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1.085_-_The_Constellations

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1.085_-_The_Constellations

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   1 Dhammapada
   1 The Mother

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   9 Victor Hugo
   7 Thomas Hardy
   4 Walt Whitman
   4 Suzy Kassem
   4 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   3 Sahara Sanders
   3 M L Stedman
   3 Madeline Miller
   3 E M Forster
   3 Albert Einstein
   2 Stuart Dybek
   2 Rick Riordan
   2 Michael Cunningham
   2 Kate DiCamillo
   2 John Berger
   2 Jack Gilbert
   2 Elin Hilderbrand
   2 C S Lewis
   2 Charles Wright
   2 Brian Godawa

1:Follow wise and intelligent men possessed of experience, patient and full of spirituality and elevation...Follow just and perfect men faithfully as the moon follows the path of the constellations. ~ Dhammapada, the Eternal Wisdom

2:The Supreme Discovery    IF WE want to progress integrally, we must build within our conscious being a strong and pure mental synthesis which can serve us as a protection against temptations from outside, as a landmark to prevent us from going astray, as a beacon to light our way across the moving ocean of life.    Each individual should build up this mental synthesis according to his own tendencies and affinities and aspirations. But if we want it to be truly living and luminous, it must be centred on the idea that is the intellectual representation symbolising That which is at the centre of our being, That which is our life and our light.    This idea, expressed in sublime words, has been taught in various forms by all the great Instructors in all lands and all ages.    The Self of each one and the great universal Self are one. Since all that is exists from all eternity in its essence and principle, why make a distinction between the being and its origin, between ourselves and what we place at the beginning?    The ancient traditions rightly said:    "Our origin and ourselves, our God and ourselves are one."    And this oneness should not be understood merely as a more or less close and intimate relationship of union, but as a true identity.    Thus, when a man who seeks the Divine attempts to reascend by degrees towards the inaccessible, he forgets that all his knowledge and all his intuition cannot take him one step forward in this infinite; neither does he know that what he wants to attain, what he believes to be so far from him, is within him.    For how could he know anything of the origin until he becomes conscious of this origin in himself?    It is by understanding himself, by learning to know himself, that he can make the supreme discovery and cry out in wonder like the patriarch in the Bible, "The house of God is here and I knew it not."    That is why we must express that sublime thought, creatrix of the material worlds, and make known to all the word that fills the heavens and the earth, "I am in all things and all beings."When all shall know this, the promised day of great transfigurations will be at hand. When in each atom of Matter men shall recognise the indwelling thought of God, when in each living creature they shall perceive some hint of a gesture of God, when each man can see God in his brother, then dawn will break, dispelling the darkness, the falsehood, the ignorance, the error and suffering that weigh upon all Nature. For, "all Nature suffers and laments as she awaits the revelation of the Sons of God."    This indeed is the central thought epitomising all others, the thought which should be ever present to our remembrance as the sun that illumines all life.    That is why I remind you of it today. For if we follow our path bearing this thought in our hearts like the rarest jewel, the most precious treasure, if we allow it to do its work of illumination and transfiguration within us, we shall know that it lives in the centre of all beings and all things, and in it we shall feel the marvellous oneness of the universe.    Then we shall understand the vanity and childishness of our meagre satisfactions, our foolish quarrels, our petty passions, our blind indignations. We shall see the dissolution of our little faults, the crumbling of the last entrenchments of our limited personality and our obtuse egoism. We shall feel ourselves being swept along by this sublime current of true spirituality which will deliver us from our narrow limits and bounds.    The individual Self and the universal Self are one; in every world, in every being, in every thing, in every atom is the Divine Presence, and man's mission is to manifest it.    In order to do that, he must become conscious of this Divine Presence within him. Some individuals must undergo a real apprenticeship in order to achieve this: their egoistic being is too all-absorbing, too rigid, too conservative, and their struggles against it are long and painful. Others, on the contrary, who are more impersonal, more plastic, more spiritualised, come easily into contact with the inexhaustible divine source of their being.But let us not forget that they too should devote themselves daily, constantly, to a methodical effort of adaptation and transformation, so that nothing within them may ever again obscure the radiance of that pure light.    But how greatly the standpoint changes once we attain this deeper consciousness! How understanding widens, how compassion grows!    On this a sage has said:    "I would like each one of us to come to the point where he perceives the inner God who dwells even in the vilest of human beings; instead of condemning him we would say, 'Arise, O resplendent Being, thou who art ever pure, who knowest neither birth nor death; arise, Almighty One, and manifest thy nature.'"    Let us live by this beautiful utterance and we shall see everything around us transformed as if by miracle.    This is the attitude of true, conscious and discerning love, the love which knows how to see behind appearances, understand in spite of words, and which, amid all obstacles, is in constant communion with the depths.    What value have our impulses and our desires, our anguish and our violence, our sufferings and our struggles, all these inner vicissitudes unduly dramatised by our unruly imagination - what value do they have before this great, this sublime and divine love bending over us from the innermost depths of our being, bearing with our weaknesses, rectifying our errors, healing our wounds, bathing our whole being with its regenerating streams?    For the inner Godhead never imposes herself, she neither demands nor threatens; she offers and gives herself, conceals and forgets herself in the heart of all beings and things; she never accuses, she neither judges nor curses nor condemns, but works unceasingly to perfect without constraint, to mend without reproach, to encourage without impatience, to enrich each one with all the wealth he can receive; she is the mother whose love bears fruit and nourishes, guards and protects, counsels and consoles; because she understands everything, she can endure everything, excuse and pardon everything, hope and prepare for everything; bearing everything within herself, she owns nothing that does not belong to all, and because she reigns over all, she is the servant of all; that is why all, great and small, who want to be kings with her and gods in her, become, like her, not despots but servitors among their brethren.    How beautiful is this humble role of servant, the role of all who have been revealers and heralds of the God who is within all, of the Divine Love that animates all things....    And until we can follow their example and become true servants even as they, let us allow ourselves to be penetrated and transformed by this Divine Love; let us offer Him, without reserve, this marvellous instrument, our physical organism. He shall make it yield its utmost on every plane of activity.    To achieve this total self-consecration, all means are good, all methods have their value. The one thing needful is to persevere in our will to attain this goal. For then everything we study, every action we perform, every human being we meet, all come to bring us an indication, a help, a light to guide us on the path.    Before I close, I shall add a few pages for those who have already made apparently fruitless efforts, for those who have encountered the pitfalls on the way and seen the measure of their weakness, for those who are in danger of losing their self-confidence and courage. These pages, intended to rekindle hope in the hearts of those who suffer, were written by a spiritual worker at a time when ordeals of every kind were sweeping down on him like purifying flames.    You who are weary, downcast and bruised, you who fall, who think perhaps that you are defeated, hear the voice of a friend. He knows your sorrows, he has shared them, he has suffered like you from the ills of the earth; like you he has crossed many deserts under the burden of the day, he has known thirst and hunger, solitude and abandonment, and the cruellest of all wants, the destitution of the heart. Alas! he has known too the hours of doubt, the errors, the faults, the failings, every weakness.    But he tells you: Courage! Hearken to the lesson that the rising sun brings to the earth with its first rays each morning. It is a lesson of hope, a message of solace.    You who weep, who suffer and tremble, who dare not expect an end to your ills, an issue to your pangs, behold: there is no night without dawn and the day is about to break when darkness is thickest; there is no mist that the sun does not dispel, no cloud that it does not gild, no tear that it will not dry one day, no storm that is not followed by its shining triumphant bow; there is no snow that it does not melt, nor winter that it does not change into radiant spring.    And for you too, there is no affliction which does not bring its measure of glory, no distress which cannot be transformed into joy, nor defeat into victory, nor downfall into higher ascension, nor solitude into radiating centre of life, nor discord into harmony - sometimes it is a misunderstanding between two minds that compels two hearts to open to mutual communion; lastly, there is no infinite weakness that cannot be changed into strength. And it is even in supreme weakness that almightiness chooses to reveal itself!    Listen, my little child, you who today feel so broken, so fallen perhaps, who have nothing left, nothing to cover your misery and foster your pride: never before have you been so great! How close to the summits is he who awakens in the depths, for the deeper the abyss, the more the heights reveal themselves!    Do you not know this, that the most sublime forces of the vasts seek to array themselves in the most opaque veils of Matter? Oh, the sublime nuptials of sovereign love with the obscurest plasticities, of the shadow's yearning with the most royal light!    If ordeal or fault has cast you down, if you have sunk into the nether depths of suffering, do not grieve - for there indeed the divine love and the supreme blessing can reach you! Because you have passed through the crucible of purifying sorrows, the glorious ascents are yours.    You are in the wilderness: then listen to the voices of the silence. The clamour of flattering words and outer applause has gladdened your ears, but the voices of the silence will gladden your soul and awaken within you the echo of the depths, the chant of divine harmonies!    You are walking in the depths of night: then gather the priceless treasures of the night. In bright sunshine, the ways of intelligence are lit, but in the white luminosities of the night lie the hidden paths of perfection, the secret of spiritual riches.    You are being stripped of everything: that is the way towards plenitude. When you have nothing left, everything will be given to you. Because for those who are sincere and true, from the worst always comes the best.    Every grain that is sown in the earth produces a thousand. Every wing-beat of sorrow can be a soaring towards glory.    And when the adversary pursues man relentlessly, everything he does to destroy him only makes him greater.    Hear the story of the worlds, look: the great enemy seems to triumph. He casts the beings of light into the night, and the night is filled with stars. He rages against the cosmic working, he assails the integrity of the empire of the sphere, shatters its harmony, divides and subdivides it, scatters its dust to the four winds of infinity, and lo! the dust is changed into a golden seed, fertilising the infinite and peopling it with worlds which now gravitate around their eternal centre in the larger orbit of space - so that even division creates a richer and deeper unity, and by multiplying the surfaces of the material universe, enlarges the empire that it set out to destroy.    Beautiful indeed was the song of the primordial sphere cradled in the bosom of immensity, but how much more beautiful and triumphant is the symphony of the constellations, the music of the spheres, the immense choir that fills the heavens with an eternal hymn of victory!    Hear again: no state was ever more precarious than that of man when he was separated on earth from his divine origin. Above him stretched the hostile borders of the usurper, and at his horizon's gates watched jailers armed with flaming swords. Then, since he could climb no more to the source of life, the source arose within him; since he could no more receive the light from above, the light shone forth at the very centre of his being; since he could commune no more with the transcendent love, that love offered itself in a holocaust and chose each terrestrial being, each human self as its dwelling-place and sanctuary.    That is how, in this despised and desolate but fruitful and blessed Matter, each atom contains a divine thought, each being carries within him the Divine Inhabitant. And if no being in all the universe is as frail as man, neither is any as divine as he!    In truth, in truth, in humiliation lies the cradle of glory! 28 April 1912 ~ The Mother, Words Of Long Ago, The Supreme Discovery,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:If the constellations had been named in the twentieth century, I suppose we would see bicycles and refrigerators in the sky. ~ carl-sagan, @wisdomtrove

2:Why did not somebody teach me the constellations, and make me at home in the starry heavens, which are always overhead, and which I don't half know to this day? ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

3:I pray the gods some respite from the weary task of this long year's watch that lying on the Atreidae's roof on bended arm, dog- like, I have kept, marking the conclave of all night's stars, those potentates blazing in the heavens that bring winter and summer to mortal men, the constellations, when they wane, when they rise. ~ aeschylus, @wisdomtrove

4:I pray the gods will give me some relief and end this weary job. One long full year I've been lying here, on this rooftop, the palace of the sons of Atreus, resting on my arms, just like a dog. I've come to know the night sky, every star, the powers we see glittering in the sky, bringing winter and summer to us all, as the constellations rise and sink. ~ aeschylus, @wisdomtrove

5:Astrology is of particular interest to the psychologist, since it contains a sort of psychological experience which we call projected - this means that we find the psychological facts as it were in the constellations. This originally gave rise to the idea that these factors derive from the stars, whereas they are merely in a relation of synchronicity with them. I admit that this is a very curious fact which throws a peculiar light on the structure of the human mind. ~ carl-jung, @wisdomtrove

6:The child knows someone must have written those books. It does not know how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child dimly suspects a mysterious order in the arrangement of the books but doesn't know what it is. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of even the most intelligent human being toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged and obeying certain laws, but only dimly understand these laws. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that moves the constellations. ~ albert-einstein, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars. ~ Jack Gilbert,

2:The constellations this year seem unfavourable to rebels. ~ Cesare Borgia,

3:The dark night was the first book of poetry and the constellations were the poems. ~ Chet Raymo,

4:He knew all the constellations. He had seen them rise in darkness over heartbreaking coasts. ~ James Salter,

5:We gazed at the constellations, praising the portentous architecture of the sky with trite formulas. ~ Elena Ferrante,

6:Mr. Arsenikos said if you knew the constellations you would never get lost. You could always find your way home. ~ Bryn Greenwood,

7:[People] mistake the constellations of the cosmic void for the stars made by ducks' feet in the soft mud of the bog. ~ Victor Hugo,

8:If the constellations had been named in the twentieth century, I suppose we would see bicycles and refrigerators in the sky. ~ Carl Sagan,

9:Above us, the constellations spun and the moon paced her weary course. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed. ~ Madeline Miller,

10:Those who first invented and then named the constellations were storytellers. What it changed was the way people read the night sky. ~ John Berger,

11:What if the constellations no longer held? [...] Would it not cause one to scrutinize the totality of one's surroundings carefully? Would it not terrify? ~ J J Abrams,

12:She almost wished she smoked, so she could lie on the car’s hood, flick a lighter, and make up names for the constellations while nicotine burned her lungs. ~ Brigid Kemmerer,

13:The sky is deep black, the stars pressing down brilliantly all around, and I am reminded that we are not beneath the constellations, but among them. p 127 ~ Michael Perry,

14:Why did not somebody teach me the constellations, and make me at home in the starry heavens, which are always overhead, and which I don't half know to this day? ~ Thomas Carlyle,

15:As they sailed farther from the coast, the sky darkened and more stars came out. Percy studied the constellations—the ones Annabeth had taught him so many years ago. ~ Rick Riordan,

16:The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. ~ Walt Whitman,

17:Algebra applies to the clouds; the radiance of the star benefits the rose; no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. ~ Victor Hugo,

18:Even the constellations can see us now: we are seventeen and shattered and still dancing. We have messy, throbbing hearts, and we are stronger than anyone could ever know. ~ Emery Lord,

19:In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood. ~ Richard M Nixon,

20:Most of us are safe. If you're not a delirious dream the gods are having, if your beauty doesn't trouble the constellations, nobody's going to cast a spell on you. ~ Michael Cunningham,

21:the social moulds civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. ~ Thomas Hardy,

22:But if the lights of the Kremlin shimmered brightly, like all earthly lights before them they were diminished in their beauty by the majesty of the constellations overhead. ~ Amor Towles,

23:The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. ~ Walt Whitman,

24:Did we not look out together upon the dark waters of the lake And behold there the constellations Of both hemispheres at once? -Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes ~ Ian C Esslemont,

25:And I know, despite all the constellations placed in the sky as warning, why all those Greek maidens gave it up in the end. It’s because all the pain is worth it for this one moment. ~ Courtney Milan,

26:Follow wise and intelligent men possessed of experience, patient and full of spirituality and elevation...Follow just and perfect men faithfully as the moon follows the path of the constellations. ~ Dhammapada,

27:The universe is full of men going through the same motions in the same surroundings, but carrying within themselves, and projecting around them, universes as mutually remote as the constellations. ~ Emmanuel Mounier,

28:The stars we are given. The constellations we make. That is to say, stars exist in the cosmos, but constellations are the imaginary lines we draw between them, the readings we give the sky, the stories we tell. ~ Rebecca Solnit,

29:My darling, he is just a boy. How can he possibly begin to appreciate the constellations you leave in your wake, or the stardust in your bones, when he has yet to realize just what it means to be in love with a girl like you? ~ Nikita Gill,

30:Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. ~ E M Forster,

31:You want God? Don't look at Scripture, look everywhere, at the planets, the constellations, the universe. Look at a bug, a flea. Look at the manifold wonders of creation, including the Nazis. That's the kind of God you're dealing with. ~ E L Doctorow,

32:She remembered thinking falling for him would be like falling in love with darkness, but now she imagined he was more like a starry night: the constellations were always there, constant, magnificent guides against the ever-present black. ~ Stephanie Garber,

33:As they sailed farther from the coast, the sky darkened and more stars came out. Percy studied the constellations-the ones Annabeth had taught him so many years ago. "Bob says hello," he told the stars. The Argo II sailed into the night. ~ Rick Riordan,

34:The things of the world knew so much more than we did and lived them more truly. The thorn trees had no grief or fear. The constellations didn't fight or hold themselves back, nor did the translucent hook of the moon. Everything was momentary and endless. ~ Paula McLain,

35:Who of us, humans, at least once a lifetime, didn’t deeply fall into contemplation, standing in the darkness of such eventides beneath the constellations that are hiding different wyes and planets still hardly visible or reachable for our eyes and minds? ~ Sahara Sanders,

36:I have been thinking", she continued, still in the tone of one brimful of feeling, "that the social moulds civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. ~ Thomas Hardy,

37:I want to know every part of you, every scar, every bruise, I want to trace the map of you, my fingers a compass, your freckles the constellations which in my heart I will chart so when I close my eyes I’ll have you in my stars forever. ~ Atticus Poetry,

38:I’m evolving, is the thing; I’m a god becoming a constellation.’ ‘The constellations are mostly demigods,’ I point out. ‘And they didn’t get to be constellations until after they died.’ He laughs at that, and says, ‘Death is a small sacrifice to become immortal. ~ Neal Shusterman,

39:I sailed upon oceans, and I thought no challenge could be greater, and now men sail the void between stars. Oh, how I remember them. The constellations burning so bright at night. How could I ever have known? God's creation has a majesty which lays men bare at his feet. ~ Peter F Hamilton,

40:After a few minutes Jim was forced to admit that he could recognize none of the constellations. Like everything else since the war, the sky was in a state of change. For all their movements, the Japanese aircraft were its only fixed points, a second zodiac above the broken land. ~ J G Ballard,

41:Seated at the table, high in her firmament of gin, she looked critically at her brother and his wife, remembering some real or imagined injustice of her youth, for with any proximity the constellations of some families generate among themselves an asperity that nothing can sweeten. ~ John Cheever,

42:I am Ramandu. But I see that you stare at one another and have not heard this name. And no wonder, for the days when I was a star had ceased long before any of you knew this world, and all the constellations have changed.” “Golly,” said Edmund under his breath. “He’s a retired star. ~ C S Lewis,

43:Initially the snow had been beautiful, but not so much now. The softness and sparkle still charmed, but the storm occluded the sky, denying us the stars. At the moment, I needed to see a firmament of stars, needed to gaze past the moon and through the constellations, needed to see what can't be seen--infinity. ~ Dean Koontz,

44:...she gave thanks to the images of the stars for the joy she had had of the night, when the constellations shone in their myriad majesty, and moved like an army dresses in silver mail, marching from unknown victories to conquer in distant wars. She praised those bright reflections shimmering down in the pool. ~ Lord Dunsany,

45:Freedom is a state of mind, mignonne,' he said against her hair. 'My ancestor found it in this room, studying the constellations, even though physically he was a prisoner of his own infirmity. Other men are prisoners of their own emotions, their hearts given in bondage to a woman as cold and remote as the distant stars. ~ Penny Jordan,

46:I pray the gods some respite from the weary task of this long year's watch that lying on the Atreidae's roof on bended arm, dog- like, I have kept, marking the conclave of all night's stars, those potentates blazing in the heavens that bring winter and summer to mortal men, the constellations, when they wane, when they rise. ~ Aeschylus,

47:I want nothing less than a faith founded upon a rock, faith in the constitution of things. The various man-made creeds are fictitious, like the constellations Orion, Cassiopeia’s Chair, the Big Dipper; the only thing real in them is the stars, and the only thing real in the creeds is the soul’s aspiration toward the Infinite. ~ John Burroughs,

48:Above Ania, the moon is nearly full and the stars are as bright as always. Cassiopeia, Orion, Arachne...The names of the constellations return to her in her father's voice. They are all in their places, a buffer against the chaos and indifference of the universe. It is what is down here below them in the mud that is all wrong. ~ Jessica Shattuck,

49:I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,

50:I pray the gods will give me some relief and end this weary job. One long full year I've been lying here, on this rooftop, the palace of the sons of Atreus, resting on my arms, just like a dog. I've come to know the night sky, every star, the powers we see glittering in the sky, bringing winter and summer to us all, as the constellations rise and sink. ~ Aeschylus,

