POEMS AND NOVELS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN
THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. 2 vols. crown 8vo. buckram, with Portrait Fron- tispiece to each volume, 12$.
Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s. each. THE DEVIL'S CASE : a Bank Holiday Interlude. With
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THE EARTHQUAKE; or, Six Days and a Sabbath. THE WANDERING JEW : a Christmas Carol.
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THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. A CHILD OF NATURE.
GOD AND THE MAN. With n Illustrations by FRED.
BARNARD.
LADY KILPATRICK. THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. LOVE ME FOR EVER. ANNAN WATER. THE NEW ABELARD. FOXGLOVE MANOR. RACHEL DENE. MATT : a Story of a Caravan. THE MASTER OF THE MINE. THE HEIR OF LINNE. WOMAN AND THE MAN.
RED AND WHITE HEATHER. Crown 8vo. cloth, 3^.6^. ANDROMEDA : an Idyll of the Great River. Crown 8vo.
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THE CHARLATAN. By ROBERT BUCHANAN and HENRY
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London: CHATTO & WINDUS, in St. Martin's Lane, W.C.
THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
OF
ROBERT BUCHANAN VOL. II.
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARK LONDON
Photo. Barraud, London
COMPLETE PO! ORKS
ROBERT BUCHANAN
IN TWO VOLUMES -VOL. II.
WITH A PORTRAIT
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS 1901
THE
COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
OF
ROBERT BUCHANAN
IN TWO VOLUMES— VOL. II.
WITH A PORTRAIT
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS 1901
100
88H244
Contents.
THE EARTHQUAKE. (1885.)
PAGE
DEDICATION : AD MATREM . . . i PRELUDE : THE EXODUS OF LADY BARBARA 2 THE FIRST DAY : 9
JULIA CYTHEREA : A LEGEND OF THE RENAISSANCE 10
PAN AT HAMPTON COURT ... 19
' RIZPAH-MADONNA' . . . . 24 THE SECOND DAY : 25
SERAPION
RAMON MONAT ....
IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH .
'STORM IN THE NIGHT' THE THIRD DAY : .
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN
SOLILOQUY OF THE GRAND ETRE
' O MARINERS' .... INTERLUDE : To H .
THE CITY OF DREAM.
(1888.)
DEDICATION
ARGUMENT
I. SETTING FORTH II. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS .
III. EGLANTINE .
IV. WITHIN CHRISTOPOLIS
V. WITHIN THE GATE . . , VI. THE CALVARIES . VII. THE WAYSIDE INN . VIII. THE OUTCAST, ESAU . IX. THE GROVES OF FAUN . X. THE AMPHITHEATRE . XI. THE VALLEY OF DEAD GODS XII. THE INCONCEIVABLE .
XIII. THE OPEN WAY .
XIV. THE CITY WITHOUT GOD . XV. THE CELESTIAL OCEAN .
L'ENVOI
52 53 53 61 68 73 79 84
89 95 105 114 119
INDEX TO THE SONGS.
Jesus of Nazareth 66
Mary Magdalen . . . .67
' O child, where wilt thou rest ? ' . . 71
' Come again, come back to me ' . So ' I have sought Thee, and not found
Thee' 93
PAGE
Proserpine 94
Song of Esau 98
Kiss, dream, and die ! ' . . . 106 Black is the night, but blacker my
despair' . . . . . 122 Dead man, clammy, cold, and white ' 123 Hark! I am call'd away ' . . . 127 Little herd-boy, sitting there ' . . 128 I am lifted on the wind ' . . . 133 The woof that I weave not ' . .133 Pleasant blows the growing grain ' . 135 Forget not me ' . . . .158
THE OUTCAST. (1891.)
AD CARISSIMAM PUELLAM . ... 161 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS EVE . . .162
MADONNA 171
THE FIRST HAVEN 177
INTERLUDE 201
FIDES AMANTIS 205
• THE WANDERING JEW.
(1893.) . . . . 206
THE DEVILS CASE. (1894.)
DEDICATION 243
THE DEVIL'S CASE 243
THE LITANY : DE PROFUNDIS . . . 276
THE BALLAD OF MARY THE y MOTHER.
(1897.)
' SHEPHERDS, WAKE, 'TIS CHRISTMAS-TIDE' 278 THE BALLAD OF MARY THE MOTHER . 279 AD MADONNAM ....
A CATECHISM
ANTIPHONES 305
L'ENVOI 308
THE NEW ROME. (1900.
3^0 302
PROEM : To DAVID IN HEAVEN THE NEW ROME : A DIALOGUE
309 3"
CONTENTS.
SONGS OF EMPIRE.
CARMEN DEIFIC— PAGE
I. ' The Lord goes marching on ' . . 316 II. ' Where is the glory that once was
Rome?' 316
III. '"How long, my love?" she
whispered ' 31
IV. ' Stand up, Ephemeron '. . . 317 V. ' If I were a God like you ' . . 31.
VI. ' A voice was heard in the night ' . 318 THE IMAGE IN THE FORUM . . . . 318
THE AUGURS
THE JEW PASSES 319
A SONG OF JUBILEE 320
THE MERCENARIES —
I. Tommie Atkins 321
II. Nelson's Day 321
SONG OF THE SLAIN 322
THE CHARTER'D COMPANIE . . .322 THE BALLAD OF KIPLINGSON . . . 324
To OLIVE SCHREINER 325
THE DREAMER OF DREAMS . . . . 325 BE PITIFUL 326
MAN OF THE RED RIGHT HAND .
SONG OF THE FU^R-SEAL
GOD EVOLVING |
'PATRIOTISM'
THE GRAND OLD MAN .
'THE UNION '
'PEACE, NOT A SWORD' ' HARK NOW, WHAT FRETFUL VOICES ' THE IRISHMAN TO CROMWELL THE WEARING OF THE GREEN .
VICTORY
Vox POPULI
Vox DEI
OLD ROME
THE LAST BIVOUAC
326 327 328 329 33°
333 333 334
335 336 337 337 338
THROUGH THE GREAT CITY.
THE FAIRY QUEEN .... THE LORDS OF THE BREAD .
LAST NIGHT
THE SPHINX
' THESE VOICES '
THE CRY FOR LIFE .... SISTERS OF MIDNIGHT
THE LOST WOMEN
A MORNING INVOCATION .
To JUVENAL
LYDIA AT THE SAVOY .... LESBIA (TO CATULLUS) ....
BICYCLE SONG
THE SHOWER
SERAPHINA SNOWE ....
MAETERLINCK
THE LAST CHRISTIANS—
I. Storm in the Night II. ' Hallelujah Jane ' . III. 'Annie ;' or, the Waifs Jubilee THE TRUE SONG OF FAIRYLAND
339 339 340 340 343 343 347 348 348 348 349 349 350 350 35i 354
355 356 360 363
LATTER-DAY GOSPELS.
PAGE
JUSTINIAN ; OR, THE NEW CREED . . 366
THE NEW BUDDHA 374
NIETZSCHE 380
THE LAST FAITH 380
AD CARISSIMAM AMICAM . . . . 382
LAND AND SEA SONGS.
SPRING SONG AFTER SNOW . . . . 383
ON THE SHORE 384
THE MERMAID 384
THE TRAMP'S DITTY 385
THE CRY FROM THE MINE . . . . 386 THE LEAD-MELTING 386
IN THE LIBRARY.
To A POET OF THE EMPIRE . . . . 387
THE GNOME 388
THE WHITE ROBE 391
CARLYLE 393
' MARK NOW, HOW CLOSE THEY ARE AKIN ' 394
ATYS 394
DOCTOR B 394
SOCRATES IN-CAMDEN .... 395
WALT WHITMAN 398
THE STORMY ONES 398
THE DISMAL THRONG 399
THE GIFT OF BURNS 401
THE ROBIN REDBREAST 402
To GEORGE BERNARD SHAW . . .403
THE SAD SHEPHERD 403
L'ENVOI IN THE LIBRARY .... 403
CORUISKEN SONNETS (LOCH CORUISK,
ISLE OF SKYE) 403
THE DEVIL'S SABBATH 405
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Two SONS 414
PAT MULDOON; OR, JACK THE GIANT- KILLER UP TO DATE .... 414
THE WIDOW : A WAR SONG . . . . 417 THE BURIAL OF PARNELL . . . .418 THE GOOD PROFESSOR'S CREED . . . 420
A DEDICATION 421
COLONEL SHARK 421
THE FISHER BOY 425
THE DUMB BAIRN 426
PROEM TO ' THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD ' 428 PROEM TO 'Goo AND THE MAN' . . 429 PROEM TO 'THE NEW ABELARD ' . . 430 PROEM TO 'THE MOMENT AFTER' . . 430 L'ENVOI : 'I END AS I BEGAN' . . .431 THE LAST CRY 432
The Earthquake.
(1885.)
DEDICATION: AD MATREM.
ONE deathless flame, one holy name, One light that shines where'er I move,
Are thine, out of whose life I came, Through whom I live and love.
Dearest, I knew thee ere I knew Myself, and, stirring to thy breath,
From fountains of thy soul I drew This soul discerning Death.
The light of sun and stars, the clear Still air of yonder azure space,
The seas and sands of this green sphere, That is my dwelling-place.
All form, all motion, all delight,
Fused in thy frame flash'd on to mine,
Grew quick, and woke to sense and sight, And last, to Love divine !
A thousand gifts the green earth gives Out of the fulness of her breast,
But she by whom one loves and lives Is God's gift, and the best.
Fair type of tenderness and power, Of Love whence all things sweetly flow,
Constant as God through every hour Of happiness or woe, —
My Mother, take the book I bring, Sure of thy blessing on my brow !
This life of mine, these songs I sing, Are thine, — for they are thou !
Yea, they are thine, as they are his, That other part of thee and me,
Who greeted with a father's kiss The child upon thy knee.
He is not lost (or all were lost) ;
His voice ere long shall call us hence : Unchanged he stands, though he has crost
The borderland of sense.
For God were as a drop of dew,
If individual love could fall Back from the conscious type, whereto
It floweth, crowning all !
When yonder sun has ceased to shine This earth subsist, those waters roll,
God shall preserve each breathing sign Of Love's eternal soul ! . . . .
One deathless flame, one holy name, One light that shines where'er I move,
Are thine, out of whose life I came, Through whom I live and love !
ii.
Even as I utter'd in such wise
Thy praises, kneeling on my knee,
The Spirit with the pitiless eyes Came up and gazed on thee !
He lingered long beside thy bed,
But hour by hour his face grew fair t
The greater Spirit overhead Was list'ning to my prayer !
Ah yes ! He smiled on thee and me, Our Father who is in the skies :
I felt His mercy — I could see His strange, still, tearless eyes !
I clasped thee to my aching heart,
I prayed till the dread Shape passed on
God heard my cry — He did not part The mother and the son !
THE EARTHQUAKE.
And all my pains and lonely fears Trembled to rapturous hope, and lo !
In passionate prayer that broke to tears I watch'd the Shadow go !
I asked for bread— a stone was given ;
I asked for Fame — men mock'd at me ; I asked for Love — my heart was riven
By man's worst cruelty.
I wander'd haunted and alone, I sank in doubts from day to day ;
The snake Detraction crawl'd upon The roof 'neath which I lay.
I rush'd into the world, and smote The first proud foe that pass'd along ;
Then treachery fasten'd on my throat And drained my soul of song.
Yet, dearest, thou wast one of three Who watch'd beside me, white as snow :
More rich than any king could be Was I, yet did not know !
Fool, to be clamouring for gold, Wl^en I possess'd a wealth divine !
Fool, to ask praises from the cold World, when the worlds were mine !
Fool, to go arm'd in hate and fear, When Heaven itself broke blue above ;
Yea, thrice a fool, too deaf to hear The still small voice of Love !
Three angels to my hearth were given —
Margaret, Mary, Harriett — One watching waits in yonder heaven,
But two are with me yet.
Margaret with the mother's eyes, The sad grey hair, the holy mien,
Walks by my side, while Mary lies Under the kirkyard green.
[For darkness wrapt me like a cloud, While the pale spirit men name Death
Came, with white lilies and a shroud, And hush'd an angel's breath.]
And she, Love's youngest child divine, Cloth'd on with radiance heavenly sweet,
Places her little hand in mine And guides my faltering feet !
The earthly tumult fades away, The waters sigh, the stars keep chime,
Rose-red the great celestial Day Walks the waste waves of Time,
And so one thing at least is sure —
Love, and the fountain whence it flows !
God keep me passionately pure To drink its deep repose !
Bring me no laurel wreaths to deck My brow, no gold in large increase ;
Twine loving arms around my neck, And chain my soul to peace !
R. B,
Southend-on-Sea, Essex, May 1885.
PRELUDE.
That summer when the shocks of Earth- quake came
Under the very streets of the Great City, The Lady Barbara was the first to fly ; Yet flew not far, but pausing with her train At Ferndale Priory, on the banks of Tweed, Sat in the sun and held her frighten' d court.
Now thus the thing befell. The first shock
came
At midnight, when the City partly slept, But here and there, where lights of feast
were lit
And men and women circled in the dance, A murmur like the very voice of God, A rocking like the rocking of the Deep, Came, and the revellers looked at one
another
In terror dumb as death ; a moment's space, And all again was still, and haggard men Question' d if it had only been a dream. Next day the public journals blazed abroad The nameless terror ; how at dead of night A deep vibration like a thunder-crash, Faint yet distinct, brief yet electrical, Had run through London ; how some fiery
force,
Volcanic, geocentric, such as that Which in the former time laid Lisbon low, Had stirred the roots of that vast tree of
life,
The mighty City ; how the troubled Thames Had risen like a serpent in the night, And, shuddering, overflown its slimy
banks ; How the dark streets were shaken, rocked,
and riven,
Above the sudden and mysterious swell Of some dark subterranean sea of fire.
THE EXODUS OF LADY BARBARA.
With hand half- palsied from a nameless fear The newsman nigh forgot his flowers of
speech,
Telling of columns tottering to the fall, Of shattered dwellings and of broken panes, Of sleepers wakening in the dead of night, Their white beds surging like the waves o'
the sea !
At Limehouse, on the troubled river-side, A factory had fallen ; farther east, A narrow street had open'd to its sewers, Just wide enough^ to show the seams of
stone,
While the black dwellings upon either side, With fissured walls and crackling window- panes, Rock'd back from their foundations, but as
yet Stood firm and fell not ; on the western
side Of great St. Paul's, by folk descried at
dawn ,
A running crack like forked lightning ran — Strange as the fabled writing on the wall, And, like that writing, ominous of doom. Yet, for the rest, the City stood unscathed. The Earthquake, like a monster lioness Watching its victim, some poor helpless
lamb,
Having first stretched one cruel fatal claw To strike it into terror, crouch'd unseen, While through the affrighted victim's feeble
frame
Trembled mesmeric thrills of nameless fear And dangerous expectation. All next day The trouble and the hum of terror grew, And when again the clouds of darkness fell, Men feared to creep into their beds and
sleep,
Lest the dark Deep should open under them ! So many sat in vigil, listening All through the solemn watches of the
night, Which nevertheless passed by in starry
peace ; And when the next night, and the next
again, Went by in silence, London breath'd once
more,
The sounds of life once more grew jubilant, And from their watch-towers and observa- tories
The hierarchy of Science reassured
The trembling townsfolk, bade them cast
off fear, Because the threat of doom had passed
away.
But on the fourth night, when the streets
were still, Another throb from earth s fierce heart of
fire
Ran through the City with a thunder- shock, Though feebler than the first : once more
the Thames
Rose loudly sobbing and o'erswept its bed ; Once more the streets and walls chattered
like teeth ; Once more men wakened shuddering out
of sleep With that dread sough of warning in their
ears !
Then preachers prophesied the end of all, Doom, and the opening of the seventh
great seal ; While in the lonely streets and crowded
lanes
The haggard folk clustered as thick as ants Which feel the anthill crumbling underneath Uprooted by the mole ; the palaces Were empty of their regal butterflies ; The parks and public squares were deso- late,
The theatres abandoned to the dust, And all glad sounds of merriment and
feast Hushed in the princely dwellings of the
proud.
But in the city still, and in the marts The lamps of commerce flickered timo- rously ; A few pale men still walked about on
'Change,
And in the darkened vaults of dusty banks Gaunt slaves still guarded gold.
Then first of those
Who fled before the dark Cimmerian threat Was that young wife whose delicate nether
limbs
Were brawly buskin'd with celestial blue — The Lady Barbara of Kensington. Who doth not know our Barbara the learned,
7HE EARTHQUAKE.
Flower of Midlothian and the agnostic
queen,
Who, full of culture to the finger tips, A Scots earl's daughter, born 'neath
Arthur's Seat,
Young, bonnie, winsome, and a poetess, Married the little Yankee millionaire, And flitted from the North to Babylon ? Her London mansion was the home of Art, In style antique, with Argus on the walls And "Salve" on the threshold of the
door ;
Her guests the very learned of the land And every guest a lion great or small. All through the season to her afternoons The favourites of Fashion and the Muse, — The last great traveller in gorilla-land, The newest painter or musician, The poet latest found and most divine, — Flock'd, sure of worship and a cup of tea ; But chiefly (for our Barbara, understand, Was nothing if not philosophical !) The modern savant and the scientist, The students of the heavens and the earth, Professors of all 'ologies and 'isms, Found there a welcome ; there, in tongues
diverse
As those that puzzled Babel long ago, They wrangled o'er the nebular theory, The spectrum of the tail of the new comet Just seen in Capricornus, Bastian's scheme Of life's beginning. Nor the occult alone, But every male or female wanderer Out of the beaten highway of the creeds Was gathered into Barbara's peaceful fold : The castaway who had, in soul's despair, His cassock lost, his prayer-book left i' the
hold, Plunged overboard from that old ship the
Church, '
Now tossing water-logg'd amidst the storm ; The Arian and the Unitarian, The lady Medium, the Spiritualist, The ^Esthetic, who, proclaiming Art for
Art,
Carving his God on his own handiwork, Proves totem-worship not an empty dream.
But when the murmur of the Earthquake
came,
The teacup trembled in the scoffer's hand, The wise looked foolish, and the lions ran Lowing together like affrighted stirks
In that dread moment, he who faced the
Sphinx
And read annihilation in its eyes, Who, from the cynosure of mastery, Survey'd the conflict and the wreck of
worlds,
Saw suns grow dark like torches suddenly Plunged hissing into water, and foretold, With scientific equanimity, The sure extinction of the human race, Became as terror-stricken as a bairn Who, waking suddenly at dead of night To find the night-light out, begins to wail. Then many named God's Judgment with a
sigh Who thitherto had named it with a smile !
But ever fleet in feminine resolve, And now made fleeter by a fluttering fear, Our Barbara did not pause to think or pray, But, followed by her folk and husband, fled Back to her native Scotland, where she dwelt In safety at the Priory, gathering Faint rumours from the City far away. Thence, when her fears had time for breath- ing space,
And when no message of destruction came, She issued to her chosen votaries Sweet-scented missives in her own fair hand, Bidding them, while the terror held the City, To attend her Court of Learning, bright
and glad As any mediaeval Court of Love, In that fair dwelling on the banks of Tweed.
In flocks they came, the apostles of the
creeds,
Poets and painters and philosophers, Teachers and preachers, lions, lionesses, Long-haired aesthetes, long-winded scien- tists ; And since the Priory could not lodge them
all,
The inns and cottages around about Were full of spectacled and bearded men, Whose strange ways made the country
people gape In wonder and in awe ; but every day They gathered at the Priory, droning there Like bees about their queen.
'Twas summer time. The hills and vales had put their glory on, And wandering' in Barbara's Paradise,
THE EXODUS OF LADY BARBARA.
-You would have thought the world as sweet
and safe
As on Creation's day. Fronting the south, Upon the shoulder of a woody brae, The broad and comely modern mansion
stood,
And pausing on its air-hung terraces You saw beneath you on the river-side The roofless ruin whence it took its name. All round stretched park and pale, with
colonnades
Where the horse-chestnut spread its seven- leafed fan
And broke to amber foam of waxen blooms O'er deep green dells where dappled fallow
deer Like restless shadows among shadows
moved ; With ponds of silver, where with dripping
urn
The marble Naiad o'er her image hung, Girt with the water-lily's oiled leaves ; With sweeps of fronded fern and flowery
knolls As full of twinkling ears and watchful
eyes —
Coney and squirrel, doe and leveret — As any happy dell in Fairyland ! Beyond the woodland, sloping to the banks, Were shaven lawns with flower-edged paths
between.
In midst of these, upon the river-side, Clearly reflected in the running river, The Priory ruins, roofless, windowless, And thickly carpeted with emerald grass.
