True men have planted; and the tare and thorn Spring to rank weedy vigour; poisons shoot
Into the overspreading foliage; So as days darken into weary age The flowers are fewer; the weeds are stronger born And hands are grown too feeble to assuage
Their venom; then, th’ unutterable sea! Is she green-cinctured with the earlier tree Of Life? Do blossoms blow, or weeds create A foul rank undergrowth of misery?
From the deep water of the bitterest brine Drowned children raise their arms; their lips combine To force a shriek; bid them go contemplate The cold philosophy of Zeno’s shrine?
Nay, stretch a hand! Although their eagle clutch O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch To grieve for that: life is not so divine— I count it little grief to part with such!
We are wild serpents in a ring of fire; Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire In desperation; from the fearful line Our coils revulse in impotence and ire.
An idle song it was the poet sang, A quavering note—no brazen kettle’s clang, But gentle, drooping, tearful. But achieve! I can remember how the finish rang
Clear, sharp, and loud; the harp is glad to die And give the clarion one note silver-high. It was too sweet for music, and I weave In vain the tattered woof of memory.
Ashes and dust! Cold cinders dead! Our swords are rust, Our lives are fled Like dew on glass; In vain we lust, Our hopes are sped, Alas! alas! From heaven we are thrust, we have no more trust, Alas!
Gold hairs and gray, Red lips and white, Warm hearts, cold clay, Bright day, dim night, Our spirits pass Like the hours away. We have no light, Alas! alas! We have no more day, we are fain to say Alas!
In Love’s a cure For Fortune’s hate; In Love’s a lure Shall laugh at Fate; We have tolled Death’s knell; All streams are pure; We are new-create; All’s well, all’s well! We have God to endure, we are very sure All’s well!
In such wise rang the challenge unto Death With clear high eloquence and happy breath, So did a brave sad heart grow glad again And mock the riddle that the dead Sphinx saith.
When I am dead, remember me for this That I bade workers work, and lovers kiss; Laughed with the Stoic at the dream of pain, And preached with Jesus the evangel—bliss.
When I am dead, think kindly. Frail my song, ’Twas the poor utterance of an eager tongue; I stutter in my rhyme—my heart was full Of greater longings, more divinely wrung
By love and pity and regret and trust, High hope from heaven that God will be just, Spurn not the child because his mind was dull, Still less condemn him for his father’s lust.
Yet I think priests shall answer Him in vain: Their gospel of disgrace, disease, and pain, Shall move His heart of Love to such a wrath— O Heart! Turn back and look on Love again!
Behold, I have seen visions, and dreamed dreams! My verses eddy in slow wandering streams, Veer like the wind, and know no certain path— Yet their worst shades tinged with dawning beams!
I have dreamed life a circle or a line, Called God, and Fate, and Chance, and Man, divine. I know not all I say, but through it all Mark the dim hint of ultimate sunshine!
Remember me for this! And when I go To sleep the last sleep in the slumberous snow, Let child and man and woman yet recall One little moment that I loved you so!
Let some high pinnacle my tombstone be, My epitaph the murmur of the sea, The clouds of heaven be fleeces for my pall, My grave one thought within the hearts of ye.
Without much strength but ever unafraid I sang to boy and man, to wife and maid; And my last whisper was, “Though shadows fall, Love is triumph with a God to aid!”
TWO SONNETS.
On Hearing the Music of Brahms and Tschaikowsky.
To C. G. LAMB.
MY soul is aching with the sense of sound Whose angels trumpet in the angry air; Wild mænads with their fiery snakes enwound In the black waves of my abundant hair. Now hath my life a little respite found In the brief pauses exquisite and rare; In the strong chain of music I am bound And all myself before myself lies bare.
Drown me, oh, drown me in your fiery stream! Wing me new visions, fierce enchanting birds! Peace is less dear than this delirious fight! For all the glowing fragrance of a dream And all the sudden ecstasy of words Deluge my spirit with a lake of light.
The constant ripple of your long white hands, The soul-tormenting violin that speaks Truth, and enunciates all my soul seeks, That binds my love in its desirous bands, And clutches at my heart, until there stands No fibre yet unshaken, while it wreaks In one sharp song the agony of weeks, And all my soul and body understands.
The music changes, and I know that here, In these new melodies, a tongue of fire Leaps at each waving of the silver spear; And all my sorrow dons delight’s attire Because the gate of Heaven is so near, And I have comprehended my desire.
(Feb 14, 1897.)
WHY did you smile when the summer was dying If it were not that the hours Might bring in winter, while sad winds are sighing, Some of Love’s flowers?
Now is beginning of spring, and I ask not Roses to flame o’er the lawn— Who should know better that peonies bask not In the sun’s dawn?
Still, through the snow, it may be there is peeping Veiled from the kiss of the sun One lone white violet, daintily sleeping, Hard to be won.
So with my fairy white maiden (you hear me?) Winter may yet pass away; Spring may arrive, (will it find your heart near me?) Summer may stay.
Passionate roses I seek not, whose glories Now are too fierce for the spring, While the white flames of the frost flake that hoar is Flicker, on wing.
Only a primrose, a violet laden With the pale perfume of dawn; Only a snowdrop, my delicate maiden; These have no thorn.
Old-fashioned love, yet you feel it a fountain Springing for ever, most pure; Old-fashioned love, yet as adamant mountain Solid and sure.
Yes, tender thoughts on your lips will be breaking By-and-by into a smile; Love, ere he springs up divine at his waking, Slumbers awhile.
So, my kissed snowdrop, you took its white blossom Tenderly into your hand, Kissed it three times, wear it yet in your bosom— I understand.
ODE TO POESY.
UNTO what likeness shall I liken thee, O moon-wrought maiden of my dewy sleep? For thou art Queen of Thoughts, and unto me Sister and Bride; the worn earth’s echoes leap Because thy holy name is Poesy. Whereto art thou most like? Thou art a Dian, crescent o’er the sea That beats sonorous on the craggy shore, Or shakes the frail earth-dyke. So calm and still and far, that never more Thy silken song shall quiver through the land; Only by coral isle, by lonely strand Where no man dwells, thy voice re-wakens wild and grand.