51:we find from their writings that Moses, Job, David, Solomon and Isaiah were the leading scientists of the ages in which they lived. They understood natural history, architecture, sculpture, poetry, music, botany, and in astronomy they made such progress that many of the constellations still retain the names they used, such as Orion, Pleaides, etc. (See Job xxxviii, 31; Amos v, 8.) ~ Anonymous,

52:Well, there was something I once read... It was an astronomy book that said in most of the constellations, the stars don't actually belong together. They only appear to. They look to us as if they're close to each other, but some of them exist in another part of the galaxy altogether. That's how my family was. We seemed to belong to the same group, but we were all very far apart ~ Lisa Kleypas,

53:How many years have slipped through our hands?At least as many as the constellations we still can identify.The quarter moon, like a light skiff,                                                         floats out of the mist-remnantsOf last night’s hard rain.It, too, will slip through our fingers                                                        with no ripple, without us in it. ~ Charles Wright,

54:If Caenis had been here, he could have named all the constellations but Vaelin could pick out only a few of the more obvious ones: the Sword, the Stag, the Maiden. Caenis had told him of a legend that claimed the first souls of the Departed has cast the stars into the sky from the Beyond as a gift for the generations to come, making patterns to guide the living through the path of life. ~ Anthony Ryan,

55:the sky gets crowded at night, and it is a bit like watching a clock, seeing the constellations slide across the sky. It’s comforting to know that they’ll show up, however bad the day has been, however crook things get. That used to help in France. It put things into perspective—the stars had been around since before there were people. They just kept shining, no matter what was going on. ~ M L Stedman,

56:They merged again one evening sitting on the porch swing watching fireflies and the thousands of stars above them, idly moving the swing back and forth with their feet. The night was unbearably beautiful with the constellations speaking their own strange language to each other. He told her he thought it might be the uninvented language used by Jesus and the Buddha to speak to each other. ~ Jim Harrison,

57:How many years have slipped through our hands? At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff,                                                          floats out of the mist-remnants Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers                                                         with no ripple, without us in it. ~ Charles Wright,

58:The social mould civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies. ~ Thomas Hardy,

59:...the social mould civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies... ~ Thomas Hardy,

60:Those who first invented and then named the constellations were storytellers. Tracing an imaginary line between a cluster of stars gave them an image and an identity. The stars threaded on that line were like events threaded on a narrative. Imagining the constellations did not of course change the stars, nor did it change the black emptiness that surrounds them. What it changed was the way people read the night sky. ~ John Berger,

61:I love to revel in philosophical matters-especially astronomy. I study astronomy more than any other foolishness there is. I am a perfect slave to it. I am at it all the time. I have got more smoked glass than clothes. I am as familiar with the stars as the comets are. I know all the facts and figures and have all the knowledge there is concerning them. I yelp astronomy like a sun-dog, and paw the constellations like Ursa Major. ~ Mark Twain,

62:I have been thinking that the social moulds civilisation fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies.... ~ Thomas Hardy,

63:I have been thinking ... that the social moulds civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies… ~ Thomas Hardy,

64:That night, Tom took a bottle of whisky, and went to watch the stars from near the cliff. The breeze played on his face as he traced the constellations, and tasted the burn of the liquid. He turned his attention to the rotation of the beam, and gave a bitter laugh at the thought that the dip of the light meant that the island itself was always left in darkness. A lighthouse is for others; powerless to illuminate the space closest to it. ~ M L Stedman,

65:The night sky was fractured, cracks forming between the constellations. It was as if the heavens were made of glass, which was now shattering in slow motion. From the spaces between the stars, shadowy tentacles reached down. They twisted like cyclones, snaking their way to the ground. Light glowed within the tips of the funnels. “What is that?” asked Wade. “What’s happening?” Arlo was almost certain he knew the answer. “It’s the Eldritch. ~ John August,

66:During the night, while Bull and Lucy slept, Edward, with ever-open eyes, stared up at the constellations. He said their names, and then he said the names of the people who loved him. He started with Abilene, and then went on to Nellie and Lawrence and from there to Bull and Lucy, and then he ended again with Abilene: Abilene, Nellie, Lawrence, Bull, Lucy, Abilene. See? Edward told Pellegrina. I am not like the princess. I know about love. ~ Kate DiCamillo,

67:In reality there was only one thing you dreaded: letting yourself fall, taking the step into uncertainty, the little step beyond all the securities that existed. And whoever had once surrendered himself, one single time, whoever had practiced the great act of confidence and entrusted himself to fate, was liberated. He no longer obeyed the laws of earth; he had fallen into space and swung along in the dance of the constellations. That was it. ~ Hermann Hesse,

68:During the night, while Bull and Lucy slept, Edward, with ever-open eyes, stared up at the constellations. He said their names, and then he said the names of the people who loved him. He started with Abilene, and then went on to Nellie and Lawrence and from there to Bull and Lucy, and then he ended again with Abilene: Abilene, Nellie, Lawrence, Bull, Lucy, Abilene. See? Edward told Pellegrina. I am not like the princess. I know about love. ~ Kate DiCamillo,

69:Astrology is of particular interest to the psychologist, since it contains a sort of psychological experience which we call projected - this means that we find the psychological facts as it were in the constellations. This originally gave rise to the idea that these factors derive from the stars, whereas they are merely in a relation of synchronicity with them. I admit that this is a very curious fact which throws a peculiar light on the structure of the human mind. ~ Carl Jung,

70:I did not look about me, though sometimes I glanced up into the great bowl of the night sky and at the constellations scattered there and the sight was comforting and calming to me, things in the heavens seemed still to be aright and unchanged. But nothing else was, within me or all around. I knew now that I had entered some hitherto unimagined - indeed, unbelieved-in - realm of consciousness, that coming to this place had already changed me and that there was no going back. ~ Susan Hill,

71:I have been thinking," she continued, still in the tone of one brimful of feeling, "that the social moulds civilization fits us into have no more relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the constellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard Phillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name. But I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about, all alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies... ~ Thomas Hardy,

72:When the boy was grown and out hunting, the goddess brought Callisto before him, intending to have him shoot his mother, in ignorance, of course. But Zeus snatched the bear away and placed her among the stars, where she is called the Great Bear. Later, her son Arcas was placed beside her and called the Lesser Bear. Hera, enraged at this honor to her rival, persuaded the God of the Sea to forbid the Bears to descend into the ocean like the other stars. They alone of the constellations never set below the horizon. ~ Edith Hamilton,

73:I should’ve listened to her—she told me almost nothing, but she did give me clues, and I know now that she put signs in her words and expressions that were as clear as the constellations over our heads. But I didn’t listen. It’s a fact of being in love that we often pay no attention whatsoever to the substance of what a lover says, while being intoxicated to ecstasy by the way it’s said. I was in love with her eyes, but I didn’t read them. I loved her voice, but I didn’t really hear the fear and the anguish in it. ~ Gregory David Roberts,

74:I am nothing but oxygen and hydrogen, a luminous sphere of plasma held together by helium and gravity, And like a balloon I float on earth, waiting to be released back into the sky, where I will explode into a thousand pieces. I shall leave behind my body, just like air abandons the skin of a shattered balloon, and the magnetic dust that carries my heart and spirit will lift us back to congregate and shine with the stars. Home again, in the fluorescent kingdom of the constellations, I will once again be called by my soul’s true name. ~ Suzy Kassem,

75:At teenage parties he was always wandering into the garden, sitting on a bench in the dark . . . staring up at the constellations and pondering all those big questions about the existence of God and the nature of evil and the mystery of death, questions which seemed more important than anything else in the would until a few years passed and some real questions had been dumped into your lap, like how to earn a living, and why people fell in and out of love, and how long you could carry on smoking and then give up without getting lung cancer. ~ Mark Haddon,

76:For three days and two nights I drift up the Nile along Lake Nasser. The sunrises and sunsets are so extraordinarily beautiful that my body turns inside out and empties my heart into the sky. The stars are close enough to grasp. Lying on the roof of the ferry at night, I begin at last to know the constellations, and start a personal relationship with that particular little cluster of jewels called the Pleiades, which nestles in the sky not far from Orion's belt and sword. Really, those stars, when they come that close, you have to take them seriously. ~ Ted Simon,

77:~ Rachel Nicole WagnerTonight's Sea~ Rachel Nicole Wagner Meet me by the sea, Under the stars. Where we can gaze With our hearts. Today, I am restless, Waiting for tonight's meet. I cannot believe how endless These hours can be. I hope the constellations Are aligned. For tonight we'll see Where our connection wanders. I'll hold on to this dream. My grip isn't fading. My memory isn't gone. Tonight we will be wading In the sea waters of love. -Rachel Nicole Wagner Original ~ Rachel Nicole Wagner,

78:Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body. ~ E M Forster,

79:Who of us, humans, at least once a lifetime, didn’t deeply fall into contemplation, standing in the darkness of such eventides beneath the constellations that are hiding different wyes and planets still hardly visible or reachable for our eyes and minds? How many chances are there that in one or few of those unknown worlds, some mighty civilizations had contrived the ways to see through the past time and billions of light-years? If this is the case, they’d also be able to descry the stories happening on the Earth… like the one narrated in this novel. ~ Sahara Sanders,

80:Who of us, humans, at least once a lifetime, didn’t deeply fall into contemplation, standing in the darkness of such eventides beneath the constellations that are hiding different wyes and planets still hardly visible or reachable for our eyes and minds? How many chances are there that in one or few of those unknown worlds, some mighty civilizations had contrived the ways to see through the past time and billions of light-years? If this is the case, they’d also be able to descry the stories happening on the Earth��� like the one narrated in this novel. ~ Sahara Sanders,

81:But we didn't, not in the moonlight, or by the phosphorescent lanterns of lightning bugs in your back yard, not beneath the constellations we couldn't see, let alone decipher, or in the dark glow that replaced the real darkness of night, a darkness already stolen from us, not with the skyline rising behind us while a city gradually decayed, not in the heat of summer while a Cold War raged, despite the freedom of youth and the license of first love-because of fate, karma, luck, what does it matter?-we made not doing it a wonder, and yet we didn't, we didn't, we never did. ~ Stuart Dybek,

82:But we didn’t, not in the moonlight, or by the phosphorescent lanterns of lightning bugs in your back yard, not beneath the constellations we couldn’t see, let alone decipher, or in the dark glow that replaced the real darkness of night, a darkness already stolen from us, not with the skyline rising behind us while a city gradually decayed, not in the heat of summer while a Cold War raged, despite the freedom of youth and the license of first love—because of fate, karma, luck, what does it matter?—we made not doing it a wonder, and yet we didn’t, we didn’t, we never did. ~ Stuart Dybek,

83:Sometimes, when he got home from work he took me up to the roof. There he set up a telescope and explained the constellations to me, whispered their names into my ear, as if we were the only two people who knew those names, as if they were a secret between us. I felt his warm breath, smelling of almonds, and if father had a drink before, he'd bring me to bed, let me change into my nightgown, give me a kiss, his beard stubble brushing against my cheek, and stroke my hair. Then he'd lay his hand on the radiator just as gently as he had touched my head earlier and leave the room. ~ Olga Grjasnowa,

84:And the stars: the sky gets crowded at night, and it is a bit like watching a clock, seeing the constellations slide across the sky. It’s comforting to know that they’ll show up, however bad the day has been, however crook things get. That used to help in France. It put things into perspective—the stars had been around since before there were people. They just kept shining, no matter what was going on. I think of the light here like that, like a splinter of a star that’s fallen to earth: it just shines, no matter what is happening. Summer, winter, storm, fine weather. People can rely on it. ~ M L Stedman,

85:Although the constellations in which I have found myself - and naturally also the periods of life and their different influences - have led to changes and development in the accents of my thought, my basic impulse, precisely during the Council, was always to free up the authentic kernel of the faith from encrustations and to give this kernel strength and dynamism. This impulse is the constant of my life ... what's important to me is that I have never deviated from this constant, which from my childhood has molded my life, and that I have remained true to it as the basic direction of my life. ~ Benedict XVI,

86:Will you come with me?” he asked. The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.” Relief broke in his face, and he reached for me. I let him hold me, let him press us length to length so close that nothing might fit between us. Tears came, and fell. Above us, the constellations spun and the moon paced her weary course. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed. ~ Madeline Miller,

87:Although the constellations in which I have found myself - and naturally also the periods of life and their different influences - have led to changes and development in the accents of my thought, my basic impulse, precisely during the Council, was always to free up the authentic kernel of the faith from encrustations and to give this kernel strength and dynamism. This impulse is the constant of my life ... what's important to me is that I have never deviated from this constant, which from my childhood has molded my life, and that I have remained true to it as the basic direction of my life. ~ Pope Benedict XVI,

88:Despite the hour, the Kremlin shimmered with electric light from every window, as if its newest denizens were still too drunk with power to sleep. But if the lights of the Kremlin shimmered brightly, like all earthly lights before them they were diminished in their beauty by the majesty of the constellations overhead. Craning his neck, the Count tried to identify the few that he had learned in his youth: Perseus, Orion, the Great Bear, each flawless and eternal. To what end, he wondered, had the Divine created the stars in heaven to fill a man with feelings of inspiration one day and insignificance the next? ~ Amor Towles,

89:The abandoned stars were hers for the many rich hours os sparkling winter nights, and, unattended, she took them in like lovers. She felt that she looked out, not up, into the spacious universe, she knew the names of every bright star and all the constellations, and (although she could not see them) she was familiar with the vast billowing nebulae in which one filament of a wild and shaken mane carried in its trail a hundred million worlds. In a delirium of comets, suns, and pulsating stars, she let her eyes fill with the humming, crackling, hissing light of the galaxy's edge, a perpetual twilight, a gray dawn in one of heaven's many galleries. ~ Mark Helprin,

90:I am here now to tell you that you were wrong. Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters. ~ Elin Hilderbrand,

91:[P]erhaps the burrows in which our lives were spent really were dark and dirty, and perhaps we ourselves were well suited to these burrows, but in the blue sky above our heads, up among the thinly scattered stars, there were special, artificial points of gleaming light, creeping unhurriedly through the constellations, points created here out of steel, semiconductors, and electricity, and now flying through space. And every one of us, even the blue-faced alcoholic we had passed on the way here, huddling like a toad in a snowdrift, even Mitiok's brother, and of course Mitiok and I — we all had our own little embassy up there in the cold pure blueness. ~ Victor Pelevin,

92:Then overwhelmed by the sense of that unknown infinity, like one bewildered by a strange persecution, confronting the shadows of night, in the presence of that impenetrable darkness, in the midst of the murmur of the waves, the swell, the foam, the breeze, under the clouds, under that vast diffusion of force, under that mysterious firmament of wings, of stars, of gulfs, having around him and beneath him the ocean above him the constellations, under the great unfathomable deep, he sank, gave up the struggle, lay down upon the rock, his face towards the stars, humble, and uplifting his joined hands towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud, "Have mercy. ~ Victor Hugo,

93:He was out there alone with himself, composed, tranquil, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart to the serenity of the skies, moved in the darkness by the visible splendors of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his soul to the thoughts that fall from the Unknown. In such moments, offering up his heart as the flowers of night emit their perfume, lit like a lamp in the center of the starry night, expanding in ecstasy the midst of creation’s universal radiance, perhaps he could not have told what was happening in his own mind; he felt something floating away from him, and something descending upon him, mysterious exchanges of the soul with the universe. ~ Victor Hugo,

94:The science of mathematics applies to the clouds; the radiance of starlight nourishes the rose; no thinker will dare say that the scent of hawthorn is valueless to the constellations... The cheese-mite has its worth; the smallest is large and the largest is small... Light does not carry the scents of earth into the upper air without knowing what it is doing with them; darkness confers the essence of the stars upon the sleeping flowers... Where the telescope ends the microscope begins, and which has the wider vision? You may choose. A patch of mould is a galaxy of blossom; a nebula is an antheap of stars. There is the same affinity, if still more inconceivable, between the things of the mind and material things. ~ Victor Hugo,

95:We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations. ~ Albert Einstein,

96:Have you any knowledge of the seas and lands further east than this?” “I saw them long ago,” said the Old Man, “but it was from a great height. I cannot tell you such things as sailors need to know.” “Do you mean you were flying in the air?” Eustace blurted out. “I was a long way above the air, my son,” replied the Old Man. “I am Ramandu. But I see that you stare at one another and have not heard this name. And no wonder, for the days when I was a star had ceased long before any of you knew this world, and all the constellations have changed.” “Golly,” said Edmund under his breath. “He’s a retired star.” “Aren’t you a star any longer?” asked Lucy. “I am a star at rest, my daughter,” answered Ramandu. ~ C S Lewis,

97:He was there alone with himself, collected, tranquil, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the skies, moved in the darkness by the visible splendors of the constellations, and the invisible splendor of God, opening his soul to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown. In such moments, offering up his heart at the hour when the flowers of night inhale their perfume, lighted like a lamp in the center of the starry night, expanding his soul in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not himself perhaps have told what was passing in his own mind; he felt something depart from him, and something descend upon him, mysterious interchanges of the depths of the soul with the depths of the universe. ~ Victor Hugo,

98:The Talmud describes rabbis debating over which remains fixed and which revolves, the constellations or the solid sky (Pesachim 94b),[106] as well as how to calculate the thickness of the firmament scientifically (Pesab. 49a) and Biblically (Genesis Rabbah 4.5.2).[107] While the Talmud is not the definitive interpretation of the Bible, it certainly illustrates how ancient Jews of that time period understood the term, which can be helpful in learning the Hebrew cultural context. When the Scriptures talk poetically of this vault of heaven it uses the same terminology of stretching out the solid surface of the heavens over the earth as it does of stretching out an ANE desert tent over the flat ground (Isa. 54:2; Jer. 10:20)—not like an expanding Einsteinian time-space ~ Brian Godawa,

99:He was suddenly thrilled to see his private, personal star arise in the east. This was a particular star his nanny had chosen for him as a child. As a child, he would sometimes talk to this star, but only when he was his most serious, real self, and not being any sort of a show-off or clown. As he grew up, the practice had somehow worn off. He looked up at his old friend as if to say, “You see my predicament.” The star seemed to respond, “I see.” Abel next put the question: “What shall I do?” The star seemed to answer, “You will do what you will do.” For some reason this reply strengthened Abel’s belief in himself. Sleep gently enfolded him. The constellations proceeded across the hushed heavens as if tiptoeing past the dreaming mouse on his high branch. ~ William Steig,

100:The human mind, no matter how highly trained, cannot grasp the universe. We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations. ~ Albert Einstein,

101:I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young And weep because I know all things now: I have been a hazel-tree, and they hung The Pilot Star and the Crooked Plough Among my leaves in times out of mind: I became a rush that horses tread: I became a man, a hater of the wind, Knowing one, out of all things, alone, that his head May not lie on the breast nor his lips on the hair Of the woman that he loves, until he dies. O beast of the wilderness, bird of the air, Must I endure your amorous cries? In an earlier version of this poem (October 1898) the final two lines read:- Although the rushes and the fowl of the air Cry of his love with their pitiful cries. ~ William Butler Yeats, He Thinks Of His Past Greatness When A Part Of The Constellations Of Heaven ,

102:And the earth itself still turning on its axis and revolving around that sun, the sun revolving around the luminous wheel of this galaxy, the countless unmeasured jewelled wheels of countless unmeasured galaxies, turning, turning, majestically, into infinity, into eternity, through all of which all life ran on—all this, long after she herself was dead, men would still be reading in the night sky, and as the earth turned through those distant seasons, and they watched the constellations still rising, culminating, setting, to rise again—Aries, Taurus, Gemini, the Crab, Leo, Virgo, the Scales and the Scorpion, Capricorn the Sea-goat and Aquarius the Water Bearer, Pisces, and once more, triumphantly, Aries!—would they not, too, still be asking the hopeless eternal question: to what end? What force drives this sublime celestial machinery? ~ Malcolm Lowry,

103:Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)" -from "Song of the Open Road ~ Walt Whitman,

104:Shocked? I consider Bob one of the constellations of our time — of our country — America — a bright, magnificent constellation. Besides, all the constellations—not alone of this but of any time—shock the average intelligence for a while. In one respect that helps to prove it a constellation. Think of Voltaire, Paine, Hicks, not to say anything of modern men whom we could mention. {Whitman's thoughts on his close friend, the great Robert Ingersoll} ~ Walt Whitman,