Here, where the uncut hair o' the grass
grows deep,
The summer light falls solemn and subdued, While entering the mouldering roofless
walls,
Pencilled with golden moss and lichens grey Where'er the night-black ivy doth not
crawl ,
You see the jackdaws in a cawing crowd, Like spirits of the long-departed monks, Rise from the topmost ruins clamorously And flit against the azure patch of sky. The world, the thought of man, dissolves
away,
And with a sea of stillness overhead You walk in awe, even like a charmed man Pacing the voiceless bottom of the Deep.
Crossing the ivy-hung refectory You glide beneath a broad low porch of
stone,
And in a moment, ere you know it, pass From shadow into sunlight, — for you stand Upon a terrace set with flowery urns j Descending to the very water's brim. i Upon that terrace, in the summer sheen, I There stands the figure of a naked Faun, ' Goat-eared, goat-footed, playing on his
pipes
And smiling like the very Pan himself. Straightway upon the ears (or so it seems) i There comes the summer sound of singing
birds,
Of fountains falling, runlets murmuring, Leaves rustling, wood and valley echoing In joy primeval to that sylvan sound ; And glancing back upon the Priory walls, O'er which the jackdaws hover in a crowd, You half expect to see the monks
appear, Horned like satyrs, shouting, streaming
forth To foot it to the merry pipes of Pan.
Upon this terrace sat, one summer day, Our hostess, smiling 'neath her parasol On troops of motley guests ; close to her
side
Three Graces, cousins, born in Annandale, With country cheeks of strawberry and
cream ;
A little in the background, grimly pleased. Cigar in mouth, straw hat upon his head, Midas, her husband. Scattered here and
there, Grouped on the flowery lawns and garden
seats, In summer costumes brighter than the
flowers,
Or learned suits of philosophic black, The fugitives from threaten'd Babylon ; While in and out the Priory's ruin'd walls, Like glad bees swarming in and out the
hive, Throng'd others, garrulous as the busy
daws
Gossiping in the ivy overhead. Some on the shining river rowed and sang, Fluttering in shallops round the granite
stairs ; Some promenaded, deep in learned talk ;
THE EARTHQUAKE.
While liveried lacqueys and trim serving
lasses Moved here and there with baskets of ripe
fruit,
Clusters of grapes, and draughts of moun- tain dew.
'Twas like a golden glimpse of Arcady Painted by Watteau for a happy court, With nymphs and satyrs neatly modern- ised,
Shepherds and shepherdesses gaily dight As shapes of Dresden china, bright and
clean. The Priory in the background, dark and
grey
Against a sky of clear and burning gold, And in the foreground such a sylvan view Of winding water, fields of growing grain, Clusters of woodland, knolls and bosky
bowers,
Melting away to dim blue heathery hills, As made the place seem Arcady indeed ! Golden the prospect, earth and azure
heaven Mingling their happy lights like Life and
Love,
And eyes that on the winding river gazed Could scarce discern within those crystal
depths Water from heaven, heaven from the
heavenly stream. ' What news from London ? ' Lady Barbara
cried
To one, a little dapper scientist, Fresh from the train, who trotted to her seat Shaking her small gloved hand ; and with
a smile
The new-comer replied, ' The City stands ! And though the streets and marts are
empty still
Of all save those who are over poor to fly, Many believe the peril passed away. This morning's journals say a shock was felt On Thursday at Madrid ; if so, the fires Whose fierce pulsations took us unaware, Are running southward, back to warmer
zones, Their tropic birthplace, near the heart of
Earth.'
1 Pray God it be so,' answer'd Barbara ; Then turning 'neath her sunshade, she resumed
Her converse with the group surrounding
her: ' Dear friends, you are right !— what scene,
howe'er so bonnie,
What country merriment, howe'er so merry, Can compensate us children of the age For London in the season ? I confess, Though Scottish born and Edinboro' bred, From boot to bonnet I'm a Londoner ! And even here with chosen friends around I miss the mighty flow, the changeful
sound,
Of yon vast ocean of Humanity. The canker-worm of Ennui gnaws the
heart Of Pleasure's full-blown rose ! Come,
who'll devise
Some sport to fleet away the golden time? Who'll lead our drowsy-headed idleness In flowery fetters of some pleasant toil, Until the Earthquake-Monster is appeased, And gladly once again we enter in Fashion's celestial gate ? '
Smiling she paused,
And for a space none answered ; but the air Was filled with summer music, and we
heard,
Above the humming of the honey-bees That flitted in and out the flowery knolls, The black rooks sleepily cawing, and the
dove Cooing clear answer from the Priory
woods ; On a wild apple-tree that clung and
bloomed High on the ruin'd walls, the blue-wing' d
jay
Flash' d screaming, and along the river- side
The kingfisher, an azure ray, flew past. Thus all things were alive with peaceful
joy: The daedal Earth, bright faced and golden
hair'd, With ample heaving bosom, sighed for
bliss, Through half-closed eyelids blinking up at
heaven !
Then one said, 'As near Florence long
ago Gallants and gentle dames that fled the
Plague
THE EXODUS OF LADY BARBARA.
Sat 'neath green boughs and passed the
golden time
In dainty tale-telling, that grew divine On eloquent Boccaccio's honeyed tongue, So let us here, to fleet the summer hours, Tell tales of Mirth and Love and Love's
disdain ! Be thou our Queen of Love, let these thy
maids Twine a green garland for the brows of
him Whose tale beguiles the fever'd fancy
best ! '
' Alas ! ' said Barbara, sighing wearily, 1 The world is old and grey before its time ; And that blind god, who used to run before Its happy feet, and wave the golden torch, Beckoning with smiles, now sits as Darwin's
ape
Upon its shoulder, whispering "Vanity ! ' Ours is no Court of Love for amorous
dames
And bonnie cavaliers ; hush d is Love's lyre, Its poet dead, his cold hand on its strings ; And all remaining now for man to seek Is the great Problem neither bard nor seer Has help'd as yet to solve ! '
Then with a smile
Cold as the scalpel, Douglas Sutherland, Critic and comic vivisectionist, Young cynic of the Cynical Review, Scot from the mountains, but a renegade Forswearing homely porridge and the trews, Who, drifting round the compass of the
creeds, Had found no foothold for his slippery
feet, Cried, ' The great Problem ever sought by
fools,
Forgetting that whoever fronts the Sphinx, And meets her stony glare, must rave till
doom ! '
Here the plump pantheist, Spinoza Smith, With luminous eye and hanging uoderlip, Loose gait, lax logic, interposed and said, 1 Better to rave like the old oracle Than, quivering like a restless tadpole,
haunt
The muddy shallows of perpetual doubt ! ' Turning to Barbara, ' Since we moderns
seek A. summer pastime like those Florentines,
Why not let that same Problem be our
theme,
And let each man and woman tell in turn Some chronicle of those who, quick or
dead, Have wander'd problem-haunted through
the world ? '
' Agreed ! ' cried Barbara ; then, brightly
turning
Her face upon the groups surrounding her, ' A golden thought, to employ our idleness With tales of meaning and of mystery— Not old wives' rhymes to frighten foolish
bairns,
But stories wise that sad Philosophy, The way-worn wandering Jew, still toiling
on With staff and wallet, croaks at every
door !
How say you ? Shall our new Decameron Take as its theme no little pasteboard god, Pink Cupid or bright-eyed Saint Valentine, But God Himself, the riddle of the worlds ? '
Smiling she paused. We looked at one
another,
And even then we seemed to hear afar The murmur of that subterranean voice Which thundered from the fiery heart of
Earth,
Threatening the mighty City in its pride. ' Agreed ! agreed ! ' we clamoured, echoing
her; 1 Begin the sport, and be yourself our
Queen ! '
'Then thus,' said Barbara, 'we form our
court : Be you our maids of honour' — here she
smiled
On the three cousins born in Annandale — ' You gentlemen our faithful cavaliers And braw-drest pages, headed if you please By Verity as learned Chamberlain. Be thou,' she added (turning next to me), ' Our poet lyrical and laureate, Breaking our measured prose at intervals To music ; and do thou, Sir Whimsical ' (Nodding her head at Douglas as she
spoke), ' Assume the hood and baldrick of the
Fool,
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Here at our elbow set, with privilege To make a passing jest from time to time Of better wiser folk ! '
Here Douglas seized
A stalk of foxglove drooping purple bells, And shook it, zany-fashion, in the air, Crying ' By Touchstone and by Rigoletto, I accept the scoffer's office cheerfully, And on my badge, expect much merriment When wise men choose so lunatic a
theme ! '
' To-morrow,' laughing added Barbara, ' Our coronation revels shall begin ; And after that, each summer afternoon, We shall conjure you, on your fealty, To gather here, and rax your wits to speed The solemn pastime. Till yon smiling sun Again is near his setting, we dismiss Our court, and leave our leal and loving
friends Free to devise what other sports they
please— To-morrow we shall mount our throne and
reign ! '
And with that tryst to meet upon the
morrow We scattered, some to dream about the
park, Some to explore the neighbouring rocks and
woods,
Some to the dusky Priory libraries, To fleet the moments till the dinner-bell Should bring the pasturing human flocks
together. But I, who knew by heart the winding
Tweed,
Wander'd away along the river-side Glad-hearted and alone, and drank for
hours
Full sweetness and full summer, pondering The green world's problem with a poet's
heart. 'Twas the glad flower- time — over orchard
walls,
Mossy and golden, softly blushed the pear, Though apple-blooms were falling ; scented
May Ran quick along the hedgerows, white and
red;
And lilac, scented like a maiden's breath, Flower'd in sun-shaded gardens, maiden- like;
And lush laburnum shook its locks of gold O'er bonnie banks of green and golden
broom ;
The white pea lit its delicate lamps afield, And in the lanes speedwell and campion Cluster'd round snow-white stars of
Bethlehem.
The bee, with dusty gold upon his thigh, Humm'd busily to himself; the butterfly, A winged flower, blew lightly hither and
thither ; The woods, the fields, the lanes, were all
alive
With quick-eyed sylvan creatures, numerous As motes i' the sunshine. Cheerily sung
the lark, Answer'd from hawthorn branches by the
merle,
Gold-bill 'd and silver-throated. By the river The heron stood as motionless as stone Over his dim blue double, then arose With soft dark flap of wing, to light again Among the speckled shallows lower down. Lingering silent on the banks, I saw The muddy cabin of the water-rat, And in the calm beheld the brown rogue
swim,
Bearing a green leaf for his little house, His whisker'd nose above the surface
peeping, A long bright ripple sparkling in his track.
Musing I wandered, till, beyond the braes, The sun sank crimson among purple isles And reefs of black, and from the paling
west
The round thin filmy moon floated like silk, Then 'gainst the green transparent top- most leaves O* the woodland flutter'd, brightening.
Then, the glades
Dark'ning, the dusky mavis and the merle Pour'd their precipitate rapture 'mong the
boughs,
And nestling lovers listen'd as they sang : Lover! lover!
Kiss sweet ! kiss sweet ! sweet! Woo her now ! woo her now! The glassy river sparkled smooth as jet, Just touch' d with crystal beams.
Soft as a leat
The gloaming fell, and flutter'd like a veil Over the half-closed eyelids of the world.
THE FIRST
Stars glimmer'd faintly, opening one by one And blossoming above me, while I stole Through warmly scented shadows till I
gained Dark fern-clad slopes that ran to hills of
heather, And looking heavenward saw a painter's
vision.
There like a naked maiden stood the Moon, Wading in saffron shallows of the west : Timidly, with a tender backward glance, She reach'd a faltering foot to feel the way, Then, brightly smiling, as the lucent waves Wash'd, tipt with splendour, round her
swan-white throat, Bent forward, cleft the dusk with ivory
hands, And swam in splendour thro" the seas of
night.
THE FIRST DAY. (RENAISSANCE.)
THE morrow came ; and, when the sun
was high,
Beneath a silken awning rosy-hued Sat Barbara, smiling on her happy court ; The Graces near her, Midas at her side, And all the Sciences and all the Arts, In decent black or motley summer suits, Gathered around her ; modern Muses too, From Sappho Syntax in her spectacles To Jennie Homespun, Clapham's idyllist, Called ' Wordsworth's daughter ' by the
small reviews.
Nor lacked we grace of stately company From lands beyond the thunders of the
Chimes Which turn the small beer of the Senate
sour :
Dan Paumanok, the Yankee pantheist, Hot gospeller of Nature and the flesh, Who, holding soul but body purified, Vaunted the perfect body fifty years, Then sank beneath a sunstroke paralyzed, A wreck in all save that serener soul Outlooking from his grave and patient eyes. There sat he, in his chair, a craggy form, Snow-bearded, patriarchal, wearing well His crown of kindly sorrow. Close to him, Miranda Jones, the lyric poetess, Lean and aesthetic to the finger-tips,
touched like a pythoness with lissome
limbs,
Pale eyes that swam with sybilline desire, And vagrant locks of amber.
To this last Queen Barbara turn'd, and smiling royally
cried :
Barbara to Miranda ! Take the harp, And sound the prelude that befits our
theme.'
Whereon the other, starting from a trance, Answered, ' You spoke ? My soul was far
away ! And watching that old Faun whose stony
eyes
Have seen a hundred summers come and go, Methought he changed, and on his naked
back
Had drawn a cassock, on his head a cowl, And so, transformed into a very monk, Moaned answer to his comrades, turn'd to
daws
There in the Priory, cawing high in the air Their pax vobiscum /'
With a laugh then cried Douglas the scoffer, puffing his cigar — ' The dream was apt, Miranda ! Strip the
monk
In new tunes as in old, you find beneath The satyr's skin ; beneath the black rogue's
cowl,
The satyr's swinish leer.' But scornfully Tossing her python ringlets, she replied — ' The monks were men, and in their holy
hearts, And in their weary eyes, though filled with
dust,
The elemental pagan lingered still. I read a tale once in a dusty book Bought at a bookstall in a dusty street At Florence — how, long centuries ago, When all the world was gray because of
Christ,
A sudden glory of the buried world Flashed from the tomb, as Cytherea rose From darkness of the weary and rainy sea ; And how a monk (no satyr, but a soul Pure as this sapphire on my finger, sir !), Having with eyes of wonder seen the sight, Died of its rapture. Have yoii heard the tale ? I put it into rhymes which Sweetsong
praised One week I was his guest at Sunbury. '
10
THE EARTHQUAKE.
' Give us the tale ! ' we cried, and at a nod From Barbara, our queen and arbitress, Miranda shook her locks and thus began : —
JULIA CV THE RE A : A LEGEND OF THE RENAISSANCE.
WITH shadow black upon the convent
wall In fierce white light the musing Monk doth
crawl ;
He sees the lizards pass Beneath him on the grass ; — Silent as they, he stirs, and that is all.
With blood that slippeth slow as hour- glass sand, He weeds the garden with his lean long
hand,
The sun beats down on him, But, sunless and most dim, His sad eyes downward look upon the land.
Yet once or twice he riseth up his height, Gaunt as a tree he loometh in the light,
And gazeth far away
Where, through the trembling day, Rome sits and gleams, insufferably bright.
His hand he presses on his breast and
sighs, Towers, churches, temples, wearily he
spies ;
His black eyes blink i' the ray, His bloodless cheek keeps gray ; He stoops again, and weeds, with weary eyes.
To him there leapeth one with eager
bound, Crying, ' Ho, Marcus, leave thy garden
ground —
Gird up thy loins and come Down to the streets of Rome — Behold the miracle which men have found !
' 'Tis Venus' self, —with lips still poppy- red,
Light on her cheeks, bright gold upon her head,
Divine, yet cold in death, Still living without breath, As white and chill as is her marble bed ;
1 By some dark chemic trick of fingers old
Embalm'd within that ivory coffin cold, A thousand years i' the tomb Her cheek hath kept its bloom,
Her eyes their glory, and her hair its gold.
1 Come down and look upon her in her
rest, Her white hands crost upon her whiter
breast ;
One fold of fleecy dress Covers her nakedness ; Her face doth smile, as though her dreams are blest. '
The pale monk Marcus scarcely heeds or
hears — He stands and through the sunlight sadly
peers —
' Thou ravest, get thee gone ! ' He murmureth anon — Thin sounds his voice, yea, faint as falling tears.
That other crieth, ' Doubt me not, but
go ! Venus awakes ; Rome's buried blossoms
blow ;
Not Christ in His winding-sheet Was half so pure and sweet — Run to the Capitol, and thou shall know ! '
He cries, and soon around him others
come,
All panting, pointing to the far-off dome, — Till, drawn from his cold height To look upon the sight, The pale monk Marcus creepeth down to Rome.
II.
Now mark what old traditions tell Of how this miracle befell. . . .
Nigh fifteen centuries had shed Their snows upon the sad Earth's head Since on the heights of perfect peace Where banqueted the gods of Greece,
JULIA CYTHEREA.
ii
One starry midnight there did rise That pallid Shape with human eyes, Who, clad in grave-clothes and thorn- crown' d,
Stood silently and gazed around From face to face, — and as on each He looked in sorrow with no speech, Each face grew wan and chill as clay, And faded wearily away ! Ay, one by one those forms had fled, Till all the heavenly host were dead, Cast down and conquer'd, overthrown Like broken shapes of marble stone. Pallas, with pansies in her hair, Like to a statue wondrous fair Stricken and fall'n ; — Selene white, Cold, sleeping in the starry light ; Great Zeus, Apollo, and sad Pan, With all his flocks Arcadian, Strewn down like dead leaves on the tomb Of Him who slew them in their bloom. All dead ! the brightest and the best ! And Cytherea with the rest !
And now He too, who cast in thrall All shapes within that banquet-hall, Who came to slay and overcome The shining gods of Greece and Rome, Had crept again to find repose In the dark grave from which He rose ; And there for fifteen centuries Had lain unseen with closed eyes, Had slept, and had not stirr'd a limb, Though men grew mad for lack of Him. 1 Awake, O Christ ! ' they cried in pain, ' For lo ! no other gods remain ; And Thou hast promised to return With robes that flame and eyes that burn, 'Midst thunder-flash and trumpet-peal, Legions of angels at Thy heel, To take Thy throne, and overwhelm Thine enemies, and rule Thy realm ! ' In vain ! Within His clay-cold prison Silent He slept, and had not risen — Though all the other gods were fled, Though no god ruled the quick or dead, Though all the eyes of Earth were wet, He slept, — and had not risen yet.
Meantime, to keep his name in Rome, The Eighth Pope Innocent had come Instead of Christ, and from Christ's seat Thrown down his bastards to the street —
So wither'd up with sin and death, The dark world drew laborious breath Beneath his footstool ; — and no fair Dead god would waken to its prayer !
It happen'd at this very time, When in the sinful Church's slime Grew monsters of malignant birth, To eat man's substance on the earth, And sit, where gods had sat, in Rome (Where Christ would sit if He should
come),
In this dark moment of eclipse, When prayer was silent on the lips And faith was dead within the thought, The mystic miracle was wrought. For Lombard workmen, on a day, Digging beneath the Appian way, Sifting the ruins of Rome dead, Untomb'd, in wonder and in dread, A marble coffin strangely scroll'd, Enwrought with ivory and with gold. Stain'd was it with great earthen stains, Worn with the washing of the rains, And splash'd with blots of blood-red clay, But sealed as a shrine it lay ; And when they raised it to the light, After a thousand years of night, Their eyes read its inscription thus : ' Julia, the child of Claudius!'
The Church authorities were brought — Great cardinals in raiment wrought With gold and red, and trains resplendent Of mighty priests and monks attendant ; And while these cross themselves and strew The coffin cold with holy dew, They force the lid, and lo ! they find — Not dust to scatter on the wind, Not bleaching bones, not blacken'd clay Horrible in the light of day, Nought o'er whose sweetness Death hath
power, Not dark corruption,— but a Flower !
Flower of the flesh, as soft and new As when she drank the sun and dew, Golden her hair with light from heaven, As if she slept but yester-even ; Her lips, that softly lay apart, Still red as any beating heart ; Her form, still fairy-like and bright, Though marble-cold and lily-white, —
12
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Her hands, unwither'd, softly prest Upon her still unstained breast, — A Maiden Flower she slumber'd there, After a thousand years still fair, Within her white sarcophagus.
' Julia, the child of Claudius ! '
Out of the coffin cold as ice Rich fumes of cinnabar and spice Still floated ; as she lay within Flower-sweet she scented, and her skin Shone as anointed. One soft fold Of precious woof around her roll'd Half veil'd, with its transparent dress, Her lithe and luminous loveliness ; Upon her wrists bracelets of gold Were fastened ; on one finger cold Glimmer'd an onyx ring. So sweet, She lay, embalm'd from head to feet, Kept (by some secret long forgot) Without a stain, without a spot, As when, a thousand years before, In days of god and emperor, She closed her eyes and slumber'd thus.