Thou art an Aphrodite. From the foam Of golden grape and red thou risest up Immaculate; thou hast an ebon comb Of shade and silence, and a jasper cup Wherein are mingled all desires. Thine home Is in the forest shade. Thy pale feet kiss the daffodils; they roam By moss-grown springs, and shake the bluebell tips. Each flower of the deep glade Has whispered kisses for thy listening lips, While Eos blushes in the sky, to find A fairer, queenlier maiden, and as kind To man and maid, whose eyes are lit by the same mind.
Thou hast, as Pallas hath, a polished shield, Whose Gorgon-head is Hatred, and a sword Sharper than Love’s. Thy wisdom is revealed To them who love, but thou hast aye abhorred The children of revenge; to them is sealed Thy book, so clear to me. Thy book where seven sins their sceptres wield, And seven sorrows track them, and one joy Cancels their infamy; Shame and regret are fused to an alloy, Whose drossy weight sinks down and is consumed, While o’er the ruddy metal is relumed A purer flame of piece, with knowledge now perfumed.
Thy ways are very bitter. Not one rose Twines in the crown of thorns thy spouse must wear; There is no Lethe for the scoffs, the blows, Nor find they a Cyrenian anywhere Amid the mob, to lift my cross, to share Its burden: not one friend Whose love were silence, whose affection knows To press my hand and close my dying eyes There, at the endless end. I am alone on earth, and from the skies Sometimes I seem so far—and yet, thy kiss Re-quickens Hope; through aether’s emptiness Thou guidest me to touch the Hand of Him who Is.
Thou hadst a torch to lume my lips to song; Thou hast a cooler fountain for my thirst, Lest my young love should work thy fame a wrong; So the grape’s veins in purple ardour burst, And opiates in bloomless gardens throng, And Life, a moon, wanes fast; But to thy garden richer buds belong And hardier flowers, and Love, a deathless sun, Flames eager to the last, And young desires in fleeter revels run, And Life revives, and all the flowers rejoice, Bird and light butterfly have made their choice, Creation hymns its God with an united voice.
There is a storm without. The hoary trees Stagger; the foam is angry on the sea: I know the secret mountains are at ease, And in the deepest ice-embroidery Where great men’s spirits linger there is peace. Heed not the unquiet wind! Dawn’s finger shall be raised, its wrath shall cease, The sun shall rouse us whom the tempest lulled, And thy poor poet’s mind For respite by its own deep anguish dulled Shall wake again to watch the cruel day Drift slowly on its chill and wasted way With but thy smile to inspire some sad melodious lay.
From whose rude caverns sweep these gusty wings That shake the steeples as they mock at God? Who reared the stallion wind? Whose foaling flings The billows starward? Whose the steeds fire-shod That sweep throughout the world? What spearman sings The fearful chant of war That fires, and spurs, and maddens all the kings That rule o’er the earth, and air, and ocean? Whose hand excites the star To shatter into fiery flakes? No man, No petty god, but One who governs all, Slips the sun’s leash, perceives the sparrow’s fall, Too high for man to fear, too near for man to call.
O virgin Poesy, the link is thine To bring us near; the suffering of thy path Hath its reward, desire that is divine Strengthens and gladdens, and thy beauty hath This joy moreover—It is strong as wine And sweet as honey is. For at the end, beyond the bitter brine, A fountain of sweet water! And thine arms Embrace me, and thy kiss Is ever on my lips, and all thy charms Burn in my blood till pain itself grows sweet, Reluctant sorrow and quick passion meet; We two one day will kneel in Heaven and touch God’s feet.
SONNETS.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE PHRASE: “I AM NOT A GENTLEMAN AND I HAVE NO FRIENDS.”
I.
SELF-DAMNED, the leprous moisture of thy veins Sickens the sunshine, and thine haggard eyes, Bleared with their own corrupting infamies, Glare through the charnel-house of earthly pains, Horrible as already in hell. There reigns The terror of the knowledge of the lies That mock thee; thy death’s double destinies Clutch at the throat that sobs, and chokes, and strains.
Self-damned on earth, live out thy tortured days, That men may look upon thy face, and see How vile a thing of woman born may be. Then, we are done with thee; go, go thy ways To other hells, thou damned of God hereafter, ‘Mid men’s contempt and hate and pitiless laughter.
II.
Lust, impotence, and knowledge of thy soul, And that foreknowledge, fill the fiery lake Of lava where thy lazar corpse shall break The burning surface to seek out a goal More horrible, unspeakable. The scroll Opens, and “coward, liar, monster” shake Those other names of “goat” and “swine” and “snake” Wherewith Hell’s worms caress thee and control.
Nay, but alone, intolerably alone, Alone, as here, thy carrion soul shall swelter, Yearning in vain for sleep, or death, or shelter; No release possible, no respite known, Self-damned, without a friend, thy eternal place Sweats through the painting of thy harlot’s face. At the hour of the eclipse, Wednesday, Dec. 28.
SONNET.
A DREAM
COOL winds are blowing on the healthy brae. It is the time of night—the world is wrought For starry contemplation—gusts of thought Surge in the vast. Before my vision lay New oceans gemmed about with sun-bright isles, Peopled with creatures girded up with gold, Women men’s love made glorious to behold, Men clad with sunshine of fair women’s smiles, Fountains of purity and fadeless youth. With a glad heart I turned my steps to seek Their starry groves and streams. A scroll unfurled A cloud from heaven: “This people loveth truth.” I rose and hid my tear-bespangled cheek. Woe’s me! For I had dreamed it was the world.
THE EVE OF LOVE.
THE sun from the black of the sky unveiléd, The rain and the clouds are dispersed to the sea, He strides through the heaven, a knight brightly mailéd; The earth is rejoiced and the fountains are free, Leaping, cascades of new song. Music and myrtle are bound in the forehead Golden of dawn’s herald strong; The sea basks below in the atmosphere torrid, Waiting and waiting a lover. All men despise her: a woman once found Joy in the kisses whereby she was drowned, Love in her death to discover.
