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diff --git a/22833-8.txt b/22833-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad99be9 --- /dev/null +++ b/22833-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2923 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alcyone, by Archibald Lampman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Alcyone + +Author: Archibald Lampman + +Release Date: October 2, 2007 [EBook #22833] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALCYONE *** + + + + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, V. L. Simpson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions +(www.canadiana.org)) + + + + + + ALCYONE + + by + + ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN + + + + + OTTAWA + JAMES OGILVY + 1899 + + + + + Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty + + + + + TO THE MEMORY OF + MY FATHER + HIMSELF A POET + WHO FIRST INSTRUCTED ME + IN THE ART + OF VERSE. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + ALCYONE 1 + + IN MARCH 4 + + THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS 5 + + THE SONG SPARROW 9 + + INTER VIAS 10 + + REFUGE 12 + + APRIL NIGHT 13 + + PERSONALITY 14 + + TO MY DAUGHTER 15 + + CHIONE 17 + + TO THE CRICKET 24 + + THE SONG OF PAN 25 + + THE ISLET AND THE PALM 27 + + A VISION OF TWILIGHT 28 + + EVENING 33 + + THE CLEARER SELF 34 + + TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL 36 + + THE LAND OF PALLAS 38 + + AMONG THE ORCHARDS 49 + + THE POET'S SONG 50 + + A THUNDERSTORM 56 + + THE CITY 57 + + SAPPHICS 60 + + VOICES OF EARTH 62 + + PECCAVI, DOMINE 63 + + AN ODE TO THE HILLS 66 + + INDIAN SUMMER 71 + + GOOD SPEECH 72 + + THE BETTER DAY 73 + + WHITE PANSIES 75 + + WE TOO SHALL SLEEP 77 + + THE AUTUMN WASTE 78 + + VIVIA PERPETUA 79 + + THE MYSTERY OF A YEAR 96 + + WINTER EVENING 97 + + WAR 98 + + THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT 103 + + AMOR VITÆ 108 + + WINTER-BREAK 110 + + + + + ALCYONE + + + In the silent depth of space, + Immeasurably old, immeasurably far, + Glittering with a silver flame + Through eternity, + Rolls a great and burning star, + With a noble name, + Alcyone! + + In the glorious chart of heaven + It is marked the first of seven; + 'Tis a Pleiad: + And a hundred years of earth + With their long-forgotten deeds have come and gone, + Since that tiny point of light, + Once a splendour fierce and bright, + Had its birth + In the star we gaze upon. + + It has travelled all that time-- + Thought has not a swifter flight-- + Through a region where no faintest gust + Of life comes ever, but the power of night + Dwells stupendous and sublime, + Limitless and void and lonely, + A region mute with age, and peopled only + With the dead and ruined dust + Of worlds that lived eternities ago. + + Man! when thou dost think of this, + And what our earth and its existence is, + The half-blind toils since life began, + The little aims, the little span, + With what passion and what pride, + And what hunger fierce and wide, + Thou dost break beyond it all, + Seeking for the spirit unconfined + In the clear abyss of mind + A shelter and a peace majestical. + For what is life to thee, + Turning toward the primal light, + With that stern and silent face, + If thou canst not be + Something radiant and august as night, + Something wide as space? + + Therefore with a love and gratitude divine + Thou shalt cherish in thine heart for sign + A vision of the great and burning star, + Immeasurably old, immeasurably far, + Surging forth its silver flame + Through eternity; + And thine inner heart shall ring and cry + With the music strange and high, + The grandeur of its name + Alcyone! + + + + + IN MARCH + + + The sun falls warm: the southern winds awake: + The air seethes upward with a steamy shiver: + Each dip of the road is now a crystal lake, + And every rut a little dancing river. + Through great soft clouds that sunder overhead + The deep sky breaks as pearly blue as summer: + Out of a cleft beside the river's bed + Flaps the black crow, the first demure newcomer. + The last seared drifts are eating fast away + With glassy tinkle into glittering laces: + Dogs lie asleep, and little children play + With tops and marbles in the sunbare places; + And I that stroll with many a thoughtful pause + Almost forget that winter ever was. + + + + + THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS + + + Beside the pounding cataracts + Of midnight streams unknown to us + 'Tis builded in the leafless tracts + And valleys huge of Tartarus. + Lurid and lofty and vast it seems; + It hath no rounded name that rings, + But I have heard it called in dreams + The City of the End of Things. + + Its roofs and iron towers have grown + None knoweth how high within the night, + But in its murky streets far down + A flaming terrible and bright + Shakes all the stalking shadows there, + Across the walls, across the floors, + And shifts upon the upper air + From out a thousand furnace doors; + + And all the while an awful sound + Keeps roaring on continually, + And crashes in the ceaseless round + Of a gigantic harmony. + Through its grim depths re-echoing + And all its weary height of walls, + With measured roar and iron ring, + The inhuman music lifts and falls. + Where no thing rests and no man is, + And only fire and night hold sway; + The beat, the thunder and the hiss + Cease not, and change not, night nor day. + + And moving at unheard commands, + The abysses and vast fires between, + Flit figures that with clanking hands + Obey a hideous routine; + They are not flesh, they are not bone, + They see not with the human eye, + And from their iron lips is blown + A dreadful and monotonous cry; + And whoso of our mortal race + Should find that city unaware, + Lean Death would smite him face to face, + And blanch him with its venomed air: + Or caught by the terrific spell, + Each thread of memory snapt and cut, + His soul would shrivel and its shell + Go rattling like an empty nut. + + It was not always so, but once, + In days that no man thinks upon, + Fair voices echoed from its stones, + The light above it leaped and shone: + Once there were multitudes of men, + That built that city in their pride, + Until its might was made, and then + They withered age by age and died. + But now of that prodigious race, + Three only in an iron tower, + Set like carved idols face to face, + Remain the masters of its power; + And at the city gate a fourth, + Gigantic and with dreadful eyes, + Sits looking toward the lightless north, + Beyond the reach of memories; + Fast rooted to the lurid floor, + A bulk that never moves a jot, + In his pale body dwells no more, + Or mind, or soul,--an idiot! + + But sometime in the end those three + Shall perish and their hands be still, + And with the master's touch shall flee + Their incommunicable skill. + A stillness absolute as death + Along the slacking wheels shall lie, + And, flagging at a single breath, + The fires shall moulder out and die. + The roar shall vanish at its height, + And over that tremendous town + The silence of eternal night + Shall gather close and settle down. + All its grim grandeur, tower and hall, + Shall be abandoned utterly, + And into rust and dust shall fall + From century to century; + Nor ever living thing shall grow, + Or trunk of tree, or blade of grass; + No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow, + Nor sound of any foot shall pass: + Alone of its accursèd state, + One thing the hand of Time shall spare, + For the grim Idiot at the gate + Is deathless and eternal there. + + + + + THE SONG SPARROW + + + Fair little scout, that when the iron year + Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy, + Comest with such a sudden burst of joy, + Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear + That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear; + Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow, + We hungered for some surer touch, and lo! + One morning we awake, and thou art here. + And thousands of frail-stemmed hepaticas, + With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues, + Light sleepers, ready for the golden news, + Spring at thy note beside the forest ways-- + Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour-- + The classic lyrist and the classic flower. + + + + + INTER VIAS + + + 'Tis a land where no hurricane falls, + But the infinite azure regards + Its waters for ever, its walls + Of granite, its limitless swards; + Where the fens to their innermost pool + With the chorus of May are aring, + And the glades are wind-winnowed and cool + With perpetual spring; + + Where folded and half withdrawn + The delicate wind-flowers blow, + And the bloodroot kindles at dawn + Her spiritual taper of snow; + Where the limits are met and spanned + By a waste that no husbandman tills, + And the earth-old pine forests stand + In the hollows of hills. + + 'Tis the land that our babies behold, + Deep gazing when none are aware; + And the great-hearted seers of old + And the poets have known it, and there + Made halt by the well-heads of truth + On their difficult pilgrimage + From the rose-ruddy gardens of youth + To the summits of age. + + Now too, as of old, it is sweet + With a presence remote and serene; + Still its byways are pressed by the feet + Of the mother immortal, its queen: + The huntress whose tresses, flung free, + And her fillets of gold, upon earth, + They only have honour to see + Who are dreamers from birth. + + In her calm and her beauty supreme, + They have found her at dawn or at eve, + By the marge of some motionless stream, + Or where shadows rebuild or unweave + In a murmurous alley of pine, + Looking upward in silent surprise, + A figure, slow-moving, divine, + With inscrutable eyes. + + + + + REFUGE + + + Where swallows and wheatfields are, + O hamlet brown and still, + O river that shineth far, + By meadow, pier, and mill: + + O endless sunsteeped plain, + With forests in dim blue shrouds, + And little wisps of rain, + Falling from far-off clouds: + + I come from the choking air + Of passion, doubt, and strife, + With a spirit and mind laid bare + To your healing breadth of life: + + O fruitful and sacred ground, + O sunlight and summer sky, + Absorb me and fold me round, + For broken and tired am I. + + + + + APRIL NIGHT + + + How deep the April night is in its noon, + The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night! + The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright + Above the world's dark border burns the moon, + Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewn + With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth, + The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth + Comes up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon, + Ah, soon, the