1 Julia, the child of Claudius ! '
When thus she turn'd with soft last
breath
Into the chilly arms of Death, She might have seen the happy light Some sixteen years, — but form so bright Ne'er trembled between childish glee And tremulous virginity. Only a child ; yet far too fair For any child of mortal air, Since Passion's fiery flame, it seem'd, Still play'd about her locks, and stream'd From 'neath her eyelids ; and her limbs Were amber with such light as swims Round Love's own altar ; and her lips, Untouch'd by darkness or eclipse, Were wonderful and poppy-red With kisses of a time long dead, — When Love indeed in naked guise Still walk'd the world with awful eyes And flaming hair. So fair she lay, Burning like amber in the ray, As burns a lamp with sweet oils fed Within some shrine no foot may tread, No hand of any mortal mar ; And as men gaze on some new star,
Men marvell'd while they gazed on her. Soundly she slept, and did not stir : And far away beyond the sea The white Christ slept as sound as she !
ill.
They bore her to the Capitol, And left her lying, where the whole Of Rome might look upon her face.
And lo ! her beauty fill'd the place Like very sunlight, and her lips Seem'd redder, and her finger-tips Pink-tinted, and the scent that came Out of her mouth seem'd fraught with
flame
Of a live burning heart ; and lo ! Her gold-hair caught a deeper glow, Making an aureole of light Around her forehead waxen white ; And those who gazed upon her thus, Within her white sarcophagus, Were awed, and felt their hearts grow faint Like folk that look on some dead saint. ' No saint is she,' the pale priests said, 1 But of an evil beauty dead The ghost accurst. Behold again The pagan world that Christ hath slain, Kept by the charm of God, to show The fate of fairest flesh below ! ' And as they murmur' d thus anew They sprinkled her with holy dew, And while they sprinkled her some
thought The sleeper smiled !
And thus through Rome, And o'er the land, and past the foam, The rumour of her glory flies ; Arid flocking underneath the skies From dawn to sunset, great crowds press To look upon her loveliness. Prelates and kings and courtiers throng With priests and nobles ; old and young ; Matron and maid and girl o' the street, And wicked women scented sweet ; Soldier and beggar, monk and clown ; Nuns from the cloisters, peasants brown From the far hills —
Last, to the place
There cometh, deathly pale of face, His heart scarce fluttering in his breast, The tall monk Marcus with the rest.
JULIA CYTHEREA.
IV.
He came, he gazed upon her there, Her closed eyes, her clinging hair, Her marble cheek just flush'd with red ; And first he shrank away in dread Like one who fears to break with sound The charm which wraps some sleeper
round ;
Then, in the fumes of spice and myrrh That floated round and over her, Kindling a sense that sweeten'd Death, He seem'd to drink her very breath, — And creeping closer— like a snake That croucheth low in a green brake, Watching a lambkin starry white Which lieth still and slumbereth light — He watch'd in fascination deep The crystal mirror of her sleep ; And though they thrust him oft aside, Crept back to mark her, vacant-eyed Like one that dreams.
Wolf-like and gaunt, Full of some secret woe and want Only that loveliness could still, Lost to all other wish and will, He paused, while others went and came ; And when his comrades named his name He only turn'd a silent face Upon them for a moment's space, And smiled, then dumbly gazed once more.
Ever across the marble floor, With murmurs deep and whispers low, The wondering folk did come and go — But never voice or footfall loud, Nor all the trouble of the crowd, Awoke that sleeper from her rest ; And when upon her marble breast And o'er her brow and on her lips The sunlight's trembling finger-tips Were laid blood-red, she slumber'd on !
And when the wondering crowds were
gone,
AnJ silent night fell down on Rome, And 'neath the Capitolian dome The shadows blacken'd, still she lay Beauteous as she had been by day ; — For round her limbs and o'er her hair Trembled a light serenely fair, And all the darkness of the place Felt the soft starlight of her face ; —
Upon her, from the dome o'erhead, Great shadowy shapes of spirits dread Gazed darkly down, and all around The shadows brooded with no sound ; — Without, beyond the doorway, fell The arm'd heel of the sentinel, Who paced in vigil to and fro Under the mighty portico.
Then, when the Capitol was dark, And not a living eye might mark, When the great City slumber'd deep Wrapt in its azure robe of sleep, Out of some shadowy hiding-spot, — Wherein, unseen, suspected not, He had linger'd darkly on till then, — Crept, like a wild beast from its den, Marcus the Monk ! Silent, alone, With naked feet on the cold stone, He rose and feebly felt his way To the cold coffin where she lay ; And looking down as in a dream He caught the dim and doubtful gleam Of the cold face he could not see. Then kneeling low on bended knee He clutch' d with fingers clammy cold The coffin wrought about with gold, And drank with lips as cold as ice The scents of cinnabar and spice That hover'd o'er the form divine Sleeping therein as in a shrine. Then, lo ! beyond the painted pane, The Moon rose, wan and on the wane, And gentle amber light was shed Upon the live form and the dead ; And Marcus rose his height and stood, While from his head the monkish hood Fell darkly back, and on his brow Starlight like hoar-frost trembled now, And in his eyes there gleam'd again Hope like despair, rapture like pain. Thus, with his thin hand on his heart, His sad lips softly held apart, He gazed in fascination deep Upon that passion-flower of Sleep ! More beautiful, more strangely sweet, Than in the daylight's golden heat, More softly still, more dimly bright, Clothed in the mysteiy of the night, With small hands folded on her breast, She slumbers on in balmy rest. And now the yellow moonlight lies Upon her lips and closed eyes,
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Gleams on her hair of braided gold, Fades on her forehead marble-cold, And o'er her as she lies in death Trembles and broods like frozen breath ! Still mystical and strange to sight, Though marble-cold and lily-white, A maiden-flower she slumbers there, After a thousand years still fair, Within her white sarcophagus !
Then, haggard, wild-eyed, tremulous, Clasping her coffin gold-enwrought, Marcus the Monk gazed down and caught From the still splendour of her look Strange madness, and his sick soul shook With dark despairs. Then made he moan : — ' Flower fair as thou no man hath known Since Christ came down — but in thy stead, And in the place of sweet gods dead, The harlot and the concubine Sit haggard, sharing bread and wine At Christ's own board, and mocking man Within the very Vatican ! And Christ is dead and will not rise, Though, spat on by the cruel skies, A thousand mortals spirit-sore Creep to His dark tomb and implore ; — Yea, the stark Skeleton therein, With shrouded limbs and bandaged chin, Lies still and hears not, crumbling down Beside its crimson thorny crown. Decay is there, and deep decay Within a million tombs of clay, And dark decay of craft and creed Within a million hearts that bleed ; Yet here, though all fair things have
died,
Serene and fair thou dost abide, Preserved to show to our dim sight What shapes of wonder and of light The gods our God has stricken low Fashioned a thousand years ago. O fair white lily, softly pearl'd With dim dews of a happy world Long lost, long miss'd— awake, awake ! And save the world for Beauty's sake Instead of Christ's ! ' . . . •
God, is he dreaming? Is this thing sooth, or only seeming? Why doth he tremble to his knees In awe of some new sight he sees ? . The moon-rays turn to shapes of gold Clinging around that coffin cold,—
The stars of night look in, and shine With rapture tremulous and divine, — The figures on the dome above Glimmer, look down, and seem to move, — And lo ! the Sleeper's shining hair Grows yet more luminously fair, And light like life's pulsation swims Faint blood-red through her lissome limbs. Behold ! she reddens like a rose, Her bosom heaves, her eyes unclose, And (as a maiden from her sleep Stirs with a sigh serene and deep, Half conscious of some broken dream, Half dazzled by the morning beam) She draws one long and balmy breath, And turns upon her bed of death !
v.
Her bed of death ? She is not dead ! Her breath is warm, her lips are red, Her hands are fluttering, softly prest Against the warmth of her bright breast ; One knee is raised, and from its white The fleecy lawn falls soft and light ; And, turning her bright head, she sees The pale Monk moaning on his knees ! Then, as a little maid may see, When awakening very peacefully, Some one she loveth waiting near, And gaze upon him with no fear, — She looks upon his wondering face, Smiles gently for a moment's space, Then reaches out her hand !
1 Christ God !
Master and Maker, 'neath whose rod This man hath bent so many years, In famine, fever, torture, tears, — Thou God by whom the gods of old Are smitten low and coffin'd cold — Strengthen Thy slave, if such he be, Lest this thing slay him utterly ! ' He takes her hand, he clasps it to him, Rapture, like life-blood, kindles through
him !
He kisseth it, he feels it warm, He strains it to his famish'd form, And crieth on — 'Awake ! arise ! Love on thy lips, light in thine eyes — Arise ! the wide world waits to be Thy servant and to worship thee ! Awake ! and let the gods that were, Who shaped thee thus divinely fair,
JULIA CYTHEREA.
And kept thee by some chemic charm Imperishably bright and warm, Awaken too, and take the crown Of Him whose red Cross struck thee down. He died, and will not wake, but thou Didst only rest and sleep till now ! And they who framed thee thus divine, And seal'd thee in thy solemn shrine, Perchance are only slumbering too ! '
She stirs, — with brightening eyes of blue — She rises from her pillow cold, And rippleth down her locks of gold ; She shakes away the shroud of lawn Around her soft sides lightly drawn ; She stretches out her arms snow-white, She riseth up in the dim light, She stands erect and smiling sweet, With glistening limbs and rosy feet, Upon the marble floor that gleams Like water in the trembling beams ! Hast thou beheld in some green path A nymph of stone, fresh from the bath, One snowy foot within a pool That spreads beneath her rippling cool, The other softly raised, the while She draweth on with sleepy smile Her garment, — and in act to dress Frozen to everlastingness, Full of some maiden thought doth look In silent vision on the brook, While her dark shadow under her Stirs softly, though she doth not stir ? Even so that sleeper, when she rose From that divinely deep repose, Paused wondering at herself, and felt The light flow round her limbs, and melt On the white moonlit floor whereon She stood erect, as still as stone.
Then unto Marcus it did seem That all things trembled into dream ! Clinging around that maiden frame The moonlight kindled into flame, And all the place grew burning gold With beams more bright a thousandfold Than beams of day ; the coffin bright Was heap'd with roses red and white, And all the floor seem'd blossom-strewn Crimson and white beneath the moon ! With heaving breasts and soft footfall, Amid that glory mystical, The Maiden moved, her eyes of fire Answering his look of dumb desire,
Then lo ! the very Capitol
Grew shrunken like a burning scroll,
And vanish'd : — the great City fled ; —
The glory deepen' d overhead ; — •
Instead of stone beneath their feet
Were grass and blossoms scented sweet,
A blue sea wrinkling far away
Crept foam-fringed round a purple bay,
And through a green and flowery land,
Under the cloudless sapphire skies, Those twain were walking hand in hand,
Looking into each other's eyes !
VI.
In that green land of light and love
It seem'd enough to live and move —
To wander hand in hand and see
The dewy light on flower and tree,
The sparkling of the brooks and streams,
The hills asleep in sunny beams ;
And then to glide on unafraid
Through warm deep groves of summer
shade,
Where the hot sunlight's golden blaze Fell tangled into emerald rays. . . . O hark ! 'mid dingles green and deep The dove's cry, like a sound in sleep, At intervals is faintly heard ! On her thin eggs the mother-bird Sits brooding, while her mate is seen Flitting across the tree-tops green !
What shout is that, what sylvan cry ? What shapes are those that flash and fly ? Wood-nymphs and satyrs whirling round, Naked and merry, and vine-crown'd ; Then with deep laugh and faint halloo Far down the glade they fade from
view. . . .
What faces bright are those that gaze Out yonder from the leafy haze, And smile, and vanish into air?
Silent she stands, supremely fair, Whiter than ivory, on a lawn Flower-strewn and bright and deep-with- drawn
In the green bosom of the woods ; And while from the green solitudes Come drowsy murmurs, sylvan cries, He gazes gently in her eyes,
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Beneath their feet a fountain's pool Spreads o'er the grass and ripples cool, And from the diamond depths below A Naiad's face as white as snow Looks up, 'neath glimmering hands that
braid Her dripping locks in the green shade.
And now again the prospects gleam Into the glory of a dream ; And lo ! they stand 'mid sand and shells, And watch the waves with sleepy swells Rising and breaking drowsily I n a blue crescent of the sea. Beyond them pastoral hills are seen Mist-capt, but roped in purple sheen ; And 'midst the clouds above them pass, As in some old magician's glass, Shapes of Immortals that pursue Their path across the dreamful blue.
On the white sands they sit and rest, His head is pillow'd on her breast ; He feels her heart's warm go-and-come, He sees the blue sea fringed with foam ; He marks the white clouds sailing slowly Across the heavens serene and holy ; Then closes eyes— thrusts one warm
hand
For coolness deep in the soft sand — And with the other holdeth hers. So still he sits and never stirs, But feels his life and being blent With all he loves, and is content.
Is it still dream ? for now they pass Along a pathway of deep grass, And find where Venus sets her shrine Amidst a flowery wood of pine : And side by side they enter there, And kneel with folded hands at prayer A little space — and when 'tis done Glide forth again into the sun.
VII.
What form is this in white arrayed
Far down the woodland colonnade,
Approaching slow with a black wand
Cross-shapen in her lily hand ?
Is't Cytherea? — is it she
Who rules the green earth and the sea,
Who moves abroad with fearless tread Her hand upon a lion's head, Wherever men or beasts are wild, And tames their hearts and makes them mild?
Slowly she comes, — a shape of grace, Leading a lion, — and her face Is white and cold and thin as death ; And as she cometh near her breath Is very faint and feebly drawn, And heavy on the shaven lawn Her footstep falls, and in her eyes Dwell deathly pain and sad surmise. Why seem all things so sudden chill ? Why grows the light on wood and hill Frosty and faint ? Why shrinks the sun So coldly as she cometh on ?
' Marcus ! ' — she cries, — and lo ! he
stands,
With pallid face and outstretch'd hands, Gazing in awe— and from his lips One wondering word in answer slips — ' Madonna ! '
Yea, in sooth 'tis she, Mother of Him who died on Tree, The Virgin from whose milky breast He drank who set the world at rest ! Ah me ! how pallid and how thin, With clammy grave-cloth 'neath her chin, And dust upon her golden hair, She stands and looks upon him there ! Shuddering he moans, with low bent brow, ' Mother of God, what seekest thou? ' 'What dost thou here?1 the faint voice
cries,
While underneath the darkening skies All groweth dim. ' Frail-hearted one, Why hast thou ceased to serve my Son ? And who is this who now doth stand Naked beside thee, with her hand Thrust into thine, and hangs the head, But shows her hot neck blushing red ? Let go her hand whoe'er she be — And, for thy soul's sake, follow me ! ' }
But Marcus cried, ' My Master lies, Silent, with dust upon His eyes — He sleeps and He will ne'er awake. But lo ! from cloud, from brook, from brake,
THE FIRST DAY.
From every nook of earth and main, The old gods gather once again. Go back into thy grave once more — Sleep with thy Son, thy reign is o'er — Leave the green world to her and me, Nor mar our loves' eternity ! '
Paler the weary Mother grew, And with her sunken eyes of blue Gazed piteously a little space Into his passion-fever 'd face — Then pointing with thin hand, she cried To that fair semblance at his side — ' Follow me, thou ! my grave is deep — j There by my pillow thou shalt sleep ; There shall we wait with darken'd eyes In peace, until my Son shall rise ! '
But Marcus clutch' d her with a cry, And all things darken'd 'neath the sky, And tall and terrible and white The Virgin loom'd before his sight, And with a finger cold as ice Touch' d on the shining forehead thrice That gentle vision ; and behold ! She shiver'd as with deathly cold, And lay a corpse of marble, prest In madness to his burning breast.
Then Marcus wail'd, ' Lost ! lost ! ' and
lo!
The cruel heavens began to snow, And all was dark, and a shrill gale Of wintry wind began to wail ; But clasping her with piteous cries, He kiss'd her on the mouth and eyes, I And kissing cried, ' Awake ! awake ! ' Till his heart broke for sorrow's sake ; And heavy as a stone he fell.
VIII.
At dawn (as old traditions tell), When the pale priests and soldiers came To see once more that shining frame Within her marble tomb, behold ! Still beautiful, with locks of gold, Unfaded to the finger-tips, With faint pink cheeks and rose-red lips, Her they found softly sleeping on ; And by her, turn'd to senseless stone, Watching her face with eyes of lead, Knelt the monk Marcus, cold and dead.
He ceased, to a chorus from the Priory
walls Of daws thick-throated. Straightway
Douglas cried,
' It is the caws, my soul, it is the caws ! Hark how the dusky rascals echo her ! They vaunt the merriment of cakes and ale, And other succulent sweets they loved when
monks,
Above all kneeling and praying in the dark That make the stony heart and horny
knee ! ' But no one laughed, for on our souls the
tale
Fell with a touch of sweet solemnity ; And we were silent, till a quiet voice, Low like a woman's, murmured :
1 Oftentimes I have dreamed a dream like that (if dream
it were),
And seen, instead of Cytherea's eyes, The orbs of Dian, passionately pure, Witching the world to worship ! '
He who spoke —
A man with heavily hanging under lip, Man's brow above a maiden's moist blue
eyes —
Was Verity, the gentle priest of Art, A vestal spirit, not too masculine To avoid those seizures epileptiform Which virgins have when yielding oracles. He, by the affinity of sex which draws The ivy to the oak-tree, long had loved Not wisely but too well, though reverently, The Scottish prophet, Thomas Ercildoune, Who, thundering for the nations seventy
years,
Found in the end that he had merely soured The small beer and the milk of his own
dwelling.
He, Verity, though all his soul was love, Had from his master learned the scolding
trick,
And so was somewhat shrewish out o' doors. Inside the temple where he ministered His soul was solemnised to perfect speech, And many a storm-toss'd wanderer, listen- ing to him, Had worship! and been saved.
' How sweet it were,' He added, ' in this godless age of Fact, When hideous monsters of machinery
C
:8
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Are fashioned unto largess-giving gods, To uprear on some green mountain-side a
shrine
To Artemis, the goddess of the pure ! For if, as Heine held, the gentler gods Whom Christ drave forth from heaven with
whip of cords
Survive, but banish'd into lonely lands Do gloomy task work for their bitter bread, Somewhere on this sad earth the heaven- eyed Maid Wears homespun, turns the wheel, and is a
slave.
Upbuild her temple, make it beautiful With shapes of marble wonderfully
wrought,
Strew it with flowers of antique witchery, And on the altar let the lunar beam Sleep like the white and sacrificial Lamb ; And thither on some peaceful summer night Perchance the weary one will come, and
shed
Peace on the eyelids of her worshippers ! ' We listen' d wondering, some with pitying
smiles,
And others credulous of the fantasy. I answered, 'Who shall find her? We,
who dwell
In cities vast and foul as Babylon, Have seen, or seemed to see, the baser gods, Her sisters and her brethren, busy yet As spirits of the orgy and the dance. Smooth Hermes, full of craft as when he
filch'd
Apollo's horses, wears a modern coat, And helps the citizen to cheat on 'Change ; And Jupiter, though feeble and rheumatic, Leading his moulting eagle on the chain, Still creeps about the distant villages And prompts the silly preacher as he
throws
His Calvinistic lightnings at the boors ; And who that ever walk'd down Regent
Street
At midnight, or some garish summer day At Paris saw the Grand Prix lost and won, Has failed to note the pink divinity, In rags or silk and sealskin, still the same As when she tript Adonis long ago ! But for the other, Dian, Artemis, Athenian or Ephesian, who shall say The pure thing lives, where nought that
lives is pure ?
The sunshine knows her not, and the sweet
moon,
Which used to shine upon her ivory limbs Bright and pellucid in her dusky bath, Now lights the pale street-walker at her
trade, And there's an end. '
Buller from Brazenose, Another priest of Art, who holds that Art Is lost if clothed or draped, and in whose
eyes
The very fig-leaf is a priest's device To mar the fair and archetypal Eve, Broke in with mincing speech and courteous
sneer — 'I have heard that when that good man
George the Third Reign'd o'er his farm, this England,
Artemis
Was noticed raining happy influences Over the national pig-sty ! Later still, Arm'd with the British matron's household
broom, She drove our Byron out and bang'd the
door. Since then, thank God ! — or say, since
Wordsworth died
[Poor man, he came to physic a sick world That wanted wine, and gave it curds and
whey !]—
Your goddess has been seldom heard or seen. Doubtless she drudges in some parson's
house
As far as Lapland, where the temperature Is like her bosom, virginal and cold. We want her not in England ! Heaven
forbid !