I, in the pæan of earth, air, and ocean, Join and laugh, loud for the love of my heart; Throbs the loud air with my throes of emotion; Love hath prevailed with the adamant dart Poisoned, a tooth of a snake; They shall grow in my breast and divide me with longing Dead and asleep and awake. In my veins all their daughters with joy shall be thronging, Burning my blood with desire; Aye, for I love, with a passion untamed, Love, like a tiger, unfed, unashamed, Love, like a river of fire.
Love, like a fountain of diamonds, uprises, Striking the sky with its blossom of flame; Falls in a rain of bright snow that surprises Dews of the grass with a sound of acclaim; Singing, a silver-string lyre, Magical chants to awake from their prison Spirits to answer desire. Demons from palaces fiery arisen Now to obey us are flying; All the old leaves of the winter fall fast, Swept by the wide-waving wing of the blast On to a haven undying.
Here, on the breast of the summer, reposes Lover by lover, together, alone. Here do I rest, in a garden of roses, Here, in the heaven of earth, with my own. Earth in our joy is rejoicing. Dances the sun as we kiss in his despite; Star unto star still is voicing Marvels of song, till the moon for a respite Tunes her low lute to the even, While we lie still, as eternities wend Slowly along to their ultimate end, We but indwelling the heaven.
You on my breast your dear forehead reclining, You with an arm to encircle my head; You with your eyes all my secret divining Rest in my love, as divine as the dead. Peace is the prize of our passion. Love springs unfading, a flower unfolding Petals of marvellous fashion; Scarlet and green to our eyes unbeholding, Fixed on each other so deep; Only the light of them flushes our being, Fills us with music and silence, but seeing Love, and the vision of Sleep.
THE MORNING OF DISILLUSIONMENT.
THE Eve of Love has faded To this unhallowed morn; Of which these laughters shaded With bitterness are born, With tears and cruel sighing The day springs up undying Toward the crucifying Of Love with nails of scorn.
Nailed to a cross of iron My bleeding bosom hangs; Love’s serpents all environ My heart with tameless fangs. Unshaken, tortured, stricken By agonies that thicken I hang, and sweat, and sicken, With miserable pangs.
I found out Love new-risen From seas I thought had slain His passion in their prison, And girt their icy chain. But on their foam did revel The likeness of a devil To work me bitter evil, This unredeeming pain.
Here cruel winds and biting Descend upon the wold; Here frost and snow are smiting The sons of earth with cold. The raw air steams and shivers Above the sluggish rivers, And birds are dumb, the givers Of melodies untold.
Here death has quite forgotten An eager lover waits To pass in yonder rotten Black boat his icy gates. He will not free his lover Till Proserpine discover How near he hangs above her, And yearns towards the Fates.
Nor life nor death will hear him, Nor God nor Satan aid; Though Love no more endear him, Nor Passion make afraid. Too cold, too calm, too holy He stands, consuming slowly In the strong flame that wholly Absorbs his vital shade.
Now Heaven and Hell reject him, And Earth refuses home; He knows not to direct him To Lesbos or to Rome. His life he sees unhidden, A sea of waves unchidden, Devouring things forbidden In sacramental foam.
Here come “the loves that wither,” And here their heaviest wings Droop, and “dead years draw hither And all disastrous things.” Pure loves that flowered never, True loves that none might sever, The flame that burns for ever, Love’s ruined water-springs.
Oh, Death! draw nigh, deliver My passion from its band; Draw nigh, until I shiver At thy most holy hand. For Earth’s desires have fled me, And Earth’s distrusts have fed me, And Love has come, and shed me As water upon sand.
Postscript. The Twilight of Eternal Hope.
And yet—perhaps to-morrow Response and joy and tears; A respite unto sorrow, A putting-by of fears. A hope and a beginning Of sweet long days of sinning, While graying hairs and thinning Mark the unnoticed years.
A time for song and laughter, And tender tears that fall; A time to think of after, One long sweet festival; A time for love and gladness, For life and hope and madness, And scarce a tinge of sadness To sanctify it all.
Then we may yet, together, Indwell the land of bliss; In blue unclouded weather By some new Salmacis. A land where Love engages Life sweeter than the sage’s, Where cling we through the ages In one immortal kiss.
RAIN, rain in May. The river sadly flows, A sullen silver crossed with sable bars, Damp, gloomy, shivering, while reluctant stars, Between swart masses of thick clouds that close, Drive with drooped plumes their wingéd cars Toward sleep, the scythe of woes.
Woes, woes in Spring. Ere summer deepeneth The pink of roses to a purpler tint; Ere ripening corn shafts back the sudden glint Of sunshine that brings healing with the breath Of western winds that sigh, they hint Of sleep, twin soul with death.
Death, death ere dawn. The night is over dark, Trees are grown terrible; the shadows wan Make shudder all the tense desires of man; No gleam of moonlight bears the golden mark Of sunny lips, nor shines upon Our sleep—Love’s birchen bark.
Love, love to-night. To-night is all we know, Is all our care; lips joined to lips we lie, Tender hands touching, hearts in tune to die, With willing kiss reluctant to let go; So sweet love’s last enduring sigh For sleep, so sure, so slow.
Sleep, sleep to-night. Our arms are intertwined, Breath desires breath and hand imprisons hand, Breezes cool faces, rosy with the brand Of long sweet kisses; sun shall dawn and find Two lovers who have passed the land Of sleep—and found Death kind.
MAN’S HOPE.
ERE fades the last red glimmer of the sun; Ere day is night, when on the glittering bar The waves are foaming rubies, and afar Streaks of red water, gold on the horizon, On summer ripples rhythmically run, Ere dusk is weaned, there sails on silver car From the expectant East, the Evening Star; And all the threads of sorrow are unspun.
So He who ordered this shall still work thus, And ere life’s lamp shall flicker into death, And Time lose all his empire over us, A gleam of Hope, of Knowledge, shall arise, A star to silver o’er Death’s glooming skies, And gladden the last labouring torch of breath.
SONNET.
FOR G. F. KELLY’S DRAWING OF AN HERMAPHRODITE.