teeming triumph! At my feet + The river with its stately sweep and wheel + Moves on slow-motioned, luminous, grey like steel. + From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam, + Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet, + The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dream. + + + + + PERSONALITY + + + O differing human heart, + Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes, + Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech, + Draw me, and stir within my soul + That subtle ineradicable longing + For tender comradeship? + It is because I cannot all at once, + Through the half-lights and phantom-haunted mists + That separate and enshroud us life from life, + Discern the nearness or the strangeness of thy paths + Nor plumb thy depths. + I am like one that comes alone at night + To a strange stream, and by an unknown ford + Stands, and for a moment yearns and shrinks, + Being ignorant of the water, though so quiet it is, + So softly murmurous, + So silvered by the familiar moon. + + + + + TO MY DAUGHTER + + + O little one, daughter, my dearest, + With your smiles and your beautiful curls, + And your laughter, the brightest and clearest, + O gravest and gayest of girls; + + With your hands that are softer than roses, + And your lips that are lighter than flowers, + And that innocent brow that discloses + A wisdom more lovely than ours; + + With your locks that encumber, or scatter + In a thousand mercurial gleams, + And those feet whose impetuous patter + I hear and remember in dreams; + + With your manner of motherly duty, + When you play with your dolls and are wise; + With your wonders of speech, and the beauty + In your little imperious eyes; + + When I hear you so silverly ringing + Your welcome from chamber or stair. + When you run to me, kissing and clinging, + So radiant, so rosily fair; + + I bend like an ogre above you; + I bury my face in your curls; + I fold you, I clasp you, I love you. + O baby, queen-blossom of girls! + + + + + CHIONE + + + Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair + Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge, + Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air, + Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge. + A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathed + The dripping walls and portal granite-stepped, + And sank into the inner court, and crept + From column unto column thickly wreathed. + + In that dead hour of darkness before dawn, + When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of death + Are strengthened,--with lips white and drawn + And feverish lids and scarcely moving breath, + The hapless mother, tender Chione, + Beside the earth-cold figure of her child, + After long bursts of weeping sharp and wild + Lay broken, silent in her agony. + At first in waking horror racked and bound + She lay, and then a gradual stupor grew + About her soul and wrapped her round and round + Like death, and then she sprang to life anew + Out of a darkness clammy as the tomb; + And, touched by memory or some spirit hand, + She seemed to keep a pathway down a land + Of monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom. + + A waste of cloudy and perpetual night-- + And yet there seemed a teeming presence there + Of life that gathered onward in thick flight, + Unseen, but multitudinous. Aware + Of something also on her path she was + That drew her heart forth with a tender cry. + She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye, + And called on the foul shapes to let her pass. + + For down the sloping darkness far ahead + She saw a little figure slight and small, + With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread, + Running at frightened speed; and it would fall + And rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleet + The cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wist + The tender eyes were blinded by the mist, + And the rough stones were bruising the small feet. + And when she lifted a keen cry and clave + Forthright the gathering horror of the place, + Mad with her love and pity, a dark wave + Of clapping shadows swept about her face, + And beat her back, and when she gained her breath, + Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steam + Was rising from a mute and murky stream, + As cold and cavernous as the eye of death. + + And near the ripple stood the little shade, + And many hovering ghosts drew near him, some + That seemed to peer out of the mist and fade + With eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb; + But others closed him round with eager sighs + And sweet insistence, striving to caress + And comfort him; but grieving none the less, + He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries. + + And silently across the horrid flow, + The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike arms + Of him that oared it, dumbly to and fro, + Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarms + Leaped in and passed, but myriads more behind + Crowded the dismal beaches. One might hear + A tumult of entreaty thin and clear + Rise like the whistle of a winter wind. + + And still the little figure stood beside + The hideous stream, and toward the whispering prow + Held forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried, + Now to the awful ferryman, and now + To her that battled with the shades in vain. + Sometimes impending over all her sight + The spongy dark and the phantasmal flight + Of things half-shapen passed and hid the plain. + + And sometimes in a gust a sort of wind + Drove by, and where its power was hurled, + She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned, + Those gloomy meadows of the under world, + Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees, + And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore, + Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'er + By countless melancholy companies. + + And farther still upon the utmost rim + Of the drear waste, whereto the roadways led, + She saw in piling outline, huge and dim, + The walled and towerèd dwellings of the dead + And the grim house of Hades. Then she broke + Once more fierce-footed through the noisome press; + But ere she reached the goal of her distress, + Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke. + + It seemed as she had been entombed for years, + And came again to living with a start. + There was an awful echoing in her ears + And a great deadness pressing at her heart. + She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze, + Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space, + And then she touched the little lifeless face, + And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees. + + And round her still the silence seemed to teem + With the foul shadows of her dream beguiled-- + No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream, + But her child called for her; her child, her child!-- + She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare, + And knelt low down, and bending her fair head + Unto the lower gods who rule the dead, + Touched them with tender homage and this prayer: + + O gloomy masters of the dark demesne, + Hades, and thou whom the dread deity + Bore once from earthly Enna for his queen, + Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone, + Grant me one boon; + 'Tis not for life I pray, + Not life, but quiet death; and that soon, soon! + Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay, + This net of useless woe. + O mournful mother, sad Persephone, + Be mindful, let me go! + + How shall he journey to the dismal beach, + Or win the ear of Charon, without one + To keep him and stand by him, sure of speech? + He is so little, and has just begun + To use his feet + And speak a few small words, + And all his daily usage has been sweet + As the soft nesting ways of tender birds. + How shall he fare at all + Across that grim inhospitable land, + If I too be not by to hold his hand, + And help him if he fall? + + And then before the gloomy judges set, + How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bear + To see his tender cheeks with weeping wet, + Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair! + I could not rest, + Nor live with patient mind, + Though knowing what is fated must be best; + But surely thou art more than mortal kind, + And thou canst feel my woe, + All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine; + He is so little, mother Proserpine, + He needs me, let me go! + + Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way, + And left the half of all her heart unsaid, + And a great languor seized her, and she lay, + Soft fallen, by the little silent head. + Her numbèd lips had passed beyond control, + Her mind could neither plan nor reason more, + She saw dark waters and an unknown shore, + And the grey shadows crept about her soul. + + Again through darkness on an evil land + She seemed to enter but without distress. + A little spirit led her by the hand, + And her wide heart was warm with tenderness. + Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care, + Murmured a moment in soft mother-tones, + And so fell silent. From their sombre thrones + Already the grim gods had heard her prayer. + + + + + TO THE CRICKET + + + Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro, + Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field, + With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield + Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so? + But now I am content to let it go, + To lie at length and watch the swallows pass, + As blithe and restful as this quiet grass, + Content only to listen and to know + That years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine, + And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees, + Still listening thus; haply at last to seize, + And render in some happier verse divine + That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine, + That perfect utterance of content and ease. + + + + + THE SONG OF PAN + + + Mad with love and laden + With immortal pain, + Pan pursued a maiden-- + Pan, the god--in vain. + + For when Pan had nearly + Touched her, wild to plead, + She was gone--and clearly + In her place a reed! + + Long the god, unwitting, + Through the valley strayed; + Then at last, submitting, + Cut the reed, and made, + + Deftly fashioned, seven + Pipes, and poured his pain + Unto earth and heaven + In a piercing strain. + + So with god and poet; + Beauty lures them on, + Flies, and ere they know it + Like a wraith is gone. + + Then they seek to borrow + Pleasure still from wrong, + And with smiling sorrow + Turn it to a song. + + + + + THE ISLET AND THE PALM + + + O gentle sister spirit, when you smile + My soul is like a lonely coral isle, + An