We need the sun of love to warm our blood, Apollo's blaze and Cytherea's breath To thaw our lives and prove us men in- deed ! '
While thus he spake, I noticed in our midst A pale young man who had come into the
world WThite-hair'd, and so looked old before his
time ;
His eye was burning, and his delicate hand Was thrust into his bosom, touching there Some secret treasure. Listening he stood, Eager to speak, yet dumb through diffi- dence. To him the pythoness Miranda Jones
PAN AT HAMPTON COURT.
Exclaimed, 'What secret are you hiding
there, Close to your heart, or shirt-front, Cousin
Fred? I'll swear — a poem ! ' Turning with a
laugh
To Barbara, she added, ' Speak to him ! My cousin Frederick is a poet too, And fain I know would win a poet's praise From this fair company and you, its
Queen. '
Then blushing like a girl, and glancing up To encounter Barbara's smile of kind com- mand, The young man answered, ' Nay, indeed
'tis naught —
The merest trifle — not a tale at all ; Yet strangely enough, it touches rhyme by
rhyme
Upon the very quest of which they speak ; — I too,' he added, blushing still more deep, 1 Have chased that same Diana, in a song ! '
'Then prithee read it,' cried Queen
Barbara,
And other voices clamour'd echoing her ; And drawing a paper from his breast, the
youth
Glanced timidly around the company, And then with eye that kindled like a coal Blown with the breath, he eagerly began.
PAN AT HAMPTON COURT.
' O who will worship the great god Pan
Out in the woods with me, Now the chestnut spreadeth its seven- leaved fan
Over the hive of the bee ? Now the cushat cries, and the fallow deer
Creep on the woodland way, O who will hearken, and try to hear
The voice of the god to-day ?'
('in- May morning as I woke Thus the sweet Muse smiling spoke, Resting pure and radiant-eyed On the pillow at my side, — Sweetest Muse that ever drew Light from sunlight, earth, and dew
Sweeter Muse and more divine Than the faded spinsters Nine ! Up I sprang and cried aloud, ' May-day morn, and not a cloud ! Out beyond the City dark Spring awakes in Bushey Park ; There the royal chestnuts break Into golden foam and make Waxlike flowers like honeycomb, Whither humming wild bees roam ; While upon the lakes, whereon Tritons blow through trumps of stone, The great water-lily weaves Milk-white cups and oiled leaves. Phillis dear, at last 'tis May ! Take my hand and come away ! '
Out of town by train we went, Poor but merrily content, Phillis in her new spring dress,
Dainty bonnet lily-white, Warm with youth and loveliness,
Full of love and love's delight ; I. the lonely outcast man, Happy and Bohemian, Loving all and hating none Of my brethren 'neath the sun. Soon, a dozen miles away,
From the train we lightly leapt, Saw the gardens glancing gay
Where the royal fountains leapt, Heard the muffled voices cry In the deep green Maze hard by, Heard the happy fiddler's din From the gardens of the inn ; Saw the "prentice lads and lasses,
Pale with dreary days of town, Shuffling feet and jingling glasses ; While, like flies around molasses,
Gipsies gathered dusky brown 1 O the merry, merry May !
0 the happy golden day !
Pan was there, and Faunus too, All the romping sylvan crew, Nature's Maenads flocking mad From the City dark and sad, Finding once again the free Sunshine and its jollity ! Phillis smiled and leapt for joy,
1 was gamesome as a boy ; Gaily twang'd the fiddle-string, Men and maids played kiss-in-ring,
ca
20
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Fountains leapt against the sun,
Roses bloom'd and children played, All the world was full of fun,
Lovers cuddled in the shade ! What though God was proved to be Paradox and fantasy ? What though Christ had ceased to stir From his lonely selpulchre ? ' If the Trinity be dead,
Pagan gods are still alive ! Fast they come to-day,' I said,
' Thick as bees from out a hive ! Pan is here, with all his train
Flocking out of street and lane ; Flora in a cotton gown
Ties her garter stooping down ; Town-bred Sylvan plump and fat Weareth lilac in his hat ; Faun and satyr laughing pass,
Hither and thither Venus roams, Gay Bacchantes on the grass
Laughingly adjust their combs ! — Phillis, all the world is gay In the merry, merry May ! '
' O who will worship the great god Pan
At Hampton Court with me ?' She cried, and unto the Maze we ran
Laughing so merrily. ' The sun is bright, and the music plays,
And all is May,' sang she : And I caught my love in the heart of the Maze
With kisses three times three.
Down the chestnut colonnades Full of freckled light and shades, Soon we saw the dappled deer, Pricking hairy tail and ear, Stand like Fauns with still brown eyes
Looking on us as we came. Faint behind us grew the cries,
Merry music and acclaim, Till we found beneath a tree All the peace of Arcady. Lying there, where green boughs spread
Curtains soft against the sky, While the stock-dove far o'erhead
Pass'd with solitary cry, Now and then we look'd around
Listening, till distinct and clear Came the cuckoo's call profound
From some happy Dreamland near !
Happy as a heart of gold
Shook the sunshine everywhere, Throbbing pulses manifold
Through the warmly panting air ; On the leaves and o'er the grass
Living things were thronging bright, 'Neath a sky as clear as glass
Flashing rays of life and light. All things gladden'd 'neath the blue, While we kiss'd and gladden'd too. ' Praised be golden Pan,' I said, ' All the duller gods are dead ; But the wood-god wakes to-day In the merry, merry May ! '
' O who will worship the great god Pan ?' I cried as I clasped you, dear ;
' Form of a faun and soul of a man, He plays for the world to hear ;
Sweetly he pipeth beneath the skies, For a brave old god is he / '
0 I kissed my love on the lips and eyes I And O my love kissed me !
Slowly, softly, westward flew
Day on wings of gold and blue ;
As she faded out of sight
Dark and balmy fell the night.
Silent 'neath the azure cope,
Earth, a naked Ethiope,
Reach'd black arms up through the air,
Dragging down the branches bright Of the flowering heavens, where
Starry fruitage glimmer'd white ! As he drew them gently near, Dewdrops dim and crystal clear
Rain'd upon his face and eyes ! Listening, watching, we could hear
His deep breathing 'neath the skies ; — Suddenly, far down the glade, Startled from some place of shade, Like an antelope the dim Moon upsprang, and looked at him ! Panting, trembling, in the dark, Paused to listen and to mark, Then with shimmer dimly fair
On from shade to shade did spring, Gain'd the fields of heaven, and there
Wander'd, calmly pasturing !
1 O who will worship the great god Pan
Out in the woods with me ? Maker and lover of woman and matt, Under the stars sings he ;
PAN AT HAMPTON COURT.
21
And Dian the huntress with all her train Awakes to the wood-notes wild /'
O I kissed my love on the lips again, And Dian looked down and smiled.
Hand in hand without a care Following the Huntress fair, Wheresoe'er we went we found Silver footprints on the ground : Grass and flowers kept the shine Of the naked feet divine. Now and then our eyes could see,
As we softly crept along Through the dusky greenery,
Glimmers of the vestal throng — • Locks of gold and limbs of snow
Fading on as we came near, Faint soft cries and laughter low
Ceasing as we paused to hear ! O the night more sweet than day ! O the merry, merry May ! O the rapture dark and deep Of the woodlands hush'd to sleep !
0 the old sweet human tune Pan is piping to the moon !
1 Though the systems wax and wane, Thou and I,' he sings, ' remain — Both by night and one by day Witch a world the old warm way ! Foot it, foot it ! Where you tread Woods are greenly carpeted.
Foot it round me as I sing Nymphs and satyrs in a ring !
' Gnarled and old sits the great god Pan—
{Peep through the boughs, and see /) — He plays on his pipes A rcadian
Under the dark oak-tree. But the boughs are dark round his sight- less eyes —
And Dian, where is she f O follow, follow, and where she flies
Follow her flight with me/'
Slowly, dreamily, we crept From the silent sleeping park,
Join'd the merry throng that swept Townward through the summer dark.
Shining round our path again,
Dian flash' d before the train,
In upon our comrades shone,
Smiled and beckon'd, bounding on !
Satyrs brown in corduroys
Smoked their pipes and join'd in song ; Gamesome girls and merry boys
Fondled as we swept along ; Here a flush1 d Bacchante prest
Heavy head and crumpled bonnet On her drowsy lover's breast,
Sprawling drowsily upon it ; Flush'd from dancing sports of Pan Sat the little artizan, With his wife and children three, And the baby on his knee ; Here a little milliner,
Smart in silk and shape-improver, All the happy Spring astir
In her veins, sat by her lover ; Mounted somewhere on the train,
Pan on the accordion played ! Rough feet shuffled to the strain,
Happy hearts the spell obeyed ; While fair Dian, looking in, Saw the throng and heard the din, Touch'd the young heads and the grey With the magic of the May !
' 0 who will worship the great god Pan,
Where life runs wild and free ? Form of a faun and soul of a man,
Heplayeth eternallie. And Dian is out on the azure waste
As bright as bright can be T O my arm embraced my love's small waist,
A nd my love crept close to me !
When we reached the streets of stone
Dian there was bright before us, Wading naked and alone
In the pools of heaven o'er us ! Fainter came the wood-god's sound
As we crossed the Bridge, and there Saw the City splendour-crown'd
Sleeping dark in silver air ; Saw the river dark beneath Rippling dim to Dian's breath. Phillis nestling to my side
Watch' d the sad street- walker pass, Hollow-voiced and weary-eyed,
Painted underneath the gas. Paler, sadder, looked the moon, Sadder grew the old sweet tune ; Shapes of sorrow and despair Flitted ghostwise in the air,
22
THE EARTHQUAKE.
And among them, wan and slow, Stalked the spectral Shape of Woe — Pierced hands and pierced feet Passing on from street to street ; Silently behind Him crept Pallid Magdalens who wept ! All the world at His footfall
Darken'd, and the music ceased — Dark and sacrificial
Loom'd the altars of the priest, All the magic died away And the music of the May.
' O -who will worship the great god Pan
Here in the streets with me ? Sad and tearful and weary and wan
Is the god who died on the Tree ; But Pan is under and Dian above,
Though the dead god cannot see, And the merry music of youth and love
Returns eternallie / '
Homeward went my love and I To our lodging near the sky ; There beside the snow-white bed
Dian stood with radiant eyes ! Smiled a moment ere she fled— Then, with halo round her head,
Hung above us in the skies ! By the casement open wide Long we watch'd her side by side ; While from the dark streets around Came again the sylvan sound — Pan was softly piping there
As he pipes in field and grove, Conquering sorrow and despair
With the strains of life and love ! Phillis in her bedgown white
Kissed me, standing in the moon ; Louder, sweeter, through the night
Rang the olden antique tune ; Gently on my knee I drew her
Smiling as I heard her say, All her warm life kindling through her,
' Dearest, what a happy day ! ' ' 'Tis a happy world,' I said ; ' Pan still pipes, though Christ is dead ! '
BLUSHING he ceased, and folded up the scroll,
While Sappho Syntax through her spec- tacles
Looked grave as Pallas, and the Graces
hung Their pink-white cheeks and titter'd
among their curls.
Dan Paumanok the Yankee pantheist Was first to speak ; quoth he, ' I like that
song ! It suits me, it tastes pleasant in the
mouth ;
But Christ is just as much alive as Pan, Not less or more ; and for the Magdalen, I guess she suits me too. I beckon her To an appointment, and she smiling
comes :
The paint upon her lips is just as good As roses, and her loose wild dress surpasses
The lily's raiment '
He was talking on,
When Douglas interposed—' May I suggest The moral of the ditty ? It is here : The joys of costermongers and their
wenches,
Of poets and their sweethearts, vindicate Nature's loose morals and the primal Fall. Eat, drink, be merry — carpe diem — since Man is a Satyr ; half a beast at best, When wholly so, most happy ! Am I right, Madonna ? ' This to Lady Barbara, Who sat with pensive cheek upon her hand, Her bright eyes tender with some summer
dream. ' Nay, Fool ! ' she sighed ; and ' Nay,' cried
Verity,
With delicate nostril breathing vestal fire, ' The passionate eternal purity, Bright Artemis, who walks the fields of night And trims with lustrous hands the lamps of
heaven,
Rebukes the eternal riot of the sense ! Woe to the land wherein the Satyr reigns, And Pan usurps Apollo's ivory throne ! Thank God we Englishmen at last have
heard,
Amidst the pagan orgy and the shame Of yonder City, Nature's warning voice Of Earthquake, — with the wine-cup raised
to drink, Have read the handwriting on the riven
wall In characters of His eternal fire ! '
' Superfluous was the warning,' interposed Wormwood, the pessimist philosopher ;
THE FIRS7 DAY.
' Man needs no miracle to attest the law Which made him and preserves him
miserable !
Like fabled Tantalus in the poet's song, In aquis qucerit aquas, and pursues The ever-flying apple. Let him gladden A little in the sunshine if he can — To-morrow he must die ! '
' Man cannot die ! '
Shrill'd the sleek pantheist, Spinoza Smith ; ' For though the individual perishes, The sum Divine, cipher of which Man is, Abides imperishable. Thought alone Is God, and is the only Absolute ; And Thought remains though men and
systems fade.
The music lasts, the instrument is changed : Thought was, is, and shall be ; Thought
has at last
Become material in Humanity. The consciousness of the Eternal flames Upon the mirror of thy consciousness, And for a moment while the splendour lasts Thou knowest and perceivest. Die, and
lo!
The light that was and is thy consciousness Abides divine and indestructible, — Invisible, with power to re-emerge In forms material, other instruments, In forms and hues which figure Thought
divine ;
Yea, even letters, which like hieroglyphs Preserve the eternal attributes of Soul. Thus man is God, and therefore cannot die.'
Quoth Paumanok dryly, ' What you say is
true,
But with interpretations ! Man emerges From the Divine Idea, to gain, not lose, Identity, and once identified I guess he cannot once again retire Impersonal ; having become as God By knowing and perceiving, he remains Godlike, immortal, and has vanquish'd
Death ! '
' We wander,' said Queen Barbara with a
smile, 1 Far from our starting-place. Great Rome
still stands
Upon the solid ground, the mighty rock ; Philosophy with heavy and weary wing Still seeks to rise, but flaps along the ground;
And poets' dreams of fairyland and gods Are fantasies too faint for flesh and blood. '
Then Cuthbert spoke, our Modern Abe- lard—
The Church's outcast, foe of all the creeds, But most at war with his own unbelief, A priest at heart, yet scorning every form Of priesthood, dim-eyed through excess of
light,
Believing nought, believing everything, And groping through his doubts he knew
not whither. ' Rome conquer'd where she crown'd the
hopes of man
With a celestial promise, but she failed Where the old pagan triumphed — in a joy Material, archetypal, quick not dead, That met the happy needs of human life. We are mortal and immortal ; mortal first, Women and men, although eternal souls ; And warring with the laws of life and love, Rejecting flesh which symbolises God, Blind to the law of Nature, seeing not Thought and material are but woof and
web,
Scorning the animal instinct and its pleas For sunshine and free light, free exercise Of life and breath, Rome turned the world
she ruled
Into a lazar-den and sepulchre. She proved Man cannot die. but failed to
prove
That Man is fit to live ; she comforted The grief of Man, but caused the tears she
dried ;
She slew the idolatries of heathendom, But made an image of the living God, And lapsed, as all idolaters must lapse, To darkness and despair. Yet she en- dures,— The blind old Mother, grovelling on the
ground
In purple sad as sackcloth, and the world Still sees the sceptre that is but a reed Shake in her palsied hand. Too weary and
old
To learn the lesson that the infant Man Is prattling at her knee, she lieth prone, And measures— her own grave ! '
So saying, he turned
To one who stood and listened at his side — Sparkle, Professor of the Institute, —
THE EARTHQUAKE,
A tall lithe man, brown as a mountaineer, Who through a glittering eyeglass, the
bright pane
Fix'd in his intellectual dwelling-house, Half study, half observatory, gazed Serenely on the follies of the world. ' Right, right, dear Cuthbert,' answering
his look, Sparkle replied: 'and yet, and yet — who
knows ? I have often thought with Comte that fallen
Rome
Might yet arise, if she would cast aside Her supernatural fancies and baptize Us wandering priests of Science, fashioning A truly nobler order of the Wise To rule the world and spread the solemn
creed
Of Nature and the Law. She wastes her life Mourning her Eldest Born, that beauteous
soul
Who ere He perish'd, centuries ago, Promised so wonderfully that the world Is haunted by His memory even now ! Well, that is o'er, the golden bowl is broken, The fair head still, within its Eastern grave ; But we who have come upon a stormier
time,
The apostles of a sterner, saner creed, Would gladly wake the Mother from her
dream And seat her on the throne of human
thought. Man craves a creed — we bring it ; seeks a
rule
Imperial, — she might wield it as of old ; Demands a priesthood, — we who follow
Truth,
Far as the limits of the Knowable, Would form that priesthood, — ay, and
cheerfully
Elect our Pope and give him ample power, Scarce stopping at infallibility ! 'Tis sad so perfect a machinery Should rust away dishonoured and disused For lack of all it needs — a Hierarchy Which might restore it for the use of men ! '
Two priests of Rome, outcast, yet still of
Rome (Since he who once hath ta'en the priestly
garb Is ever a priest), were in that company :
Both smiled, but neither answer'd ; silent
men, With eyes that seem'd to suffer from the
light
They shed on others, even there, amid That throng of shallow or rebellious souls, They both were busy sowing subtle seeds That sprout by midnight. Well they knew,
in sooth,
How oft the pathos of a creed forlorn Acts magnet-like on sympathetic clay Sighing without a foothold. What had
grown
In pain and persecution still (they prayed), After long centuries of pomp and pride Might, under persecution, rise again. Their patient faces touch'd a piteous chord Within me : and as wistfully they watched The sunset fading like a blackening brand, Both speechless, faintly flush'd with that
sad light,
While Lady Barbara stirred upon her seat, Signing dismissal to her wearied court Whose yawns proclaim'd the dinner-hour
at hand,
I craved again the singer's privilege And sang of Roman Rizpah's last despair :
O Rizpah, Mother of Nations, the days of whose
glory are done, Moaning alone in the darkness, thou countest —
the bones of thy Son !
The Cross is vacant above thee, and He is no
longer thereon — A wind came out of the night, and He fell like a
leaf, and was gone.
But wearily through the ages, searching the
sands of the years, Thou didst gather His bones together, and wash
them, Madonna, with tears.
They have taken thy crown, O Rizpah, and
driven thee forth with the swine, But the bones of thy Son they have left thee ;
yea, kiss them and clasp — they are thine !
Thou canst not piece them together, or hang
them up yonder afresh, The skull hath no eye within it, the feet and the
hands are not flesh.
Thou meanest an old incantation, thou troublest
the world with thy cries — Ah God, if the bones should hear thee, and join
once again, and arise !
THE SECOND DAY.
[n the night of the seven-hill'd City, discrown'd
and disrobed and undone, Thou waitest a sign, O Madonna, and countest
the bones of thy Son !
THE SECOND DAY. (ANTHROPOMORPHISM. )
Two miles of field and wood as flies the
crow, But thrice two miles of azure curves and
bends
As winds the peaceful river, turning oft With lingering feet as turns and turns again On her own footprints some sweet dreaming
maid Who gathers ferns and flowers with listless
hand,
Lay like a jewel a green promontory Sparkling bright emerald on the breast of
Tweed.
Thither next day our happy company In barges, boats, and shallops idly rowed, A bright flotilla, all the rainbow's hues Fluttering in sunshine and in azure depths Brokenly mirror' d ; Satyrs, Nymphs, and
Fauns,
The Graces under pink silk parasols, The Muses under Gainsborough hats of
straw, Venus, white-vestured and without her
doves,
Chattering to Vulcan in blue spectacles, The modern Syrens, singing as they dipt White hands in crystal o'er the shallop's
side,
Followed each other merrily as we went. And here the willow trailed her yellow locks In golden shallows whence the kiiigfisher Flashed like a living topaz and was gone ; And here the clustering water-lilies spread Their oiled leaves and alabaster cups, Tangled amid the river's sedgy hair ; And there from shadowy oaks that fringed
the stream
The squirrel stood upright and lookt at us With beaded eyes ; and all the flowery banks Were loud with hum of bees and song of
birds ;
And often on the smooth and silent pools, Brimful of golden warmth and heavenly
light, The salmon sprang a foot into the sun,
Sparkled in panoply of silver mail, And sank in the circle of his own bright leap!
For on the promontory which we sought A Hermit in the olden time had dwelt, White-hair'd, white-bearded, cress and
pulse his food, The crystal stream his drink ; and still the
rock
Preserved the outline of his mossy cell ; And where his naked foot had press' d the
grass Under the shadowy boughs of oak and
beech, The blue of heaven had fallen and blossom'd
up
In azure harebells multitudinous, For ever misted with their own soft breath Of sunless summer dew.