O BODY pale and beautiful with sin! O breasts with venom swollen by the snakes Of passion, whose cold slaver slimes and slakes Thy soul-consuming fevers that within Thy heart the fires of hell on earth begin! O heart whose yearning after truth forsakes The law of love! O heart whose ocean breaks In sterile foam against some golden skin!
O thou whose body is one perfect prayer, One long regret, one agony of shame, Lost in the fragrance, speeding, subtle and rare, Up to the sky, an avenue of flame! My soul, thy body, know the same delight, And burn that incense still in Heaven's despite.
“PERFECT LOVE CASTETH OUT FEAR.”
ENGLAND is dreary. In the ashen sky I see no sign that the sun will break again, And force the clouds to yield their rapid rain, And utterly absorb our misery. Dull as the day is, in my heart I feel An anguish, chill and adamant as steel, And, like a mist of poison, heavily On my whole soul, bound down upon the wheel, There comes a spectre, dead, whose name is Fear. Ah God, he comes so near!
in the pale fear of Death I have no share. I am through Love triumphant over him; I almost yearn toward the stooping brim, And fledge the wings my soul is given to wear, And float in sunlight to the dome above, Clothed in the light of everlasting Love, Till an archangel from the golden stair Trumpet me out a welcome, and a dove With fiery feet and silver kisses come To bid me enter home.
Though for the pleasures of God’s house my heart Has no distaste, yet, should my Love resign The lips and langours it has made as mine And of our Godhead sacrifice a part? Death were a grief, a parting pang to me, And nor this Fear that hunts relentlessly All thoughts about the void, whose veiléd dart Poisons before it strikes! I would the sea Swung me about, a corpse inane and cold On her warm breast of gold!
The Fear of Madness! Consciousness knows not Its own decay. I should be happy then, Cast like a leper from the paths of men, And this dull earth’s desires should be forgot In my own mind’s dear world, where Heaven is blue, And the green bosom of the land lets through The purple of the violets, begot On tears by kisses, where the early dew Glistens in no sun’s beams but in those eyes Wherein my life-love lies.
The Fear of Hell is past by virtue of The sweet shed blood that burns out sin; the Fear Of living on beyond that silent year When I shall follow to the grave of love All that is left of all that I held dear, And my whole heart is buried with the bier That is quite hidden with the flowers above— Jasmine for passion, snowdrop for a tear— That fear is nothing; ’twere one strangling pain, Nor should I feel again.
The Fear of Faithlessness! But well I know, Beyond the faith that mortals hold for truth, That we are wedded, in eternal youth, In the true marriage. While the rivers flow, And the sea mourns for Sappho, and the trees Croon over men their many melodies, And the sun burns above, and ice and snow With ermine robes and cloudy canopies Crown the rock pyramids, and God stands fast In heaven, our love shall last.
It was the shadow of some cloudy Thing, That touched my mind a moment, and is past Into the gloomy kingdom. I may cast The sandals of the night away, and fling My body, like a meteor, far and fast Into the azure, and within the vast Lift up my voice and eloquently sing, Till God delight to hear me at the last, To wed his Love unto my love and me For a new Trinity!
A WOODLAND IDYLL.
FRESH breath from the woodland blows sweet O’er the flowery path we are roaming, On the dimples of light lover’s feet In the mystical charm of the gloaming, Eveline! On the buds that blush bright as we meet In the mystical charm of the gloaming!
A tear for the stars of the night, And a smile for the avenue shady, A kiss for the eyelashes bright, And a blush for the cheek of my lady, Eveline! A laugh for the moon and her spite, And a blush for the cheek of my lady!
We’ll tread where the daffodils shake And the primrose smiles up through her weeping, Where the daisies dip down to the lake, Where the wonderful thrushes are sleeping, Eveline! By the marge of the maze of the brake Where the wonderful thrushes are sleeping.
Where the brook trickles clear to the eye Below dew-spangled frondlets of willow We will wander to find bye-and-bye The sward of our delicate pillow, Eveline Where the mosses deliciously lie For the sward of our delicate pillow.
For a bride fairer far than the flower Is the couch spread by fingers of even, The blossom of apples for bower, Its roof-tree the sapphires of heaven, Eveline! For the bride of the mystical hour, Its roof-tree the sapphires of heaven!
With songsters the heavy sweet air Is trembling and sighing and shimmering, With meteors magically fair The sky is ecstatically glimmering, Eveline! With spledour and subtlety rare The sky is ecstatically glimmering.
Sweet bride to fond arms with a sigh Strong arms to soft bosom, are twining, The winds breathe more musically by, The moon has a rosier lining, Eveline! The stars grow more dim in the sky, The moon has a rosier lining.
So, birds, are you shy to awake Your voices to laughter-tuned numbers? So, sun, do you tremble to shake The dews of the night from our slumbers? Eveline! So, breeze, too reluctant to take The dews of the night from our slumbers?
Light breaks, and the breezes caress Cool limbs and soft eyes and fair faces; The nightingales carol to bless The dawn of our nuptial embraces, Eveline! The woods wear a lovelier dress In the dawn of our nuptial embraces!
EXILE from humankind! The snow’s fresh flakes Are warmer than men’s hearts. my mind is wrought Into dark shapes of solitary thought That loves and sympathises, but awakes No answering love or pity. What a pang Hath this strange solitude to aggravate The self-abasement and the blows of Fate! No snake of hell hath so severe a fang!
I am not lower than all men—I feel Too keenly. Yet my place is not above, Though I have this—unalterable Love In every fibre. I am crucified Apart on a lone burning crag of steel, Tortured, cast out; and yet—I shall abide.