islet shadowed by a single palm, + Ringed round with reef and foam, but inly calm. + + And all day long I listen to the speech + Of wind and water on my charmèd beach: + I see far off beyond mine outer shore + The ocean flash, and hear his harmless roar. + + And in the night-time when the glorious sun, + With all his life and all his light, is done, + The wind still murmurs in my slender tree, + And shakes the moonlight on the silver sea. + + + + + A VISION OF TWILIGHT + + + By a void and soundless river + On the outer edge of space, + Where the body comes not ever, + But the absent dream hath place, + Stands a city, tall and quiet, + And its air is sweet and dim; + Never sound of grief or riot + Makes it mad, or makes it grim. + + And the tender skies thereover + Neither sun, nor star, behold-- + Only dusk it hath for cover,-- + But a glamour soft with gold, + Through a mist of dreamier essence + Than the dew of twilight, smiles + On strange shafts and domes and crescents, + Lifting into eerie piles. + + In its courts and hallowed places + Dreams of distant worlds arise, + Shadows of transfigured faces, + Glimpses of immortal eyes, + Echoes of serenest pleasure, + Notes of perfect speech that fall, + Through an air of endless leisure, + Marvellously musical. + + And I wander there at even, + Sometimes when my heart is clear, + When a wider round of heaven + And a vaster world are near, + When from many a shadow steeple + Sounds of dreamy bells begin, + And I love the gentle people + That my spirit finds therein. + + Men of a diviner making + Than the sons of pride and strife, + Quick with love and pity, breaking + From a knowledge old as life; + Women of a spiritual rareness, + Whom old passion and old woe + Moulded to a slenderer fairness + Than the dearest shapes we know. + + In its domed and towered centre + Lies a garden wide and fair, + Open for the soul to enter, + And the watchful townsmen there + Greet the stranger gloomed and fretting + From this world of stormy hands, + With a look that deals forgetting + And a touch that understands. + + For they see with power, not borrowed + From a record taught or told, + But they loved and laughed and sorrowed + In a thousand worlds of old; + Now they rest and dream for ever, + And with hearts serene and whole + See the struggle, the old fever, + Clear as on a painted scroll. + + Wandering by that grey and solemn + Water, with its ghostly quays-- + Vistas of vast arch and column, + Shadowed by unearthly trees-- + Biddings of sweet power compel me, + And I go with bated breath, + Listening to the tales they tell me, + Parables of Life and Death. + + In a tongue that once was spoken, + Ere the world was cooled by Time, + When the spirit flowed unbroken + Through the flesh, and the Sublime + Made the eyes of men far-seeing, + And their souls as pure as rain, + They declare the ends of being, + And the sacred need of pain. + + For they know the sweetest reasons + For the products most malign-- + They can tell the paths and seasons + Of the farthest suns that shine. + How the moth-wing's iridescence + By an inward plan was wrought, + And they read me curious lessons + In the secret ways of thought. + + When day turns, and over heaven + To the balmy western verge + Sail the victor fleets of even, + And the pilot stars emerge, + Then my city rounds and rises, + Like a vapour formed afar, + And its sudden girth surprises, + And its shadowy gates unbar. + + Dreamy crowds are moving yonder + In a faint and phantom blue; + Through the dusk I lean, and wonder + If their winsome shapes are true; + But in veiling indecision + Come my questions back again-- + Which is real? The fleeting vision? + Or the fleeting world of men? + + + + + EVENING + + + From upland slopes I see the cows file by, + Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail, + By dusking fields and meadows shining pale + With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high, + A peevish night-hawk in the western sky + Beats up into the lucent solitudes, + Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woods + Grow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously. + Cool night-winds creep, and whisper in mine ear + The homely cricket gossips at my feet. + From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear, + Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet + In full Pandean chorus. One by one + Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on. + + + + + THE CLEARER SELF + + + Before me grew the human soul, + And after I am dead and gone, + Through grades of effort and control + The marvellous work shall still go on. + + Each mortal in his little span + Hath only lived, if he have shown + What greatness there can be in man + Above the measured and the known; + + How through the ancient layers of night, + In gradual victory secure, + Grows ever with increasing light + The Energy serene and pure: + + The Soul, that from a monstrous past, + From age to age, from hour to hour, + Feels upward to some height at last + Of unimagined grace and power. + + Though yet the sacred fire be dull, + In folds of thwarting matter furled, + Ere death be nigh, while life is full, + O Master Spirit of the world, + + Grant me to know, to seek, to find, + In some small measure though it be, + Emerging from the waste and blind, + The clearer self, the grander me! + + + + + TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL + + + What are these bustlers at the gate + Of now or yesterday, + These playthings in the hand of Fate, + That pass, and point no way; + + These clinging bubbles whose mock fires + For ever dance and gleam, + Vain foam that gathers and expires + Upon the world's dark stream; + + These gropers betwixt right and wrong, + That seek an unknown goal, + Most ignorant, when they seem most strong; + What are they, then, O Soul, + + That thou shouldst covet overmuch + A tenderer range of heart, + And yet at every dreamed-of touch + So tremulously start? + + Thou with that hatred ever new + Of the world's base control, + That vision of the large and true, + That quickness of the soul; + + Nay, for they are not of thy kind, + But in a rarer clay + God dowered thee with an alien mind; + Thou canst not be as they. + + Be strong therefore; resume thy load, + And forward stone by stone + Go singing, though the glorious road + Thou travellest alone. + + + + + THE LAND OF PALLAS + + + Methought I journeyed along ways that led for ever + Throughout a happy land where strife and care were dead, + And life went by me flowing like a placid river + Past sandy eyots where the shifting shoals make head. + + A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donor + Of peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds, + Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour; + A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads, + + Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose-wreathed alleys, + Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang; + Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys, + And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang, + + Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling, + And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors, + Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling, + Where all men entered and no master trod their floors. + + A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashioned + By generations of emotion high and sweet, + Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impassioned; + A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet. + + And every mode and saying of that land gave token + Of limits where no death or evil fortune fell, + And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroken, + For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well. + + And all the earth was common, and no base contriving + Of money of coined gold was needed there or known, + But all men wrought together without greed or striving, + And all the store of all to each man was his own. + + From all that busy land, grey town, and peaceful village, + Where never jar was heard, nor wail, nor cry of strife, + From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage, + Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life. + + At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbour + Hand linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair, + And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour, + Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share. + + At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearing + Baskets of wicker in their ample hands for each, + And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring, + And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech. + + And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadows + Grew with the flocking stars, the sound of festival + Rose in each city square, and all the country meadows, + Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall. + + Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gardens meeting + Ran downward to the flood with marble steps, a throng + Came forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting, + With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song. + + In all their great fair cities there was neither seeking + For power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate pain + Of multitudes that starve, or, in hoarse anger breaking, + Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain. + + But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers, + Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learn + The chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others, + Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return. + + And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace, + Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there; + Long ages since the very names of fraud and malice + Had vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care. + + And there there were no bonds of contract, deed, or marriage, + No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure, + For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or miscarriage, + Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure. + + There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master, + Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead, + But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vaster + Moved on together with the same majestic tread. + + And all the men and women of that land were fairer + Than even the mightiest of our meaner race can be; + The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarer + For wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty. + + And all the women through great ages of