105:With the passage of days in this godly isolation [desert], my heart grew calm. It seemed to fill with answers. I did not ask questions any more; I was certain. Everything - where we came from, where we are going, what our purpose is on earth - struck me as extremely sure and simple in this God-trodden isolation. Little by little my blood took on the godly rhythm. Matins, Divine Liturgy, vespers, psalmodies, the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, the constellations suspended like chandeliers each night over the monastery: all came and went, came and went in obedience to eternal laws, and drew the blood of man into the same placid rhythm. I saw the world as a tree, a gigantic poplar, and myself as a green leaf clinging to a branch with my slender stalk. When God's wind blew, I hopped and danced, together with the entire tree. ~ Nikos Kazantzakis,

106:What do you see to the south?" Tanis asked abruptly. Raistilin glanced at him. "What do I ever see with these eyes of mine Half-Elf?" the mage whispered bitterly. "I see death, death and destruction. I see war." He gestured up above. "The constellations have not returned. The Queen of Darkness is not defeated." "We may have not won the war," Tanis began, "but surely we have won a major battle---" Raistlin coughed and shook his head sadly. "Do you see no hope?" "Hope is the denial of reality. It is the carrot dangled before the draft horse to keep him plodding along in the vain attempt to reach it." "Are you saying we should just give up?" Tanis asked, irritably tossing the bark away. "I'm saying we should remove the carrot and walk forward with our eyes open," Raistin answered. Coughing he drew his robes more closely around him. ~ Margaret Weis,

107:Tear It Down" We find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows. By redefining the morning, we find a morning that comes just after darkness. We can break through marriage into marriage. By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond affection and wade mouth-deep into love. We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars. But going back toward childhood will not help. The village is not better than Pittsburgh. Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh. Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound of racoon tongues licking the inside walls of the garbage tub is more than the stir of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not enough. We die and are put into the earth forever. We should insist while there is still time. We must eat through the wildness of her sweet body already in our bed to reach the body within the body. ~ Jack Gilbert,

108:I am nothing but oxygen and hydrogen, A luminous sphere of plasma Held together by helium and gravity, And like a balloon I float on earth, Waiting to be released back into the sky, Waiting to go back in the reverse Direction from which I came, Traveling through a warm tunnel of light, And out into a cold, dark abyss Where I will explode into a thousand pieces. I shall leave behind my body, Just like air abandons the skin of a shattered balloon, And the magnetic dust that carries my Heart and spirit will lift us back To congregate and shine With the stars. Home again, In the fluorescent Kingdom of the constellations, I will once again be called by My soul’s true name. And my heart, It will flicker again, With every memory from its many Lifetimes, And with every wish Made by a child. SONG OF THE STAR by Suzy Kassem ~ Suzy Kassem,

109:/Farsi & Turkish Love's way is humility and intoxication, The torrent floods down. How can it run up? You'll be a cabuchon in the ring of lovers, If you're a red ruby's slave, dear friend ; Even as Earth is a serf of the sapphire sky And your monkey body's a slave to your spirit. What did Earth ever lose by this relationship? What mercy has the Self showed to weary limbs? One shouldn't beat the snare drum of awakening Beneath a cosy sofa's, comfy counterpane. Hoist, like a hero, your flag in the desert. Listen with your soul's ear to the song, In that hollow of the vast turquoise dome, Rising from the lover's passionate moan . When your tight gown-strings are loosened By the tipsy inebriation of perfect love, The victorious heavens shout, triumphantly! And the constellations gaze down ashamed. This world is in deep trouble, from top to bottom, But it can be swiftly healed by the balm of love. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi, On Love ,

110:Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not have told himself, probably, what was passing in his spirit; he felt something take its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysterious exchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe! ~ Victor Hugo,

111:I am nothing but oxygen and hydrogen, A luminous sphere of plasma Held together by helium and gravity, And like a balloon I float on earth, Waiting to be released back into the sky, Waiting to go back in the reverse Direction from which I came, Traveling through a warm tunnel of light, And out into a cold, dark abyss Where I will explode into a thousand pieces. I shall leave behind my body, Just like air abandons the skin of a shattered balloon, And the magnetic dust that carries my Heart and spirit will lift us back To congregate and shine With the stars. Home again, In the fluorescent Kingdom of the constellations, I will once again be called by My soul’s true name. And my heart, It will flicker again, With every memory from its many Lifetimes, And with every wish Made by a child. SONG OF THE STAR by Suzy Kassem Copyright 1993 ~ Suzy Kassem,

112:I will go,” he said. “I will go to Troy.” The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered green of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious death would drink his blood, and grow young again. He was watching me, his eyes as deep as earth. “Will you come with me?” he asked. The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whipsered. “Yes.” Relief broke in his face, and he reached for me. I let him hold me, let him press us length to length so close that nothing might fit between us. Tears came, and fell. Above us, the constellations spun and the moon paced her weary course. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed. ~ Madeline Miller,

113:A sensation rose in him, a high tingling of his blood. There came a wave, a wind that recognized him, that did not love him or hate him. He felt what he knew as the rising of his self, the shifting innerness that yearned and feared, that was more familiar to him than anything could ever be. He knew that an answering substance gathered around him, emanating from the trees and the stars. He stood staring at the constellations. Walt had sent him here, to find this, and he understood. He thought he understood. This was his heaven. It was not Broadway or the horse on wheels. It was grass and silence; it was a field of stars. It was what the book told him, night after night. When he died he would leave his defective body and turn into grass. He would be here like this, forever. There was no reason to fear it, because it was part of him. What he'd thought of as his emptiness, his absence of soul, was only a yearning for this. ~ Michael Cunningham,

114:SONG OF THE STAR I am nothing but oxygen and hydrogen, A luminous sphere of plasma Held together by helium and gravity, And like a balloon I float on earth, Waiting to be released back into the sky, Waiting to go back in the reverse Direction from which I came, Traveling through a warm tunnel of light, And out into a cold, dark abyss Where I will explode into a thousand pieces. I shall leave behind my body, Just like air abandons the skin of a shattered balloon, And the magnetic dust that carries my Heart and spirit will lift us back To congregate and shine With the stars. Home again, In the fluorescent Kingdom of the constellations, I will once again be called by My soul’s true name. And my heart, It will flicker again, With every memory from its many Lifetimes, And with every wish Made by a child. SONG OF THE STAR by Suzy Kassem Copyright 1993 ~ Suzy Kassem,

115:These Things, whose essential life want to express, first ask you, “Are you free? Are you prepared to devote all your love to me, to lie with me as St. Julian the Hospitaller lay beside the leper, giving him the supreme embrace which no simple, fleeting love of one’s neighbor could accomplish, because its motive is love, the whole of love, all the love that exists on earth.” And if the Thing sees that you are otherwise occupied, with even a particle of your interest, it shuts itself off; it may perhaps give you some slight sign of friendship, a word, or a nod, but it will never give you its heart, entrust you with its patient being, its sweet sidereal constancy, which makes it so like the constellations in the sky. In order for a Thing to speak to you, you must regard it for a certain time as the only one that exists, as the one and only phenomenon, which through your laborious and exclusive love is now placed at the center of the universe, and which, in that incomparable place, is on that day attended by angels." —from letter to Baladine Klossowska, (December 16, 1920) ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,

116:They wept for humanity, those two, not for themselves. They could not bear that this should be the end. Ere silence was completed their hearts were opened, and they knew what had been important on the earth. Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body. The sin against the body - it was for that they wept in chief; the centuries of wrong against the muscles and the nerves, and those five portals by which we can alone apprehend - glozing it over with talk of evolution, until the body was white pap, the home of ideas as colourless, last sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had grasped the stars. ~ E M Forster,

117:Your love is different from mine. What I mean is, when you close your eyes, for that moment, the center of the universe comes to reside within you. And you become a small figure within that vastness, which spreads without limit behind you, and continues to expand at tremendous speed, to engulf all of my past, even before I was born, and every word I've ever written, and each view I've seen, and all the constellations, and the darkness of outer space that surrounds the small blue ball that is earth. Then, when you open your eyes, all that disappears. I anticipate the next time you are troubled and must close your eyes again. The way we think may be completely different, but you and I are an ancient, archetypal couple, the original man and woman. We are the model for Adam and Eve. For all couples in love, there comes a moment when a man gazes at a woman with the very same kind of realization. It is an infinite helix, the dance of two souls resonating, like the twist of DNA, like the vast universe. Oddly, at that moment, she looked over at me and smiled. As if in response to what I'd been thinking, she said, "That was beautiful. I'll never forget it. ~ Banana Yoshimoto,

118:Directly overhead the Milky Way was as distinct as a highway across the sky. The constellations shown brilliantly, except the north, where they were blurred by the white sheets of the Aurora. Now shimmering like translucent curtains drawn over the windows of heaven, the northern lights suddenly streaked across a million miles of space to burst in silent explosions. Fountains of light, pale greens, reds, and yellows, showered the stars and geysered up to the center of the sky, where they pooled to form a multicolored sphere, a kind of mock sun that gave light but no heat, pulsing, flaring, and casting beams in all directions, horizon to horizon. Below, the wolves howled with midnight madness and the two young men stood in speechless awe. Even after the spectacle ended, the Aurora fading again to faint shimmer, they stood as silent and transfixed as the first human beings ever to behold the wonder of creation. Starkmann felt the diminishment that is not self-depreciation but humility; for what was he and what was Bonnie George? Flickers of consciousness imprisoned in lumps of dust; above them a sky ablaze with the Aurora, around them a wilderness where wolves sang savage arias to a frozen moon. ~ Philip Caputo,

119:Poem For Wei Ba Often a man's life is such that he seldom sees his friends, like the constellations Shen and Shang which never share the same sky. If not this evening, then what evening should we share this lamp light? How long can our youth and vigor last? The hair at our temples is already gray. We inquire about old acquaintances to find that half are ghosts-shocked cries betray the torment of our hearts. How could I have known that it would be twenty years before I again entered your honored home. When we parted last you were yet unmarried; now your sons and daughters line up in a smiling row to greet their father's friend. They ask whence I have come but before I can answer all questions you chase them off to bring wine and cups. In the night rain, chives are cut for the freshly steamed rice mixed with yellow millet. Saying how difficult it has been for us to meet at last, you pour ten cups in a row! But even after ten cups I'm not drunk, being so moved by your lasting friendship. Tomorrow we will be separated by the peaks of mountains, each of our worldly affairs lost to the other's sight. 53 ~ Du Fu,

120:The star prophecy that Belial alluded to had a long history of importance. When Yahweh had originally created the heavens and earth, he placed the constellations of stars and planets in the sky not merely for seasons but for signs to mankind. And the most imaginative sign was the story of redemption that he embedded within the very structure of the twelve constellations that revolved around the earth. The narrative was of a virgin (Virgo) who would bear the promised seed and pay the price of justice (Libra) to overcome the “wounder of the heel” (Scorpio). This promised one would be a conqueror (Sagittarius the archer), who would be the scapegoat of atonement (Capricorn), and bring living waters for his people (Aquarius the water-bearer). Those people would be blessed though bound (Pisces the fish). Their blessings would be consummated through a ram of sacrifice (Aries) who would become a ruling leader (Taurus the bull), a king with two natures (Gemini the twins). He would hold his people fast in his grip (Cancer the crab), and would ultimately reign as king over the earth (Leo the lion). Yahweh’s enemies eventually subverted the original intent of the constellations and twisted the entire system into a form of idolatry that worshipped the stars instead of Yahweh as the determiner of destinies. ~ Brian Godawa,

121:Your question is the most difficult in the world. It is not a question I can answer simply with yes or no. I am not an Atheist. I do not know if I can define myself as a Pantheist. The problem involved is too vast for our limited minds. May I not reply with a parable? The human mind, no matter how highly trained, cannot grasp the universe. We are in the position of a little child, entering a huge library whose walls are covered to the ceiling with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have written those books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the languages in which they are written. The child notes a definite plan in the arrangement of the books, a mysterious order, which it does not comprehend, but only dimly suspects. That, it seems to me, is the attitude of the human mind, even the greatest and most cultured, toward God. We see a universe marvelously arranged, obeying certain laws, but we understand the laws only dimly. Our limited minds cannot grasp the mysterious force that sways the constellations. I am fascinated by Spinoza's Pantheism. I admire even more his contributions to modern thought. Spinoza is the greatest of modern philosophers, because he is the first philosopher who deals with the soul and the body as one, not as two separate things. ~ Albert Einstein,

122:I. Fairest of the Destinies, Disarray thy dazzling eyes: Keener far thy lightnings are Than the winged [bolts] thou bearest, And the smile thou wearest Wraps thee as a star Is wrapped in light. II. Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn From Alpheus and the bitter Doris run, Or could the morning shafts of purest light Again into the quivers of the Sun Be gatheredcould one thought from its wild flight Return into the temple of the brain Without a change, without a stain,-- Could aught that is, ever again Be what it once has ceased to be, Greece might again be free! III. A star has fallen upon the earth Mid the benighted nations, A quenchless atom of immortal light, A living spark of Night, A cresset shaken from the constellations. Swifter than the thunder fell To the heart of Earth, the well Where its pulses flow and beat, And unextinct in that cold source Burns, and on ... course Guides the sphere which is its prison, Like an angelic spirit pent In a form of mortal birth, Till, as a spirit half-arisen Shatters its charnel, it has rent, In the rapture of its mirth, The thin and painted garment of the Earth, Ruining its chaosa fierce breath Consuming all its forms of living death. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragments Written For Hellas ,

123:All the seeds of Christianity -- of superstition, were sown in my mind and cultivated with great diligence and care. All that time I knew nothing of any science -- nothing about the other side -- nothing of the objections that had been urged against the blessed Scriptures, or against the perfect Congregational creed. Of course I had heard the ministers speak of blasphemers, of infidel wretches, of scoffers who laughed at holy things. They did not answer their arguments, but they tore their characters into shreds and demonstrated by the fury of assertion that they had done the Devil's work. And yet in spite of all I heard -- of all I read. I could not quite believe. My brain and heart said No. For a time I left the dreams, the insanities, the illusions and delusions, the nightmares of theology. I studied astronomy, just a little -- I examined maps of the heavens -- learned the names of some of the constellations -- of some of the stars -- found something of their size and the velocity with which they wheeled in their orbits -- obtained a faint conception of astronomical spaces -- found that some of the known stars were so far away in the depths of space that their light, traveling at the rate of nearly two hundred thousand miles a second, required many years to reach this little world -- found that, compared with the great stars, our earth was but a grain of sand -- an atom – found that the old belief that all the hosts of heaven had been created for the benefit of man, was infinitely absurd. ~ Robert G Ingersoll,

124:The Southern Cross gets the award for the greatest hype among all eighty-eight constellations. By listening to Southern Hemisphere people talk about this constellation, and by listening to songs written about it, and by noticing it on the national flags of Australia, New Zealand, Western Samoa, and Papua New Guinea, you would think we in the North were somehow deprived. Nope. Firstly, one needn’t travel to the Southern Hemisphere to see the Southern Cross. It’s plainly visible (although low in the sky) from as far north as Miami, Florida. This diminutive constellation is the smallest in the sky—your fist at arm’s length would eclipse it completely. Its shape isn’t very interesting either. If you were to draw a rectangle using a connect-the-dots method you would use four stars. And if you were to draw a cross you would presumably include a fifth star in the middle to indicate the cross-point of the two beams. But the Southern Cross is composed of only four stars, which more accurately resemble a kite or a crooked box. The constellation lore of Western cultures owes its origin and richness to centuries of Babylonian, Chaldean, Greek, and Roman imaginations. Remember, these are the same imaginations that gave rise to the endless dysfunctional social lives of the gods and goddesses. Of course, these were all Northern Hemisphere civilizations, which means the constellations of the southern sky (many of which were named only within the last 250 years) are mythologically impoverished. In the North we have the Northern Cross, which is composed of all five stars that a cross deserves. It forms a subset of the larger constellation Cygnus the swan, which is flying across the sky along the Milky Way. Cygnus is nearly twelve times larger than the Southern Cross. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

125:Romantic retrospect aside, the night spent in the truck is distinctly unpleasant. We are cramped and cold. The much-vaunted heating of the truck is ineffectual. The wind prises through the cracks in the sides of the windows, and penetrates us to the bone. My feet are moist in my shoes, yet to take my socks off is to chill my feet even further. We take every warm item of clothing out of our bags and swaddle ourselves into immobility. The sheepskin on the seat cuts out a bit of the cold rising from below. We share a blanket and Sui, before he goes off to sleep, makes sure I get a generous part of this. He then drops off to sleep, and tugs it away. He jockeys for space, and I am forced to lean forward. He begins to snore. To make it all worse, both he and Gyanseng sleeptalk. They have told me before tat I do, too, but I've never noticed it. What I do notice, however, late at night, with my two territorially acquisitive companions wedging me forwards, is that I have started talking to myself: naming the constellations I can see move across the mud-stained windscreen, interviewing myself, reciting odd snatches of poetry. I also notice that I am hungry, which is curious, because during the day I was not; and itchy, which is to be expected after so much unwashed travel; and sleepy, though I cannot sleep for cold and headache and discomfort; and alas, bored out of my mind. When things get really bad, I imagine myself in a darkened room, up to my shoulders in a tub of hot water, with a glass of Grand Marnier beside me and the second movement of Mozart's Clarinet Quintet sounding gently in my ears. This voluptuous vision, rather than making my present condition seem even more insupportable, actually enables me to escape for a while from the complaints of my suffering body. ~ Vikram Seth,

126:Not a breath, not a sound—except at intervals the muffled crackling of stones that the cold was reducing to sand—disturbed the solitude and silence surrounding Janine. After a moment, however, it seemed to her that the sky above her was moving in a sort of slow gyration. In the vast reaches of the dry, cold night, thousands of stars were constantly appearing, and their sparkling icicles, loosened at once, began to slip gradually towards the horizon. Janine could not tear herself away from contemplating those drifting flares. She was turning with them, and the apparently stationary progress little by little identified her with the core of her being, where cold and desire were now vying with each other. Before her the stars were falling one by one and being snuffed out among the stones of the desert, and each time Janine opened a little more to the night. Breathing deeply, she forgot the cold, the dead weight of others, the craziness or stuffiness of life, the long anguish of living and dying. After so many years of mad, aimless fleeing from fear, she had come to a stop at last. At the same time, she seemed to recover her roots and the sap again rose in her body, which had ceased trembling. Her whole belly pressed against the parapet as she strained towards the moving sky; she was merely waiting for her fluttering heart to calm down and establish silence within her. The last stars of the constellations dropped their clusters a little lower on the desert horizon and became still. Then, with unbearable gentleness, the water of night began to fill Janine, drowned the cold, rose gradually from the hidden core of her being and overflowed in wave after wave, rising up even to her mouth full of moans. The next moment, the whole sky stretched out over her, fallen on her back on the cold earth. ~ Albert Camus,

127:Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters. Whether or not you register for china, crystal, and silver does not matter. Whether or not you have a full set of Tiffany dessert forks on Thanksgiving does not matter. If you want to register for these things, by all means, go ahead. My Waterford pattern is Lismore, one of the oldest. I do remember one time when I had a harrowing day at the hospital, and Nick had a Rube Goldberg project due and needed my help, and Kevin was playing Quiet Riot at top decibel in his bedroom, and Margot was tying up the house phone, and you had been plunked by the babysitter in front of the TV for five hours, and I came home and took one of my Lismore goblets out of the cabinet. I wanted to smash it against the wall. But instead I filled it with cold white wine and for ten or so minutes I sat in the quiet of the formal living room all by myself and I drank the cold wine out of that beautiful glass crafted by some lovely Irishman, and I felt better. It was probably the wine, not the glass, but you get my meaning. I will remember the impressive heft of the glass in my hand, and the way the cut of the crystal caught the day’s last rays of sunlight, but I will not miss that glass the way I will miss the sound of the ocean, or the taste of fresh-picked corn. ~ Elin Hilderbrand,

128:On Early Trains This winter I was outside Moscow, But when the time for work came round, Through the blizzard, biting frost and snow, I made the journey into town. At the hour I stepped outside the door Not a soul could be seen on the street, And through the forest darkness drifted forth The crunching echo of my tramping feet. At the crossing I was greeted By the willows of the vacant plot. The constellations towered above the world In the dark chill of January's pit. And usually, there behind the yards, The number forty or the early mail Would overhaul me, pulling hard, But the six forty-five was my own train. Suddenly some invisible tentacles Would draw into a circle lines of light, As a massive searchlight hurtled past On to the viaduct out of the night. Once in the carriage's tuffy heat I would allow myself to sink Into the state of innate weakness I imbibed with my mother's milk. Through all the struggles of the past, Through all the years of war and want, I gazed on Russia'a unique face In silent awe and wonderment. Passing beyond this adoration, I worshipped as I looked around At countrywomen, students, workers Living on the edge of town. 105 I could not see a single trace Of servitude imposed by poverty. Each new discomfort and each change Was borne with lordly dignity. Bunched close together in a group, Boys and girls sat reading there, Struck varied poses as they read, Drinking in the words like vital air. Moscow greeted us in darkness Already lined with silver light, As we emerged from underground, Out of the ambiguity of night. Our future pressed against the rails, Flooding my senses as they went, With floral soap's lingering trace And honey-cakes' enticing scent. ~ Boris Pasternak,