HERE in the evening curl white mists and wreathe in their vapour All the gray spires of stone, all the immobile towers; Here in the twilight gloom dim trees and sleepier rivers, Here where the bridge is thrown over the amber stream. Chill is the ray that steals from the moon to the stream that whispers Secret tales of its source, songs of its fountain-head. Here do I stand in the dusk; like spectres mournfully moving Wisps of the cloud-wreaths form, dissipate into the mist, Wrap me in shrouds of gray, chill me and make me shiver, Not with the Night alone, not with the sound of her wing, Yet with a sense of something vague and unearthly stalking (Step after step as I move) me, to annul me, quell Hope and desire and life, bid light die under my eyelids, Bid the strong heart despair, quench the desire of Heaven. So I shudder a little; and my heart goes out to the mountains, Rock upon rock for a crown, snow like an ermine robe; Thunder and lightning free fashioned for speech, and seeing, Pinnacles royal and steep, queen of the arduous breast! Ye on whose icy bosom, passionate, at the sunrise, Ye in whose wind-swept hollows, lulled in the moon-rise clear, Often and oft I struggled, a child with an angry mother, Often and oft I slept, maid in a lover’s arms. Back to ye, back, wild towers, from this flat and desolate fenland, Back to ye yet will I flee, swallow on wing to the south; Move in your purple cloud-banks and leap your far-swelling torrents, Bathe in the pools below, laugh with the winds above, Battle and strive and climb in the teeth of the glad wild weather, Flash on the slopes of ice, dance on the spires of rock, Run like a glad young panther over the stony highlands, Shout with the joy of living, race to the rugged cairn, Feel the breath of your freedom burn in my veins, and Freedom! Freedom! echoes adown cliff and precipitous ghyll. Fire and desire and light and youth and passion and freedom Race in my blood untamed, laugh in my face for love. Down by the cold gray lake the sun descends from his hunting, Shadow and silence steals over the frozen fells. Oh, to the there, my heart! And the vesper bells awaken, Colleges call their children, Lakeland fades from the sight. Only the sad slow Cam like a sire with age grown heavy Wearily moves to the sea, to quicken to life at last. Blithelier I depart, to a sea of sunnier kindness; Hours of waiting are past; I re-quicken to love.
Kjöbnhavn, January, ‘97.
I FEEL thee shudder, clinging to my arm, Before the battlements of the salt sea, Black billows tipped with phosphorescent light, Towering from where we stand to yonder shore That is no earthly shore, but guards the coast Of that which is from that which is to be; Wherefore it kindles no evasive fire Nor blazes through the night, but lies forgotten Gray in the twilight; never a star is out To light the broad horizon; only here Behind us cluster lamps, and busy sounds Of men proclaim a city; but to us They are not here; for we, because we love, Are not of earth, but, as the immortals, stand With eyes immutable; our souls are fed On a strange new nepenthe from the cup Of the vast firmament. Nor do we dream, Nor think we aught of the transient world, But are absorbed in our own deity: And our clear eyes reflect—who dares to gaze Shall see an die—the changeless empyrèan Eternity, the concentrated void Of space, for being the centre of all things, Time is to us the Now, and Space the Here; From us all Matter radiates, is a part Of our own thoughts and souls; because we love. Thou shudderest, clinging to me; though the night Jewels her empire with the frosty crown Of thousand-twinkling stars, whose hoary crests Burn where light touches them, with diamond points Of infinite far fire, save where the sea Is ebony with sleep, and though the wind Pierces the marrow, since it is the word Of the Almighty, and cuts through the air That may not stay its fury, with a cold Nipping and chill, it is not in the wind; Nor though the thunder broke, or flashed the fire From all the circle of eternity, Were that the reason; for thou shudderest To hear the Voice of Love; it is no voice That men may hear, but an intensest rich Silence, that silence when man waits to hear The faintest vibration in the smitten air, And, if he hear not, die; but we who love Are beyond death, and therefore may commune In that still tongue; it is the only speech And song of stars and sun; nor is it marred By one dissentient tremor of the air That girds the earth, but in lone æther spreads Its song; But now I turn to thee, whose eyes Blaze on me with such look as flesh and blood May never see and live; for so it burns Into the innest being of the spirit And stains its vital essence with a brand Of fire that shall not change; and shuddering I Gaze back, spirit to spirit, with the like Insatiable desire, that never quenched, Nor lessened by sublime satiety, But rather crescent, hotter with the flame Of its own burning, that consumes it not, Because it is the pure white flame of God. I shudder, holding thee to me; thy gaze Is still on me; a thousand years have passed, And yet a thousand thousand; years they are As men count years, and yet we stand and gaze With touching hands and lips immutable As mortals stand a moment; and no more Is any Sequence, nor Position, Nor any Self, since Death and difference Of all eternal things are passed away: The universe is One: One Soul, One Spirit, One Flame, One infinite God, One infinite Love.
SONNET TO CLYTIE.
CLYTE, beyond all praise, thou goodliest Of queens, thou royal woman, crowned with tears, That could not move the dull stars from their spheres To kiss thee. For the sun would fainter rest In the gold chambers of the glowing west Than answer thy love, thine, whose soul endears All souls but his, whose slow desire fears The fierce embraces of thine olive breast.
O Queen, sun-lover, we are wed with thee In changeless love, in passion for a fire Whose lips bind all men in their bitter spell; A love whose first caress, hard won, would be The final dissolution of desire, A flame to shrivel us with fire of hell.
A VALENTINE, ’98.
THE sea laughs jewels, on her breast The sunbeams bear Children most delicately drest, Gold flowers and fair.
The blue sea sparkles in the noon, At dusk is free, At midnight does the sacred moon Embrace the sea.
And on the land the woods are green, A wild bird’s note Shrills till the air trembles between His beak and throat.
And up through blue and gold and black The shivering sound Rushes; no echo murmurs back From sky or ground.
In the loud agony of song The moon is still; The wind drops down the shore along; Night hath her will.
The bird becomes a dancing flame In leaf and bower. The forest trembles; loves reclaim Their own still hour.
So are the stars moved; so the night Puts off her robe. So to his music breaks the light O’er the pale globe.
The dawn is here, and on the sands Where sun first flames, I gather lilies from all lands Of sad sweet names.
The Lesbian lily is of white Stained through with blood, Swayed with the stream, a wayward light Upon the flood.
The Spartan lily is of blue, With green leaves fresh; Apollo glints his crimson through The azure mesh.
The English lily is of white, All white and clean; There plays a tender flame of light Her flowers between.
The English lily is a bloom Too cold and sweet; One might say—in the twilight gloom A maiden’s feet.
Silent and slim and delicate The flower shall spring, Till there be born immaculate A fair new thing.
Tall is the mother-lily, still By faint winds swayed; Tender and pure, without a will— An English maid.