Gaily we sailed,
And after many windings serpentine We reached the place. Against the grassy
banks Our boats discharged their many-coloured
freight,
Till all the flowery slopes and dusky glades Were busy and bright with smiling human
shapes ; And through the warm and honeysuckled
ways, Tangled with bramble, ferns, and foxglove
bells,
We pushed our path until we found indeed The mossy cell, with overhanging eaves Encalendured with lichens like the Cross, And down below the dewy grass, knee-deep, And countless hyacinths with their waxen
stems
And fairy bells of thin transparent blue. Most cool and still, embower'd on every side, With just a peep of azure overhead, Was that sweet sanctuary, hush'd as a nest Deserted, with no stir of summer sound ; And down the mossy rock a crystal dew Stole coldly, while one sparkling minute drop Fell like quicksilver on a flowering fern, Gleam'd, and rolled luminous to the chill
green ground.
Hard by the cell we found an open lawn Sprinkled with fronds of fern and azure flowers,
26
THE EARTHQUAKE.
And here full soon we spread our snowy
cloths And picnick'd in the sunlight. From the
boughs The gold-bill' d blackbird and the blue-
wing'd jay
Gazed down on such a scene as birds beheld When Oberon's enchanted cavaliers Stole forth to banquet underneath the
moon ;
And they whose scientific bolts and brooms Had driven the fairies forth from field and
farm,
So that the shepherdess and dairymaid No longer fear the roguish pixy's thumb Punishing idleness, were merriest there, And laughed as loud as if the work-a-day
world
Were sweetly haunted yet ! In lily hands The light glass tinkled, while the beaded
wine
Cream'd and ran o'er, and every learned lap Was like a Dryad's, full of ripen'd fruit ; And presently for sport our Satyrs plucked Flowers of the wood, and pelted merrily Some saucy-eyed Bacchantes, whoupsprang White-bosom 'd, dimple - breasted, and
escaped
Hotly pursued into the flowery glades — Whence silvery peals of laughter, stifled
cries, Were wafted to us on the summer air.
Then to her throne, a high and mossy bank Emblazon'dwith the crowsfoot's dusky gold, Our Barbara moved, with royally lifted
hand
Enjoining silence ; happily her court Clustered about her, as she smiled and
cried— ' Surround me and attend, all ye whose
souls, Though glad with summer light and warm
with milk
Of Venus (which we moderns call cham- pagne !) Remember that Great Problem, and our
oath
Each day to take it as a summer theme. Here on this very spot, in yonder cell, The holy Hermit dwelt and ponder'd it Alone, so many a hundred years ago. Alas ! how few in this our feverish age
Dare play the hermit now ! Our anchorites Are noisy men, who tell their beads for
show,
And print their prosings in the magazines Beside the gigman's diatribes at " God," Spelt with a little " g " ! '
A quiet voice, That of a bright-eyed preacher from the
north — (Our Norman, ripe and mellow as Friar
Tuck,
Yet tender-soul'd as sweet Maid Marian !) — Made echo : — ' Wisely spoken ! Here and
there A few sad thinkers crawl on hands and
knees
Into the temples of the solitude ; But these, being reverent, are awed and
dumb, —
Unlike the jaunty, dapper, newly breech'd Child of the age, who, strutting in the sun j Selling his birthright for a penman's praise, ' Denies his Heavenly Father ! '
'Pardon me,'
Broke in the scoffer, Douglas Sutherland, ' The age we live in has its vanities I grant you, but it stands supreme in this, — The use of soap and water, the crusade Still needful against other-worldliness. If holiness be gauged by length of nail, Heart's purity by epidermic crust, I grant your anchorites were blessed men ; If not, quite otherwise ; and for the rest, The Heavenly Father they perceived and
praised, Their magnified non-natural Heavenly
Father,
Was, like themselves, a dull old Anchorite, Unclean and useless, brooding in a den With Fever for his servant, Pestilence To scatter forth his breathings. Nowadays We prize a cleanlier Godhead, scorning
dreams
Which at the best are childish,— in a word, Anthropomorphic ! '
Then that other's face, A little angry, for a burning soul With faith at white heat cannot jest with fire, Flash'd scornfully and almost pityingly — ' The babe must have his rattle, and the
child
His catchword ! Verily, Science is at best A foolish Virgin, thinking to destroy
THE SECOND DAY.
27
The Eternal Verity with a cumbrous phrase ! Anthropomorphic, say you, is the dream, — A man's, an infant's, vision of himself Flashed upon mental darkness ? Be it so. Then as a child that in the cradle lies And feels the darkness stir, and seems to
feel
The brightness of a face he cannot see, I, who am old, accept the happy dream, And, since you will it so, the phrase as
well.
Go, range the empty heaven of fantasy Upon Spinoza's winged horse of brass (Which, coming down to earth with thunder- shock, Stuns him that rides and robs him of an
eye),
Or lose your wits in Hegel's cloud of words, Or prone on hands and knees ' inspect the
worms With Darwin, or with Spencer blankly
stare
At vacuum and the Inconceivable ; But what if, like those leaders, lonely men, You find yourselves at last without a Friend? Meantime I stretch a hand out in the dark- ness And touch — my Father's ; nay, I wake and
gaze,
And lo ! I see the very Face and Form I have dream'd of ; and, a child once more,
I say " Our Father," and I know my prayer is
heard !
God help me if my God be not indeed The Father of my simple childish faith ! '
Then Douglas shrugged his shoulders,
scorning speech With one in Superstition's swaddling
clothes ;
But something in the brave benignant face, Bright-eyed and lofty-brow'd, and in the
voice
So tender with its soft deep Highland burr, Subdued us, and we listened reverently Ev'n where we doubted most ; and when
he ceased
A certain timid echo in our hearts Murmur'd approval. Thereupon our Queen Besought him, having faith so absolute, To carry our fitful torch of tale-telling A Uttle space that day, then hand it on
To the next, and next. He shook his head
and smiled, Then answer'd, being urged — ' To me at
least
Your Problem is no Problem after all — I solved it at my Heavenly Father's knee, Spelling His Name out of the Book Divine, And looking up into those loving eyes With which He shines upon the worst and
best;
But since you wish it, I will tell a tale Of that same heavenly Presence — how it
came
To one who was in heart a little child, But who, being lesson'd by the over-wise, Beheld the gentle dream dissolve away.'
Then, without further prelude, he began This story of the monk Serapion, Who in the evening of his days embraced The sweet anthropomorphic heresy.
SERAPION.
ON the mountain heights, in a cell of stone,
Dwelt Serapion ;
There, winter and summer, he linger'd alone.
Most drear was the mountain and dismal
the cell ;
Yet he loved them well — Contented and glad in their silence to dwell.
And ever his face wore an innocent ray,
And his spirit was gay, And he sang, like the angels who sing far away !
The goatherd, who gathered his flocks ere
the night,
In the red sunset light, Heard the voice ring above him, from height on to height.
Ofttimes, from his cell on the cold moun- tain's crown, He came merrily down,
And stood, with a1 smile, 'mid the folk in the town.
28
THE EARTHQUAKE.
With raiment all ragged, worn shoon on
his feet,
He walk'd in the street, Yet his eyes were so happy, his voice was
so sweet !
And ever his face wore the grace and the
gleam
Of a beautiful dream, Like the light of the sun shed asleep on a
stream !
And the folk cried aloud, as they gathered
to see :
' Of all men that be, The brightest and happiest surely is he ! '
And they question'd : ' O ! why is thy face
ever bright, And thy spirit so light, Down here in the valley, up there on the
height?'
He answer'd : ' What makes me so happy
and gay
Wheresoever I stray?
The Lord I behold all the night, all the day!
1 He walks like a Shepherd in raiment of
gold
On the mountain-tops cold ; He comes to my cell ; on my knees I be- hold.
1 He smiles like my father who died long
ago;
His eyes sweetly glow — Those eyes are as sapphires ; His beard is
as snow !
' Yea, night-time and day-time he comes to
my call,
The dear Father of all, With a face ever fair, with a solemn foot- fall ! '
Then the folk cried again : ' Of all mortals
that be,
Surely gladdest is he ! ' .... Wise monks from afar came to hear and to see.
As they climb'd through the snows to his
cell, they could hear His voice ringing clear, In a hymn to the Lord who for ever seem'd
near.
They enter'd and saw him. He sat like a
wight
Who beholds some strange sight — Face fix'd, his eyes shining, most peaceful
and bright !
' O brother ! what makes thee so happy?'
they cried.
With a smile he replied : ' The Lord who so loves me, my Guardian
and Guide !
' He comes in the night and He comes in
the day
From his Heaven far away ; I feel His soft touch on my hair, as I
pray.
' He smiles with grave eyes like my father
long dead,
His hand bows my head, From the breath of His nostrils a blessing
is shed ! '
Through their ranks as they listened a cold
shudder ran, And the murmur began : ' Can God have the touch and the breath
of a man ?
' No soul can conceive Him, no sight may
descry
The Most Strange, the Most High, Not the quick when they live, not the holy who die."
But Serapion answer'd : ' I hear and I
see;
He comes hourly to me ; He speaks in mine ear, as I pray on my
knee ! '
They murmur'd : ' Blaspheme not ! He
dwells far away ; None fathom Him may ; For He is not as man, nor is fashion'd of
clay.
SERAPION.
29
1 Can the God we conceive not have ears
and have eyes ? Who sayeth so, lies ! Cast thy heresy off, hear our words, and be
wise !
1 For God is not flesh, as His worshippers
be—
Nay, a Spirit is He, Not shapen for mortals to hear or to see.
1 Inconceivable, Holy, Divine evermore,
All His works ruling o'er ; Yet by these we conceive Him, and darkly adore. '
Then Serapion answer'd : ' How strange !
For He seems, In my beautiful dreams, To be near, with a kind face that brightens
and beams ! '
They murmur'd : ' These fancies are false
and abhorred ; Since the God who is Lord Neither face hath nor form, though His wrath is a sword !
1 Put the vision behind thee ! Be sure no
man's eye
Can conceive or descry What is hidden from angels of God in the
sky!'
But Serapion answer'd : ' He comes to my
prayer :
He is kind, He is fair ; His smile is as sunlight, that sleeps on the
' Not as men, but more splendid and
stately and tall Is the Father of all.
He walks on the snows with a solemn foot- fall ! '
But they cried : ' By some fiend is thy
solitude stirred ! Shall the Light and the Word, The Spirit Almighty, be seen and be heard ?
1 Put the vision aside ; like a dream let it flit,
And the shadow of it ; Lest the heresy drive thee, accurst, to the Pit.'
They spake and he listened. For nights
and for days He hark'd in amaze, While they proved that a Phanjom had
gladden'd his gaze.
At last all was clear, and his forehead was
bent
In submissive assent. They confess'd him and bless'd him, and
joyfully went.
There he sat, still as stone, sadly thinking
it o'er,
At his desolate door. Then, alone in his cell, tried to pray, as
before.
He reached out his arms to the cold, empty
air,
Kneeling woefully there ; He prayed unto God ; but none came to
his prayer.
He walked from his cell on the cold
mountain's crown, Wending silently down, Till he stood as before, 'mid the folk in
the town.
With raiment all ragged, worn shoon on
his feet,
He stood in the street ; And his eyes were not happy, his voice was
not sweet !
The gladness was gone that made golden
his face ;
Yea, there linger'd no trace Of the smile and the sunshine, the peace
and the grace.
And the folk whisper'd low, as they gathered
to see —
' Of all men that be, The saddest and weariest surely is he ! '
He climb'd up the mountain, and sat there
alone ;
And his spirit made moan — 'My God, they have slain Thee! My God, Thou art gone I
THE EARTHQUAKE.
' The.r breath hath destroy 'd Thee, my
Father ! ' he said— ' Thou art lost ! Thou art fled ! ' And the sense of his doom was as dust on
his head.
IV.
The goatherd still gather 'd his flocks ere the
night,
In the red sunset-light ; But heard no voice singing, afar on the
height !
Silent we cluster'd when the tale was done, Till Verity exclaimed : ' As that lone monk Who suffered pedants to destroy his God, So is our England now ! For many years She dwelt apart and ponder'd that pure
thought Which turned to heavenly song in Milton's
mouth, And never questioning taught her wisest
sons To bow their heads beneath the Father's
hand;
Then in an evil hour her ear was turn'd To specious pleadings which profaned the
faith
And quickened unbelieving ; from that hour Faith faded, the heroic stature sank Cubit by cubit, and her heroes changed To problem-haunted pigmies, clustering
mites On the green cheese of Science. Faugh,
how rank The stale thing smells, to nostrils which
have drunk The pure air sweeten'd by the mountain
snows Where men even yet may find the living
God!'
Cried Sparkle quickly, ' I will grant you,
Faith
Was marvellous, when Faith was possible ! But which is best for outcast Nature's Son, Fatherless, illegitimately born, And at the best remitted to the care Of an abandon'd mother— which is best, To play the farce of filial faith to One Who utterly declines to show His face,
Nay, who, if He exists, denies Himself, And leaves His offspring unprovided for, Or boldly, calmly, facing all events, To say, " In all the world where'er I search I find no trace of Fatherhood at all, No token of His kindness or His care, — Only inexorable Law pursuing Me and my brethren, and that greater one, Nature, our mother. Blessings upon her, Upon her poor blind eyes and beauteous face Still sunny with insufferable love ! Blessings upon her, and sweet reverence, Who loveth us, her children ! On her breast We wakened, ever in her circling arms We found kind shelter ; when our hearts
are sore,
Our spirits weary, she can comfort us With countless ministrations, woven smiles Of light and flowers and sunshine ; when at
last We are wearied out with our brief day of
life,
She hath a bed of quiet ready, strewn With grass and scented shadow. Bid me
kneel
To her who never fail'd in acts of love, And lo ! how eagerly, how reverently, I haste to bend the knee ; but bid me kneel To Him I know not, who since life began Hath never stood acknowledged or revealed, And lo ! I rise erect with folded arms In the full pride and privilege of Man, Rejecting, scorning, or denying Him ! How hath He helped me? When my
finger ached
Or my soul sicken'd of some dark disease, Where was my Father— where was He for
whom I shriek'd through all the watches of the
night
In pain and protestation? Did He come To comfort and sustain me? When I
shrank Affrighted from the clammy hands of
Death,
When in mine arms the maiden of my love Lay dead and cold, slain by her own first
kiss, Where was the Father that ye vaunt so
much? I owe Him life? Perchance. Love too?
Ah me, A little love to mock a little life
THE SECOND DAY.
Forlorn, and swiftly flying! He hath
chosen,
To leave me in the wilderness of thought Abandon'd and rejected ; I in turn, Finding He fails me in my hour of need, Finding He cannot save me from the fangs Of His own bloodhounds, Death and Force
and Law,
Reject Him, and abandon that old dream Of ever looking on a Father's face ! " '
More would his lips have utter'd in a strain By some deemed blasphemous, but angry
cries
Broke in upon the current of his speech ; And many there, remembering the fear Which drove them thither from the City's
streets,
Drew timorously together, as if fearing The Earthquake's jaws might open under
them. ' Enough ! ' cried Barbara—' you touch
the harp
Of feeling with too strenuous a touch, And jar the delicate chords too cruelly ! For me, I mourn the faith which long ago' Led men into the desert sands to pray, And tomb'd the hermit in his narrow cell ; Then love was pain, and pain was privilege, And he who sought the Father was content To find Him bleeding on the wayside Cross, Or looking sadly from the Sepulchre. Now who will justify the holiness Of self-renouncement, shaming with some
tale,
Quaint as a missal love-illumined, Our peevish problem-haunted modernness ? Come, Bishop, for you have not spoken yet, Though clad in wisdom and in purity As whitely as your ancestors, the monks. '
Close to her side stood Bishop Eglantine, The gentle priest who dwells an anchorite Amid the busiest throngs of living men— A man who, sitting at the laden board Of Knowledge, looking with a longing eye On the rare dainties that he must not touch, Grows gaunt and lean with intellectual
fasts ; So spare, the soul seems shining through
his flesh Like light through alabaster. Tall he
stood,
Upgazing through the thin transparent roof Of leaves upon some peaceful sight in
heaven,
And when he smiled in answer to her words His smile was spectre-like and virginal, Too faint for flesh and blood. Not far
away
The plumper Bishop Primrose laughing sat, Broad as his Church and sunnier than his
creed, And held a bright-eyed child between his
knees.
A Roman lily and an English rose Were these two prelates ; one proclaiming
Christ
Ghostly and sad and sacrificial, The other, Christ the brown young Shep- herd, clad With strength as with a garment, bending
down
To lift a lambkin struggling among thorns, And bear it on his back across the hills Into the Master's fold.
Quoth Eglantine,
With courteous bow to all the circle round, ' Ev'n as you spoke my thoughts were far
away
With one who tenderly renounced the flesh And found in pain sweet comfort long ago. Here is the tale— scarcely indeed a tale — 'Tis given in a monkish chronicle, And is so brief, that he who runs may hear. '
RAMON MO NAT.
HIDDEN from the light of day, All his care to plead and pray, In his cell sat Ramon Monat, Gaunt and grey.
Suddenly before his sight Stood the Virgin robed in white, — In her arms fresh-gather 'd roses Red and bright.
' Ramon, Ramon, ' murmur'd she, 1 See the gifts I bring to thee, Roses, red celestial roses, Pluck'd by me !
THE EARTHQUAKE.
' Walking in His gardens fair, 'Midst the golden glory there, My sweet Son, the Lord Christ Jesus, Hears thy prayer !
' Lo, He sendeth thee to-day These blest flowers from far away ! Wildly sobbing, Ramon Monat Answer 'd ' Nay !
6.
; Holy Mother, on thy breast Let the flowers of rapture rest, — Not for me — I am not worthy — Gifts so blest !
' Ah, but if my brows might gain (Hear me, though the prayer is vain), For a moment's space, my Master's Crown of pain ! '
8.
From his sight the Virgin fair Vanish'd, as he sank in prayer ; Presently, again he saw her, Standing there !
Weeping bitterly she said, ' See, the gift I bring instead — Lo, the cruel crown of sorrow, Bloody-red ! '
When the Virgin Mother mild, Weeping like a little child,
Set the thorns on Ramon's forehead, Ramon smiled !
Lonely there for many a day, Rack'd with anguish, gaunt and grey, Happy with that crown of sorrow, Ramon lay.
Then, when 'twas his Master's will, There they found him dead and chill, Sweetly, in his crown of sorrow, Smiling still !
' The lunatic, the anchorite, and the poet Are of rank superstition all compact," Cried Douglas, lifting high his cap and
bells ; ' Your Ramon Monat wore his crown of
thorns
Upon his pallid brow as jauntily As Caesar throws the purple round his limbs. Such creatures on the body of Mother
Church
Crawl'd thickly, till good Doctor Rational, Call'd when the lady's state was perilous, Said, "Wash thyself— be clean, take exer- cise ! " And so the vermin died. He serves God
best Who loves his kind, and teaches them to
rinse
Both soul and body, until both appear As clean — as a sheep's heart ! '
A speech so bold
Jarr'd with the gentle temper of the hour, The peaceful woods, the summer afternoon, The dreamy spirit of that sylvan scene. ' Peace, knave ! ' cried Barbara mock- seriously,
' Moments there are when even cap and bells Must lose their privilege, and fools be dumb For fear of stripes ! ' — and to him on the
grass She tossed a bunch of grapes, which Douglas
caught
And munch'd in silence, lying on his back. Then came a pause, so deep that we could
hear
The breathing of the silence, the soft stir Of birds among the boughs, the waterfall Crooning itself to sleep within the woods.
Quoth Bishop Primrose : ' Your ascetics
shrank
Sense after sense, until their very souls Became as mere Narcissi, pondering Their own reflections, figuring in their pride A moral catalepsy, death not life. He serves God best who launches fearlessly Out on the living waters, and proclaiming The great celestial haven, leads the way With all sails set, that the poor storm-toss'd
fleet
Of Humankind may follow fearlessly ! Ev'n so the preachers of our Church have
done,
THE SECOND DAY.
33
Spreading glad tidings up and down the
world,
And working out salvation for themselves Through the redemption of the human
race ! '
' Alas ! ' another speaker interposed, ' The Storm is loud for ever on the seas, And while the proud strong Churches of the
creeds
Sail to and fro with golden argosies, Each night a fleet of fishing-boats goes down And no man heeds ! Science is tenderer ; She puts a beacon on each rocky cape, And sounds the shallows, that poor mariners May know the seas their ships must navigate. Meantime the tumult of Euroclydon Roars on the Deep ; and mark ! the tempest
blows
Not to but from the far-off Heavenly Land, Beating the vessels back on dusky shores To shipwreck close at home. I'd rather
trust
The roughest pilot born upon the coast, : Familiar with the dangers round about, 'Than any of your Priests who shut their eyes And wring their hands and pray ! This
world of ours
Is at the mercy of the elements ; Who tries to weigh them ? Science does
her best, While poor Religion quakes, and conjures
up More spectres than the storm itself can
breed. '
He added : ' Just the other day in church, Drifted there Heaven knows how and
Heaven knows why, I heard the preacher preach, and dreamed
a dream ;
If you will have it, here it is in verse, Rude as the maker, rugged as the theme,' — And no one interposing, he began.
IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH. i.
WHAT Shape is this with hands outreaching,
Walking the waters of Hell, and preaching ?
The waves are rolling beneath and glisten- ing,
Each breaking wave is a white face, listen- ing ! II.
The rift is roaring, the rain is moaning —
His "robe streams back as He stands inton- ing;
With jet-black troughs the mad seas break at Him,
And the lightning springs, like a hissing snake, at Him !
God, doth He guess any soul can hear
Him, With the wind so wailing, the storm so near
Him? Yet now and then sounds His voice of
wonder there, Like the plash of a shower in the pause of
thunder, there.
The Devil sits by those waters evil, Pensive, as is the wont of the Devil, So bored and blast his expression is None would guess what his true profes-
The waters and he are tired together Of such eternally stormy weather ; Always that wind is roaring busily, Till the heart feels faint and the head rocks dizzily.
Always gusty both night and morrow !
No wonder the Devil is full of sorrow,
No wonder he sneers at the Figure preach ing there
With bright eyes burning and hands out- reaching there.
The Devil thinks, ' What use of trying To preach a sermon 'midst such a crying ? If He bade the Almighty close His batteries, The damn'd beneath Him might guess what the matter is ! '
And lo ! the Figure with white robe stream- ing
Raises His hand while the winds are scream- ing—
As He stood on the earth when the Pharisees found Him,
He stands, and the same Storm beats around Him.
As long ago 'neath the empyrean He walked on the waters Galilean,
34
THE EARTHQUAKE.
With only the poor damn'd souls to discern
it, He Walks, and has walked through a long
eternity !
God with the still small voice's calling !
Soft as rain on the grass 'tis falling,
Yet little blame to the souls who are near
toil If they break and groan and give no ear to
it!
Something it is for the damn'd below Him To see the patient Figure and know
Him! .... What a wind ! what a raining and roaring
now ! Lightning, thunder, and black rain pouring
now I
Up with a start I waken groaning, And hear sweet Honeydew's voice intoning. Only a dream ! — and in church I am again, Half asleep, in the midst of the sham again !
Hark ! how the soft-eyed, soft- voiced crea- ture
Preaches, with sweetness in every feature !
The ladies listen, the maids sit dutiful,
The spinsters quiver, and murmur, ' Beau- tiful ! '
Surely as every Sunday passes The scented silken superior classes Flutter flounces and flash like sunny dew Around the Reverend Mr. Honeydew.
Cambric handkerchiefs scatter scent about, Pomaded heads are devoutly bent about, Silks are rustling, lips are muttering, To the dear man's emotional pausing and fluttering.
The actor with his shaven cheek here Studies his art and learns to speak here ; Every period properly weighted is, With gentle matter the sermon freighted is.
Sir Midas, portly and resplendent, With the little Midases attendant, And Lady Midas, all eyes upon her here, Sit and smile in the pew of honour here.
Even the agnostic and revolter Gather before this Chapel's altar, For none of the bigot's mad insanity Deforms dear Honeydew's Christianity.
In such an excellent pastor's leading, So full -of brightness and dainty breeding, Even the faith ecclesiastical Seems entertaining and less fantastical !
The preacher is an excellent fellow ! His matter and manner are ever mellow. . . . But afar the tempest of Hell is thundering, The Figure preaching, the Devil wondering !
STRANGE as some low and far-off thunder- peal
Heard in the still heat of a summer day, While shepherds looking upward in the sun See purple banks of cloud that ominously Roll in the distance, came the speaker's
words ;
And as they ended we beheld indeed Hell, or Creation adumbrating Hell, Breathing with ululations of despair. Hearing the wails of sin, the moans of men, The hopeless, ceaseless wash of weary lives Which sigh for sunlight or some shore of
peace,
We pitied that supreme despairing Shape Who treads the waves of woe with luminous
feet,
And since He cannot still them, grows as sad As the wild waters He is walking on. And all were silent until Barbara rose And sigh'd : ' The sun is sinking in the west ; Our happy day Is ended — let us go ! ' And murmuring like bees around the queen We wandered slowly to the river-side.
Now like a gentle herdsman stood the sun Pausing upon the brae-tops while he drove His fleecy flocks of clou'l into their fold Beneath the faintly glimmering evening
star ;
And coming from the shadow of the woods, Hushing our cries, we saw the gloaming
grow, The trees behind us black, the prospects
dim, | But all things looming large in lustrous air,
THE SECOND DAY.
35
The river-pools as full of deep strange light As the still sky. The air, too, seem'd alive With ominous sound akin to that strange
light : The bull-frogs croaking from the river
shallows,
The cat-owl calling from the distant glade, The murmuring waterfall now faintly heard Drowsy and half asleep. Then from the
woods Rang sudden laughter, sharp and silvery
clear,
Of merry maidens, and the music seem'd As hollow as a bell, and when we spoke Our voices had an eerie and empty sound As if through vast and echoing corridors We walked in awe.
But soon upon the stream Our bright flotilla homeward sailed again, And ere we reached the silent Priory woods The azure gates of darkness, swinging wide, Revealed the lucent starry-paven floors, And all the lamps of heaven ranged in rows Each in its order round the Altar-steps, From which a pale and silver- vestured Moon Pour'd bright ablution and upraised the
Host.
Then, as the glory wrapt us round and
round,
And the dark river, sparkling to our oars, Flash'd back the dewy splendour, soft and
low Some voices joined in song ; and thus they
sang:— . •\
Storm in the night ! and a voice in the Storm is
crying : 'They have taken my Lord, and I know not
where He is lying ! '
1 1 sat in the Tomb by His side, with a .oul un-
• shaken,
I chafed His clay-cold hands,— for I knew He must waken.
'Before He closed His eyes, He said to the
weeping— "Tis but a little while -I shall wake from
sleeping ! "
Cold and stiff He lay, not seeing or hearing ; The Tomb was sealed with a rock, — but I sat unfearing.
' For a light lay on His eyes, and His face was
gleaming ; I heard Him sigh in His sleep, and thought " He
is dreaming ! "
I And then, with a thunder-peal, the rock was
riven ;
Bright, in the mouth of the Tomb, stood Angels of Heaven !
' He did not stir, though I whispered, " Master,
awaken ! " . . Then brightness blinded my eyes, — and lo, He
was taken !
I 1 woke in the Tomb alone, and the wind chill 'd
through me :
•" O Master," I moan'd, " remember Thy promise to me ! "
' I crept through the night and sought Him. . . .
Hither and thither The swift Moon walk'd, and the white-tooth 'd
Sea ran with her.
1 1 stole from palace to palace, from prison to prison,
I found no trace of my Lord, though they said
"He hath risen ! "
I 1 heard the Nations weeping — I questioned the
Nations :
One said, " He is dead !" another, " He lives- have patience ! "
1 Twice— on the desert sands, in the City Holy, I have found two pierced footprints, vanishing slowly !
' Wearily still I wander and still pursue Him — He promised and I await Him, wailing unto Him!
'And now they say, "He is dead— hath the
world forsaken." Ah no, He hath promised ! — hath waken'd, — or
will awaken ! '
Storm in the night ! and a voice in the Storm still
crying : ' They have taken my Lord, and I know not
where He is lying ! '
THE THIRD DAY. (THIS WORLD.)
NEXT day it storm'd. Awakening I gazed
forth,
And saw a slanting wall of liquid gray Shutting out park and pale, while overhead
D2
THE EARTHQUAKE.
The black clouds droop'd their banners drifting east ;
Then gazing southward, through the mists I saw
The ghostly glimmer of the distant Ocean !
Desolate as a soul that leaps from heaven,
The wild rain flung itself into the sea,
And sobbing, choked and drown'd !
The day drew on.
Slowly at intervals, with dismal yawns,
The guests descended to the breakfast- rooms,
And afterwards they scatter'd hither and thither :
Some to the drawing-room to lounge and flirt,
Some to the billiard-room, whence soon there came
The light sharp rattle of the ivory ball ;
Some to the library, others to the porch,
To lounge there, pipe in mouth, and watch the weather.
A few, with Sappho Syntax at their head,
Donned their goloshes and their water- proofs,
And faced the Storm ; but many kept apart
Until the lunch-bell rang ; then, luncheon o'er,
More straggling up and down from room to room,
Till, as the hum spreads through a throng of bees
That the queen bee is near, and straightway all
Throng to the honey'd centre of the hive,
The murmur spread that Barbara held her court
In the great drawing-room ; whither hasten- ing,
We found her, throned upon an ottoman,
Sparkle, high priest of Science, at her side,
And murmuring silken periods in her ear.
' Dreary indeed, flat, dreary and confined, As this our Priory on a day of rain, With walls of liquid black on every side, Must the sad Earth have seemed ere Science
rose To tear the veil from Nature's face, and
show
The wonders of the illimitable Void. A thousand years after the birth of Christ,
Religion, like the Spirit of the Storm, Obscured the open heaven, veiled land and
tide,
And made Creation dark ; and no man knew The clime wherein he dwelt, or dared
explore
His earthly habitation ; but the tide Of Superstition, like another Flood, Submerged the landmarks, hid the conti- nents, And mingled black with the unpastured
Sea. Then, like a cumbrous Ark, the Church
survived,
And resting on the Ararat of Rome, Rock'd to the wash of waters — those within, Arrayed in priestly raiment, crying aloud, " Woe ! woe to man ! the Day of Doom is
near ! "
Honour to those who in that awful hour Flew forth upon the waves like fearless
doves, And though the craven priests cried out
" Beware ! " Faced the wild darkness and the winds of
heaven,
Seeking for glimpses of the solid land ! Then some came circling back with wearied
wings,
And many vanished never to return ; A few, the fleetest and most strong of flight, Returning after many wanderings, Brought with them, as the dove its olive
branch, Tidings of gladness and a sunlit world ! '
Then murmured Leslie Lambe with kindling
cheeks, ' Doves, say you ? Doves ? I' faith, it
needed then
The eagle's pinion and the eagle's eye To penetrate that melancholy waste. Think of Magellan ! what an eagle, he ! — The man of marble who in Hell's despite Unto his lonely purpose held unmoved, And sailing with unconquerable wing Across that blackness, came at last in sight Of a new Heaven sown with unknown stars, And underneath, a new and wondrous
World. Stranger the problem he, the undaunted,
solved Than all your problems of a world to come.
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN.
37
Fie on your poets, fools of fantasy, That never one hath sung that hero's praise ! '
Then I remember'd an old Song o' the Sea Put in the mouth of one who sailed the main With that stern captain, and within his arms Held him when, slain by poisonous darts,
he died ; The words, the rhyme, kept time within my
brain
Like wild sea-surges as the other spake ; And when, with eager glance around, he
ceased,
I craved permission of our smiling Queen, And having quickly gained it, thus began : —
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN. (SPOKEN IN THE PERSON OF ONE OF HIS
LIEUTENANTS, DYING AT HOME, YEARS AFTER THE WONDERFUL VOYAGE WAS OVER.)
SEND no shaven monks to shrive me, close
the doors against their cries ; Liars all ! ay, rogues and liars, like the
Father of all lies ; Nay, but open wide the casement, once
more let me feast my gaze On the glittering signs of Heaven, on the
mighty Ocean-ways !
Who's that knocking? FraRamiro? Left
his wine-cup and arm-chair, Come again with book and ointment, to
anoint me and prepare? Sacramento !— send him packing, with his
comrades shaven-crown'd : Liars all ! and prince of liars is their Pope !
The world is round !
See, the Ocean ! like quicksilver, throbbing
in the starry light ! See the stars and constellations, strangely,
mystically bright ! Ah, but there, beyond our vision, other
stars look brightly down, Other stars, and high among them, great
Magellan's starry crown !
O Magellan ! lord and master ! — mighty
soul no Pope could tame ! On the seas and on the heavens you have
left your radiant name ; Brightly shall it burn for ever, o'er the
waters without bound, Proving Pope and Priests still liars, while
the sun-kist world is round.
Let the cowls at Salamanca cluster thick as
rook and daw ! Let the Pope, with right hand palsied,
clutch his thunderbolts of straw ! Heaven and Ocean, here and yonder, put
their feeble dreams to shame ; Earth is round, and high above it shines
Magellan's starry name !
Have you vam'sh'd, O my Master? O my
Captain, King of men, Shall I never more behold you standing
at the mast again, Eagle-eyed, and stern and silent, never
sleeping or at rest, Pallid as a man of marble, ever looking to
the west ?
As I lie and watch the heavens, once again
I seem to be Out upon the waste of waters, sailing on
from sea to sea. . . . Hark ! what's that ? — the monks intoning
in the chapel close at hand ? Nay, I hear but sea-birds screaming, round
dark capes of lonely land.
Out upon the still equator, on a sea with- out a breath,
Burning, blistering in the sunlight, we are tossing sick to death ;
Every night the sun sinks crimson on the water's endless swell,
Every dawn he rises golden, fiery as the flames of Hell.
Seventy days our five brave vessels welter in the watery glare,
O'er the bulwarks hang the seamen pant- ing open-mouth'd for air ;
On the 'Trinitie1 Magellan watches in a fierce unrest,
Never doubting or despairing, ever looking to the west.
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Then at last with fire and thunder open
cracks the sultry sky, While the surging seas roll under, swift
before the blast we fly, Westward, ever westward, plunging, while
the waters wash and wail ; Nights and days drift past in darkness
while we sail, and sail, and sail.
Then the Tempest, like an eagle by a
thunderbolt struck dead, With one last wild flap of pinions, droppeth
spent and bloody-red, Purpling Heaven and Ocean lieth on the
dark horizon's brink, While upon the decks we gather silently,
and watch him sink.
Troublously the Ocean labours in a last
surcease of pain, While a soft breath blowing westward
wafts us softly on the main, — Nearer to the edge of darkness where the
flat earth ends, men swear, Where the dark abysses open, gulf on gulf
of empty air !
Creeping silently our vessels enter wastes
of wondrous weed, Slimy growth that clings around them,
tangle growing purple seed, Staining all the waste of waters, making
isles of floating black, While the seamen, pointing fingers, shrink
in dread, and cry, ' Turn back ! '
On the 'Trinitie' Magellan stands and
looks with fearless eyes — 1 Fools, the world is round ! ' he answers,
' onward still our pathway lies ; Though the gulfs of Hell yawn'd yonder,
though the Earth were ended there, I would venture boldly forward, facing
Death and Death's despair.'
On their knees they kneel unto him, cross
themselves and shriek afraid, Pallid as a man of marble stands the
Captain undismayed, Claps on sail and leads us onward, while
the ships crawl in his track, Slowly, scarcely moving, trailing monstrous
weeds that hold them back.
On each vessel's prow a seaman stands and
casts the sounding-lead, In the cage high up the foremast gather
watchers sick with dread. Calmly on the poop Magellan marks the
Heavens and marks the Sea, Darkness round and darkness o'er him,
closing round the ' Trinitie.'
Days and nights of deeper darkness follow
— then there comes the cry, ' He is mad— Death waits before us— turn
the ships and let us fly ! ' Storm of mutinous anger gathers round
the Captain stern and true, Near the foremast, fiercely glaring, flash
the faces of the crew.
One there is, a savage seaman, gnashing
teeth and waving hands, Strides with curses to the Captain where
with folded arms he stands, — ' Turn, thou madman, turn ! ' he shrieketh
— scarcely hath he spoke the word, Ere a bleeding log he falleth, slaughter'd
by the Leader's sword !
' Fools and cowards ! ' cries Magellan,
spurning him with armed heel, 1 If another dreams of flying, let him speak
— and taste my steel ! ' Like caged tigers when the Tamer enters
calmly, shrink the band, While the Master strides among them,
cloth'd in mail and sword in hand.
O Magellan ! lord and leader ! — only He
whose fingers frame Twisted thews of pard or panther, knot
them round their hearts of flame, Light the emeralds burning brightly in their
eyeballs as they roll, Could have made that mightier marvel,
thine inexorable soul !
Onward, ever on, we falter — till there
comes a dawn of Day Creeping ghostly up behind us, mirror'd
faintly far away, While across the seas to starboard loometh
strangely land or cloud— ' Land to starboard ! ' cries Magellan—
' Land ! ' the seamen call aloud.
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN.
39
Southward steering creep the vessels, while
the lights of morning grow ; Fades the land, while in our faces chilly fog
and vapour blow ; Colder grows the air, and clinging round
the masts and stiffening sails Freezes into crystal dewdrops, into hanging
icicles !
Suddenly arise before us, phantom-wise, as in eclipse,
Icebergs drifting on the Ocean like in- numerable ships —
In the light they flash prismatic as among their throng we creep,
Crashing down to overwhelm us, thundering to the thund'rous Deep !
Towering ghostly and gigantic, 'midst the
steam of their own breath, Moving northward in procession in their
snowy shrouds of Death, Rise the bergs, now overtoppling like great
fountains in the air, While along their crumbling edges slips the
seal and steals the bear.
With the frost upon his armour, like a
skeleton of steel, Stands the Master, waiting, watching, clad
in cold from head to heel ; Loud his voice rings through the vapours,
ordering all and leading on, Till the bergs, before his finger, fall back
ghostlike, and are gone !
Once again before our vision sparkles
Ocean wide and free, ( With the sun's red ball of crimson resting
on the rim of sea ; — ' Lo, the sun ! ' he laughs exulting — ' still he
beckons far away — Earth is round, and on its circle evermore
we chase the Day ! '
As he speaks the sunset blackens. Twilight
trembles through the skies For a moment- then the heavens open all
their starry eyes ! Suddenly strange Constellations flash from
out the fields of blue- Not a star that we remember, not a splen- dour priestcraft knew !
Sinking on his knee, Magellan prays :
' Now glory be to God ! To the Christ who led us forward on His
wondrous watery road ! See, the heavens give attestation that our
search shall yet be crowned, Proving Pope and Priests still liars, and the
sun-kist world is round ! '
Sparkling ruby-ray'd and golden round the
dusky neck of Night Hangs the jewel'd Constellation, strangely,
mystically bright — Pointing at it cries the Master, ' By the God
we all adore, It shall bear my name, MAGELLAN ! ' and
it bears it, evermore.
Storms arising sweep us onward, but each night our courage grows,
Newer portals of the Heavens seem to open and enclose,
Showing in the blue abysm vistas lumin- ously strange,
Sphere on sphere, and far beyond them fainter lights that sparkle and change !
Presently once more we falter among pools
of drifting scum, Weed and tangle — o'er the blackness
curious sea-birds go and come — While to southward looms a darkness, as
of land or gathering cloud, Northward too, another darkness, and a
sound of breakers loud.
Once again they call in terror, 'Turn
again, for Death is near ! Once again he quells their tumult, smiting
till they crouch in fear. On the darkness closing round them, land
or cloud, our fleet is led, Fighting tides that sweep them backward,
flowing from some gulf of dread.
Next, the Vision ! next the Morning, after
rayless nights and days, Twinkling on a great calm Ocean stretching
far as eye can gaze, — Newer heavens and newer waters, solitary
and profound, Rise before us, while behind us Day arises
crimson-crown'd !
40
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Turning we behold the shadows of the
straits through which we sped, Then again our eyes look forward where
the windless waters spread ; Overhead the sun rolls golden, moving
westward through the blue, Reddens down the far-off heavens, beckons
bright, and we pursue.
On that vast and tranquil Ocean, folding
wings the strong winds dwell, Sleeping softly or just stirring to the water's
tranquil swell, Peaceful as the fields of heaven where the
stars like bright flocks feed, — So that many dream they wander thro" the
azure Heaven indeed !
Then Magellan, from its scabbard drawing
forth his shining sword, Grasps the blade, and downward bending
dips the bright hilt overboard — ' By the holy Cross's likeness, mirror'd in
this hilt ! ' cries he, ' Be this Ocean called Pacific, since it sleeps
eternallie ! '
Pastured with a calm eternal, drawing down
the clouds in dew, Sighing low with soft pulsations, darkly,
mystically blue, Lies that long untrodden Ocean, while for
months we sail it o'er ; Ever dawns the sun behind us, ever swiftly
sets before.
But like devils out of Tophet, as we sail
with God for Guide, Rise the Spectres, Thirst and Hunger,
hollow-cheek'd and cruel-eyed ; Fierce and famish'd creep the seamen,
while the tongues between their teeth Loll like tongues of hounds for water, dry
as dust and black with death.