129:Truth changes with the season of our emotions. It is the shadow that moves with the phases of our inner sun. When the nights falls, only our perception can guess where it hides in the dark. Within every solar system of the soul lies a plan of what truth is--- the design God has created, in our own unique story. This is as varying as the constellations, and as turning as the tide. It is not one truth we live to, but many. If we ever hope to determine if there is such a thing as truth, apart from cultural and personal preferences, we must acknowledge that we are then aiming to discover something greater than ourselves, something that transcends culture and individual inclinations. Some say that we must look beyond ourselves and outside of ourselves. However, we don’t need to look farther than what is already in each other. If there was any great plan from a higher power it is a simplistic, repetitious theme found in all religions; the basic core importance to unity comes from shared theological and humanistic virtues. Beyond the synagogue, mosques, temples, churches, missionary work, church positions and religious rituals comes a simple “message of truth” found in all of us, that binds theology---holistic virtues combined with purpose is the foundation of spiritual evolution. The diversity among us all is not divided truth, but the opportunity for unity through these shared values. Truth is the framework and roadmap of positive virtues. It unifies diversity when we choose to see it and use it. It is simple message often lost among the rituals, cultural traditions and socializing that goes on behind the chapel doors of any religion or spiritual theology. As we fight among ourselves about what religion, culture or race is right, we often lose site of the simple message any great orator has whispered through time----a simplistic story explaining the importance of virtues, which magically reemphasizes the importance of loving one another through service. ~ Shannon L Alder,

130:From A Poem I also loved, and the restless breaths Of sleeplessness, fluttering through darkness, Out of the park would downward drift To the ravine, on to the archipelago Of meadows, sinking from sight among Wormwood, mint and quails beneath the wispy mist. And the broad sweep of adoration's wing grew Heavy and drunken, as though stung by shot, Floundered into the air and, shuddering, fell short, Scattering across the fields as dew. And then the dawn was breaking. Till two Rich jewels blinked in the incalculable sky, But then the cocks began to feel afraid Of darkness and strove to hide their fright, But in their throats blank mines exploded, As they strained, fear's putrid voice erupted. As though by order, as the constellations faded, A shepherd, goggle-eyed as though from snuffing candles, Made his appearance where the forest ended. I also loved and she, it well may be, Is living yet. The time will pass on by Till something large as autumn, one fine day, (If not tomorrow, then perhaps some other time) Will blaze out over life like sunset's glow, in pity For the thicket. For the foolish puddle's tormenting, Toadish thirst. For the clearings trembling timidly As hares, their ears tight-muffled in the wrapping Of last year's fallen leaves. For the noise, as though False waves are pounding on the shores of long ago. I also loved, and know: as damp mown fields Are laid by the ages at each year's feet, So the fevering newness of the worlds is laid By love at the bed-head of every heart. I also loved, and she is living still. Cascading into that first earliness, as ever Time stands still, vanishing away as it spills 57 Over the moment's edge. Subtle as ever this boundary. Still as before, how recent seems the long ago. Time past streams from the faces of those who saw, Playing still its crazy tricks, as if it did not know It has no tenancy in our house any more. Can it be so? Does love really not last, This momentary tribute of bright wonderment, But ever, all our life, recede into the past? ~ Boris Pasternak,

131:Algebra applies to the clouds, the radiance of the star benefits the rose--no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who could ever calculate the path of a molecule? How do we know that the creations of worlds are not determined by falling grains of sand? Who can understand the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely small, the echoing of causes in the abyss of being and the avalanches of creation? A mite has value; the small is great, the great is small. All is balanced in necessity; frightening vision for the mind. There are marvelous relations between beings and things, in this inexhaustible whole, from sun to grub, there is no scorn, each needs the other. Light does not carry terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths without knowing what it does with them; night distributes the stellar essence to the sleeping plants. Every bird that flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw. Germination includes the hatching of a meteor and the tap of a swallow's beak breaking the egg, and it guides the birth of the earthworm, and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two has a greater view? Choose. A bit of mold is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an anthill of stars. The same promiscuity, and still more wonderful, between the things of the intellect and material things. Elements and principles are mingled, combined, espoused, multiplied one by another, to the point that the material world, and the moral world are brought into the same light. Phenomena are perpetually folded back on themselves. In the vast cosmic changes, universal life comes and goes in unknown quantities, rolling everything up in the invisible mystery of the emanations, using everything, losing no dream from any single sleep, sowing a microscopic animal here, crumbling a star there, oscillating and gyrating, making a force of light, and an element of thought, disseminated and indivisible dissolving all, that geometric point, the self; reducing everything to the soul-atom; making everything blossom into God; entangling from the highest to the lowest, all activities in the obscurity of a dizzying mechanism, linking the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating--who knows, if only by the identity of the law--the evolutions of the comet in the firmament to the circling of the protozoa in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, whose first motor is the gnat, and whose last is the zodiac. ~ Victor Hugo,

132:The book of Job, based on an ancient folktale, may have been written during the exile. One day, Yahweh made an interesting wager in the divine assembly with Satan, who was not yet a figure of towering evil but simply one of the “sons of God,” the legal “adversary” of the council.19 Satan pointed out that Job, Yahweh’s favorite human being, had never been truly tested but was good only because Yahweh had protected him and allowed him to prosper. If he lost all his possessions, he would soon curse Yahweh to his face. “Very well,” Yahweh replied, “all that he has is in your power.”20 Satan promptly destroyed Job’s oxen, sheep, camels, servants, and children, and Job was struck down by a series of foul diseases. He did indeed turn against God, and Satan won his bet. At this point, however, in a series of long poems and discourses, the author tried to square the suffering of humanity with the notion of a just, benevolent, and omnipotent god. Four of Job’s friends attempted to console him, using all the traditional arguments: Yahweh only ever punished the wicked; we could not fathom his plans; he was utterly righteous, and Job must therefore be guilty of some misdemeanor. These glib, facile platitudes simply enraged Job, who accused his comforters of behaving like God and persecuting him cruelly. As for Yahweh, it was impossible to have a sensible dialogue with a deity who was invisible, omnipotent, arbitrary, and unjust—at one and the same time prosecutor, judge, and executioner. When Yahweh finally deigned to respond to Job, he showed no compassion for the man he had treated so cruelly, but simply uttered a long speech about his own splendid accomplishments. Where had Job been while he laid the earth’s foundations, and pent up the sea behind closed doors? Could Job catch Leviathan with a fishhook, make a horse leap like a grasshopper, or guide the constellations on their course? The poetry was magnificent, but irrelevant. This long, boastful tirade did not even touch upon the real issue: Why did innocent people suffer at the hands of a supposedly loving God? And unlike Job, the reader knows that Job’s pain had nothing to do with the transcendent wisdom of Yahweh, but was simply the result of a frivolous bet. At the end of the poem, when Job—utterly defeated by Yahweh’s bombastic display of power—retracted all his complaints and repented in dust and ashes, God restored Job’s health and fortune. But he did not bring to life the children and servants who had been killed in the first chapter. There was no justice or recompense for them. ~ Karen Armstrong,

133:As we have seen, prayer, celebration of the religious offices, alms, consoling the afflicted, the cultivation of a little piece of ground, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, self-sacrifice, confidence, study, and work, filled up each day of his life. Filled up is exactly the phrase; and in fact, the Bishop's day was full to the brim with good thoughts, good words, and good actions. Yet it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented him from passing an hour or two in the evening, when the two women had retired, in his garden before going to sleep. It seemed as though it were a sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for sleep by meditating in the presence of the great spectacle of the starry firmament. Sometimes late at night, if the two women were awake, they would hear him slowly walking the paths. He was out there alone with himself, composed, tranquil, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the skies, moved in the darkness by the visible splendors of the constellations, and the invisible splendor of God, opening his soul to the thoughts that fall from the Unknown. In such moments, offering up his heart at the hour when the flowers of night emit their perfume, lit like a lamp in the center of the starry night, expanding his soul in ecstasy in the midst of creation’s universal radiance, perhaps he could not have told what was happening in his own mind; he felt something depart from him, and something descend upon him; mysterious exchanges of the depths of the soul with the depths of the universe. He contemplated the grandeur, and the presence of God; the eternity of the future, that strange mystery; the eternity of the past, a stranger mystery; all the infinities hidden deep in every direction; and, without trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, he saw it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by Him. He reflected upon the magnificent union of atoms, which give visible forms to Nature, revealing forces by recognizing them, creating individualities in unity, proportions in extension, the innumerable in the infinite, and through light producing beauty. These unions are forming and dissolving continually; from which come life and death. He would sit on a wooden bench leaning against a decrepit trellis and look at the stars through the irregular outlines of his fruit trees. This quarter of an acre of ground, so sparingly planted, so cluttered with shed and ruins, was dear to him and satisfied him. What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure hours of his life, where he had so little leisure, between gardening in the day time, and contemplation at night? Was this narrow enclosure, with the sky for a background not space enough for him to adore God in his most beautiful, most sublime works? Indeed, is that not everything? What more do you need? A little garden to walk in, and immensity to reflect on. At his feet something to cultivate and gather; above his head something to study and meditate on; a few flowers on earth and all the stars in the sky. ~ Victor Hugo,

134:George Eliot Dead! Is she dead? And all that light extinguished! Mend your words, Those gropings of the blind along plain paths Where all the Heavens are shining! Know you not, Though the Eternal Luminary dips Below our cramped horizon, leaving here Only a train of glory, he but goes To dawn on other and neglected worlds, Benighted of his presence! So with her, Whose round imagination, like the sun, Drew the sad mists of the low-lying earth Up to her own great altitude, and there Made them in smiling tears evaporate. Announce the sun's self dead, and o'er him roll An epitaph of darkness;-then aver She too has set for ever. Think it thus, If for sweet comfort's sake. What we call death Is but another sentinel despatched To relieve life, weary of being on guard, Whose active service is not ended here, But after intermission is renewed In other fields of duty. This to her Was an uncertain promise, since it seems, Unto the eye of seriousness, unreal, That, like a child, death should but play with life, Blowing it out, to blow it in again. This contradiction over, now she stands Certain of all uncertainty, and dwells Where death the sophist puzzles life no more, But with disdainful silence or clear proof Confuted is for ever. Yet our loss By others' gain is mended not, and we Sit in the darkness that her light hath left. Comfort our grief with symbols as we will, Her empty throne stares stony in our face, 241 And with a dumb relentlessness proclaims That she has gone for ever, for ever gone, Returning not. . . . How plain I see her now, The twilight tresses, deepening into night, The brow a benediction, and the eyes Seat where compassion never set, and like That firm, fixed star, which altereth not its place While all the planets round it sink and swim, Shone with a steady guidance. O, and a voice Matched with whose modulations softest notes Of dulcimer by daintiest fingers stroked, Or zephyrs wafted over summer seas, On summer shores subsiding, sounded harsh. Listening whereto, steeled obduracy felt The need to kneel, necessity to weep, And craving to be comforted; a shrine Of music and of incense and of flowers, Where hearts, at length self-challenged, were content Still to be sad and sinful, so they might Feel that exonerating pity steal In subtle absolution on their guilt. Dead? Never dead! That this, man's insignificant domain, Which is not boundary of space, should be The boundary of life, revolts the mind, Even when bounded. Into soaring space Soar, spacious spirit! unembarrassed now By earthly boundaries, and circle up Into the Heaven of Heavens, and take thy place Where the Eternal Morning broadens out To recognise thy coming. Realm on Realm Of changeless revolution round thee roll, Thou moving with them, and among the stars Shine thou a star long looked for; or, unbuoyed, Beyond the constellations of our ken, Traverse the infinite azure with thy heart, And with love's light elucidate the Spheres; While we, below, this meek libation pour, Mingled of honey and hyssop, on thy grave! 242 ~ Alfred Austin,

135:Scene 1. A Castle In Normandy Hugo. Well, boy, what is it? Henry. The feast is spread. Hugo. Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion. He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earthPleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. 239 Hugo. Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? Orion. Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo. I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion. If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer-earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; 240 Musty volumes crowd thy shelf Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

136:The seeds of all things are, and how distinct In divers forms they flit of own accord, Stirred with a motion everlasting on, And in what mode things be from them create, And since I've taught what the mind's nature is, And of what things 'tis with the body knit And thrives in strength, and by what mode uptorn That mind returns to its primordials, Now will I undertake an argument- One for these matters of supreme concern- That there exist those somewhats which we call The images of things: these, like to films Scaled off the utmost outside of the things, Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere, And the same terrify our intellects, Coming upon us waking or in sleep, When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapes And images of people lorn of light, Which oft have horribly roused us when we lay In slumber- that haply nevermore may we Suppose that souls get loose from Acheron, Or shades go floating in among the living, Or aught of us is left behind at death, When body and mind, destroyed together, each Back to its own primordials goes away. And thus I say that effigies of things, And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things, Which are like films or may be named a rind, Because the image bears like look and form With whatso body has shed it fluttering forth- A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits, Well learn from this: mainly, because we see Even 'mongst visible objects many be That send forth bodies, loosely some diffused- Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires- And some more interwoven and condensed- As when the locusts in the summertime Put off their glossy tunics, or when calves At birth drop membranes from their body's surface, Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffs Its vestments 'mongst the thorns- for oft we see The breres augmented with their flying spoils: Since such takes place, 'tis likewise certain too That tenuous images from things are sent, From off the utmost outside of the things. For why those kinds should drop and part from things, Rather than others tenuous and thin, No power has man to open mouth to tell; Especially, since on outsides of things Are bodies many and minute which could, In the same order which they had before, And with the figure of their form preserved, Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too, Being less subject to impediments, As few in number and placed along the front. For truly many things we see discharge Their stuff at large, not only from their cores Deep-set within, as we have said above, But from their surfaces at times no less- Their very colours too. And commonly The awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue, Stretched overhead in mighty theatres, Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering, Have such an action quite; for there they dye And make to undulate with their every hue The circled throng below, and all the stage, And rich attire in the patrician seats. And ever the more the theatre's dark walls Around them shut, the more all things within Laugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints, The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, since The canvas hangings thus discharge their dye From off their surface, things in general must Likewise their tenuous effigies discharge, Because in either case they are off-thrown From off the surface. So there are indeed Such certain prints and vestiges of forms Which flit around, of subtlest texture made, Invisible, when separate, each and one. Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and such Streams out of things diffusedly, because, Whilst coming from the deeps of body forth And rising out, along their bending path They're torn asunder, nor have gateways straight Wherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad. But contrariwise, when such a tenuous film Of outside colour is thrown off, there's naught Can rend it, since 'tis placed along the front Ready to hand. Lastly those images Which to our eyes in mirrors do appear, In water, or in any shining surface, Must be, since furnished with like look of things, Fashioned from images of things sent out. There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms, Like unto them, which no one can divine When taken singly, which do yet give back, When by continued and recurrent discharge Expelled, a picture from the mirrors' plane. Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be kept So well conserved that thus be given back Figures so like each object. Now then, learn How tenuous is the nature of an image. And in the first place, since primordials be So far beneath our senses, and much less E'en than those objects which begin to grow Too small for eyes to note, learn now in few How nice are the beginnings of all things- That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof: First, living creatures are sometimes so small That even their third part can nowise be seen; Judge, then, the size of any inward organ- What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs, The skeleton?- How tiny thus they are! And what besides of those first particles Whence soul and mind must fashioned be?- Seest not How nice and how minute? Besides, whatever Exhales from out its body a sharp smell- The nauseous absinth, or the panacea, Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury- If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twain Perchance [thou touch] a one of them Then why not rather know that images Flit hither and thither, many, in many modes, Bodiless and invisible? But lest Haply thou holdest that those images Which come from objects are the sole that flit, Others indeed there be of own accord Begot, self-formed in earth's aery skies, Which, moulded to innumerable shapes, Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are, Cease not to change appearance and to turn Into new outlines of all sorts of forms; As we behold the clouds grow thick on high And smirch the serene vision of the world, Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seen The giants' faces flying far along And trailing a spread of shadow; and at times The mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocks Going before and crossing on the sun, Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amain And leading in the other thunderheads. Now [hear] how easy and how swift they be Engendered, and perpetually flow off From things and gliding pass away. For ever every outside streams away From off all objects, since discharge they may; And when this outside reaches other things, As chiefly glass, it passes through; but where It reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood, There 'tis so rent that it cannot give back An image. But when gleaming objects dense, As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it, Nothing of this sort happens. For it can't Go, as through glass, nor yet be rent- its safety, By virtue of that smoothness, being sure. 'Tis therefore that from them the images Stream back to us; and howso suddenly Thou place, at any instant, anything Before a mirror, there an image shows; Proving that ever from a body's surface Flow off thin textures and thin shapes of things. Thus many images in little time Are gendered; so their origin is named Rightly a speedy. And even as the sun Must send below, in little time, to earth So many beams to keep all things so full Of light incessant; thus, on grounds the same, From things there must be borne, in many modes, To every quarter round, upon the moment, The many images of things; because Unto whatever face of things we turn The mirror, things of form and hue the same Respond. Besides, though but a moment since Serenest was the weather of the sky, So fiercely sudden is it foully thick That ye might think that round about all murk Had parted forth from Acheron and filled The mighty vaults of sky- so grievously, As gathers thus the storm-clouds' gruesome night, Do faces of black horror hang on high- Of which how small a part an image is There's none to tell or reckon out in words. Now come; with what swift motion they are borne, These images, and what the speed assigned To them across the breezes swimming on- So that o'er lengths of space a little hour Alone is wasted, toward whatever region Each with its divers impulse tends- I'll tell In verses sweeter than they many are; Even as the swan's slight note is better far Than that dispersed clamour of the cranes Among the southwind's aery clouds. And first, One oft may see that objects which are light And made of tiny bodies are the swift; In which class is the sun's light and his heat, Since made from small primordial elements Which, as it were, are forward knocked along And through the interspaces of the air To pass delay not, urged by blows behind; For light by light is instantly supplied And gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven. Thus likewise must the images have power Through unimaginable space to speed Within a point of time,- first, since a cause Exceeding small there is, which at their back Far forward drives them and propels, where, too, They're carried with such winged lightness on; And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off, With texture of such rareness that they can Through objects whatsoever penetrate And ooze, as 'twere, through intervening air. Besides, if those fine particles of things Which from so deep within are sent abroad, As light and heat of sun, are seen to glide And spread themselves through all the space of heaven Upon one instant of the day, and fly O'er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what then Of those which on the outside stand prepared, When they're hurled off with not a thing to check Their going out? Dost thou not see indeed How swifter and how farther must they go And speed through manifold the length of space In time the same that from the sun the rays O'erspread the heaven? This also seems to be Example chief and true with what swift speed The images of things are borne about: That soon as ever under open skies Is spread the shining water, all at once, If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth, Serene and radiant in the water there, The constellations of the universe- Now seest thou not in what a point of time An image from the shores of ether falls Unto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again, And yet again, 'tis needful to confess With wondrous author class:Lucretius ~ I've taught already of what sort, Existence And Character Of The Images ,