No tree of poison, at whose feet All men lie dead; No well of death, whose waters sweet Are tinged with red.
No hideous impassioned queen For whom love dies; No warm imperious Messaline That slew with sighs.
Fiercer desires may cast away All things most good; A people may forget to-day Their motherhood.
She will remain, unshaken yet By storm and sun; She will remain, when years forget That fierier one.
A race of clean strong men shall spring From her pure life. Men shall be happy; bards shall sing The English wife.
And thou, forget thou that my mouth Has ever clung To flame of hell; that of the south The songs I sung.
Forget that I have trampled flowers, And worn the crown Of thorns of roses in the hours So long dropped drown.
Forget, O white-faced maid, that I Have dallied long In classic bowers and mystery Of classic song.
Eros and Aphrodite now I can forget, Placing upon thy maiden brow Love’s coronet.
Wake from the innocent dear sleep Of childhood’s life: An English maiden must not weep To be a wife.
So shall out love bridge space, and bring The tender breath Of sun and moon and stars that sing To gladden Death.
I see your cheek grow pale and cold, Then flush above. Kiss me; I know that I behold The birth of Love.
PENELOPE.
ULYSSES ’scaped the sorceries of that queen That turned to swine his goodly company; And came with sails broad-burgeoning and clean Over the ripples of his native sea. Yet for the shores his eyes had lately seen, He kept a half-regretful memory; And thought, when all the flower-strewn ways were green, “Better love Circe than Penelope!”
Yes. A good woman’s love will forge a chain To break the spirit of the bravest Greek; While with an harlot one may leap again Free as the waters of the western main, And turn with no heart-pang the vessel’s beak Out to the oceans that all seamen seek.
LOVE ON THE ISLAND.
DEEP in the woods where the ocean reaches Up to the walls of a white-sand bay, And the sea waves swing to the noise of beeches Kissed by summer night winds at play, None may look through the silver-gray Moonlit haunts, where the sea-gull screeches, And the nightingale chants the woodland way.
None may see where the leaves are parted, Where the nymph and the satyr hide, Where the lips of the tender-hearted Melt for languor and pout for pride, Where the birds of the night abide, Where the songs of the wood are started Under the moon on the green hill-side.
Maidens white as the doves that hover Coyly hide on the woodland steep, Maids that the leaves of the beeches cover Laugh and chide and sigh and weep And sink back tenderly into sleep, Into the arms of the happy lover, On to the breast where delight lies deep.
Cool breeze sings to the glad fresh river, Stream sings back to the summer leaves, Little leaves in the moonlight shiver, Little nets that the moonlight weaves Round the limbs of a bough that cleaves Fast to the oak whose branches quiver With the kiss of the wind as its bosom heaves.
Yonder, far by the gleaming border, Pale gold reaches of sunny sand Stretch their arms to the fierce marauder, The cold sweet sea with its iron hand Menacing all the fair fresh land, Where no tall cliff as a faithful warder, Guarding the coast from its wrath, may stand.
Arrows born of the sunlight gleam Through the temperate world of spring, Air moves up in a sweet hot steam, Where the birds in the wheatfields sing; She the queen, and our love the king, Rule the world, and our banners stream Gold and green where the vine-leaves cling.
While the moon is above the heather Here we lie in a pleasant swoon, Till the blue of the faint fresh weather Summon the spirits that throng the noon. Here we lie, till the dawn’s best boon Of a breeze that shall gladden us both together, Kissing beneath the harvest moon.
Fragrant blooms of fruitless kisses, Clear and sweet as the stars of night; In our Eden no serpent hisses; Time and the gods have lost their spite; Sleep descends with her tender might; Love goes down into sleep’s abysses, Lapped in its waves of moving light.
A SONNET OF BLASPHEMY.
EXALTED over earth, from hell arisen, There sits a woman, ruddy with the flame Of men’s blood spilt, and her uncleanly shame, And the thrice-venomous vomit of her prison.
She sits as one long dead: infernal calm, Chill hatred, wrap her in their poisonous cold. She careth not, but doth disdainly hold Three scourges for man’s soul, that know no balm
They know not any cure. The first is Life, A well of poison. Sowing dust and dung Over men’s hearts, the second scourge, above All shameful deeds, is Lying, from whose tongue Drops Envy, wed with Hatred, to sow Strife.
These twain are bitter; but the last is Love.
THE RAPE OF DEATH.
Argument.—Sir Godfrey, a knight of Normandy, leapeth into a light vessel of Jarl Hungard, while they sit at feast, and, slaying the crew, seeketh the high seas with the Lady Thuria. He slayeth the swiftest pursuers, and escapeth in a great tempest; which on the second day abating, he maketh the inside of a bar, and must await the breeze. Jarl Hungard coming with his men and two dragons, is wrecked, but a knave shooting, slayeth the Lady Thuria. Sir Godfrey forthwith sinketh the other dragon, and saileth forth into the ocean, and is not heard of ever after.
PALE vapours like phantoms on the sea, The tide swells slumberous beneath our keel, The pulses of our canvas fail; and we
No faint sweet summons from the south wind feel: The crimson waters of the west are pale, And bloodless arrows like a stream of steel
Flash from the moon, that rises where the gale Only a day past raged; the clouds are lost In pleasant rains that ripple on the sail.
The sudden fascination of the frost Touches the heavy canvas; now there form Reluctant crystals, and the vessel, tossed
The wild night through in the devouring storm, Glistens with dew made sharp and bright with cold. For no north wind may drive us to the warm
Long-looked-for lands where day, with plumes of gold, Flaps like a lazy eagle in the air; Where night, a bird of prey divinely bold,
Wings through the sky, intangible but fair, And pale with subtle passion; and no wind Turns our prow southward, till the canvas bear
No more up into it, but still behind Follow like flame, and lead our love along Into the valleys of the ocean, blind,
But seeing all the world awake with song Of many lyres and lutes and reeds of straw, And all the rivers musical that throng
In bright assemblage of unchanging law, Like many flute-players; and seeing this, (That all the mountains looked upon and saw)
The sweetness of the savour of a kiss, And all its perfume wafted to the sky. Nay, but no wind will drive our fortalice
(So strong against the sun) to where they ply Those pallid wings, or turn our vessel’s beak With utmost fury to the North, to dye
Our prows with seaweed, such as wise men seek For cleansing of their altars with slow blood Wrenched from the long dark leaves, with fingers weak
With age and toil; to stem the restless flood That boils between the islands; to attain The ultimate ice, where some calm hero stood
And looked one last time for a sail in vain, And looking upward not in vain, lay down And died, to pass where cold and any pain
Are not. So still the night is, like the crown Most white of the high God that glittereth! The stars surround the moon, and Nereids drown
Their rippled tresses in her golden breath. Let us keep watch, my true love, caught at last Between my hands, and not remember death.