bright living, + Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise, + Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever giving + The fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes. + + And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin, + The gateway of a lonely and secluded waste, + A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing, + Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced. + + On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad glories + Were recorded in fire; upon its inner stone, + Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories, + The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known. + + And lo, in that grey storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten, + Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed, + The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, forgotten, + The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed. + + An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken, + Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign, + 'Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken, + Broken and banished from a life made more divine. + + 'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting, + The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange, + Lest o'er the minds of any there should come unwitting + The thought of some new order and the lust of change. + + 'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither, + To read the world's grim record and the sombre lore + Massed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither, + Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.' + + And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore me + Out of that waste, and as I passed by tower and town + I saw amid the limitless plain far out before me + A long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crown + + Was capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness, + Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plain + Seemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightness + A land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain. + + And to and forth from that fair mountain like a river + Ran many a dim grey road, and on them I could see + A multitude of stately forms that seemed for ever + Going and coming in bright bands; and near to me + + Was one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger, + Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still, + And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger, + The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill. + + Whereto the dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my brother, + And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls, + Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother? + That is the hill of Pallas; those her marble halls! + + 'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing, + And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift; + And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasing + The spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift.' + + Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowing + Whither the tangled and diverging paths might lead, + A land of baser men, whose coming and whose going + Were urged by fear, and hunger, and the curse of greed. + + I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faring + In fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow, + The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearing + The burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe. + + And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pity + Possessed me, and with eager and uplifted hands + I drew the crowd about me in a mighty city, + And taught the message of those other kindlier lands. + + I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Communion, + The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife, + And painted in great words the horror of disunion, + The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life. + + I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stations + Rebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad, + And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patience + Smiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad. + + And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message, + For well I knew that on and upward without cease + The spirit works for ever, and by Faith and Presage + That somehow yet the end of human life is Peace. + + + + + AMONG THE ORCHARDS + + + Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry + Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops + Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops + The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry; + And ever as the sun mounts hot and high + Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes + The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks. + Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die. + I hear far in among the motionless trees-- + Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod-- + The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach + Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees + Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod, + Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach. + + + + + THE POET'S SONG + + I + + + There came no change from week to week + On all the land, but all one way, + Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak, + Day followed day. + + Within the palace court the rounds + Of glare and shadow, day and night, + Went ever with the same dull sounds, + The same dull flight: + + The motion of slow forms of state, + The far-off murmur of the street, + The din of couriers at the gate, + Half-mad with heat; + + Sometimes a distant shout of boys + At play upon the terrace walk, + The shutting of great doors, and noise + Of muttered talk. + + In one red corner of the wall, + That fronted with its granite stain + The town, the palms, and, beyond all, + The burning plain, + + As listless as the hour, alone, + The poet by his broken lute + Sat like a figure in the stone, + Dark-browed and mute. + + He saw the heat on the thin grass + Fall till it withered joint by joint, + The shadow on the dial pass + From point to point. + + He saw the midnight bright and bare + Fill with its quietude of stars + The silence that no human prayer + Attains or mars. + + He heard the hours divide, and still + The sentry on the outer wall + Make the night wearier with his shrill + Monotonous call. + + He watched the lizard where it lay, + Impassive as the watcher's face; + And only once in the long day + It changed its place. + + Sometimes with clank of hoofs and cries + The noon through all its trance was stirred; + The poet sat with half-shut eyes, + Nor saw, nor heard. + + And once across the heated close + Light laughter in a silver shower + Fell from fair lips: the poet rose + And cursed the hour. + + Men paled and sickened; half in fear, + There came to him at dusk of eve + One who but murmured in his ear + And plucked his sleeve: + + 'The king is filled with irks, distressed, + And bids thee hasten to his side; + For thou alone canst give him rest.' + The poet cried: + + 'Go, show the king this broken lute! + Even as it is, so am I! + The tree is perished to its root, + The fountain dry. + + 'What seeks he of the leafless tree, + The broken lute, the empty spring? + Yea, tho' he give his crown to me, + I cannot sing!' + + + II + + + That night there came from either hand + A sense of change upon the land; + A brooding stillness rustled through + With creeping winds that hardly blew; + A shadow from the looming west, + A stir of leaves, a dim unrest; + It seemed as if a spell had broke. + + And then the poet turned and woke + As from the darkness of a dream, + And with a smile divine supreme + Drew up his mantle fold on fold, + And strung his lute with strings of gold, + And bound the sandals to his feet, + And strode into the darkling street. + + Through crowds of murmuring men he hied, + With working lips and swinging stride, + And gleaming eyes and brow bent down; + Out of the great gate of the town + He hastened ever and passed on, + And ere the darkness came, was gone, + A mote beyond the western swell. + + And then the storm arose and fell + From wheeling shadows black with rain + That drowned the hills and strode the plain; + Round the grim mountain-heads it passed, + Down whistling valleys blast on blast, + Surged in upon the snapping trees, + And swept the shuddering villages. + + That night, when the fierce hours grew long, + Once more the monarch, old and grey, + Called for the poet and his song, + And called in vain. But far away, + By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred, + The shepherds in their watches heard, + Above the torrent's charge and clang, + The cleaving chant of one that sang. + + + + + A THUNDERSTORM + + + A moment the wild swallows like a flight + Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, + Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. + The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, + The hurrying centres of the storm unite + And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, + Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge + Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height + With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, + And pelted waters, on the vanished plain + Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash + That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, + Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed, + Column on column comes the drenching rain. + + + + + THE CITY + + + Canst thou not rest, O city, + That liest so wide and fair; + Shall never an hour bring pity, + Nor end be found for care? + + Thy walls are high in heaven, + Thy streets are gay and wide, + Beneath thy towers at even + The dreamy waters glide. + + Thou art fair as the hills at morning, + And the sunshine loveth thee, + But its light is a gloom of warning + On a soul no longer free. + + The curses of gold are about thee, + And thy sorrow deepeneth still; + One madness within and without thee, + One battle blind and shrill. + + I see the crowds for ever + Go by with hurrying feet; + Through doors that darken never + I hear the engines beat. + + Through days and nights that follow + The hidden mill-wheel strains; + In the midnight's windy hollow + I hear the roar of trains. + + And still the day fulfilleth, + And still the night goes round, + And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth, + With the dance's mocking sound. + + In chambers of gold elysian, + The cymbals clash and clang, + But