137:The Supreme Discovery    IF WE want to progress integrally, we must build within our conscious being a strong and pure mental synthesis which can serve us as a protection against temptations from outside, as a landmark to prevent us from going astray, as a beacon to light our way across the moving ocean of life.    Each individual should build up this mental synthesis according to his own tendencies and affinities and aspirations. But if we want it to be truly living and luminous, it must be centred on the idea that is the intellectual representation symbolising That which is at the centre of our being, That which is our life and our light.    This idea, expressed in sublime words, has been taught in various forms by all the great Instructors in all lands and all ages.    The Self of each one and the great universal Self are one. Since all that is exists from all eternity in its essence and principle, why make a distinction between the being and its origin, between ourselves and what we place at the beginning?    The ancient traditions rightly said:    "Our origin and ourselves, our God and ourselves are one."    And this oneness should not be understood merely as a more or less close and intimate relationship of union, but as a true identity.    Thus, when a man who seeks the Divine attempts to reascend by degrees towards the inaccessible, he forgets that all his knowledge and all his intuition cannot take him one step forward in this infinite; neither does he know that what he wants to attain, what he believes to be so far from him, is within him.    For how could he know anything of the origin until he becomes conscious of this origin in himself?    It is by understanding himself, by learning to know himself, that he can make the supreme discovery and cry out in wonder like the patriarch in the Bible, "The house of God is here and I knew it not."    That is why we must express that sublime thought, creatrix of the material worlds, and make known to all the word that fills the heavens and the earth, "I am in all things and all beings."When all shall know this, the promised day of great transfigurations will be at hand. When in each atom of Matter men shall recognise the indwelling thought of God, when in each living creature they shall perceive some hint of a gesture of God, when each man can see God in his brother, then dawn will break, dispelling the darkness, the falsehood, the ignorance, the error and suffering that weigh upon all Nature. For, "all Nature suffers and laments as she awaits the revelation of the Sons of God."    This indeed is the central thought epitomising all others, the thought which should be ever present to our remembrance as the sun that illumines all life.    That is why I remind you of it today. For if we follow our path bearing this thought in our hearts like the rarest jewel, the most precious treasure, if we allow it to do its work of illumination and transfiguration within us, we shall know that it lives in the centre of all beings and all things, and in it we shall feel the marvellous oneness of the universe.    Then we shall understand the vanity and childishness of our meagre satisfactions, our foolish quarrels, our petty passions, our blind indignations. We shall see the dissolution of our little faults, the crumbling of the last entrenchments of our limited personality and our obtuse egoism. We shall feel ourselves being swept along by this sublime current of true spirituality which will deliver us from our narrow limits and bounds.    The individual Self and the universal Self are one; in every world, in every being, in every thing, in every atom is the Divine Presence, and man's mission is to manifest it.    In order to do that, he must become conscious of this Divine Presence within him. Some individuals must undergo a real apprenticeship in order to achieve this: their egoistic being is too all-absorbing, too rigid, too conservative, and their struggles against it are long and painful. Others, on the contrary, who are more impersonal, more plastic, more spiritualised, come easily into contact with the inexhaustible divine source of their being.But let us not forget that they too should devote themselves daily, constantly, to a methodical effort of adaptation and transformation, so that nothing within them may ever again obscure the radiance of that pure light.    But how greatly the standpoint changes once we attain this deeper consciousness! How understanding widens, how compassion grows!    On this a sage has said:    "I would like each one of us to come to the point where he perceives the inner God who dwells even in the vilest of human beings; instead of condemning him we would say, 'Arise, O resplendent Being, thou who art ever pure, who knowest neither birth nor death; arise, Almighty One, and manifest thy nature.'"    Let us live by this beautiful utterance and we shall see everything around us transformed as if by miracle.    This is the attitude of true, conscious and discerning love, the love which knows how to see behind appearances, understand in spite of words, and which, amid all obstacles, is in constant communion with the depths.    What value have our impulses and our desires, our anguish and our violence, our sufferings and our struggles, all these inner vicissitudes unduly dramatised by our unruly imagination - what value do they have before this great, this sublime and divine love bending over us from the innermost depths of our being, bearing with our weaknesses, rectifying our errors, healing our wounds, bathing our whole being with its regenerating streams?    For the inner Godhead never imposes herself, she neither demands nor threatens; she offers and gives herself, conceals and forgets herself in the heart of all beings and things; she never accuses, she neither judges nor curses nor condemns, but works unceasingly to perfect without constraint, to mend without reproach, to encourage without impatience, to enrich each one with all the wealth he can receive; she is the mother whose love bears fruit and nourishes, guards and protects, counsels and consoles; because she understands everything, she can endure everything, excuse and pardon everything, hope and prepare for everything; bearing everything within herself, she owns nothing that does not belong to all, and because she reigns over all, she is the servant of all; that is why all, great and small, who want to be kings with her and gods in her, become, like her, not despots but servitors among their brethren.    How beautiful is this humble role of servant, the role of all who have been revealers and heralds of the God who is within all, of the Divine Love that animates all things....    And until we can follow their example and become true servants even as they, let us allow ourselves to be penetrated and transformed by this Divine Love; let us offer Him, without reserve, this marvellous instrument, our physical organism. He shall make it yield its utmost on every plane of activity.    To achieve this total self-consecration, all means are good, all methods have their value. The one thing needful is to persevere in our will to attain this goal. For then everything we study, every action we perform, every human being we meet, all come to bring us an indication, a help, a light to guide us on the path.    Before I close, I shall add a few pages for those who have already made apparently fruitless efforts, for those who have encountered the pitfalls on the way and seen the measure of their weakness, for those who are in danger of losing their self-confidence and courage. These pages, intended to rekindle hope in the hearts of those who suffer, were written by a spiritual worker at a time when ordeals of every kind were sweeping down on him like purifying flames.    You who are weary, downcast and bruised, you who fall, who think perhaps that you are defeated, hear the voice of a friend. He knows your sorrows, he has shared them, he has suffered like you from the ills of the earth; like you he has crossed many deserts under the burden of the day, he has known thirst and hunger, solitude and abandonment, and the cruellest of all wants, the destitution of the heart. Alas! he has known too the hours of doubt, the errors, the faults, the failings, every weakness.    But he tells you: Courage! Hearken to the lesson that the rising sun brings to the earth with its first rays each morning. It is a lesson of hope, a message of solace.    You who weep, who suffer and tremble, who dare not expect an end to your ills, an issue to your pangs, behold: there is no night without dawn and the day is about to break when darkness is thickest; there is no mist that the sun does not dispel, no cloud that it does not gild, no tear that it will not dry one day, no storm that is not followed by its shining triumphant bow; there is no snow that it does not melt, nor winter that it does not change into radiant spring.    And for you too, there is no affliction which does not bring its measure of glory, no distress which cannot be transformed into joy, nor defeat into victory, nor downfall into higher ascension, nor solitude into radiating centre of life, nor discord into harmony - sometimes it is a misunderstanding between two minds that compels two hearts to open to mutual communion; lastly, there is no infinite weakness that cannot be changed into strength. And it is even in supreme weakness that almightiness chooses to reveal itself!    Listen, my little child, you who today feel so broken, so fallen perhaps, who have nothing left, nothing to cover your misery and foster your pride: never before have you been so great! How close to the summits is he who awakens in the depths, for the deeper the abyss, the more the heights reveal themselves!    Do you not know this, that the most sublime forces of the vasts seek to array themselves in the most opaque veils of Matter? Oh, the sublime nuptials of sovereign love with the obscurest plasticities, of the shadow's yearning with the most royal light!    If ordeal or fault has cast you down, if you have sunk into the nether depths of suffering, do not grieve - for there indeed the divine love and the supreme blessing can reach you! Because you have passed through the crucible of purifying sorrows, the glorious ascents are yours.    You are in the wilderness: then listen to the voices of the silence. The clamour of flattering words and outer applause has gladdened your ears, but the voices of the silence will gladden your soul and awaken within you the echo of the depths, the chant of divine harmonies!    You are walking in the depths of night: then gather the priceless treasures of the night. In bright sunshine, the ways of intelligence are lit, but in the white luminosities of the night lie the hidden paths of perfection, the secret of spiritual riches.    You are being stripped of everything: that is the way towards plenitude. When you have nothing left, everything will be given to you. Because for those who are sincere and true, from the worst always comes the best.    Every grain that is sown in the earth produces a thousand. Every wing-beat of sorrow can be a soaring towards glory.    And when the adversary pursues man relentlessly, everything he does to destroy him only makes him greater.    Hear the story of the worlds, look: the great enemy seems to triumph. He casts the beings of light into the night, and the night is filled with stars. He rages against the cosmic working, he assails the integrity of the empire of the sphere, shatters its harmony, divides and subdivides it, scatters its dust to the four winds of infinity, and lo! the dust is changed into a golden seed, fertilising the infinite and peopling it with worlds which now gravitate around their eternal centre in the larger orbit of space - so that even division creates a richer and deeper unity, and by multiplying the surfaces of the material universe, enlarges the empire that it set out to destroy.    Beautiful indeed was the song of the primordial sphere cradled in the bosom of immensity, but how much more beautiful and triumphant is the symphony of the constellations, the music of the spheres, the immense choir that fills the heavens with an eternal hymn of victory!    Hear again: no state was ever more precarious than that of man when he was separated on earth from his divine origin. Above him stretched the hostile borders of the usurper, and at his horizon's gates watched jailers armed with flaming swords. Then, since he could climb no more to the source of life, the source arose within him; since he could no more receive the light from above, the light shone forth at the very centre of his being; since he could commune no more with the transcendent love, that love offered itself in a holocaust and chose each terrestrial being, each human self as its dwelling-place and sanctuary.    That is how, in this despised and desolate but fruitful and blessed Matter, each atom contains a divine thought, each being carries within him the Divine Inhabitant. And if no being in all the universe is as frail as man, neither is any as divine as he!    In truth, in truth, in humiliation lies the cradle of glory! 28 April 1912 ~ The Mother, Words Of Long Ago, The Supreme Discovery,

138:All touch, all eye, all ear, The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech.    O'er the thin texture of its frame The varying periods painted changing glows,      As on a summer even, When soul-enfolding music floats around,    The stainless mirror of the lake    Re-images the eastern gloom, Mingling convulsively its purple hues      With sunset's burnished gold.      Then thus the Spirit spoke: 'It is a wild and miserable world!      Thorny, and full of care, Which every fiend can make his prey at will!    O Fairy! in the lapse of years,      Is there no hope in store?      Will yon vast suns roll on    Interminably, still illuming    The night of so many wretched souls,      And see no hope for them? Will not the universal Spirit e'er Revivify this withered limb of Heaven?'      The Fairy calmly smiled In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. 'Oh! rest thee tranquil; chase those fearful doubts Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. Yes! crime and misery are in yonder earth,      Falsehood, mistake and lust;      But the eternal world Contains at once the evil and the cure. Some eminent in virtue shall start up,      Even in perversest time; The truths of their pure lips, that never die, Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath      Of ever-living flame, Until the monster sting itself to death.   'How sweet a scene will earth become! Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, Symphonious with the planetary spheres; When man, with changeless Nature coalescing, Will undertake regeneration's work, When its ungenial poles no longer point      To the red and baleful sun      That faintly twinkles there!      'Spirit, on yonder earth,   Falsehood now triumphs; deadly power Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth!    Madness and misery are there! The happiest is most wretched! Yet confide Until pure health-drops from the cup of joy Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn, And read the blood-stained charter of all woe, Which Nature soon with recreating hand Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. How bold the flight of passion's wandering wing, How swift the step of reason's firmer tread, How calm and sweet the victories of life, How terrorless the triumph of the grave! How powerless were the mightiest monarch's arm, Vain his loud threat, and impotent his frown! How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar! The weight of his exterminating curse How light! and his affected charity, To suit the pressure of the changing times, What palpable deceit!but for thy aid, Religion! but for thee, prolific fiend, Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, And heaven with slaves! 'Thou taintest all thou lookest upon!the stars, Which on thy cradle beamed so brightly sweet, Were gods to the distempered playfulness Of thy untutored infancy; the trees, The grass, the clouds, the mountains and the sea, All living things that walk, swim, creep or fly, Were gods; the sun had homage, and the moon Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, More daring in thy frenzies; every shape, Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild, Which from sensation's relics fancy culls; The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, The genii of the elements, the powers That give a shape to Nature's varied works, Had life and place in the corrupt belief Of thy blind heart; yet still thy youthful hands Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied brain; Thine eager gaze scanned the stupendous scene, Whose wonders mocked the knowledge of thy pride; Their everlasting and unchanging laws Reproached thine ignorance. Awhile thou stood'st Baffled and gloomy; then thou didst sum up The elements of all that thou didst know; The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign, The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, The eternal orbs that beautify the night, The sunrise, and the setting of the moon, Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, And all their causes, to an abstract point Converging thou didst bend, and called it God! The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, The merciful, and the avenging God! Who, prototype of human misrule, sits High in heaven's realm, upon a golden throne, Even like an earthly king; and whose dread work, Hell, gapes forever for the unhappy slaves Of fate, whom he created in his sport To triumph in their torments when they fell! Earth heard the name; earth trembled as the smoke Of his revenge ascended up to heaven, Blotting the constellations; and the cries Of millions butchered in sweet confidence And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land; Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stubborn spear, And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's shriek Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel Felt cold in her torn entrails! 'Religion! thou wert then in manhood's prime; But age crept on; one God would not suffice For senile puerility; thou framedst A tale to suit thy dotage and to glut Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend Thy wickedness had pictured might afford A plea for sating the unnatural thirst For murder, rapine, violence and crime, That still consumed thy being, even when Thou heard'st the step of fate; that flames might light Thy funeral scene; and the shrill horrent shrieks Of parents dying on the pile that burned To light their children to thy paths, the roar Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries Of thine apostles loud commingling there,     Might sate thine hungry ear     Even on the bed of death! 'But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs; Thou art descending to the darksome grave, Unhonored and unpitied but by those Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds, Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night That long has lowered above the ruined world. 'Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused A Spirit of activity and life, That knows no term, cessation or decay; That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, Extinguished in the dampness of the grave, Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe In the dim newness of its being feels The impulses of sublunary things, And all is wonder to unpractised sense; But, active, steadfast and eternal, still Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves, Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease; And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes Its undecaying battlement, presides, Apportioning with irresistible law The place each spring of its machine shall fill; So that, when waves on waves tumultuous heap Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock, All seems unlinked contingency and chance No atom of this turbulence fulfils A vague and unnecessitated task Or acts but as it must and ought to act. Even the minutest molecule of light, That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destined though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions; not a thought, a will, an act, No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel, Nor the events enchaining every will, That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecognized or unforeseen by thee, Soul of the Universe! eternal spring Of life and death, of happiness and woe, Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light, Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison    Whose chains and massy walls    We feel but cannot see. 'Spirit of Nature! all-sufficing Power, Necessity! thou mother of the world! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requirest no prayers or praises; the caprice Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony; the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is withered up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are registered, are equal in thy sight; No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favoritism, and worst desire of fame Thou knowest not; all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,   Because thou hast not human sense,   Because thou art not human mind. 'Yes! when the sweeping storm of time Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined fanes And broken altars of the almighty fiend, Whose name usurps thy honors, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is raised to thee,   Which nor the tempest breath of time,   Nor the interminable flood   Over earth's slight pageant rolling,     Availeth to destroy, The sensitive extension of the world;   That wondrous and eternal fane, Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity,   And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be,   Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength.' 198. Necessity! thou mother of the world! Shelley annotates this line (in part) as follows: "He who asserts the doctrine of Necessity means that, contemplating the events which compose the moral and material universe, he beholds only an immense and uninterrupted chain of causes and effects, no one of which could occupy any other place than it does occupy, or act in any other place than it does act. The idea of necessity is obtained by our experience of the connection between objects, the uniformity of the operations of nature, the constant conjunction of similar events, and the consequent inference of one from the other. Mankind are therefore agreed in the admission of necessity, if they admit that these two circumstances take place in voluntary action. Motive is to voluntary action in the human mind what cause is to effect in the material universe. The word liberty, as applied to mind, is analogous to the word chance as applied to matter: they spring from an ignorance of the certainty of the conjunction of antecedents and consequents. ... Religion is the perception of the relation in which we stand to the principle of the universe. But if the principle of the universe be not an organic being, the model and prototype of man, the relation between it and human beings is absolutely none. Without some insight into its will respecting our actions religion is nugatory and vain. But will is only a mode of animal mind; moral qualities are also such as only a human being can possess; to attribute them to the principle of the universe is to annex to it properties incompatible with any possible definition of its nature. It is probable that the word God was originally only an expression denoting the unknown cause of the known events which men perceived in the universe. By the vulgar mistake of a metaphor for a real being, of a word for a thing, it became a man, endowed with human qualities and governing the universe as an earthly monarch governs his kingdom. Their addresses to this imaginary being, indeed, are much in the same style as those of subjects to a king. They acknowledge his benevolence, deprecate his anger and supplicate his favour." ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part VI. ,

139:A FRAGMENT PART I There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and gray before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel Which burned within him, withering up his prime And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. Not his the load of any secret crime, For nought of ill his heart could understand, But pity and wild sorrow for the same; Not his the thirst for glory or command, Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame; Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast, And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame, Had left within his soul their dark unrest: Nor what religion fables of the grave Feared he,Philosophy's accepted guest. For none than he a purer heart could have, Or that loved good more for itself alone; Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave. What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown, Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind? If with a human sadness he did groan, He had a gentle yet aspiring mind; Just, innocent, with varied learning fed; And such a glorious consolation find In others' joy, when all their own is dead: He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief, And yet, unlike all others, it is said That from such toil he never found relief. Although a child of fortune and of power, Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate Apart from men, as in a lonely tower, Pitying the tumult of their dark estate. Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate Those false opinions which the harsh rich use To blind the world they famish for their pride; Nor did he hold from any man his dues, But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise, His riches and his cares he did divide. Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise, What he dared do or think, though men might start, He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart, And to his many friendsall loved him well Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart, If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell; If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes He neither spurned nor hatedthough with fell And mortal hate their thousand voices rose, They passed like aimless arrows from his ear Nor did his heart or mind its portal close To those, or them, or any, whom life's sphere May comprehend within its wide array. What sadness made that vernal spirit sere? He knew not. Though his life, day after day, Was failing like an unreplenished stream, Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds, Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods; And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour, Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes, Were driven within him by some secret power, Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar, Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war Is levied by the night-contending winds, And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear; Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends Which wake and feed an everliving woe, What was this grief, which ne'er in other minds A mirror found,he knew notnone could know; But on whoe'er might question him he turned The light of his frank eyes, as if to show He knew not of the grief within that burned, But asked forbearance with a mournful look; Or spoke in words from which none ever learned The cause of his disquietude; or shook With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale: So that his friends soon rarely undertook To stir his secret pain without avail; For all who knew and loved him then perceived That there was drawn an adamantine veil Between his heart and mind,both unrelieved Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. Some said that he was mad, others believed That memories of an antenatal life Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell; And others said that such mysterious grief From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell On souls like his, which owned no higher law Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible By mortal fear or supernatural awe; And others,''Tis the shadow of a dream Which the veiled eye of Memory never saw, 'But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream Through shattered mines and caverns underground, Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam 'Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure; Soon its exhausted waters will have found 'A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, O Athanase!in one so good and great, Evil or tumult cannot long endure.' So spake they: idly of another's state Babbling vain words and fond philosophy; This was their consolation; such debate Men held with one another; nor did he, Like one who labours with a human woe, Decline this talk: as if its theme might be Another, not himself, he to and fro Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit; And none but those who loved him best could know That which he knew not, how it galled and bit His weary mind, this converse vain and cold; For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier hold; And so his grief remainedlet it remainuntold. PART II FRAGMENT I Prince Athanase had one belovd friend, An old, old man, with hair of silver white, And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend With his wise words; and eyes whose arrowy light Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. He was the last whom superstition's blight Had spared in Greecethe blight that cramps and blinds, And in his olive bower at OEnoe Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds A fertile island in the barren sea, One mariner who has survived his mates Many a drear month in a great shipso he With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being: 'The mind becomes that which it contemplates,' And thus Zonoras, by forever seeing Their bright creations, grew like wisest men; And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, O sacred Hellas! many weary years He wandered, till the path of Laian's glen Was grass-grownand the unremembered tears Were dry in Laian for their honoured chief, Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears: And as the lady looked with faithful grief From her high lattice o'er the rugged path, Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief And blighting hope, who with the news of death Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight, She saw between the chestnuts, far beneath, An old man toiling up, a weary wight; And soon within her hospitable hall She saw his white hairs glittering in the light Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall; And his wan visage and his withered mien, Yet calm and gentle and majestical. And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed In patient silence. FRAGMENT II Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds One amaranth glittering on the path of frost, When autumn nights have nipped all weaker kinds, Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tossed, Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost, The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild. And sweet and subtle talk they evermore, The pupil and the master, shared; until, Sharing that undiminishable store, The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran His teacher, and did teach with native skill Strange truths and new to that experienced man; Still they were friends, as few have ever been Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span. So in the caverns of the forest green, Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen By summer woodmen; and when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war, The Balearic fisher, driven from shore, Hanging upon the peakd wave afar, Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, Whilst all the constellations of the sky Seemed reeling through the storm . . . They did but seem For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by, And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves, immovably Belted Orion hangswarm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm. 'O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing 'On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm 'Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness, Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale, And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, 'And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind we feel not here. I bear alone what nothing may avail 'To lightena strange load!'No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, Glassy and dark.And that divine old man Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest And with a calm and measured voice he spake, And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed That cold lean hand:'Dost thou remember yet When the curved moon then lingering in the west 'Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one yearsure thou dost not forget 'Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, For we had just then readthy memory 'Is faithful nowthe story of the feast; And Agathon and Diotima seemed From death and dark forgetfulness released ' . . . FRAGMENT III And when the old man saw that on the green Leaves of his opening . . . a blight had lighted He said: 'My friend, one grief alone can wean A gentle mind from all that once delighted: Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden With feelings which should not be unrequited.' And Athanase . . . then smiled, as one o'erladen With iron chains might smile to talk(?) of bands Twined round her lover's neck by some blithe maiden, And said . . . FRAGMENT IV 'Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings From slumber, as a spherd angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings, Stands up before its mother bright and mild, Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed greenand flowers burst forth like starry beams; The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst under the waves serene: How many a one, though none be near to love, Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirroror the spring's young minions, The wingd leaves amid the copses green; How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, And his own stepsand over wide dominions Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than stormsthe wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past. FRAGMENT V 'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Passed the white Alpsthose eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow;beside the ways The waterfalls were voicelessfor their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, Or by the curdling windslike brazen wings Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung And filled with frozen light the chasms below. Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung Under their load of [snow]. . . . . . . . . Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld] [Prince] Athanase; and o'er his mien(?) was thrown The shadow of that scene, field after field, Purple and dim and wide . . . FRAGMENT VI Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew; Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair The shadow of thy moving wings imbue Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some light robe;thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest That which from thee they should implore:the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts The strong have brokenyet where shall any seek A garment whom thou clothest not? the darts Of the keen winter storm, barbd with frost, Which, from the everlasting snow that parts The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost In the wide waved interminable snow Ungarmented, . . . ANOTHER FRAGMENT (A) Yes, often when the eyes are cold and dry, And the lips calm, the Spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the blood of agony Trembling in drops on the discoloured skin Of those who love their kind and therefore perish In ghastly torturea sweet medicine Of peace and sleep are tears, and quietly Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall But . . . ANOTHER FRAGMENT Her hair was brown, her spherd eyes were brown, And in their dark and liquid moisture swam, Like the dim orb of the eclipsd moon; Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came The light from them, as when tears of delight Double the western planet's serene flame. Written at Marlow in 1817, towards the close of the year; first published in Posthumous Poems, 1824. Part I is dated by Mrs. Shelley, 'December, 1817,' the remainder, 'Marlow, 1817.' The verses were probably rehandled in Italy during the following year. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prince Athanase ,