Many fall and die blaspheming, ' Give us
food ! ' the living call — Pallid as a man of marble stands the Master
gaunt and tall, Hunger fierce within him also, and his
parch'd lips prest in pain, But a mightier thirst and hunger burning in
his heart and brain !
Black decks blistering in the sunlight, sails
and cordage dry as clay, Crawl the ships on those still waters night
by night and day by day ; Then the rain comes, and we lap it as upon
the decks it flows — ' Spread a sail ! ' calls out the Master, and
we catch it ere it goes.
Now and then a lonely sea-bird hovers far away, and we
Crouch with hungry eyes and watch it fluttering closer o'er the sea,
Curse it if it flies beyond us, shoot it if it cometh nigh,
Share the flesh and blood among us, under- neath the Captain's eye.
Sometimes famish'd unto madness, fierce as
wolves that shriek in strife, One man springs upon another, stabs him
with the murderous knife ; Then the Master, stalking forward where
the murderer shrinks in dread, Bids him kneel, and as he kneeleth cleaves
him down, and leaves him dead.
O Magellan ! mighty Eagle, circling sun- ward lost in light,
Wafting wings of power and striking meaner things that cross thy flight,
God to such as thee gives never lambkin's love or dove's desire —
Nay, but eyes that scatter terror from a ruthless heart of fire !
Give me wine. My pulses falter. . .
So ! . . . Confusion to the cowls ! They who hooted at my Eagle, eyes of bats
and heads of owls ! Throw the casement open wider ! There
is something yet to tell — How we came at last to waters where the
naked islesmen dwell.
Isles of wonder, fringed with coral, ring'd
with shallows turquoise-blue, Where bright fish and crimson monsters
flash'd their jewel'd lights and flew, Steeps of palm that rose to heaven out of
purple depths of sea, While upon their sunlit summits stirr'd the
tufted cocoa- tree —
THE VOYAGE OF MAGELLAN.
Isles of cinnabar and spices, where soft airs
for ever creep, Scenting Ocean all around them with
strange odours soft as sleep — Isles about whose promontories danced the
black man's light canoe, Isles where dark-eyed women beckon' d,
perfumed like the breath they drew.
Drunken with the sight we landed, rush'd
into the scented glades, Treading down the scented branches, seized
the struggling savage maids. Ah, the orgy ! Still it sickens! — blood of
men bestrewed our path, Till the islesmen rose against us, thick as
vultures shrieking wrath.
Then, the sequel ! Nay, I know not how
the damned deed could be — By some islesman's poisoned arrow or some
Spaniard's treacherie ; But one evening, as we struggled fighting
to our boats on shore, In the shallows fell the Captain, foully
slain, and rose no more !
O Magellan ! O my Master ! O my Captain,
King of men ! Was it fit thou so shouldst perish, though
thy work was over then, Foully slain by foe or comrade, butcher 'd
like a common thing, Thou whose eagle flight had circled Earth
upon undaunted wing !
Nay, but then my King had conquered !
Earth and Ocean to his sight Open'd had their wondrous visions, shaming
centuries of night ; Nay, but even the shining Heavens kept
the record of his fame — Earth was round, and high above it shone
Magellan's starry name.
How our wondrous voyage ended ? Nay,
I know not, — all was done ; Lying in rny ship I sickened, moaning,
hidden from the sun. Yea ! the vessels drifted onward till hey I
came to isles of calm, Where some savage monarch hail'd them,
standing underneath a palm.
How the wanderers took these islands tribu- tary to our King,
Show'd the Cross, baptized the monarch, homeward crept on weary wing ?
Pshaw, 'tis nothing ! All was over ! He had staked his soul and gained,
They but reaped the Master's sowing, they but crawl'd where he had reigned !
Hark ! what sound is that ? The chiming
of the dreary vesper bell ? Nay, I hear but Ocean sighing, feel the
waters heave and swell. Earth is round, but sailing sunward with
my Master still I fare — Other Heavens his ship is searching, — and
I go to seek him there I
The wall of darkness round the rainy house
Broke as I ended, and a watery beam
Of sunshine struck the pane, and lingering
on it,
Became prismatic. Then with quiet smile Professor Mors, the truculent Irishman, Whose treatise on the origin of worlds Fluttered the Churches for a season, said : ' Man conquers earth, and climbing yonder
Heaven Pursues the baleful gods from throne to
throne !
Ah, but the strife was long, and even here It hath not ended yet. Each Phantom laid, Another rises, though on fearless wing We creep from world to world. Evil abides, And with her hideous mother, Ignorance, Scatters pollution ! '
Calmly answered him Dan Paumanok, the Yankee pantheist : 1 Friend, I have dwelt on earth as long as
you,
And found all evil here but forms of good ! ' Whereat some laughed, and cried, ' A
paradox ! '
But, gravely leaning back in his arm-chair, The greybeard cried, ' Knowledge and
Ignorance,
I calculate, are sisters —otherwise Named Good and Evil. Hand in hand
they walk,
So like, that even those who know them best Scarcely distinguish their identities ! Thro' the dark places of the troubled earth
42
THE EARTHQUAKE.
The first walks radiant and the last gropes
blind ;
But when they come upon the mountain- tops,
In the night's stillness, underneath the stars, The last it is that ofttimes leads the first And points her upward to the heavenly way ! '
* If this be so,' the grim Professor cried, Shrugging his shoulders with impatient
sneer,
' Then wrong is every whit as good as right, The Darkness is no better than the Light It comprehends not!' 'Certainly,' ex- claimed
The melancholy transcendentalist ; ' One is the tally of the other, friend ; Nay more, they intermingle, and are one ! The morning dew, that scarcely bends the
flowers,
Exhaled to heaven becomes the thunderbolt That strikes and slays at noon.'
But Mors replied With cold superior smile : ' A cheerful
creed !
And comfortable, — since, whate'er befalls, No matter if the foemen sack the city, No matter if the plague-cart comes and
goes,
No matter if the starving cry for bread, The sleepy watchman calmly cries "All's
well ! " For my poor part, as one whose youth was
spent,
Not in pursuit of vain delusive dreams, But in the halls of Science, whom I serve, I fail to find in Evil any form My mistress would be brought to christen
good;
Nay, on my life,' he added, gathering zeal, ' Than such a pantheistic lotus-flower I'd rather choose those husks and shells of
grace John Calvin found when, prone on hands !
and knees,
He searched the garbage of Original Sin ! And rather than believe that Hell was
Heaven, People my Hell once more with soot-black
fiends !
For Fever, Pestilence, and Ignorance No angels are, fall'n from some high estate,
But devilish shapes indeed, beneath the
heel
Of Hermes, god of healing and of light, Soon to be trampled down and vanquished. And other hideous things that waste the
world,
War, Superstition, Anarchy, Disease, Monsters that Man has fashion'd, like to that Framed in the poet's tale by Frankenstein — These shall be slain by their creator's hand, Their Master's, even Man's. Survey the
earth ;
And see the sunrise of our saner creed Scattering the darkness and the poisonous
fumes
Which eighteen hundred weary years ago Came from the sunless sepulchre of Christ. Where Fever poisoned the pellucid wel Thedrinking-fountain clear as crystal flows ; Where the marsh thicken'd and miasma
spread,
Cities arise, with clean and shining streets And sewers transmuting garbage into gold ; Where the foul blood-stained Altar once
was set,
Stand the Museum and Laboratory ; The Library, the Gymnasium, and the Bath Replace the palace ; Manufactories, Gathering together precious gifts for man, Supplant the Monolith and Pyramid. Thus everywhere the light of human love Brightens a wondering convalescent world Just rising from the spectre-haunted bed Whereon it sickened of a long disease, Attended by the false physician, Christ.'
He paused ; the fever of his eager words Flash'd on from face to face until it reached The face of Verity, the priest of Art ; But there it faded, for with pallid frown And lifted hands, the gentle prophet cried : ' Light ? Sunrise ? Sunlight ? I who speak
have eyes,
And yet I see but darkness visible i Lost is the azure in whose virgin depths The filmy cirrus turn'd to Shapes divine, Goddess and god, soft- vestured, white as
wool ! Faded the sun, which, striking things of
stone, Turn'd them to statues which like Memnon's
sang, And palpitating over domes and walls,
THE THIRD DAY.
43
Cover'd them o'er with forms miraculous, Prismatic, which the hand of genius touch'd And fixed in colour ere the forms could fade ! The world, you say, is heal'd; to me, it
seems
Just smitten with the plague, and every- where
The foul cloud gathers, shutting out the sun. And that faint sound we deem the sweet
church chimes,
Is but the death-bell tinkling, while the cart Comes forits load of dark disfigured dead. Meantime, within the foul dissecting-room The form of Man, which, ere our plague- time came,
Was reverenced in shapes of loveliness, Rosy in flesh, or snowy white in stone, Lies desecrated, hideous, horrible, Pois'ning the air and sickening the soul ! And on the slab, beneath the torturer's knife, Man's gentle friend, the hound, shrieks
piteously,
Answer' d by all the bleeding flocks of Pan ! And everywhere the fume of Anarchy, And hideous monsters of machinery Toiling for ever in their own thick breath, Blends with the plague-smoke, blotting out
the sun, Whereby alone all shapes of beauty live ! '
' Nay, nay,' cried Barbara, ' though it rains
to-day
The lift will clear to-morrow. I believe You all are partly right and partly wrong, For surely many things in life that seem Most evil are but blessings in disguise ? And difficult 'tis, maybe, to discern Where Knowledge ends and Ignorance
begins.
But then, again, what soul rejoices not To see yon mailed Perseus, Science, stand Bruising the loathsome hydra of Disease, Ay, often slaying Sin and conquering
Death ?
And yet, again, the counter-plea is true, That Science, though she heals the wounds
of life,
Whiles heals them cruelly and uncannily, — Just shuts the sufferer in a sunless room, And changes the old merry tunes of time To daft mechanic discord, such as that Which issues from the throats of mine and
mill,
With sough of poisonous reek and flames
more sad Than ever came from Tophet ! '
As she ceased,
Professor Mors, the pallid pessimist, Outstretched his lean and skeletonian hand, Pointing out sunward :— ' See ! ' he cried,
' the God,
Last-born and first-born, Nature's micro- cosm,
Who, sitting on his mighty throne of graves, Murmurs the death-dirge of Humanity ! Had ye but ears, methinks that you might
catch
The burthen of his melancholy song, As I myself have heard it oftentimes When wandering weary underneath the
stars. 'Twas thus, methinks, it ran, or something
thus,
Full of a burthen strange and sad as ever Was heard beside the wave-wash'd shores
of Time. '
SOLILOQUY OF THE GRAND ETRE.
I A M God, who was Man. Lord of earth,
sea, and sky, I endure while men die ; The River of Life laps my feet, flowing by.
Out of darkness it came, into darkness it
goes,
From repose to repose, And mirrors my face in its flood as it flows.
I am Man, who was men. I am flesh,
sense, and soul, I was part who am Whole, I am God, being Man, whom no god may control.
Now, sitting alone on my throne, I survey
The dim Past far away, Whence I came, on the borders of infinite day.
All things and all forces combining have
brought
Me, their God, out of nought, Through the night-time of sense to the morning of thought.
44
THE EARTHQUAKE.
I think and I am. I look round me, and
lo!
I remember and know Both whence I have issued and whither I go.
I stand on the heights of the earth, and
descry,
From sky on to sky, The path through the ages that led me so
high.
From the deserts of space where my fire- webs were spun, Spreading thence one by one
Till they flash'd into flame and cohered to a sun ;
From the great whirling sun whence, with
no eye to mark, I shot like a spark, Then spun fiery-wing'd, round and round,
through the dark.
There slowly, alone in the silence of space,
I moved in my place,
With the night at my back and the light on my face.
First shapeless and formless, then spheric
and fair,
With no sense, with no care, I cool'd my hot breast in dark fountains of
air.
And the mist of my breathing enwrapt me,
and grew
Like a cloud in the blue — Then flooded my frame with warm oceans
of dew.
In the waters I swam, while the sun, red as
blood,
Of the waves of that flood Wove a green grassy sheen, for my raiment
and food.
At last, one bright morn, with no sense,
with no sight, After aeons of night, I lay like a bride new apparell'd and bright.
And embracing my Bridegroom, who bent
from the skies With bright beautiful eyes, Felt something within me grow quick, and
And straightway I too was the seed, and
behold !
Small and lustrous and cold, I moved in the slime, taking shapes mani- fold.
I was quick who was clay. I was living
and drew
Breath of darkness and dew ; From form on to form groping blindly, I
grew.
Then form'd like a Monster with wings, I
upieapt
From the waters and swept Through the mirk of their breath ; or lay
snakewise, and crept.
Change on change, till I wander'd on hands
and on feet
Where the cloud-waves retreat ; And ever each age I grew fair and more
fleet.
The world that was I brighten'd round me,
and still,
Some strange task to fulfil, I changed and I changed, with no wish,
with no will.
At last, after aeons of death and decay,
At the gateways of Day I stood, looking up at the heavens far away !
The sea at my feet, and the stars o'er my
head,
Naked, dark, with proud tread I walked on the heights, being quick, who
was dead.
I was Man, who was monster. I lived, and
I drew
Gentle breath from the blue, Looked backward and forward, moved blindly, but knew.
And I heark'd to the sounds of the earth,
to the herds
Of the beasts and the birds, And I broke to wild babble of mystical
words.
I could speak, who was dumb ; I could
smile, who was stone ; Of those others not one Could speak or could smile. I was king- like and lone.
SOLILOQUY OF THE GRAND ETRE.
45
I reign'd o'er the earth, and I slew for a feast And as wave follows wave, or as cloud
Both the bird and the beast ; My seed, scatter'd eastward and westward, increased.
But I feared what the bird and the beast
did not fear :
Shapes of dread creeping near In the night-time, strange voices that cried
in mine ear.
And I saw what the bird and the beast
could not see — Shapes that thunder 'd at me From the clouds overhead, till I prayed on
my knee.
And I named the dark gods that the beasts
could not name — And I crouch'd, fearing blame At the voice of the waters, the thunder's
acclaim.
One god seemed the strangest and saddest
of all,
Who with silent footfall Slew my seed in the night, smote the great
and the small.
Men were scattered like leaves — I remained
being Ma.n ;
'Neath the blight and the ban, Like a hound on the grave of its master I
ran
On the tombs of my race, crying loud in
despair
To the gods of the air, \Vho changed as the clouds and were deaf
to my prayer.
Then I learned the one Name that the gods
overhead
Ever whisper 'd in dread, And methought He was Lord of the quick
and the dead.
For I looked on the Book of the stars, and
could frame
The strange signs of the Name, And yet when I called Him He heard not,
follows cloud, Flash'd my kind in their crowd, Then slept in their season, each man in his shroud.
Men died, but I died not ; I lived and dis- cerned, With my face ever turned
To the skies, where the lights of my universe burned.
Then I groped on the earth, and I searched
sea and land
For the signs of the Hand Which shaped the cloud-limits, the stars,
and the sand.
And all that I found was the footprints of
clay
/ had left on my way From the darkness of night to the borders
of day.
Then I search'd the great voids of the
heaven for a trace Of a Form or a Face ; I questioned the stars — each was dumb in
its place.
So I cried ' Wheresoever I gaze, I descry,
On the earth, in the sky, One thing that is deathless, the Life that isl!'
And I cried, as I looked on the image I cast
On the limitless Vast, ' I was from the first, and I am till the last ! '
I am Lord of the world. I am God, being
Man.
In the night I began, Then grew from a cell to a soul, without
plan.
As far as the limits of Time and of Space
I my footprints can trace Wending onward and upward, from race back to race.
I behold, who was blind. I was part, who
am Whole.
As the waters that roll Are my seed who forsake and upbuild me,
their Soul.
46
THE EARTHQUAKE.
Do they weep? I am calm. Do they
doubt? I am sure. Though they die, I endure, As a fire that ascending grows stainless and
pure.
I discern all the Past, waves on waves that
have fled,
While I press with slow tread To a goal I discern not, o'er snowdrifts of
dead.
I am Thought in the flesh, who was Sense
in the seed.
Silent, sanctified, freed, I emerge, the full sign of the Dream and the Deed.
I am God, being Man. In my glory I blend
Life and death without end. If the Void hold my peer, let Him speak. I attend.
' So speaks the last and mightiest of the
gods, Our Master, Man immortal ! ' Sparkle
cried ;
1 His shadow fills the universe as far As His own thought can wing ; His bright
eyes face
The sunlight with a blaze it cannot blind ; And in the hollow of His hand He weighs The stars that are His playthings. He has
slain
All other gods, the greatest and the least, And now within the inmost heart of earth He builds a Temple more miraculous Than any little temple wrought in stone ! '
' Say rather,1 answered Bishop Eglantine, ' He wearily prepares the funeral pyre Whereon Himself, in the dim coming years, Shall mount and royally burn, or (failing
fire) Whereon outstretch'd He shall await the
end,
While quietly the skeleton hands of Frost Weave Him a shroud, and Time doth snow
upon Him
Out of the heavens of eternal cold ! For is not one thing sure, that this round
world
Must perish in its season, or become A habitation where no breathing thing Can longer creep or crawl? Alas for Him, Your poor Grand Etre, enrooted like a tree In the still changing soil of human life, When human life itself shall pass away As breath upon a mirror, and Night resume Her empire on the rayless universe. Wiser, methinks, than your pale seer of
France,
Who fashion'd this same shadow of a god, Is he who prophesies in soul's despair The sure extinction of the conscious types. Place for the pessimist ! — in Hartmann
comes
A later Buddha, and a balefuller. " Ere yet Man's Soul," he crieth, "merges
back
Into the nothingness from which it rose, Three stages of illusion must be past : The stage of a belief in happiness In this hard world ; the stage of a belief ' In happiness in any world to come ; And last, the stage of yet more foolish faith In any happiness the race can gain Beyond the life of individual man. Your god, then, is foredoom'd to nothing- ness,
Surely as Zeus or any of the slain Already peopling chaos ! " '
' Yet — he reigns ! '
Cried Sparkle, ' and we do him reverence ! Fairer than Balder, tenderer than Christ, His brethren, mightier than Jove or Brahm, He adumbrates the wisdom and the joy Of Nature, and his large beneficence Extends sweet aid to all created things. All that he prophesies and promises He realises and fulfils, unlike The thunderer on Sinai, or the God Who wore the crown of thorns ! '
' Alas, poor God ! ' Murmur'd that other. ' Fashion'd out of
pain,
Shapen in doubt, and clothen with despair, How shall He, having re-created Earth And brought the fabled Eden back again, Shut out the memory of His own sad dead ? For looking backward, He beholds the
world Strewn with the graves of those who have
lived and loved, And suffered, to complete His deity ;
THE THIRD DAY.
47
And looking sadly round Him, He beholds Millions in act to suffer, hears the wail That shall not cease for many an age to
come ;
And looking forward, He sees the cataclysm Of Nature, and his own completed work Abolish'd in the twinkling of a star ! O pale phantasmic mockery of a god ! O shadow fainter than all shadows cast Since first the wild man fear'd the darkness,
shrieked
At his own shape projected on the cloud — A spectre of the Brocken, a forlorn Image of primal ignorance and fear ! Shall we resign for such a dream as this Our human birthright and our heavenly
hope ? '
' Nay,' interposed another — Edward Clay,
Pupil of Verity and Ercildoune,
' The exodus from Paris following
The exodus from Houndsditch, what
remain
But human types of godhead, fit at least For temporary worship ? I will travel As far as Mecca on my hands and knees To see a godlike man, — in whom alone We find the apex and the crown of things, 'The vindication of Humanity. The individual gives the type divine, The rest, the race, is nothing ! '
Thereupon Outspoke Dan Paumanok, the pantheist : ' Friend, I have often known your godlike
men, And loved them, not for that wherein they
missed, But that wherein they shared, the common
strength
And weakness of the race. I love to look On Goethe's feet of clay, to touch the dross Mixed with the golden heart of Washington, <To think that Socrates, who braved the
gods
And drank his hemlock cup so cheerfully, Shrank from the chiding of a shrew at home. Gods? Godlike men? I guess all men
possess,
By right of manhood, godlike qualities ; But high as ever human type has reached, The wave of masterful Humanity Sweeps higher, striking yonder shore of
stars !