the days are gone like a vision + When the people wrought and sang. + + And toil hath fear for neighbour, + Where singing lips are dumb, + And life is one long labour, + Till death or freedom come. + + Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing-- + They neither laugh nor weep-- + I see them coming and going, + Like things that move in sleep: + + Grey sires and burdened brothers, + The old, the young, the fair, + Wan cheeks of pallid mothers, + And the girls with golden hair. + + Care sits in many a fashion, + Grown grey on many a head, + And lips are turned to ashen + Whose years have right to red. + + Canst thou not rest, O city, + That liest so wide, so fair; + Shalt never an hour bring pity, + Nor end be found for care? + + + + + SAPPHICS + + + Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent, + Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands, + Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance, + Full of foreboding. + + Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches, + Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them, + Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasure + Ruthlessly scattered: + + Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and iron + Comes and finds them silent and uncomplaining, + Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious, + Gravely enduring. + + Me too changes, bitter and full of evil, + Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked, + Grey with sorrow. Even the days before me + Fade into twilight, + + Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spirit + Clear and valiant, brother to these my noble + Elms and maples, utterly grave and fearless, + Grandly ungrieving. + + Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals, + Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth, + Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure, + Lovely with blossoms-- + + Shining white anemones, mixed with roses, + Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover-- + You, and me, and all of us, met and equal, + Softly shall cover. + + + + + VOICES OF EARTH + + + We have not heard the music of the spheres, + The song of star to star, but there are sounds + More deep than human joy and human tears, + That Nature uses in her common rounds; + The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strain + The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might + Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain + That falls by minutes in the summer night. + These are the voices of earth's secret soul, + Uttering the mystery from which she came. + To him who hears them grief beyond control, + Or joy inscrutable without a name, + Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled, + Before the birth and making of the world. + + + + + PECCAVI, DOMINE + + + O Power to whom this earthly clime + Is but an atom in the whole, + O Poet-heart of Space and Time, + O Maker and Immortal Soul, + Within whose glowing rings are bound, + Out of whose sleepless heart had birth + The cloudy blue, the starry round, + And this small miracle of earth: + + Who liv'st in every living thing, + And all things are thy script and chart, + Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing, + And yearnest in the human heart; + O Riddle with a single clue, + Love, deathless, protean, secure, + The ever old, the ever new, + O Energy, serene and pure. + + Thou, who art also part of me, + Whose glory I have sometime seen, + O Vision of the Ought-to-be, + O Memory of the Might-have-been, + I have had glimpses of thy way, + And moved with winds and walked with stars, + But, weary, I have fallen astray, + And, wounded, who shall count my scars? + + O Master, all my strength is gone; + Unto the very earth I bow; + I have no light to lead me on; + With aching heart and burning brow, + I lie as one that travaileth + In sorrow more than he can bear; + I sit in darkness as of death, + And scatter dust upon my hair. + + The God within my soul hath slept, + And I have shamed the nobler rule; + O Master, I have whined and crept; + O Spirit, I have played the fool. + Like him of old upon whose head + His follies hung in dark arrears, + I groan and travail in my bed, + And water it with bitter tears. + + I stand upon thy mountain-heads, + And gaze until mine eyes are dim; + The golden morning glows and spreads; + The hoary vapours break and swim. + I see thy blossoming fields, divine, + Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees-- + And then that broken soul of mine-- + How much less beautiful than these! + + O Spirit, passionless, but kind, + Is there in all the world, I cry, + Another one so base and blind, + Another one so weak as I? + O Power, unchangeable, but just, + Impute this one good thing to me, + I sink my spirit to the dust + In utter dumb humility. + + + + + AN ODE TO THE HILLS + + 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence + cometh my help.'--PSALM CXXI. 1. + + + Æons ago ye were, + Before the struggling changeful race of man + Wrought into being, ere the tragic stir + Of human toil and deep desire began: + So shall ye still remain, + Lords of an elder and immutable race, + When many a broad metropolis of the plain, + Or thronging port by some renownèd shore, + Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its place + Recalled no more. + + Empires have come and gone, + And glorious cities fallen in their prime; + Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stone + Have vanished in the dust and void of time; + But ye, firm-set, secure, + Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm, + Are yet the same for ever; ye endure + By virtue of an old slow-ripening word, + In your grey majesty and sovereign calm, + Untouched, unstirred. + + Tempest and thunderstroke, + With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core, + Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak, + And made your hollow gorges clash and roar, + And scarred your brows in vain. + Around your barren heads and granite steeps + Tempestuous grey battalions of the rain + Charge and recharge, across the plateaued floors, + Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweeps + Your pitiless scaurs. + + The long midsummer heat + Chars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire: + Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feet + On your wide forests wreaks his fell desire, + Heaping in barbarous wreck + The treasure of your sweet and prosperous days; + And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beck + Channels are turned to stone and tempests wheel, + On brow and breast and shining shoulder lays + His hand of steel. + + And yet not harsh alone, + Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies, + O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone, + Who gather beauty round your Titan knees, + As the lens gathers light. + The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows, + The sun at noonday folds you in his might, + And swathes your forehead at his going down, + Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows, + His golden crown. + + In unregarded glooms, + Where hardly shall a human footstep pass, + Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums, + Or lily-breathing slender pyrolas + Distil their hearts for you. + Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keep + Coverts the lonely thrush shall wander through, + With echoes that seem ever to recede, + Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep, + His ghostly reed. + + The fierce things of the wild + Find food and shelter in your tenantless rocks, + The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled, + The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox; + For far away indeed + Are all the ominous noises of mankind, + The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed: + Your rugged haunts endure no slavery: + No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind, + But all are free. + + Therefore out of the stir + Of cities and the ever-thickening press + The poet and the worn philosopher + To your bare peaks and radiant loneliness + Escape, and breathe once more + The wind of the Eternal: that clear mood, + Which Nature and the elder ages bore, + Lends them new courage and a second prime, + At rest upon the cool infinitude + Of Space and Time. + + The mists of troublous days, + The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips, + The blindness gathered in Life's aimless ways + Fade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit strips + The bandage from their eyes, + Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see; + Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprise + Pour over them from some divine abode, + Falling as in a flood of memory, + The bliss of God. + + I too perchance some day, + When Love and Life have fallen far apart, + Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward way + And make my dwelling in your changeless heart; + And there in some quiet glade, + Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell, + Pure with cool water and inviolate shade, + I'll build a blameless altar to the dear + And kindly gods who guard your haunts so well + From hurt or fear. + + There I will dream day-long, + And honour them in many sacred ways, + With hushèd melody and uttered song, + And golden meditation and with praise. + I'll touch them with a prayer, + To clothe my spirit as your might is clad + With all things bountiful, divine, and fair, + Yet inwardly to make me hard and true, + Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad, + And strong like you. + + + + + INDIAN SUMMER + + + The old grey year is near his term in sooth, + And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm + Awakens to a golden dream of youth, + A second childhood lovely and most calm, + And the smooth hour about his misty head + An awning of enchanted splendour weaves, + Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red, + And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves. + With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams + Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood, + Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams, + Nor sees the polar armies overflood + The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears + The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears. + + + + + GOOD SPEECH + + + Think not, because thine inmost heart means well, + Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet words + Are like the voices of returning birds + Filling the soul with summer, or a bell + That calls the weary and the sick to prayer. + Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair. + + + + + THE BETTER DAY + + + Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands, + That