Only bethink us of the daylight past, The long chase oversea, the storm, the speed Whereby we ran before the leaping blast,
And left the swift pursuers at our need With one wrecked dragon and one shattered; yea! And on their swiftest many warriors bleed,
Having beheld, above the gray seaway Between them and the sun, my sword arise, Like the first dagger flashing for the day,
My sword, that darts among them serpentwise— And all their warriors fell back a space, And all the air rang out with sudden cries,
Seeing the death and fury of my face, And feeling the long sword sweep out and kill, Till there was won the slippery path, the place
Whence I might sever the white cords, and fill The ship with tangled wreckage of the sail. All this I did, and bore the blade of ill
Back, dripping blood, to thee most firm and pale Who held our rudder, all alone, and stood Fierce and triumphant in the rising gale,
Bent to my sword, and kissed the stinging blood, While the good ship leapt free upon the deep, And felt the feet of the resistless flood
Run, and the fervour of the billows sweep Under our keel—and we were clean away, Laughing to see the foamheads sough and sleep,
As we kept pace with ocean all the day And one long night of toil; until the sun Lit on these cliffs his morning beams that play
With our sails rent and rifted white, and run Like summer lightning all about the deck, And laugh upon the work my sword had done
When the feast turned to death for us; we reck Nothing to-night of all that past despair: Only to-night I watch your curving neck,
And play with all the kisses of your hair, And feel your weight, as if you were to be Always and always—O my queen, how rare
Your lips’ perfume; like lilies on the sea Your white breasts glimmer; let us wait awhile. There is no breeze to drive us down to lee
On the cold rocks of yonder icy isle, And your sire’s passion must forget the chase As I forget, the moment that you smile,
And sea and sky are brighter for your face— I hear the sound of many oars; perchance Your father’s, but within this iron place
The heavy dragons will not dare advance Where our light vessel barely skimmed the rock: Their anger may grow cool, the while they dance
Like fools before the bard we crossed, and mock Pursuit. Behold! one dragon strikes the reef, Breaks in the midst before the dreadful shock,
Shattered and stricken by the rousing sheaf Of wild intolerable foam that breaks Full on their stem: she sinks. One fierce foul thief
Springs desperate upon her poop; she shakes; He strings a sudden arrow. Ocean sweeps Over his curséd craft. The arrow takes
The straight swift road—Ah God!—to her who sleeps, To her bright bosom as at peace she lies. She is dead quickly, and the ocean keeps
The secret of my sorrow from her eyes. I will not weep; I cannot weep; I turn And watch the sail fill with the wind that sighs
A little for pure pity—I discern The cowards shake with fear; the vessel springs Light to the breezes, as the golden erne
That seeks a prey on its impetuous wings: The reef is past; I crash upon the foe, And all the fury of my weapon rings
On armour temperless; the waters flow Through the dark rent within the side; I leap Back to my dead love; back, desiring so
That they had killed me, for I cannot weep. They killed her, and a mist of blood consumes My sight; they killed my lover in her sleep.
The breeze has freshened, and the water fumes, The vessel races on beneath the sky; Beneath her bows the eager billow spumes.
I wonder whither, and I wonder why. No ray of light this sea of blood illumes. I wonder whether God will let me die.
IN THE WOODS WITH SHELLEY.
SING, happy nightingale, sing; Past is the season of weeping; Birds in the wood are on wing, Lambs in the meadow are leaping. Can there be any delight still in the buttercups sleeping?
Dawn, paler daffodil, dawn; Smile, for the winter is over; Sunlight makes golden the lawn, Spring comes and kisses the clover; All the wild woodlands await poet and songster and lover.
Linger, dew, linger and gem All the fresh flowers in the garland; Blossom, leaf, bud and green stem Flash with your light to some far land, Where men shall wonder if you be not a newly-born starland.
Ah! the sweet scents of the woods! Ah! the sweet sounds of the heaven! Sights of impetuous floods, Foam like the daisy at even, Folding o’er passionate gold petals that sunrise had riven!
See, like my life is the stream Now its desire is grown quiet; Life was a passionate dream Once, where light fancy ran riot, Now, ere youth fades, flows in peace past woody bank and green eyot.
Highest, white heather and rock, Mountain and pine, with young laughter, Breezes that murmur and mock Duller delights to come after, Wild as a swallow that dives whither the sea wind would waft her.
Lower, an ocean of flowers, Trees that are warmer and leafier, Starrier, sunnier hours Spurning the stain of all grief here, Bringing a quiet delight to us, beyond our belief, here.
Lastly, the uttermost sea, Starred with flakes of spray sunlit, Blue as its caverns that be Crystal, resplendent, yet unlit; So like a mother receives the kiss of the dainty-lip runlet.
Here the green moss is my seat, Beech is a canopy o’er me, Calm and content the retreat; Man, my worst foe, cannot bore me; Life is a closed book behind—Shelley an open before me.
Shelley’s own birds are above Close to me (why should they fear me?) May I believe it—that love Brings his bright spirit so near me That, should I whisper one word—Shelley’s swift spirit would hear me.
Heaven is not very far; Soul unto soul may be calling When a swift meteor star Through the quick vista is falling. Loose but your soul—shall its wings find the white way so appalling?
Heaven, as I understand, Nearer than some folk would make it; God—should you stretch our a hand, Who can be quicker to take it? Then you have pacted an oath—judge you if He will forsake it!