Worship no man at all, but every man, Man typical, Man cosmic, multiform. The flower and fruit of Being ; seize the
Thought
Effused from human forms as light is shed Out of the motion of a living thing ; Follow the sunward flight of our fair race, Which breathes and suffers, multiplies and
dies,
And in a million forms of sense and soul Sweeps into action and is justified ! The blacksmith at his anvil, the glad child Gathering shells upon the ocean shore, The scientist in his laboratory, The prostitute that walks the moonlit
streets,
The sailor at the masthead, or the poet Lying and dreaming in the summer wood — All these, and countless other forms divine, Are evermore divine enough for me. Fast through them flows the strange and
mystic Thought We comprehend not being things that
die,
But which, if we but knew, is Life itself — Large Life and ample godhead. We are
forms
The god-force fashions, as it fashions suns And clouds and waves and patient animals, Dead things and living, quickening through
the stars As through the kindling ovum in the
womb, —
And every form of life, howe'er so faint, Is corporate godhead ! '
' Ho ! a heretic ! ' Cried Douglas, laughing ; ' come, my
myrmidons,
Make ready there the faggots and the stake : By Cock and by St. Peter, Dan must burn. For less than this Giordano Bruno wore The martyr's shirt of fire, for less than this John Calvin tuck'd the bed of flaming coals Around Servetus, chuckling to himself " He called me names, improbus et blas-
phemus,
And routing me in argument, affirm'd Stone bench and table, things inanimate, To be celestial Substance, very God : Wherefore I hand him to be burned alive By such celestial Substance — wood, coals,
fire— And to this God I leave him cheerfully ! "
THE EARTHQUAKE.
For John had humour, mark you, grim as
death
And blue as brimstone ; for the rest, he knew The God of Judah kept His ancient tastes And dearly loved a human sacrifice ! '
'Those days are done for ever,' Primrose
said,
' And he who slew Servetus in his wrath Slew also priestcraft and the crimson Beast, So that the lamb of gentleness might reign. '
' Indeed ! ' cried Sparkle with a smile and
sneer.
' One comfort is, grim John invented Hell, Fit home for such a ravening wolf as he ! Why, yes, we grant you Hell, if you admit Your Calvin's place there ! But I doubt
indeed
If you have yet abolished martyrdom. I know full many Christians, worthy souls, Who swear by book and preach to simple
men,
Who, did our gentler human laws permit, Would strip our Cuthberts naked to the skin And give them fire for raiment willingly ! Ay, and they do it, freely dealing out Moral damnation and keen social flame, So that no man alive, if he would keep His worldly goods and social privileges, Dare speak the thing he thinks, or openly Affirm the heavens are empty, God de- throned.
The thinker is an outcast as of old, And scarcely dares to phrase his thought
aloud
Even on the pillow where he rests his head, Lest his goodwife should hear the heresy, And call the curate or the parish priest To compass his conversion, or at least Rescue the little ones from blight and bane. '
'Why not?' most sadly answer 'd Eglantine; ' Blame not the shepherd if he seeks to save His lambkins from the touch of Antichrist. Our gentle Inquisition, though it works In cruelty no more, but all in love, Is slack, too slack. The age is godless, sir. Affrighted by the spectres all around, Our priests lack zeal ! Meantime how busily The self-approven priests of Science toil — The Devil still is busier gathering tares Than angels who upbind the golden grain. '
Another voice broke in, a woman's voice, Clear-toned and gentle— round Miss Hazle-
mere's,
The grey-hair'd lassie with a matron's form And mother's yearning in her virgin eyes : Half doubter, half believer, she asserts The privilege of woman's sex to solve Problems to which the arid minds of men Are too untender and rectangular, Rebukes the Churches, rates the scientists, And lights a lonely spiritual lamp By stormy waters, on the rocks of Doubt. 'The truth's with Father Eglantine,' she
said ; ' A priestcraft is a priestcraft, though it
speaks
The first word of Religion or the last Of Science. I would trust Geneva John No more than Torquemada, and no less Than Cuthbert or than Mors, if e'er the law Arm'd them with amplitude of priestly
power.
Think you there is no Inquisition now ? Alas ! I too know scores of simple souls Who, having kept their foolish faith in
God,
Anthropomorphic, ancient, infantine, Are, brought before the judges of the time, Condemn'd as mad or hypocritical ! The old belief is so unfashionable Among the very wise and over-wise, That he who dares affirm it openly Is deem'd unfit to govern his own wife Or be the lord of his own nursery. And presently, be sure, if this thing grows, 'Twill be as perilous to believe in God As 'twas in darker ages to discuss God's Substance, or attempt to separate The Tria Juncta of the Trinity. No priestcraft and no priest at all, say I, But freedom and free thought, free scope,
free choice To fashion any fetish that I please ! '
So speaking, she was conscious of two eyes, Mouthful and eloquent, regarding her : VIr. Marsh Mallow, bright and bold, but
growing
Like his own namesake in a watery place, Caught up the ball she smiling threw his
way, And cried : ' Truth still remains with
Eglantine !
THE THIRD DAY.
49
The Church which builds itself on Peter's
Rock, And still doth keep the keys of Heaven
and Hell, Lacks zeal to face those Spectres of the
mind
Which it might lay to sleep for evermore With just one wave of the enchanter's wand. Meantime they rush abroad like ravening
wolves,
Appalling Reason, making Love afraid, Rending in twain the beauteous heaven-eyed
Lamb Which men have christen'd Faith. But
patience yet ; The priestcraft and the priest shall conquer
yet, And men grow holy in their own despite ! '
Flush'd to the temples, Stephen Harkaway, The dandy of revolt, a positivist, And positive to the very finger-tips, Made answer : ' Yet again the solemn truth Remains with Eglantine ! The priest shall
reign,
And on the sands of time another Pope Upbuild another and a fairer Rome. There the apostles of the fair new creed, Having abolished Christ and all the gods, Destroyed the current poison of belief In individual immortality, Shall to the only god, Humanity, Sing their hosannah ! Ay, and they shall
raise
Their Inquisition on the heart of man, And unto Vice and Ignorance and Disease, All things that mar their god's divinity, Deal the peine forte et dure ! Prison and
fire
Shall fright the fortune-telling charlatans Who creep with old wives' tales from house
to house ! Since Man without a creed is stark and
starved,
And only feeble souls desiderate A creed without a priestcraft, ours shall be Tyrannical, I trust, and, furthermore, Kind to the very verge of cruelty ! No fetish, Madam, will be tolerated, Nor any juggler's tricks to cheat the soul. '
1 1 thank you, sir,' Miss Hazlemere replied,
1 For throwing off the mask that we may see
H.
The features of your God. I ever thought Your Comte a Jesuit in disguise ! But come, Our Queen looks sadly on this war of words, And longs to hush its Babel. Who will
touch
The midriff of the mystery with a song ? For Music, of all angels walking earth, Is fittest far to phrase the Thought divine Which dies away in utterance on the lips That only speak poor human nature's prose. Sweet Music gropes her way and walketh
blind
Because she saw the Vision long ago And closed her eyes in joy unutterable, The light of which lies ever upon her face Although she cannot see ! '
Then at a sign From Lady Barbara, I, her poet, rose And touch'd the instrument, with eager
hand
Sounded a prelude of precipitous notes, Then broke to measured song ; and thus I
sang :—
< O MARINERS.
O Manners, out of the sunlight, and on through
the infinite Main, We have sailed, departing at morning ; — and now
it is morning again.
Dimly, darkly, and blindly, our life and our
journey begun, Blind and deaf was our sense with the fiery sands
of the sun.
Then slowly, grown stronger and stronger, feeling
from zone on to zone, We passed the islands of darkness, and reached
the sad Ocean, alone.
But now we pause for a moment, searching the
east and the west, Above and beneath us the waters that mirror our
eyes in their breast !
Behind, the dawn and the darkness, — new dawn
around and before, — Ah me, we are weary, and hunger to rest, and to
wonder no more.
Yet never, O Mariners, never were we so stately
and fair — The forms of the flood obey us, we are lords of
the birds of the air.
And yet as we sail we are weeping, and crying,
' Although we have ranged So far over infinite waters, transformed out of
darkness and changed,
THE EARTHQUAKE.
We know that the Deep beneath us must drink
us and wash us away' — Nay, courage — sail on for a season — on, on to
the gateways of Day.
Our voyage is only beginning — its dreariest
dangers are done, We now have a compass to guide us, the Soul,
and it points to the Sun !
The stars in their places obey us, the winds are
as slaves to our sail — Be sure that we never had journey'd so far but
to perish and fail !
Out of the wonderful sunlight, and on through
the infinite Main, We have sail'd, departing at morning — and now
it is morning again !
INTERLUDE. To H .
DEAREST, thou whose lightest breath Sweetens Life and conquers Death, Fair as pure, and purer far Than the dreams of poets are, Unto thee, and only thee, I upon my bended knee Give my birthright— Poesy !
Ishmael of the singing race,
Born where sky and mountain meet, Standing in a lonely place
With the world below my feet, Wrapt about with mist and cloud, Songs of joy I sang aloud ! Then the Muses of the North,
Like Valkyries heavenly-eyed, From the storm-cloud trooping forth,
Found me on the mountain-side, Buckled on my mail of steel, Arm'd me nobly head to heel, Placed a sword within my hand,
Made me warrior of the Right, Crying, ' Go and take thy stand
In the vanward of the fight ! Hasten forth, made strong and free, Through thy birthright— Poesy ! '
Then I gazed, and far below Saw the fires of battle glow, Saw the banners of the world Kindle, to the winds unfurl'd, — Saw the pomp of priests and kings Girt about by underlings, Hunting down with sword and spear Liberty, the fleet red-deer, — Saw the Cities vast and loud, Foul as Sodom and as proud,
Each a Monster in its mire Crouching low with eyes of fire ; Heard the cruel trumpet's blare, Mix'd with plagal-hymns of prayer, Saw the world from sea to sea Blind to Death and Deity !
Singing loud with savage joy Down the glens I sprang, a boy- Downward as the torrent swept, On from rock to rock I leapt, Reach'd the valleys where the fight Flash'd in flame from morn to night, Plunged into the thickest strife,
Scarcely knowing friend from foe, Knew the bloody stress of life,
Till a sword-thrust laid me low.
Slowly on the moonlit plain,
Where the dead lay dark and dumb, I, unclosing mine eyes again,
Saw my fair Valkyries come. Bending over me they crooned Loving runes and heal'd my wound, — Then they cried, ' Uprise once more, Seek the City's inmost core, Find the wretched and opprest,
Sing them mountain-songs of cheer ; Help the basest, brand the best,
We shall watch and hover near — Face the King upon his throne,
Face the Priest within the shrine, Fear no voice save God's alone (Thou hast heard it oft intone
Through the cloud-wrapt woods of
pine)—
Take thy place, but close to thee Clasp thy birthright— Poesy ! '
Through the City's gates I crept Silent, while the watchmen slept — Pass'd from shade to shade wherein Crowded monstrous shapes of sin, Peer'd against the panes to see Lamplit rooms of revelry, Where the warrior's head did rest On the harlot's wine-stain'd breast ; Linger 'd on the bridges great, Melancholy, desolate ; Watch'd the river roll beneath, Shimmering in the moonbeam's breath ; Met the fluttering forms that pass Painted underneath the gas, Mark'd the murderer's fearful face Looming in a lonely place, Knew the things that wake, and those Lost in rapture of repose ; Saw the gradual Dawn flash red On the housetops overhead, Till the morning glory broke, And the sleeping Monster woke J
INTERLUDE.
Singing loud in savage joy, In the streets I stood, a boy ! Round me flocked the citizens, Thronging from their homes and dens, While I spake of signs and dreams Learn'd among the hills and streams, Of the God with veiled head Passing by with thunder- tread On the mountains red with morn In whose bosom I was born. In a tongue uncouth I sang, While the air with laughter rang, Loudest, merriest, when I told
Of strange visions in the night — God and angels manifold
Shining on the mountain-height ; Then a voice cried, ' Come away,
He is mad, this mountaineer ! ' — Lonely in the morning gray
Soon I sang, with none to hear, Save a few sad outcast men, And a weeping Magdalen. Then with loud prophetic song
To the public marts I came, Strode amidst the busy throng,
Curst the avarice and the shame, Call'd the wrath of God upon Caesar sitting on his throne, By the lights of Heaven and Hell Shamed the tinsel'd priests of Bel. Then around me ere I knew Clamour of the factions grew, Thronging, shrieking, multiplying, Came the legions of the lying, Cast me down and stript me bare ; Yet I struggled in despair, Till a poison'd dagger's thrust Laid me dying in the dust.
Then the night came, and the skies With innumerable eyes Saw me lying there alone, Bleeding on the streets of stone ; While my voice before I died On my wild Valkyries cried. Closing eyelids with a sigh,
Into night I seem'd to pass, Seem'd to fade away and fly
As the breath upon a glass.
Presently I woke again,
Thinking ' All is o'er and done, This is chilly Death's domain,
Far away from moon and sun ! ' Even then methought I heard
Something moving, breathing near ; Struggling with the sense I stirred,
Open'd eyes in fluttering fear, And before my dazzled sight Shone a Vision heavenly bright !
Ah, the Vision ! ah, the blest Rapture, smiling manifest ! O'er me bending stood and smiled Love in likeness of a Child, — Holding in her gentle hand Lilies of the Heavenly Land ! Azure eyes and golden hair,
Gazing on me unafraid, Sweetly, marvellously fair,
Stood the little Angel-Maid !
Shall I tell how that same hour
Little hands my wound did dress, How I woke to life and power
Through that Maiden's tenderness ? Shall I tell (ah, wherefore tell Unto her who knows so well ?) Of the strength that came to me,
Not from my Valkyries wild, Who in need abandon'd me,
But from that celestial Child ? Though my sword was broken, though Helm and mail were lying low, Though my savage strength was shed, I was quick who late was dead, All my mountain blood again Rush'd electric to my brain, All grew fair where'er I trod With that messenger of God.
Need I tell (ah, wherefore tell Unto her who wrought the spell ?) How I seem'd from that strange hour Arm'd in nakedness of power ? — Yet the dagger's thrust again,
Poison'd, treacherous, as before, Sought me out and would have slain,
While we passed from door to door, Curst, rejected, and denied, Ishmael, I, and thou, my Guide ! Child of Light, thy loving look Brighten'd at each step we took, Kindled into love more strong At each cruel slight and wrong, While thy presence heavenly bright Grew from child's to woman's height, And within thy pensive eyes Rose the lore that makes us wise, — Woman's love, without whose gleam Life is like a drunkard's dream !
Need I tell (ah, wherefore tell, When thy soul remembers well ?) How smooth Jacob and his race, Hounding me from place to place, Hating truth and cursing me, Stole my birthright— Poesy ? How the sources of my song,
Darken'd o'er and frozen numb, Cold and silent lay for long
Like a fountain seal'd and dumb,
E 2
INTERLUDE.
Till thy finger touch'd at last Springs the world deem'd frozen fast ? High in sunlight, sparkling o er, Leaps my fount of song once more, While thy blessing back to me Brings my birthright — Poesy !
Child of Light, whose softest breath Sweetens Life and conquers Death, Fair as pure, and purer far Than the dreams of poets are, Never tongue of man can tell All thy gifts to Ishmael !—
Side by side and hand in hand, — Facing yonder mountain-land Whence I came and whereupon God the Lord has set His throne,— Through the shadowy vales below Climbing sunward, let us go. If I sing, I sing through thee ! Wherefore, Sweet, still share with me What I bring on bended knee— This my birthright,— Poesy !—
NEW YORK : Yuletide, 1884.
The City of Dream.
(1888.)
DEDICATION: TO THE SAINTED SPIRIT OF JOHN BUNYAN.
O TELLER of the Fairy Tale Divine,
How bright a dream was thine, — Wherein God's City shining as a star
Gleam'd silently from far
O'er haunted wastes, where Pilgrims pale as death
Toil'd slow, with bated breath !
Like children at thy knees we gather'd all,
Man, maiden, great and small ; Tho' death was nigh and snow was on our hair,
Yet still we gather'd there, Feeling upon our cheeks blow sweet and bland
A breath from Fairyland !
The sunless Book, held ever on thy knee,
Grew magical thro' thee ; Touch'd by thy wand the fountain of our fear
Sprang bright and crystal clear ; Thy right hand held a lily flower most fair,
And holly deck'd thy hair.
Of Giants and of Monsters thou didst tell,
Fiends, and the Pit of Hell ; Of Angels that like swallows manifold
Fly round God's eaves of gold ; Of God Himself, the Spirit those adore,
Throned in the City's core !
O fairy Tale Divine ! O gentle quest
Of Christian and the rest ! What wonder if we love it to the last,
Tho' childish faith be past, What marvel if it changes not, but seems
The pleasantest of dreams ?
Far other paths we follow — colder creeds Answer our spirits' needs —
The gentle dream is done;— 'neath life's sad shades,
The fabled City fades :— The God within it, shooting from his throne,
Falls, like a meteor stone !
So much is lost, yet still we mortals sad
Despair not or grow mad, But still search on, in hope to find full blest
The City of our quest ; — New guides to lead ; below, new lights of love,
And grander Gods, above.
And while of this strange latter quest I sing,
First to thy skirts I cling Like to a child, and in thy face I look
As in a gentle book, And all thy happy lore and fancies wise
I gather from thine eyes.
Tho' that first faith in Fairyland hath fled,
Its glory is not dead ; And tho' the lesser truth exists no more,
Yet in thy sweet Tale's core The higher truth of poesy divine
For evermore shall shine.
There dwells within all creeds of mortal birth,
That die and fall to earth, A higher element, a spark most bright
Of primal truth and light ;— No creed is wholly false, old creed or new,
Since none is wholly true.
Wherefore we Pilgrims bless thee as we go
With feeble feet and slow ; Light of forgotten Fairyland still lies
Upon our cheeks and eyes ; And somewhere in the starry waste doth gleam
The City of our Dream !
SETTING FORTH.
53
ARGUMENT.
One Ishmael, born in an earthly City beside the sea, having heard strange tidings of a Heavenly City, sets forth to seek the same ; and as he fares forth he is blindfolded by Evangelist, and given a Holy Book ; reading •which Book, he -wanders on terrified and blindfold, until, coming by chance to the house of one Iconoclast, he is relieved of the bandage covering his eyes, and led to an eminence, whence he beholds all the Pilgrims of the World. Quittitig Evangelist, he encounters Pitiful, and is directed towards the City of Christopolis, but in the crowded highway leading thitherward he meets Eglantine, who warns him that Christopolis is not the City of his quest. Yet neverthe- less he proceeds thither in his new friends company. He wanders through Christopolis and sees strange sights therein ; but being \ denounced for unbelief and heresy, he takes refuge beyond a great Gate dividing the City into two parts. Wise men accost him and warn him that peace and assurance are to be found only in the Book given him by Evangelist ; but this in his perversity he denies, and casting away the Book is again denounced as unbelieving, and driven out of the City into the areary region beyond it. His talk with one Merciful, who beseeches him in vain to pause and pray. Flying on he knows not whither, he encounters rain and tempest, and takes shelter in a woeful Wayside Inn, where he meets the outcasts of all the creeds. His journey thence through the night, and his meeting with the wild horseman Esau, who carries him to the Groves of Faun, watched over by the shepherd Thyrsis and his child, a maid of surpassing beauty. Led by Thyrsis, he sees the Vales of Vain Delight, and after drinking of the Waters of Oblivion, beholds the living apparition of the Greek god Eros. He sails with Eros over strange waters, and comes betimes to an Amphitheatre among mountains, where he witnesses the sacrificial tragedy of Cheiron, and the transubstantiation of Eros. He passes through the Valley of Dead Gods, and finds there his townsman Faith lying dead and cold. Yet he dies not, but finds himself on a
wan wayside, close to a rain-worn Cross, and holds speech with Sylvan, leaving whom he climbs again upward among mountains and shelters with the Hermit of the Mere. Thereon one Nightshade leads him up the highest peaks and shows him the Spectre of the Inconceivable ; after which sight of wonder he finds himself worn and old, but emerges presently in full daylight on the Open Way, whence, after parleying with Lateral and with Microcos, he is guided by a gentle stranger to the gates of the City builded without God. His weary wander- ings and experiences in that same City, latest and fairest of any built by Man, till the hour when, sickened and afraid, he for- sakes it and fiies on into the region of Monsters and strange births of Time. At last, in the winter of his pilgrimage, he beholds the old man Masterful, who becomes his guide to the brink of the Celestial Ocean ; and now, standing on those mysterious shores, the highest peak of earth, he sees a Ship of Souls ; but as it vanishes in the ccerulean haze, he awakens, and knows that all he hath seen— yea, all his spirit's life-long quest- hath been only a Dream withiti a Dream.
BOOK I. SETTING FORTH.
IN the noontide of my days I had a dream, And in my dream, which seem'd no dream
at all, I saw these things which here are written
down.
And first methought, with terror on my
heart,
I fled, like many a pilgrim theretofore, From a dark City built beside the sea, Crying, ' I cannot any longer bear The tumult and the terror and the tears, The sadness, of the City where I dwell ; Sad is the wailing of the waters, sad The coming and the going of the sun, And sad the homeless echoes of the streets, Since I have heard that up among the hills There stands the City christen'd Beautiful, Green sited, golden, and with heaven above
it