keep this restless world at strife, + Mean passions that, like choking sands, + Perplex the stream of life, + + Pride and hot envy and cold greed, + The cankers of the loftier will, + What if ye triumph, and yet bleed? + Ah, can ye not be still? + + Oh, shall there be no space, no time, + No century of weal in store, + No freehold in a nobler clime, + Where men shall strive no more? + + Where every motion of the heart + Shall serve the spirit's master-call, + Where self shall be the unseen part, + And human kindness all? + + Or shall we but by fits and gleams + Sink satisfied, and cease to rave, + Find love but in the rest of dreams, + And peace but in the grave? + + + + + WHITE PANSIES + + + Day and night pass over, rounding, + Star and cloud and sun, + Things of drift and shadow, empty + Of my dearest one. + + Soft as slumber was my baby, + Beaming bright and sweet; + Daintier than bloom or jewel + Were his hands and feet. + + He was mine, mine all, mine only, + Mine and his the debt; + Earth and Life and Time are changers; + I shall not forget. + + Pansies for my dear one--heartsease-- + Set them gently so; + For his stainless lips and forehead, + Pansies white as snow. + + Would that in the flower-grown little + Grave they dug so deep, + I might rest beside him, dreamless, + Smile no more, nor weep. + + + + + WE TOO SHALL SLEEP + + + Not, not for thee, + Beloved child, the burning grasp of life + Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife, + And clamour of midday thou shall not see; + But wrapt for ever in thy quiet grave, + Too little to have known the earthly lot, + Time's clashing hosts above thine innocent head, + Wave upon wave, + Shall break, or pass as with an army's tread, + And harm thee not. + + A few short years + We of the living flesh and restless brain + Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain, + The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears; + And then at last when all is touched and tried, + Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep + In the same silent plot, O little friend, + Side by thy side, + In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end, + We too shall sleep. + + + + + THE AUTUMN WASTE + + + There is no break in all the wide grey sky, + Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves, + And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie + Round greyer stones, and the new-fallen leaves + Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods, + A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry, + Creeps far among the charnel solitudes, + Numbing the waste with mindless misery. + In these bare paths, these melancholy lands, + What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young? + What lovers have gone forth with linkèd hands? + What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung? + Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away, + With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay. + + + + + VIVIA PERPETUA + + + Now being on the eve of death, discharged + From every mortal hope and earthly care, + I questioned how my soul might best employ + This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind, + In the brief hours yet left me for their use; + Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend, + Of you, Philarchus, and your company, + Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed; + Perchance that I may break into thine heart + Some sorrowful channel for the love divine, + I make this simple record of our proof + In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ, + Whereof the end already for the most + Is death this day with steadfast faith endured. + + We were in prison many days, close-pent + In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves + And murderers and divers evil men; + So foul a pressure, we had almost died, + Even there, in struggle for the breath of life + Amid the stench and unendurable heat; + Nor could we find each other save by voice + Or touch, to know that we were yet alive, + So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard + To keep the sacred courage in our hearts, + When all was blind with that unchanging night, + And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts + And ribald curses of the soldiery + Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load + Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows. + At first, what with that dread of our abode, + Our sudden apprehension, and the threats + Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost + The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds + Would have denied our Lord and fallen away. + Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith + Was in the later holier days to be + The stay and comfort of our weaker ones, + Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank + In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused + And shaken by our new and horrible plight-- + The tender flesh, untempered and untried, + Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul; + For she was of a fair and delicate make, + Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats + And our foul prison-house were things undreamed. + But little by little as our spirits grew + Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues + That cheered each other to incessant prayer, + We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled + Our Master's sacred agony and death, + Setting before our eyes the high reward + Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown. + + So passed some days whose length and count we lost, + Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came. + One who had interest with the governor + Wrought our removal daily for some hours + Into an upper chamber, where we sat + And held each other's hands in childish joy, + Receiving the sweet gift of light and air + With wonder and exceeding thankfulness. + And then began that life of daily growth + In mutual exaltation and sweet help + That bore us as a gently widening stream + Unto the ocean of our martyrdom. + Uniting all our feebler souls in one-- + A mightier--we reached forth with this to God. + + Perpetua had been troubled for her babe, + Robbed of the breast and now these many days + Wasting for want of food; but when that change + Whereof I spake, of light and liberty + Relieved the horror of our prison gloom, + They brought it to her, and she sat apart, + And nursed and tended it, and soon the child + Would not be parted from her arms, but throve + And fattened, and she kept it night and day. + And always at her side with sleepless care + Hovered the young Felicitas--a slight + And spiritual figure--every touch and tone + Charged with premonitory tenderness, + Herself so near to her own motherhood. + Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua + Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes + Regained their former deep serenity, + Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew + Her life should not be taken till her babe + Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her. + Daily we were amazed at her soft strength, + Her pliant and untroubled constancy, + Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death, + Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice. + + Her father, when our first few bitterest days + Were over, like a gust of grief and rage, + Came to her in the prison with wild eyes, + And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say + You are a Christian? How can any one + Of honoured blood, the child of such as me, + Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge + Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!' + And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze, + Showing the fulness of her slender height: + 'This vessel, father, being what it is, + An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus? + Or would you name it by some other name?' + 'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath, + And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I + Call myself aught but what I surely am-- + A Christian!' and her father, flashing back + In silent anger, left her for that time. + + A special favour to Perpetua + Seemed daily to be given, and her soul + Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace, + Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst, + Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams + Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught + With signs and symbols of the glorious end + Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake. + Once--at what hour I know not, for we lay + In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost, + And day and night were indistinguishable-- + We had been sitting a long silent while, + Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer, + When on a sudden, like a voice from God, + Perpetua spake to us and all were roused. + Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said, + 'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw + A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold, + Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land + Of darkness and exceeding peril lay + Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell + Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first + Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last-- + So God hath marked you for especial grace-- + Advancing and against the cruel beast + Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name-- + Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I + The next one following, and so the rest + In order, and we entered with great joy + Into a spacious garden filled with light + And balmy presences of love and rest; + And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired, + Surrounded by unnumbered myriads + Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed, + Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes + He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech, + Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed + Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul, + God's language of pure love. Between the lips + Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd; + And while the curd was yet within my mouth, + I woke, and still the taste of it remains, + Through all my body flowing like white flame, + Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.' + And when Perpetua had spoken, all + Were silent in the darkness, pondering, + But Saturus spake gently for the rest: + 'How perfect and acceptable must be + Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus + He bends to you, and through you speaks his will. + We know now that our martyrdom is fixed, + Nor need