I have had hope in the spring— Trust that the God who has given Flowers, and the thrushes that sing Dawnwards all night, and at even Year after year, will be true now we are speaking of heaven.
Breezes caress me and creep Over the world to admire it; Sweet air shall sigh me to sleep, Softly my lips shall respire it, Lying half-closed with a kiss ready for who shall desire it.
A VISION UPON USHBA.
HERE in the wild Caucasian night, The sleepless years Seem to pass by in garments white, Made white with tears, A pageant of intolerable light Across the sombre spheres, And, mingling with the tumult of the morn, Methought a single rose of blood was born.
Far on the iron peaks a voice Crystal and cold, Sharper than sounds the aurochs’ choice O’er wood and wold, A summons as of angels that rejoice, A pæan glad and bold, A mighty shout of infinite acclaim Shrieks through the sky some dread forgotten Name.
Trembles the demon on his perch Of crags ice-bound; Tremble near forest and far church At that quick sound; The silver arrows that bedeck the birch Shiver along the ground, Priest, fiend, and harpy answer to the call, And hasten to their ghastly festival.
There in the vale below my feet I see the crew Gather, blaspheming God, and greet Their shame anew. A feast is spread of some unholy meat; Oftimes there murmurs through Their horrid ranks a cry of pain, as God Bids them keep memory of His iron rod.
The vale is black with priests. They fight, Wild beasts, for food, The orphan’s gold, the widow’s right, The virgin’s snood. All in their maws are crammed within the night That hides their chosen wood, Where through the blackness sounds the sickening noise Of cannibals that gloat on monstrous joys.
The valley steams with slaughter. Here Shall the pure snow The bloody reek of murder rear To crush the foe? Like a mad giant shall the rocks spring clear, And smite the fiends below? Shall poisonous wind and avalanche combine To wreck swift justice, human and divine?
Priests thrive on poison. Carrion Their eager teeth Tear, till the sacramental sun Its sword unsheath, And bid their horrid carnival be done, And smite beneath In their cold gasping valleys, and bid light Break the battalions of the angry night.
That sword that smote from Heaven was so keen, Its silver blade No angel’s sight, no fairy’s eye hath seen, No tender maid With subtle insight may behold its sheen With light inlaid; But God, who forged it, breathed upon its point, And His pure unction did the hilt anoint.
Within the poet’s hand he laid the sword: With reverent ear The poet listened to His word Cleansed through of fear. The brightness of the glory of the Lord Grew adamant, a spear! And when he took the flachion in his hand Lo! kings and princes bowed to his command.
Then shall the flag of England flaunt In peaceful might, The sceptred isle of dying Gaunt Shall rule by right. The sons of England shall bid Hell avaunt And priest and harlot smite. Then all the forces of the earth shall be Untamable, a shield of Liberty.
Freedom shall burgeon like a rose, While in the sky A new white sun with ardour glows On liberty. Men shall sing merrily at work as those Who fear no more to die— Ay! and who fear no more at last to live Since man can love and worship and forgive.
Then on these heights of Caucasus A fire shall dwell, Pure as the dawn, and odorous Of bud and bell; A flower of fire, a flame from heaven to us All triumph to foretell, A glory of unspeakable delight, A flower-like lightning, adamant and white.
There needs no more or sun or sea Or any light; On golden wheels Eternity Revolves in Night. The island peoples are too proud and free And full of might To care for time or space, but glorious wend A royal path of flowers to the end.
I pray thee, God, to weapon me With this keen fire, That I may set this people free As my desire; That the white lilies of our liberty Grow on Life’s crags still higher, Till on the loftiest peaks their blossom flower, The rampart of a people and their power.
SO have the days departed, as the leaves Smitten by wrath of Autumn blast; So the year, fallen from delight, still grieves Over the happy past.
The year of barren summer, when the wind Blew from the south unlooked-for snow, The year when Collon, desolate and blind, Gloomed on the vale below,
When logs of pinewood lit the little room, And friendship ventured in to sit Beside their blaze, to listen in the gloom To wisdom and to wit;
When we discussed our hopes, and told the stories Of happy climbing days gone by; The stubborn battle with the cliffs, the glories Of the blue Alpine sky.
The keen delight of paths untrodden yet, And new steep ice and rocky ways Too dangerous and splendid to forget. Those dear strong happy days!
And now what happier fate to your brave souls Than so to strive and fighting fall? Think you that He who sees you, and controls, Did not devise it all?
The mountains that you loved have taken you, And we who love you will not weep. Shall we begrudge? Your last look saw sky blue; You will be glad to sleep.
Your pure names (thrice renowned, yours fresh with youth And full of promise) shall be kept Still in our hearts for monuments of truth, As if you had not slept.
EPILOGUE.
HORACE, in the fruitful Sabine country, Where the wheat and vine are most abundant, Where the olive ripens in the sunshine, Where the streams are voiced with Dian’s whispers, Lived in quiet, with a woman’s passion To inspire his lute and bring contentment In the gray still days of early winter. I, remote from cities, like the poet, Tune my lesser lyre with other fingers, Yet am not a whit the less belovéd. And to me the stars are never silent, Nor do sea and storm deny their music, Nor do flower and breeze refuse their kisses: So my soul is flooded with their magic; So my love completes the joy of living. I am like the sun, to whom there gather All the brightest molten seas of gloty, All the isles and continents of starland. Shall I never, like the sun, be gladdened, Filled with their life, fructified, and answer Rays of gold to bid the gray horizon Melt, recede, and brighten into azure, Sing as Horace sang, and flood the ocean With a living ecstasy of music Till the whole creation echo, echo, Echo till the tune dissolve the heavens?
Still song lingers; lamely from the lute string Steals a breath of melody; the forest Treasures in its glades the sighs I utter. Yet I may be happy, storing honey Lover’s lips hold, gathering the sunlight Eyes and hair have kept for me, delighting In the bells far-off, in yonder thrushes, In the tawny songster of the forest, In the stream’s song, all the words of passion, Ringing true and deep and most enduring, Echoes of the deeper words unspoken In the hearts of two undying lovers. Will they pierce one day to other nations Clear and strong and triumphing? It may be. Then we shall not envy you, my Horace! |