we vex us further for this life.' + + While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls, + There came the rumour that a day was set + To hear us. Many of our former friends, + Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats, + Came to us to pervert us; with the rest + Again Perpetua's father, worn with care; + Nor could we choose but pity his distress, + So miserably, with abject cries and tears, + He fondled her and called her 'Domina,' + And bowed his agèd body at her feet, + Beseeching her by all the names she loved + To think of him, his fostering care, his years, + And also of her babe, whose life, he said, + Would fail without her; but Perpetua, + Sustaining by a gift of strength divine + The fulness of her noble fortitude, + Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I, + And all of us, my father, at this hour + Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills + Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone + She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer, + Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart. + + One day, while we were at our midday meal, + Our cell was entered by the soldiery, + And we were seized and borne away for trial. + A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed + From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads + And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught + At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes + Of friends--some known to as and some unknown-- + Many veiled messages of love and praise. + The floorways of the long basilica + Fronted us with an angry multitude; + And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned + In hundreds from the columned galleries. + We were placed all together at the bar, + And though at first unsteadied and confused + By the imperial presence of the law, + The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd, + None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue + Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand + In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream, + Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake, + I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face + And figure of Perpetua; for her + We that were youngest of our company + Loved with a sacred and absorbing love, + A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow + Had purified and made divine. She stood + In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed, + A glowing stillness that was near a smile + Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come, + When, like a puppet struggling up the steps, + Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd + Appeared, unveiling in his agèd arms + The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped + Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes + Were bent upon her. With a softening glance, + And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom, + The old Proconsul turned to her and said: + 'Lady, have pity on your father's age; + Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain + Of harmless incense offer for the peace + And welfare of the Emperor'; but she, + Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes, + As one that saw a vision, only said: + 'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued, + Bending a brow upon her rough as rock, + With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break + Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear: + 'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea, + I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath + He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade + The lictors scourge the old man down and forth + With rods, and as the cruel deed was done, + Perpetua stood white with quivering lips, + And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries + Were mingling with the curses of the crowd, + Hilarianus, calling name by name, + Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase + Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned + Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished + Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not + As doubting for our constancy, but some + Grew sick under the anxious long suspense. + Perpetua again was weighed upon + By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now + Her father, seeking to depress her will, + Withheld and would not send it; but at length + Word being brought her that the child indeed + No longer suffered, nor desired the breast, + Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God, + All were united in new bonds of hope. + Now being fixed in certitude of death, + We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear, + The useless raiment of this world; and thus, + Striving together with a single will, + In daily increment of faith and power, + We were much comforted by heavenly dreams, + And waking visitations of God's grace. + Visions of light and glory infinite + Were frequent with us, and by night or day + Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord, + Taken at any moment on our lips; + So that we had no longer thought or care + Of life or of the living, but became + As spirits from this earth already freed, + Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh. + To Saturus appeared in dreams the space + And splendour of the heavenly house of God, + The glowing gardens of eternal joy, + The halls and chambers of the cherubim, + In wreaths of endless myriads involved + The blinding glory of the angel choir, + Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light + The thunder of their vast antiphonies. + The visions of Perpetua not less + Possessed us with their homely tenderness-- + As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool + And weeping o'er its rim a little child, + Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates: + Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream, + Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat. + She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen, + And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep, + And prattling in a tender childish joy + Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play. + By this she knew his soul had found release + From torment, and had entered into bliss. + + Quickly as by a merciful gift of God, + Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight + They moved us to the amphitheatre, + Our final lodging-place on earth, and there + We sat together at our agapé + For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale, + We hearkened to the aged Saturus, + Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence, + Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life, + God's goodness and the solemn joy of death. + Perpetua was silent, but her eyes + Fell gently upon each of us, suffused + With inward and eradiant light; a smile + Played often upon her lips. + + While yet we sat, + A tribune with a band of soldiery + Entered our cell, and would have had us bound + In harsher durance, fearing our escape + By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua, + Facing him gently with a noble note + Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips + A lingering smile of mournful irony: + 'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us, + And rob us of our natural food and rest? + Should ye not rather tend us with soft care, + And so provide a comely spectacle? + We shall not honour Cæsar's birthday well, + If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew, + Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.' + The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed, + Or by her grave and tender grace abashed, + Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew. + The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some, + For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams + And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn + Found us arisen, and Perpetua, + Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued, + Besought us to take food; lest so, she said, + For all the strength and courage of our hearts, + Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without, + Already ere the morning light was full, + The din of preparation, and the hum + Of voices gathering in the upper tiers; + Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts + The picture of this strange and cruel death, + Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp, + The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands + Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp. + + The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long + With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed! + Night comes, and I am still alive--even I, + The least and last--with other two, reserved + To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest + Have suffered and with holy rapture passed + Into their glory. Saturus and the men + Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd + Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape, + Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died + Like armèd men, face foremost to the beasts, + With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips. + Perpetua and the frail Felicitas + Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped, + And shrinking and entreating, not for fear, + Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away + Into the vast arena, and hung up + In nets, naked before the multitude, + For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss. + Some sudden tumult of compassion seized + The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave + Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up + From tier to tier, deep and imperious: + So white, so innocent they were, so pure: + Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame; + And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint, + And covered with light raiment, and again + Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed + Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring, + Holding each other proudly by the hand. + + Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent, + But, conscious only of the glaring eyes, + She strove to hide herself as best she could + In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe, + And putting up her hands clasped back her hair, + So that she might not die as one in grief, + Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned, + And in her loving arms caressed and raised + The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more + Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne + Swooning and mortally stricken from the field. + Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips + Parted as in a lingering ecstasy, + Could not believe the end had come, but asked + When they were to be given to the beasts. + The keepers gathered round her--even they-- + In wondering pity--while with fearless hand, + Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm, + She bared her breast, and guided to its goal + The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart. + + The night is passing. In a few short hours + I too shall suffer for the name of Christ. + A boundless exaltation lifts my soul! + I know that they who left us, Saturus, + Perpetua, and the other blessed ones, + Await me at the opening gates of heaven. + + + + + THE MYSTERY OF A YEAR + + + A little while, a year agone, + I knew her for a romping child, + A dimple and a glance that shone + With idle mischief when she smiled. + + To-day she passed me in the press, + And turning with a quick surprise + I wondered at her stateliness, + I wondered at her altered eyes. + + To me the street was just the same, + The people and the city's stir; + But life had kindled into flame, + And all the world was changed for her. + + I watched her in the crowded ways, + A noble form, a queenly head, + With all the woman in her gaze, + The conscious woman in her tread. + + + + + WINTER EVENING + + + To-night the very horses springing by + Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream + The streets that narrow to the westward gleam + Like rows of golden palaces; and high + From all the crowded chimneys tower and die + A thousand aureoles. Down in the west + The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, + One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly + The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel + A mightier master; soon from height to height, + With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, + Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, + Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, + Glittering and still shall come the awful night. + + + + + WAR + + + By the Nile, the sacred river, + I can see the captive hordes + Strain beneath the lash and quiver + At the long papyrus cords, + While in granite rapt and solemn, + Rising over roof and column, + Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses, + Lord of Lords. + + I can hear the trumpets waken + For a victory old and far-- + Carchemish or Kadesh taken-- + I can see the conqueror's car + Bearing down some Hittite valley, + Where the bowmen break and sally, + Sargina or Esarhaddon, + Grim with war! + + From the mountain streams that sweeten + Indus, to the Spanish foam, + I can feel the broad earth beaten + By the serried tramp of Rome; + Through whatever foes environ + Onward with the might of iron-- + Veni, vidi; veni, vici-- + Crashing home! + + I can see the kings grow pallid + With astonished fear and hate, + As the hosts of Amr or Khaled + On their cities fall like fate; + Like the heat-wind from its prison + In the desert burst and risen-- + La ilàha illah 'llàhu-- + God is great! + + I can hear the iron rattle, + I can see the arrows sting + In some far-off northern battle, + Where the long swords sweep and swing; + I can hear the scalds declaiming, + I can see their eyeballs flaming, + Gathered in a frenzied circle + Round the king. + + I can hear the horn of Uri + Roaring in the hills enorm; + Kindled at its brazen fury, + I can see the clansmen form; + In the dawn in misty masses, + Pouring from the silent passes + Over Granson or Morgarten + Like the storm. + + On the lurid anvil ringing + To some slow fantastic plan, + I can hear the sword-smith singing + In the heart of old Japan-- + Till the cunning blade grows tragic + With his malice and his magic-- + Tenka tairan! Tenka tairan! + War to man! + + Where a northern river charges + By a wild and moonlit glade, + From the murky forest marges, + Round a broken palisade, + I can see the red men leaping, + See the sword of Daulac sweeping, + And the ghostly forms of heroes + Fall and fade. + + I can feel the modern thunder + Of the cannon beat and blaze, + When the lines of men go under + On your proudest battle-days; + Through the roar I hear the lifting + Of the bloody chorus drifting + Round the burning mill at Valmy-- + Marseillaise! + + I can see the ocean rippled + With the driving shot like rain, + While the hulls are crushed and crippled, + And the guns are piled with slain; + O'er the blackened broad sea-meadow + Drifts a tall and titan shadow, + And the cannon of Trafalgar + Startle Spain. + + Still the tides of fight are booming, + And the barren blood is spilt; + Still the banners are up-looming, + And the hands are on the hilt; + But the old world waxes wiser, + From behind the bolted visor + It descries at last the horror + And the guilt. + + Yet the eyes are dim, nor wholly + Open to the golden gleam, + And the brute surrenders slowly + To the godhead and the dream. + From his cage of bar and girder, + Still at moments mad with murder, + Leaps the tiger, and his demon + Rules supreme. + + One more war with fire and famine + Gathers--I can hear its cries-- + And the years of might and Mammon + Perish in a world's demise; + When the strength of man is shattered, + And the powers of earth are scattered, + From beneath the ghastly ruin + Peace shall rise! + + + + + THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT + + + Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken + woods, + Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, + The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show + A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow. + In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, + motionless air, + The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and + bare + The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and + cracks + With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of + his axe. + Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird-- + The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is + heard; + Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed, + And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the + cedar-seed. + Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge, + Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's + edge, + With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word, + And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord. + Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there, + Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling + bear. + And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and + groan, + And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of + stone, + As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames + upcaught, + Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of + thought. + Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey + north-east, + He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden + beast, + Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown + guttering fire, + Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm + to tire. + Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines + below, + Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go + In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, + and lift, + All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing + drift. + But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered + dreams, + And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the + gushing of streams; + Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted + floor, + And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's + door; + The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on, + The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is + gone. + He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields, + To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the + summer fields. + He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined + feet, + The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete. + And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and + breeds, + Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing + forest-weeds; + The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either + hand, + The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard + stand. + So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and + snow, + You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years + ago; + And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone, + Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and + gone, + The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's + command, + The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand. + + + + + AMOR VITÆ + + + I love the warm bare earth and all + That works and dreams thereon: + I love the seasons yet to fall: + I love the ages gone, + + The valleys with the sheeted grain, + The river's smiling might, + The merry wind, the rustling rain, + The vastness of the night. + + I love the morning's flame, the steep + Where down the vapour clings: + I love the clouds that float and sleep, + And every bird that sings. + + I love the purple shower that pours + On far-off fields at even: + I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors + Are like the courts of heaven. + + I love the heaven's azure span, + The grass beneath my feet: + I love the face of every man + Whose thought is swift and sweet. + + I let the wrangling world go by, + And like an idle breath + Its echoes and its phantoms fly: + I care no jot for death. + + Time like a Titan bright and strong + Spreads one enchanted gleam: + Each hour is but a fluted song, + And life a lofty dream. + + + + + WINTER-BREAK + + + All day between high-curded clouds the sun + Shone down like summer on the steaming planks. + The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranks + Dripped from the murmuring eaves till one by one + They fell. As if the spring had now begun, + The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core, + Loosened and shunted with a sudden roar + From downward roofs. Not even with day done + Had ceased the sound of waters, but all night + I heard it. In my dreams forgetfully bright + Methought I wandered in the April woods, + Where many a silver-piping sparrow was, + By gurgling brooks and spouting solitudes, + And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Alcyone, by Archibald Lampman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALCYONE *** + +***** This file should be named 22833-8.txt or 22833-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/8/3/22833/ + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, V. L. 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