140:Hesperus: A Legend Of The Stars PRELUDE. The Stars are heaven's ministers; Right royally they teach God's glory and omnipotence, In wondrous lowly speech. All eloquent with music as The tremblings of a lyre, To him that hath an ear to hear They speak in words of fire. Not to learned sagas only Their whisperings come down; The monarch is not glorified Because he wears a crown. The humblest soldier in the camp Can win the smile of Mars, And 'tis the lowliest spirits hold Communion with the stars. Thoughts too refined for utterance, Ethereal as the air, Crowd through the brain's dim labyrinths, And leave their impress there; As far along the gleaming void Man's tender glances roll, Wonder usurps the throne of speech, But vivifies the soul. Oh, heaven-cradled mysteries, What sacred paths ye've trodBright, jewelled scintillations from The chariot-wheels of God! When in the spirit He rode forth, With vast creative aim, These were His footprints left behind, To magnify His name! 38 --We gazed on the Evening Star, Mary and I, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue sky; Shone like a ransomed soul In the depths of that quiet heaven; Like a pearly tear, Trembling with fear On the pallid cheek of Even. And I thought of the myriad souls Gazing with human eyes On the light of that star, Shining afar, In the quiet evening skies; Some with winged hope, Clearing the cope Of heaven as swift as light, Others, with souls Blind as the moles, Sinking in rayless night. Dreams such as dreamers dream Flitted before our eyes; Beautiful visions!Angelo's, Titian's, Had never more gorgeous dyes: We soared with the angels Through vistas of glory, We heard the evangels Relate the glad story Of the beautiful star, Shining afar In the quiet evening skies. And we gazed and dreamed, Till our spirits seemed 39 Absorbed in the stellar world; Sorrow was swallowed up, Drained was the bitter cup Of earth to the very lees; And we sailed over seas Of white vapour that whirled Through the skies afar, Angels our charioteers, Threading the endless spheres, And to the chorus of angels Rehearsed the evangels The Birth of the Evening Star. --I. Far back in the infant ages, Before the eras stamped their autographs Upon the stony records of the earth; Before the burning incense of the sun Rolled up the interlucent space, Brightening the blank abyss; Ere the Recording Angel's tears Were shed for man's transgressions: A Seraph, with a face of light, And hair like heaven's golden atmosphere, Blue eyes serene in their beatitude, Godlike in their tranquillity, Features as perfect as God's dearest work, And stature worthy of her race, Lived high exalted in the sacred sphere That floated in a sea of harmony Translucent as pure crystal, or the light That flowed, unceasing, from this higher world Unto the spheres beneath it. Far below The extremest regions underneath the Earth The first spheres rose, of vari-coloured light, In calm rotation through aerial deep, Like seas of jasper, blue, and coralline, Crystal and violet; layers of worlds- 40 The robes of ages that had passed away, Left as memorials of their sojournings. For nothing passes wholly. All is changed. The Years but slumber in their sepulchres, And speak prophetic meanings in their sleep. FIRST ANGEL. Oh, how our souls are gladdened, When we think of that brave old age, When God's light came down From heaven, to crown Each act of the virgin page! Oh, how our souls are saddened, At the deeds which were done since then, By the angel race In the holy place, And on earth by the sons of men! Lo, as the years are fleeting, With their burden of toil and pain, We know that the page Of that primal age Will be opened up once again. II. Progressing still, the bright-faced Seraph rose From Goodness to Perfection, till she stood The fairest and the best of all that waked The tuneful echoes of that lofty world, Where Lucifer, then the stateliest of the throng Of Angels, walked majestical, arrayed In robes of brightness worthy of his place. And all the intermediate spheres were homes Of the existences Of spiritual life. 41 Love, the divine arcanum, was the bond That linked them to each other-heart to heart, And angel world to world, and soul to soul. Thus the first ages passed, Cycles of perfect bliss, God the acknowledged sovereign of all. Sphere spake with sphere, and love conversed with love, From the far centre to sublimest height, And down the deep, unfathomable space, To the remotest homes of angel-life, A viewless chain of being circling all, And linking every spirit to its God. ANGEL CHORUS. Spirits that never falter, Before God's altar Rehearse their paeans of unceasing praise; Their theme the boundless love By which God rules above, Mysteriously engrafted On grace divine, and wafted Into every soul of man that disobeys. Not till the wondrous being Of the All-Seeing Is manifested to finite man, Can ye understand the love By which God rules above, Evermore extending, In circles never-ending, To every atom in the universal plan. SECOND ANGEL. Oh, the love beyond computing Of the high and holy place! The unseen bond Circling beyond 42 The limits of time and space. Through earth and her world of beauty The heavenly links extend, Man feels its presence, Imbibes its essence, But cannot yet comprehend. THIRD ANGEL. But the days are fast approaching, When the Father of Love will send His interpreter From the highest sphere, That man fully may comprehend. III. Oh, truest Love, because the truest life! Oh, blest existence, to exist with Love! Oh, Love, without which all things else must die The death that knows no waking unto life! Oh, Jealousy that saps the heart of Love, And robs it of its tenderness divine; And Pride, that tramples with its iron hoof Upon the flower of love, whose fragrant soul Exhales itself in sweetness as it dies! A lofty spirit surfeited with Bliss! A Prince of Angels cancelling all love, All due allegiance to his rightful Lord; Doing dishonour to his high estate; Turning the truth and wisdom which were his For ages of supreme felicity, To thirst for power, and hatred of his God, Who raised him to such vast preeminence! SECOND ANGEL CHORUS. 43 Woe, woe to the ransomed spirit, Once freed from the stain of sin, Whose pride increases Till all love ceases To nourish it from within! Its doom is the darkened regions Where the rebel angel legions Live their long night of sorrow; Where no expectant morrow, No mercy-tempered ray From the altar of to-day, Comes down through the gloom to borrow One dropp from their cup of sorrow, Or lighten their cheerless way. FIRST ANGEL. But blest be the gentle spirit Whose love is ever increased From its own pure soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast! IV. Ingrate Angel, he, To purchase Hell, and at so vast a price! 'Tis the old story of celestial strifeRebellion in the palace-halls of GodFalse angels joining the insurgent ranks, Who suffered dire defeats, and fell at last From bliss supreme to darkness and despair. But they, the faithful dwellers in the spheres, Who kept their souls inviolate, to whom Heaven's love and truth were truly great rewards: For these the stars were sown throughout all space, As fit memorials of their faithfulness. The wretched lost were banished to the depths Beneath the lowest spheres. Earth barred the space 44 Between them and the Faithful. Then the hills Rose bald and rugged o'er the wild abyss; The waters found their places; and the sun, The bright-haired warder of the golden morn, Parting the curtains of reposing night, Rung his first challenge to the dismal shades, That shrunk back, awed, into Cimmerean gloom; And the young moon glode through the startled void With quiet beauty and majestic mien. SECOND ANGEL. Slowly rose the daedal Earth, Through the purple-hued abysm Glowing like a gorgeous prism, Heaven exulting o'er its birth, Still the mighty wonder came, Through the jasper-coloured sphere, Ether-winged, and crystal-clear, Trembling to the loud acclaim, In a haze of golden rain, Up the heavens rolled the sun, Danae-like the earth was won, Else his love and light were vain. So the heart and soul of man Own the light and love of heaven, Nothing yet in vain was given, Nature's is a perfect plan. V. The glowing Seraph with the brow of light Was first among the Faithful. When the war Between heaven's rival armies fiercely waged, She bore the Will Divine from rank to rank, The chosen courier of Deity. 45 Her presence cheered the combatants for Truth, And Victory stood up where'er she moved. And now, in gleaming robe of woven pearl, Emblazoned with devices of the stars, And legends of their glory yet to come, The type of Beauty Intellectual, The representative of Love and Truth, She moves first in the innumerable throng Of angels congregating to behold The crowning wonder of creative power. THIRD ANGEL CHORUS, Oh, joy, that no mortal can fathom, To rejoice in the smile of God! To be first in the light Of His Holy sight, And freed from His chastening rod. Faithful, indeed, that soul, to be The messenger of Deity! FIRST ANGEL. This, this is the chosen spirit, Whose love is ever increased From its own pare soul, The illumined goal Where Love holds perpetual feast. VI. With noiseless speed the angel charioteers In dazzling splendour all triumphant rode; Through seas of ether painfully serene, That flashed a golden, phosphorescent spray, As luminous as the sun's intensest beams, 46 Athwart the wide, interminable space. Legion on legion of the sons of God; Vast phalanxes of graceful cherubim; Innumerable multitudes and ranks Of all the hosts and hierarchs of heaven, Moved by one universal impulse, urged Their steeds of swiftness up the arch of light, From sphere to sphere increasing as they came, Till world on world was emptied of its race. Upward, with unimaginable speed, The myriads, congregating zenith-ward, Reached the far confines of the utmost sphere, The home of Truth, the dwelling-place of Love, Striking celestial symphonies divine From the resounding sea of melody, That heaved in swells of soft, mellifluous sound, To the blest crowds at whose triumphal tread Its soul of sweetness waked in thrills sublime, The sun stood poised upon the western verge; The moon paused, waiting for the march of earth, That stayed to watch the advent of the stars; And ocean hushed its very deepest deeps In grateful expectation. SECOND ANGEL. Still through the viewless regions Of the habitable air, Through the ether ocean, In unceasing motion, Pass the multitudinous legions Of angels everywhere. Bearing each new-born spirit Through the interlucent void To its starry dwelling, Angel anthems telling Every earthly deed of merit To each flashing asteroid. 47 THIRD ANGEL. Through the realms sidereal, Clothed with the immaterial, Far as the fields elysian In starry bloom extend, The stretch of angel vision Can see and comprehend. VII. Innumerable as the ocean sands The angel concourse in due order stood, In meek anticipation waiting for The new-created orbs, Still hidden in the deep And unseen laboratory, where Not even angel eyes could penetrate: A star for each of that angelic host, Memorials of their faithfulness and love. The Evening Star, God's bright eternal gift To the pure Seraph with the brow of light, And named for her, mild Hesperus, Came twinkling down the unencumbered blue, On viewless wings of sweet melodious sound, Beauty and grace presiding at its birth. Celestial plaudits sweeping through the skies Waked resonant paeans, till the concave thrilled Through its illimitable bounds. With a sudden burst Of light, that lit the universal space As with a flame of crystal, Rousing the Soul of Joy That slumbered in the patient sea, From every point of heaven the hurrying cars Conveyed the constellations to their thronesThe throbbing planets, and the burning suns, Erratic comets, and the various grades 48 And magnitudes of palpitating stars. From the far arctic and antarctic zones, Through all the vast, surrounding infinite, A wilderness of intermingling orbs, The gleaming wonders, pulsing earthward, came; Each to its destined place, Each in itself a world, With all its coining myriad life, Drawing us nearer the Omnipotent, With hearts of wonder, and with souls of praise: Astrea, Pallas, strange Aldebaran, The Pleiads, Arcturus, the ruddy Mars, Pale Saturn, Ceres and OrionAll as they circle still Through the enraptured void. For each young angel born to us from earth, A new-made star is launched among its peers. FULL ANGEL CHORUS. Dreamer in the realms aerial, Searcher for the true and good, Hoper for the high, ethereal Limit of Beatitude, Lift thy heart to heaven, for there Is embalmed thy spirit prayer: Not in words is shrined thy prayer, But thy Thought awaits thee there. God loves the silent worshipper. The grandest hymn That nature chants-the litany Of the rejoicing stars-is silent praise. Their nightly anthems stir The souls of lofty seraphim In the remotest heaven. The melody Descends in throbbings of celestial light Into the heart of man, whose upward gaze, And meditative aspect, tell Of the heart's incense passing up the night. Above the crystalline height The theme of thoughtful praise ascends. 49 Not from the wildest swell Of the vexed ocean soars the fullest psalm; But in the evening calm, And in the solemn midnight, silence blends With silence, and to the ear Attuned to harmony divine Begets a strain Whose trance-like stillness wakes delicious pain. The silent tear Holds keener anguish in its orb of brine, Deeper and truer grief Than the loud wail that brings relief, As thunder clears the atmosphere. But the deep, tearless Sorrow,-how profound! Unspoken to the ear Of sense, 'tis yet as eloquent a sound As that which wakes the lyre Of the rejoicing Day, when Morn on the mountains lights his urn of fire. The flowers of the glen Rejoice in silence; huge pines stand apart Upon the lofty hills, and sigh Their woes to every breeze that passeth by; The willow tells its mournful tale So tenderly, that e'en the passing gale Bears not a murmur on its wings Of what the spirit sings That breathes its trembling thoughts through all the drooping strings. He loves God most who worships most In the obedient heart. The thunder's noisome boast, What is it to the violet lightning thought? So with the burning passion of the starsCreation's diamond sands, Strewn along the pearly strands, And far-extending corridors Of heaven's blooming shores; No scintil of their jewelled flame But wafts the exquisite essence Of prayer to the Eternal Presence, 50 Of praise to the Eternal Name. The silent prayer unbars The gates of Paradise, while the too-intimate, Self-righteous' boast, strikes rudely at the gate Of heaven, unknowing why it does not open to Their summons, as they see pale Silence passing through. VIII. In grateful admiration, till the Dawn Withdrew the gleaming curtains of the night, We watched the whirling systems, until each Could recognize their own peculiar star; When, with the swift celerity Of Fancy-footed Thought, The light-caparisoned, aerial steeds, Shod with rare fleetness, Revisited the farthest of the spheres Ere the earth's sun had kissed the mountain tops, Or shook the sea-pearls from his locks of gold. --Still on the Evening Star Gazed we with steadfast eyes, As it shone On its throne Afar, In the blue skies. No longer the charioteers Dashed through the gleaming spheres; No more the evangels Rehearsed the glad story; But, in passing, the angels Left footprints of glory: For up the starry void Bright-flashing asteroid, Pale moon and starry choir, Aided by Fancy's fire, 51 Rung from the glittering lyre Changes of song and hymn, Worthy of Seraphim. Night's shepherdess sat, queenlike, on her throne, Watching her starry flocks from zone to zone, While we, like mortals turned to breathing stone, Intently pondered on the Known Unknown. ~ Charles Sangster,

141:TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST) I. How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme. II. What hand would crush the silken-wingd fly, The youngest of inconstant April's minions, Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile. III. To thy fair feet a wingd Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame, But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way And that is dead.O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live! IV. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener's blundering toil. V. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsonsbut she matches Peter, Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' VI. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry. THE WITCH OF ATLAS. I. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learnd rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain Within a cavern, by a secret fountain. II. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne'er beholden In his wide voyage o'er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden In the warm shadow of her loveliness;-- He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay-- She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away. III. 'Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-wingd moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars. IV. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent The sea-deserted sand -- like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went-- Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. V. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty -- deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple's cloven roof -- her hair Darkthe dim brain whirls dizzy with delight, Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new. VI. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved -- all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, Such gentleness and power even to behold. VII. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise. VIII. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone. IX. And universal Pan, 'tis said, was there, And though none saw him,through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone, And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. X. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean's flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, All came, much wondering how the enwombd rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth; Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth. XI. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,and lumps neither alive nor dead, Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed. XII. For she was beautifulher beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes. XIII. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; And with these threads a subtle veil she wove A shadow for the splendour of her love. XIV. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasuressounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never dieyet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. XV. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss It was its work to bear to many a saint Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's -- and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapesand each was at her beck. XVI. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy. They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds. XVII. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreamsor if eyes needs must weep, Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, 'tis said The living were not envied of the dead. XVIII. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage Of gold and bloodtill men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above; XIX. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom's wizard skill; Time, earth, and firethe ocean and the wind, And all their shapes -- and man's imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Lovelet the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. XX. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father's power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone In their own golden beams -- each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night. XXI. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon. XXII. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarld heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence -- each a satellite. XXIII. 'This may not be,' the wizard maid replied; 'The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew Will be consumedthe stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust. XXIV. 'And ye with them will perish, one by one; If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun Shall smile on your decay -- oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must -- over me Your leaves shall glance -- the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so -- farewell!'-- XXV. She spoke and wept:the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green. XXVI. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heavenand ever she Added some grace to the wrought poesy. XXVII. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand. XXVIII. This lady never slept, but lay in trance All night within the fountain -- as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies -- and withal did ever keep The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm. XXIX. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson firefull even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. XXX. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O'er woods and lawns -- the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar-- And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame. XXXI. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat Which ever upon mortal stream did float. XXXII. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like an horticultural adept, Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew. XXXIII. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o'er The solid rind, like a leaf's veind fan-- Of which Love scooped this boat -- and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean. XXXIV. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan's feet that sit-- Or as on Vesta's sceptre a swift flame-- Or on blind Homer's heart a wingd thought,-- In joyous expectation lay the boat. XXXV. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love -- all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow-- A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion. XXXVI. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,-- In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, Imaging forth such perfect purity. XXXVII. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: 'Sit here!' And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet. XXXVIII. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests, whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably. XXXIX. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night's mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. XL. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o'er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain. XLI. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o'er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:mortal boat In such a shallow rapid could not float. XLII. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear A subterranean portal for the river, It fledthe circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way. XLIII. And when the wizard lady would ascend The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend She called 'Hermaphroditus!'and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass. XLIV. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun's dominions Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-wingd minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. XLV. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vansand speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs. XLVI. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady's radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel The swift and steady motion of the keel. XLVII. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana, XLVIII. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by: XLIX. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. L. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind's scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke -- this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,-- LI. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, Even as a tiger on Hydaspes' banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, To journey from the misty east began. LII. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits In mighty legions, million after million, They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere. LIII. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk -- cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon. LIV. And on a throne o'erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of ary dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence -- and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night-- And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. LV. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beakd cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin's back Ride singing through the shoreless air; -- oft-time Following the serpent lightning's winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind. LVI. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where'er she passed, And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last. LVII. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axum, until he spreads, Like a calm flock of silver-fleecd sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid. LVIII. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms -- within the brazen doors Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast. LIX. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased -- but tremble ever Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, 'twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. LX. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind, Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep. LXI. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linkd innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm. LXII. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song-- Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; And all the code of Custom's lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: 'This,' said the wizard maiden, 'is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man's life.' LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul.-- We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where'er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O'er its wild surface to an unknown goal:-- But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, She saw the priests asleepall of one sort-- For all were educated to be so. The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits -- to her eyes The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair-- And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet. LXVIII. 'Tis said in after times her spirit free Knew what love was, and felt itself alone-- But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady -- like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:-- They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers' ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch. LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand coversall his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap;the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak What'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed -- alas, how many kiss the same! LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan's sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares; -- in a band The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis. LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy -- till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart -- a wide wound, mind from mind!-- She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see. Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, ed. Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mary first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino -- a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lsasitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the Witch of Atlas. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes -- wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Witch Of Atlas ,

142:Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric Dramatis Personae HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. THURSTON, | EUSTACE, | RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. HENRY, a Page. LUKE, | HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". HAROLD, a Danish Knight. ORION. THORA, AGATHA, ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | NUNS, etc. | Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc. SCENE — A Castle in Normandy. A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, Enter HENRY, a Page. Hugo: Well, boy, what is it? 27 Henry: The feast is spread. Hugo: Why tarry the guests for me? Let Eric sit at the table's head; Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] What share have I at their festive board? Their mirth I can only mar; To me no pleasure their cups afford, Their songs on my silence jar. With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, And yet with a hopeful heart, I must toil and strain with the planets again When the rays of the sun depart; He who must needs with the topers tope, And the feasters feast in the hall, How can he hope with a matter to cope That is immaterial? Orion: He who his appetite stints and curbs, Shut up in the northern wing, With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, And his draught from the tasteless spring, Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. There are some good things upon earth — Pleasure and power and fair renown, And wisdom of worldly worth! There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, In follies that light the eyes, But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence Is alone by the fool termed wise. Hugo: Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; I wot thou hast served me oft. This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; What errors canst thou detect? 28 Orion: Nay, the constellations are misplaced, And the satellites incorrect; Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek An hour of needful rest, The night is young and the planets are weak; See, the sun still reddens the west. Hugo: I fear I shall sleep too long. Orion: If you do It matters not much; the sky Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; Now, list to my lullaby. [Hugo reclines on a couch.] (Sings.) Still the darkling skies are red, Though the day-god's course is run; Heavenly night-lamps overhead Flash and twinkle one by one. Idle dreamer — earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? From the tree of knowledge first, Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, Of the tree still seeks the root; Musty volumes crowd thy shelf — Which of these true knowledge brings? Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? Will the stars from heaven descend? Can the earth-worm soar and rise? Can the mortal comprehend Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? Greed and glory, power and pelf — These are won by clowns and kings; Wherefore weariest thou thyself 29 With thy vain imaginings? Sow and reap, and toil and spin; Eat and drink, and dream and die; Man may strive, yet never win, And I laugh the while and cry — Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! Vainly grasping heavenly things, Wherefore weariest thou thyself With thy vain imaginings? He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, Whatever dreams it has brought him — [Looks at the plans.] If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, He's wiser than one who taught him. Why does he number the Pole-star thus? Or the Pleiades why combine? And what is he doing with Sirius, In the devil's name or in mine? Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, That the sins of his youth are slain, When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back To his old pet sins again. SCENE — The Same. HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. Hugo: Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! Oh, heavy and misty brain! Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, Ye seek to explore in vain! See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, And hide them far from my sight; I will toil and study no more by day, I will watch no longer by night; I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem No nearer the mystic goal; 30 Orion, I fain would devise some scheme To quiet this restless soul; To distant climes I would fain depart — I would travel by sea or land. Orion: Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", The proverb, though stale, will stand; Full many a sage from youth to age Has toil'd to obtain what you Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, Forsooth, there is nothing new; Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, And vigour in change of air, Will always be, and has always been, And travel is a tonic rare. Still, the restless, discontented mood For the time alone is eased; It will soon return with hunger renew'd, And appetite unappeased. Nathless I could teach a shorter plan To win that wisdom you crave, That lore that is seldom attain'd by man From the cradle down to the grave. Hugo: Such lore I had rather do without, It hath nothing mystic nor awful In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt The arts that are term'd unlawful; 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, I shall never wittingly pass it; There is now no compact between us twain. Orion: But an understanding tacit. You have prospered much since the day we met; You were then a landless knight; You now have honour and wealth, and yet I never can serve you right. Hugo: Enough; we will start this very day, 31 Thurston, Eric, and I, And the baffled visions will pass away, And the restless fires will die. Orion: Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires They smoulder and live unspent; Give a mortal all that his heart desires, He is less than ever content. SCENE — A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. HUGO. Hugo: Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming They burst — raging waves of the sea, Foaming out their own shame — ever foaming Their leprosy up with fierce glee; Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag Where, shock after shock, the green mountains Explode on the iron-grey crag. The salt spray with ceaseless commotion Leaps round me. I sit on the verge Of the cliff — 'twixt the earth and the ocean — With feet overhanging the surge. In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, Hidden truths that are taught in no college, Hidden songs that no parchments express. Were they wise in their own generations, Those sages and sagas of old? They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations Time's billows have silently roll'd; They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, Save histories of a truth far from strict; Or theories more vague and bewildering, 32 Since three out of four contradict. Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in The halls of dull pedants who teach Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, The scroll that is god-like and Greek: Have wasted life's springtide in learning Things long ago learnt all in vain; They are slow, very slow, in discerning That book lore and wisdom are twain. Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, By time or by truth overcome, Your Delphian temples and Pythic Are ruins deserted and dumb; Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places No longer, are powerless as clods; By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, No lithe forms disport in the river, No sweet faces peer through the boughs, Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, Ever silent the bright water flows. (Were they duller or wiser than we are, Those heathens of old? Who shall say? Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; And the false gods alluring to evil, That sway'd reckless votaries then, Were slain to no purpose; they revel Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, And Apis! that mystical lore, Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis Of fever, is studied no more; 33 Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles The arch of yon firmament vast Looks calm, like a host of white angels, On dry dust of votaries past. On seas unexplored can the ship shun Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? The riddle remains still unravell'd By students consuming night oil. Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, How long shall we travail and toil? How long? The short life that fools reckon So sweet, by how much is it higher Than brute life? — the false gods still beckon, And man, through the dust and the mire, Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch In front, and Alecto behind. The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; And the sensual Epicurean, Though grosser, is hardly less wise; 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, And the latter, half sow and half sloth, We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, Or sacrifice freely to both. With our reason that seeks to disparage, Brute instinct it fails to subdue; With our false illegitimate courage, Our sophistry, vain and untrue; Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also) — Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, 34 Come rarely with rushing of wings; We are conscious at times we have striven, Though seldom, to grasp better things; These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, Good angels with faces estranged, And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, And the spots of the leopard unchanged. Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits? The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest — so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field. And withal we are conscious of evil And good — of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a God, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun — from our youth One at least we have cherished — "An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth." Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To passion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope — scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long? Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, 35 With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers. The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom God's goodness, Exceeding God's infinite space. And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden — so surely Night cometh — so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where God's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child! SCENE — The Castle in Normandy. THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning. Thora (sings): We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; 36 The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting — Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot. If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot? Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; 37 How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years. On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce assuage At the brackish well that was nearly dry, And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that? Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat. Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate. But a shadow darkens the chamber door. Enter THURSTON. Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near. My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here. 38 Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus? Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us — We were wreck'd on the shores of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd. By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget. Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast. [He goes out.] Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim. Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him. SCENE — The Castle Hall. THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart. Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall — Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard? Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land. 39 Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay. Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung. That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad. You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim. Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger. Harold: Good-morrow, friend. Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend? Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north — Yet we know not what a day may bring forth. Thurston: Indeed we don't. (To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better. Your judgment is right to the very letter — The man is mad. Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first. Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad. 40 Eustace: May I hear it? Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs, — Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome. He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord. 'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies —— Eustace: Hush! Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. Thurston: I have known the day when his voice would ring Till the rafters echoed. Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, Though far too feeble this hall to fill. Harold (sings): On the current, where the wide Windings of the river Eddy to the North Sea tide, Shall I in my shallop glide, As I have done at her side? Never! never! never! In the forest, where the firs, Pines, and larches quiver To the northern breeze that stirs, Shall my lips be press'd to hers, As they were in by-gone years? Never! never! never! 41 In the battle on the plain, Where the lance-shafts shiver, And the sword-strokes fall like rain, Shall I bear her scarf again As I have done — not in vain? Never! never! never! In a fairer, brighter land, Where the saints rest ever, Shall I once more see her stand, White, amidst a white-robed band, Harp and palm-branch in her hand? Never! never! never! SCENE — The Same. EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. Eustace (and others standing up): Welcome, Lord Hugo! Hugo: Welcome or not, Thanks for your greeting all. Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? What grievances to recall? Eustace: Count William came with a numerous band, Ere the snows began to fall, And slew a buck on your lordship's land, Within a league of the wall. Hugo: Count William has done to us no more Than we to him. In his vineyard Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. 42 Thurston: Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, I will wager marks a score, Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, You made me give back the boar. Harold (advancing): Lord Hugo! Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! And 'tis not so very long since we met. Harold: 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) This letter was traced by one now dead In the Holy Land; and I Must wait till his dying request is read, And in his name ask the reply. Thora (aside): Who is that stranger, Hugo? Hugo: By birth He is a countryman of thine, Thora. What writing is this on earth? I can scarce decipher a line. Harold: The pen in the clutch of death works ill. Hugo: Nay, I read now; the letters run More clearly. Harold: Wilt grant the request? Hugo: I will. Harold: Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) Hugo, I go to a far-off land, 43 Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? Hugo: Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, Because of my ancient vow. Harold: Farewell, then. Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. On so wild a night as this Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; The path thou wilt surely miss. Harold: I go. Kind lady, some future day Thy care will requited be. Thora: Speak, Hugo, speak. Hugo: He may go or stay, It matters little to me. [Harold goes out.] Thora: Husband, that man is ill and weak; On foot he goes and alone Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. Eric: Now I wonder where he has gone! Hugo: Indeed, I have not the least idea; The man is certainly mad. He wedded my sister, Dorothea, And used her cruelly bad. He was once my firmest and surest friend, And once my deadliest foe; But hate and friendship both find their end — Now I heed not where he may go. 44 SCENE — A Chamber in the Castle. HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. Hugo: That letter that came from Palestine, By the hands of yon wandering Dane, Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. Thora: Wilt thou travel so soon again? Hugo: I can scarce refuse the dying request Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; His bones are dust. May his soul find rest He once made a foolish vow, That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care Of the Abbess, his child should stay, For a season at least. To escort her there I must start at the break of day. Thora: Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? Hugo: Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain With her spouse. Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, I am told; but giddy and vain. Eric: Some musty tales on my memory grow Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; Thou knew'st his daughter? Hugo: Aye, years ago. I should scarcely know her now. 45 It seems, when her father's vow was made, She was taken sorely ill; Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; He could never his oath fulfil. Eric: If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha That fled with some Danish knight — I forget the name. Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; She returned again that night. Thora: For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. Hugo: That is no affair of mine. My task is over, my word fulfilled, Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. Come, Thora, sing. Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, Nor would I now if I could. Sing thou. Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring No sound save a discord rude. (Sings.) Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, The pine lies low in the dust; And the corn is withered and blighted, Where the fields are red with the rust; Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, Where its petals the violet rears, And the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. The strong in their strength are shaken, The wise in their wisdom fall; And the bloom of beauty is taken — Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, 46 They vanish, their lot fulfilling, Their doom approaches and nears, But the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, He is wise, His will must be done, And it cometh sooner or later; And one shall be taken, and one Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, In this vale of sorrows and tears, Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Tell me, mine own one, tell me, The shadows of life and the fears Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, While I can avert thy tears: Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling To realise lonely years? Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling To the lamb despoiled by the shears. Enter HENRY. Henry: My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, He has come on foot from the chapel; Some stranger perished beside his gate When the dawn began to dapple. SCENE — A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. Luke: When the dawn was breaking, Came a faint sound, waking Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, Found the stranger lying 47 At the threshold, dying. Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. Hugo: Harold he is hight. Only yester-night From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; Well his face I know, Both as friend and foe; Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. Luke: Few the words he said, Faint the signs he made, Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. This is retribution, Seek for absolution; Answer me — then cast thy sorrows to the wind. Do their voices reach thee, Friends who failed to teach thee, In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? Charges 'gainst thee cited, Cares all unrequited, Counsels spurned and slighted — do they press and throng?" But he shook his head. "'Tis not so," he said; "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. If their counsels good, Rashly I withstood; Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." "Do their curses stun thee? Foes who failed to shun thee, Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, As the barbed arrow Cleaveth bone and marrow, From those chambers narrow — do they pierce thine ear?" And he made reply, Laughing bitterly, "Did I fear them living — shall I fear them dead? Blood that I have spilt Leaveth little guilt; 48 On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." "Is there one whom thou May'st have wronged ere now, Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? By some saint in heaven, Sanctified and shriven, Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" Not a word he said, But he bowed his head Till his temples rested on the chilly sods And we heard him groan — "Ah! mine own, mine own! If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." Hubert raised him slowly, Sunrise, faint and holy, Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. May the troubled spirit, Through Christ's saving merit, Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. Hugo: God o'erruleth fate. I had cause for hate; In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, Joined by priestly vows, He became the spouse Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. And he wrought her woe, Making me his foe; Not alone unfaithful — brutal, too, was he. She had scarce been dead Three months, ere he fled With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. Fortune straight forsook him, Vengeance overtook him; Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. All his strength was shatter'd, Even his wits were scatter'd, Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. We are unforgiving 49 While our foes are living; Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily That I feel remorse, Gazing on his corpse, For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. And his grave shall be 'Neath the chestnut tree, Where he met my sister many years ago; Leave that tress of hair On his bosom there — Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. SCENE — A Room in the Castle. HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. Hugo: The morn is fair, the weary miles Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; Pomona in the orchard smiles, And in the meadow, Flora! And I have roused a chosen band For escort through the troubled land; And shaken Elspeth by the hand, And said farewell to Thora. Comrade and kinsman — for thou art Comrade and kin to me — we part Ere nightfall, if at once we start, We gain the dead Count's castle. The roads are fair, the days are fine, Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. Forsooth, no friend to me or mine Is that same Abbot Basil; I thought he wronged us by his greed. My father sign'd a foolish deed For lack of gold in time of need, And thus our lands went by us; Yet wrong on our side may have been: As far as my will goes, I ween, 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between 50 Us twain. Men call him pious — And I have prosper'd much since then, And gain'd for one lost acre ten; And even the ancient house and glen Rebought with purchase-money. He, too, is wealthy; he has got By churchly rights a fertile spot, A land of corn and wine, I wot, A land of milk and honey. Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. Eric: Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, Thou knowest, wait for no man; And I go north; God's blessing shuns The dwellings of forgetful sons, That proverb he may read who runs, In Christian lore or Roman. My good old mother she hath heard, For twelve long months, from me no word; At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, And even mine eyes grow moister. Greet Ursula from me; her fame Is known to all. A nobler dame, Since days of Clovis, ne'er became The inmate of a cloister. Our paths diverge, yet we may go Together for a league or so; I, too, will join thy band below When thou thy bugle windest. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: From weaknesses we stand afar, On us unpleasantly they jar; And yet the stoutest-hearted are The gentlest and the kindest. My mother loved me tenderly; Alas! her only son was I. I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, By death made orphan newly. 51 A braver man than me, I swear, Who never comprehended fear, Scarce names his mother, and the tear, Unbidden, springs unruly. SCENE — A Road on the Norman Frontiers. HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. Agatha: Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, Or both. Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; You would think me duller, and still more vain, If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; Since the matters with which my mind is laden Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. Agatha: I am so foolish and you are so wise, 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. Alas! my prospects are sad enough: I had rather listen to speeches rough Than muse and meditate silently On the coming loss of my liberty. Sad hope to me can my future bring, Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, Though it only were to try and assuage The dreariness of my pilgrimage. Hugo: Prattle and sing to your heart's content, And none will offer impediment. Agatha (sings): We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, Whose playtime with childhood is done; 52 Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, Barefooted I've oft seen her run. I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, Bareheaded past nightfall remain; She has followed a landless and penniless knight Through battles and sieges in Spain. But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; My sister was born to face hardship with scorn — I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. Hugo (aside): She has a sweet voice. Orion: And a sweet face, too — Be candid for once, and give her her due. Agatha: Your face grows longer, and still more long, Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? Hugo: I thought it rather a silly one. Agatha: You are far from a pleasant companion. SCENE — An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. Hugo: I will leave you now — we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? 53 Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then. Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks? Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! 54 Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too. Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden — Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden. Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins — look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too. I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both — no matter; If the former — firmer, faster, Surer still the latter — Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder. SCENE — A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) The Towers of the Convent in the distance. Agatha: I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, 55 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. Hugo: May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. Orion (aside): Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, Touch her soft curl again — look again in her eyes; Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn How the slow pulse may quicken — the cold blood may burn. Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! The old love is dead, let the old promise die! Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, "A living dog always before a dead lion!" Thurston: Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst Our wine-skin — what, ho! must I perish with thirst! Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. Henry: Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb 56 Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. Thurston: Thou knave Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? Orion (aside): That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. Hugo: Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. I love not the Abbot — 'tis needless to tell My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. Agatha: Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. Hugo: And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. Orion: And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. The oxen are weary and spent with their load, They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. 57 Agatha (sings): Oh! days and years departed, Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, I turn to you sad-hearted — I turn to you in tears! Your daily sun shone brightly, Your happy dreams came nightly, Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, Through all your hopes and fears! You halted not, nor tarried, Your hopes have all miscarried, And even your fears are buried, Since fear with hope must die. You halted not, but hasted, And flew past, childhood wasted, And girlhood scarcely tasted, Now womanhood is nigh. Yet I forgive your wronging, Dead seasons round me thronging, With yearning and with longing, I call your bitters sweet. Vain longing, and vain yearning, There now is no returning; Oh! beating heart and burning, Forget to burn and beat! Oh! childish suns and showers, Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, Oh! fruitless days and hours, Oh! groundless hopes and fears: The birds still chirp and twitter, And still the sunbeams glitter: Oh! barren years and bitter, Oh! bitter, barren years! SCENE — The Summit of a Burning Mountain. Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). 58 Orion (sings): From fathomless depths of abysses, Where fires unquenchable burst, From the blackness of darkness, where hisses The brood of the serpent accurs'd; From shrines where the hymns are the weeping And wailing and gnashing of teeth, Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, Where the worm never dying is the wreath; Where all fruits save wickedness wither, Whence naught save despair can be gleaned — Come hither! come hither! come hither! Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. Come hither! the bands are all broken, And loosed in hell's innermost womb, When the spell unpronounceable spoken Divides the unspeakable gloom. Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. Evil Spirits (singing): We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions That darken the shades of the shade; Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions Encompass'd, with powers array'd, With majesty cloth'd as a garment, Begirt with a shadowy shine, Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant As footstools for thee and for thine. Orion (sings): How it swells through each pause of the thunder, And mounts through each lull of the gust, Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, And the hurtling of trees in the dust; With a chorus of loud lamentations, With its dreary and hopeless refrain! 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, That suffer and shudder in vain. 59 Evil Spirits (singing): 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; Our song shall chime in with their strain; Lost spirits blend their wild exultations With the sighing of mortals in pain. Orion (sings): With just light enough to see sorrows In this world, and terrors beyond, 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's Dread doubts, to despair and despond, Man lingers through toils unavailing For blessings that baffle his grasp; To his cradle he comes with a wailing, He goes to his grave with a gasp. Evil Spirits (singing): His birth is a weeping and wailing, His death is a groan and a gasp; O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. SCENE — Chamber of a Wayside Inn. HUGO sitting alone. Evening. Hugo: And now the parting is over, The parting should end the pain; And the restless heart may recover, And so may the troubled brain. I am sitting within the chamber Whose windows look on the porch, Where the roses cluster and clamber; We halted here on our march With her to the convent going, And now I go back alone: Ye roses, budding and blowing, Ye heed not though she is flown. 60 I remember the girlish gesture, The sportive and childlike grace, With which she crumpled and pressed your Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. Shall I think on her ways hereafter — On those flashes of mirth and grief, On that April of tears and laughter, On our parting, bitterly brief? I remember the bell at sunrise, That sounded so solemnly, Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; I rose ere the sun was high. Down the long, dark, dismal passage, To the door of her resting-place I went, on a farewell message, I trod with a stealthy pace. There was no one there to see us When she opened her chamber door. "Miserere, mei Deus", Rang faint from the convent choir. I remember the dark and narrow And scantily-furnished room; And the gleam, like a golden arrow — The gleam that lighted the gloom. One couch, one seat, and one table, One window, and only one — It stands in the eastern gable, It faces the rising sun; One ray shot through it, and one light On doorway and threshold played. She stood within in the sunlight, I stood without in the shade. I remember that bright form under The sheen of that slanting ray. I spoke — "For life we must sunder, Let us sunder without delay. Let us sever without preamble, As brother and sister part, For the sake of one pleasant ramble, 61 That will live in at least one heart." Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, In the distance dying away, Sweetly and sadly and saintly, Through arch and corridor grey! And thus we parted for ever, Between the shade and the shine; Not as brother and sister sever — I fondled her hands in mine. Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd And dull'd, though audible yet; And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd — Her lashes and lids grew wet. Not as brother severs from sister, My lips clung fast to her lips; She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. I remember little of the parting With the Abbot, down by the gate, My men were eager for starting; I think he pressed me to wait. From the lands where convent and glebe lie, From manors, and Church's right, Where I fought temptation so feebly, I, too, felt eager for flight. Alas! the parting is over — The parting, but not the pain — Oh! sweet was the purple clover, And sweet was the yellow grain; And sweet were the woody hollows On the summery Rhineward track; But a winter untimely swallows All sweets as I travel back. Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, I shall conquer this senseless passion, 'Twill yield to toil and to time. I will fetter these fancies roaming; Already the sun has dipped; 62 I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, I will finish my manuscript. Through the nightwatch unflagging study Shall banish regrets perforce; As soon as the east is ruddy Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" SCENE — Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. Orion: Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, Watching or fasting, by which I know That you have been burning the midnight oil. Hugo: Aye, three nights running. Orion: 'Twill never do To travel all day, and study all night; Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? Hugo: With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? Orion: Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. Hugo: Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. Orion: Touching his merits we will not quarrel; But let me mount you for once; enough Of work may await your favourite sorrel, And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. 63 But first let me mix you a beverage, To invigorate your enfeebled frame. [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] All human ills this draught can assuage. Hugo: It hisses and glows like liquid flame; Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. Orion: There is nothing but what will do you good; And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. Hugo: I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, I am just as wise as I was before. SCENE — A Rough, Hilly Country. HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. Mountains in the distance. Night. Hugo: See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make A fiery track that gleams in our wake; Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, Our horses fly. Orion: They are useful brutes, Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; He pulls to-night, being short of work, And takes his head with a sudden jerk; Still heel and steady hand on the bit, For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. Hugo: 64 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? From hoof to hoof I should like to measure The space he clear'd. Orion: He can clear at leisure A greater distance. Observe the chasm We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm As we flew over it? Hugo: Not at all. Orion: Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. Hugo: Let us try a race to yon mountain high, That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. Orion: I won't disparage your horsemanship, But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, And is hasty and hard to steer at times. We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; We must travel back ere the east is grey. Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! [They ride on faster.] SCENE — A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. Hugo: These steeds are sprung from no common race, Their vigour seems to annihilate space; What hast thou brought me here to see? Orion: No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, 65 But a mystic and musical interlude; You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. [They dismount.] Orion (chanting): Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, By the symbols three that shall nameless be, One of your masters calls on you. Spirits (chanting in the distance): From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; From the air where the powers of darkness hold Their court; from the white sea-foam, Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, Whom poets of every age have sung, Ever we come! we come! Hugo: How close to our ears the thunder peals! How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! A Voice (chanting): Woe to the earth! Where men give death! And women give birth! To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! Plenty and dearth! To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, Barren of worth! Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! Woe to the earth! Hugo: What is yon phantom large and dim That over the mountain seems to swim? Orion: 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! Hugo: Whence does she come? Where has she gone? 66 And who is she? Orion: You would know too much; These are subjects on which I dare not touch; And if I were to try and enlighten you, I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. You had better ask some learned divine, Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, In his own conceit; and who, besides, Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. What can you see in the valley yonder? Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. Hugo: I see four shadowy altars rise, They seem to swell and dilate in size; Larger and clearer now they loom, Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. A Voice (chanting): The first a golden-hued fire shows, A blood-red flame on the second glows, The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. Orion: Can you see all this? Hugo: I see and hear; The lights and hues are vivid and clear. Spirits (sing at the first altar): Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, Thy kingdom in this world is sure; Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, Great things in thy name they endure; Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, The usurer bends at thy shrine, And the wealthier nations and the wiser Bow with us at this altar of thine. Spirits (sing at the second altar): 67 Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, From pole to equator unfurl'd, Whose laws redly written have stood red, And shall stand while standeth this world; Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, Thy subjects with us give thee glory, With us at thine altar they kneel. Spirits (sing at the third altar): Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled By sparks from the bottomless pit, Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? Nay, the men of all climes and all races Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" Spirits (all in chorus): The vulture her carrion swallows, Returns to his vomit the dog. In the slough of uncleanliness wallows The he-goat, and revels the hog. Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, Men are just with their creeds and their priests; Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, They backslide in footprints of beasts! Hugo: From the smoky altar there seems to come A stifled murmur, a droning hum. Orion: With that we have nothing at all to do, Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; Though some day or other, possibly We may see it closer, both you and I; Let us visit the nearest altar first, Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, Like the flames from molten ore that spring; We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, 68 But forbear to trespass within the inner, Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. [They approach the first altar, and stand within the outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] Spirits (sing): Beneath us it flashes, The glittering gold, Though it turneth to ashes And dross in the hold; Yet man will endeavour, By fraud or by strife, To grasp it and never To yield it with life. Orion: What can you see? Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; In the hollow earth they appear to store And rake together great heaps of ore. Orion: These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; Come on, of these we have seen enough. [They approach second altar and stand as before.] Spirits (singing): Above us it flashes, The glittering steel, Though the red blood splashes Where its victims reel; Yet man will endeavour To grapple the hilt, And to wield the blade ever Till his life be spilt. Orion: What see you now? Hugo: A rocky glen, 69 A horrid jumble of fighting men, And a face that somewhere I've seen before. Orion: Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, Except the altar of Ashtaroth. Hugo: To visit that altar I am loth. Orion: Why so? Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, But I feel no curiosity. Orion: Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. [They approach third altar.] Spirits (sing): Around us it flashes, The cestus of one Born of white foam, that dashes Beneath the white sun; Let the mortal take heart, he Has nothing to dare; She is fair, Queen Astarte, Her subjects are fair! Orion: What see you now, friend? Hugo: Wood and wold, And forms that look like the nymphs of old. There is nothing here worth looking at twice. I have seen enough. Orion: You are far too nice; Nevertheless, you must look again. Those forms will fade. 70 Hugo: They are growing less plain. They vanish. I see a door that seems To open; a ray of sunlight gleams From a window behind; a vision as fair As the flush of dawn is standing there. [He gazes earnestly.] Orion (sings): Higher and hotter the white flames glow, And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, And the life for a single chance may go, And the soul for a certainty. Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER From whom thou hast sought to fly? Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, On the shoulders of ivory? Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, When the deserts are parch'd and dry? Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, The sting is certain, the venom is death, And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, And the fang striketh suddenly. At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, But the rind is fair and the rind is red, It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; Orion holds him back; they struggle.] Hugo: Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! 71 [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. Hugo falls insensible.] SCENE — The Wayside House. HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. Hugo: Vanish, fair and fatal vision! Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, Chiding one whose indecision Waking substance failed to keep; Picture into life half starting, As in life once seen before, Parting somewhat sadly, parting Slowly at the chamber door. Were my waking senses duller? Have I seen with mental eye Light and shade, and warmth and colour, Plainer than reality? Sunlight that on tangled tresses Every ripple gilds and tips; Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. Dark eyes veiling half their splendour 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, Passing smile and passing tinge; Dimpling fast and flushing faster, Ivory chin and coral cheek, Pearly strings, by alabaster Neck and arms made faint and weak; Drooping, downcast lids enduring Gaze of man unwillingly; Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, Partly arch and partly shy. 72 Do I bless or curse that beauty? Am I longing, am I loth? Is it passion, is it duty That I strive with, one or both? Round about one fiery centre Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. [He sees Orion.] Ha! Orion, thou didst enter Unperceived. I pray thee solve These two questions: Firstly, tell me, Must I strive for wrong or right? Secondly, what things befell me — Facts, or phantasies — last night? Orion: First, your strife is all a sham, you Know as well as I which wins; Second, waking sins will damn you, Never mind your sleeping sins; Both your questions thus I answer; Listen, ere you seek or shun: I at least am no romancer, What you long for may be won. Turn again and travel Rhineward, Tread once more the flowery path. Hugo: Aye, the flowery path that, sinward Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. Orion: Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, Even the just man may allure. Hugo: To his shame; in this wise Harold Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. Orion: Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, Base and pitiless to boot; 73 Doubtless all are bad, yet few are Cruel, false, and dissolute. Hugo: Some sins foreign to our nature Seem; we take no credit when We escape them. Orion: Yet the creature, Sin-created, lives to sin. Hugo: Be it so; come good, come evil, Ride we to the Rhine again! Orion (aside): 'Gainst the logic of the devil Human logic strives in vain. SCENE — A Camp Near the Black Forest. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. Osric: Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, And by all the gods of the Viking's war, I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. Will our galley return to Norway's shore With heavier gold, or with costlier store? Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. Say, captains all, is there ever a village For miles around that is worth the pillage? Will it pay the costs of my men or yours To harry the homesteads of German boors? Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, 74 That were thy soldiers willing as mine, And I sole leader of this array, I would give Prince Otto battle this day. Dost thou call thy followers men of war? Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; Retreat from the face of an armed foe, Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, I and my Norsemen will go in peace! I wot it never will suit with us, Such existence, tame and inglorious; I could live no worse, living single-handed, And better with half my men disbanded. Rudolph: Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; With one chance of victory, fight, say I! But not when defeat is a certainty. If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, Our chance will be equal to many chances; For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; And his men are gallant though mercenary; But the knave refuses to send a lance Till half the money is paid in advance. Dagobert: May his avarice wither him like a curse! I guess he has heard of our late reverse; But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; Of provisions we need a fresh supply, And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; My men are beginning to grumble sadly, 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. 75 Rudolph: We have plenty of foragers out, and still We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, We must raise money; 'tis little I care, So long as we raise it, whence it comes. Osric: Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? The shortest plan is ever the best; Has anyone here got aught to suggest? Orion: The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold In the ancient convent of Englemehr; That is not so very far from here. The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; The cream of the soil he loves to skim, Why not levy a contribution on him? Dagobert: The stranger speaks well; not far away That convent lies; and one summer's day Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; The garrison soon would capitulate, Since the armed retainers are next to none, And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. Rudolph: I kept those walls for two months or more, When they feared the riders of Melchior! That was little over three years ago. Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; He haggled sorely about the price Of our service. 76 Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. Rudolph: Well, what of that? Since then I've tried To borrow from him; now I know he lied When he told me he could not spare the sum I asked. If we to his gates should come, He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, This war with the Church I like it ill. Osric: The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, For your creeds or your churches what care I! If there be plunder at Englemehr, Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. SCENE — A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. Eric: What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. Hugo (with hesitation): Our homeward march was labour in vain, We had to retrace our steps again; It was here or hereabouts that I lost Some papers of value; at any cost I must find them; and which way lies your course? Eric: I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. I cannot study as you do; I Am wearied with inactivity; So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, Not quite forgotten the way to wield), 77 To strike once more on the tented field. Hugo: Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, And has been so since the age Homeric, When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; Better fight and perish than live to curse The day you were born; and such has been The lot of many, and shall, I ween, Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses He may go with you. The blockhead abuses Me and the life I lead. Enter ORION. Orion: Great news! The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; In the soles of their callous feet will shake The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. Hugo: Wherefore? Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, Back'd by those hardy adventurers From the northern forests of pines and firs, And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. Hugo: We must do something to save the place. Orion: They are sure to take it in any case, Unless the sum that they ask is paid. Eric: Some effort on our part must be made. Hugo: 78 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. Eric: Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. Orion: 'Tis not our business; what can we do? They are too many, and we are too few; And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. Hugo: She is no kinswoman of mine; How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? Orion: Too far for help in such time of need To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. Eric: Nay, that I doubt. Hugo: And how many men Have they? Orion: To your one they could muster ten. Eric: I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made With him, I fancy; for though his trade Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, He was once a knight and a gentleman. And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; Though neither he nor the Count could check Those lawless men, should they storm and sack The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; He is rather a formidable foe, And will likely enough be troublesome; But the others, I trust, to terms will come. Hugo: 79 Eric, how many men have you? I can count a score. Eric: I have only two. Hugo: At every hazard we must try to save The nuns. Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have A force that almost equals his own, If I can confer with him alone. Orion: He is close at hand; by this time he waits The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. Hugo: We had better send him a herald. Eric: Nay, I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] Hugo: Orion, stay! So this is the reed on which I've leaned, These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? Orion: Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; You will cry out before you are hurt — You will live to recall your words, I trust. Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, These are your friends, if you only knew it, And would take the advice of a friend sincere; Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, For I know by a sign the crisis is near. Accept the terms of these outlaws all, And be thankful that things have fallen out Exactly as you would have had them fall — You may save the one that you care about; 80 Otherwise, how did you hope to gain Access to her — on what pretence? What were the schemes that worried your brain To tempt her there or to lure her thence? You must have bungled, and raised a scandal About your ears, that might well have shamed The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, Long or ever the bird was tamed. Hugo: The convent is scarce surrounded yet, We might reach and hold it against their force Till another sun has risen and set; And should I despatch my fleetest horse To Otto —— Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, Between ourselves, 'tis little you care If their halls are harried by steel and fire: Their avarice left your heritage bare. Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods Will cover vices while earth endures; Through the green and gold of the summer woods Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. If again you fail to improve your chance, Why, then, my friend, I can only say You are duller far than the dullest lance That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. "Faemina semper", frown not thus, The girl was always giddy and wild, Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. I sought to initiate you once In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, And trace the future in yonder sky; To the right are wars and rumours of wars, To the left are peace and prosperity. Fear naught. The world shall never detect The cloven hoof, so carefully hid 81 By the scholar so staid and circumspect, So wise for once to do as he's bid. Remember what pangs come year by year For opportunity that has fled; And Thora in ignorance. Hugo: Name not her! I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! Orion: Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, The angel Michael was once my foe; He had a little the best of our strife, Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. SCENE — A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. AGATHA and URSULA. Agatha: My sire in my childhood pledged my hand To Hugo — I know not why — They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, In the wars of Lombardy. I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, That mine was a grievous case; Save once, for an hour, I had never seen My intended bridegroom's face; And maidens vows of their own will plight. Unknown to my kinsfolk all My love was vowed to a Danish knight, A guest in my father's hall. His foot fell lightest in merry dance, His shaft never missed the deer; He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, Our wildest colt he could steer. His deep voice ringing through hall or glen Had never its match in song; And little was known of his past life then, Or of Dorothea's wrong. 82 I loved him — Lady Abbess, I know That my love was foolish now; I was but a child five years ago, And thoughtless as bird on bough. One evening Hugo the Norman came, And, to shorten a weary tale, I fled that night (let me bear the blame) With Harold by down and dale. He had mounted me on a dappled steed, And another of coal-black hue He rode himself; and away at speed We fled through mist and dew. Of miles we had ridden some half a score, We had halted beside a spring, When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore A distant trample and ring; We listen'd one breathing space, and caught The clatter of mounted men, With vigour renewed by their respite short Our horses dash'd through the glen. Another league, and we listen'd in vain; The breeze to our ears came mute; But we heard them again on the spacious plain, Faint tidings of hot pursuit. In the misty light of a moon half hid By the dark or fleecy rack, Our shadows over the moorland slid, Still listening and looking back. So we fled (with a cheering word to say At times as we hurried on), From sounds that at intervals died away, And at intervals came anon. Another league, and my lips grew dumb, And I felt my spirit quailing, For closer those sounds began to come, And the speed of my horse was failing. "The grey is weary and lame to boot," Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, What wonder! our start was long. Now, lady, behind me mount the black, 83 The double load he can bear; We are safe when we reach the forest track, Fresh horses and friends wait there." Then I sat behind him and held his waist, And faster we seemed to go By moss and moor; but for all our haste Came the tramp of the nearing foe. A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, And, quicken'd by voice and heel, The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; Still nearer that muffled peal. And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, And duller, though not less nigh, On deader sand; and a dark speck drew On my vision suddenly, And a single horseman in fleet career, Like a shadow appear'd to glide To within six lances' lengths of our rear, And there for a space to bide. Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd His face?" I replied, "Not so! Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd In the saddle and scanned the foe, And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, "'Tis he; now I will not fight The brother again, for the sister's sake, While I can escape by flight." "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. By the cry of the bittern harsh, And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge As it broke from a strip of cloud, Ragged and jagged about the edge, And shaped like a dead man's shroud. And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, 'Neath the weight of his double burden, As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; Then the soil began to harden, And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, With our foe in the deep morass; But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, 84 When they trampled the firmer grass, And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, And bade me fasten mine eyes on The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black Standing out from the faint horizon. "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; "With the moorland our danger ends, And close to the borders of yonder glade They tarry, our trusty friends." Where the mossy uplands rise and dip On the edge of the leafy dell, With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, The black horse toppled and fell. Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, And even as I lit I lay, But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, And toss'd the scabbard away. And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, Forbearance, at last, is spent; The strife that thy soul hath lusted for Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, And my lover's voice rang loud: "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, Thou hast come at our time of need, This lady will thank thee, and so will I, For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" And never a word Lord Hugo said, They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, And the white steel flickered over my head In the moonlight calm and cold; 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, With face bow'd down to the dust, I heard the clash of each warded blow, The click of each parried thrust, And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, As they traversed here and there, And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn When breath there was none to spare; 85 Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, Short pause, spent force to regain, Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, Sharp ringing rally again; They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, As I counted them one by one, Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, And I knew that the strife was done. When I looked up, after a little space, As though from a fearful dream, The moon was flinging on Harold's face A white and a weird-like gleam; And I felt mine ankles moist and warm With the blood that trickled slow From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, From a ghastly gash on his brow; I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof As he bore his lord away; They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, Like spectres, misty and grey. I thought Lord Hugo had left me there To die, but it was not so; Yet then for death I had little care, My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, A long and a dreamless sleep, And I woke to the light of a sultry noon In my father's castled keep. And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass That my father vow'd his vow; Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! Is she better or wiser now? For some are feeble and others strong, And feeble am I and frail. Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, But with heart still ready to go astray, If assail'd by a fresh temptation, I could sin again as I sinned that day, For a girl's infatuation. 86 See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled With Hugo of Normandy. Ursula: My child, I advise no hasty vows, Yet I pray that in life's brief span Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse Than fickle and erring man; Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, When that time expires thou'rt free; And we cannot force thee to take the veil, Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. Enter the ABBOT hastily. Basil (the Abbot): I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, It has come by the self-same sign, A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, I would speak with thee alone; Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass I fear we are all undone. SCENE — A Farm-house Near the Convent. A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. Osric: We have granted too much, ye ask for more; I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, I scorn your logic; I had rather die Than live like Hugo of Normandy: I am a Norseman, frank and plain; Ye must read the parchment over again. 87 Eric: Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. Osric: Thou hast read a part. Eric: I have read the whole. Osric: Aye, since I attached my signature! Eric: Before and since! Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. Osric: I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; He has argued the question mouth to mouth With the wordy lore of the subtle south; Let him or any one of his band Come and argue the question hand to hand. With the aid of my battle-axe I will show That a score of words are not worth one blow. Thurston: To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, With an answer that even to thy boorish brain Would scarce need repetition again. Osric: Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, I will give thy body to raven and kite. Thurston: Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, And thy huge carcase — in cubit and span Like the giant's of Gath — 'neath Saxon steel, Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. 88 Osric: Now, by Odin! Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. Hugo: I blame thee, Thurston. Thurston: And I, too, blame Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! [Thurston goes out.] Osric: The Saxon hound, he said I lied! Rudolph: I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. Osric: Why do we grant the terms they ask? To crush them all were an easy task. Dagobert: That know'st thou not; if it come to war, They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. Eric: Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words — Should we meet again. Osric: Should we meet with swords, Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. Hugo: Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. SCENE — The Guest Chamber of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. 89 Eric: Hugo, their siege we might have tried; This place would be easier fortified Than I thought at first; it is now too late, They have cut off our access to the gate. Hugo: I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, And I know by the stars that all is lost If we take up this quarrel. Eric: So let it be! I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) Nevertheless, I have seen the day When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. Hugo: Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, We bring you greeting. Orion (aside): And comfort small. Abbot: God's benediction on you, my sons. Hugo: May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. Abbot: Were we to mortgage the Church's land We never could raise what they would extort. Orion (aside): The price is too long and the notice too short. Eric: 90 And you know the stern alternative. Abbot: If we die we die, if we live we live; God's will be done; and our trust is sure In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. Two messengers rode from here last night, To Otto they carry news of our plight; On my swiftest horses I saw them go. Orion (aside): Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. Eric: One of these is captive and badly hurt; By the reckless riders of Dagobert He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, Not a league from here on the open plain. Abbot: But the other escap'd. Eric: It may be so; We had no word of him, but we know That unless you can keep these walls for a day At least, the Prince is too far away To afford relief. Abbot: Then a hopeless case Is ours, and with death we are face to face. Eric: You have arm'd retainers. Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; And some few of the brethren, less or more, Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, Yet our armoury is but ill provided. Hugo: We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; 91 To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, And to every woman within your wall, We can offer escort, and they shall ride From hence in safety whate'er betide. Abbot: What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? Hugo: Some score of riders who call me lord Bide at the farm not a mile from here, Till we rejoin them they will not stir; My page and armourer wait below, And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. Strict stipulation was made, of course, That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse Should enter your gates — they were keen to shun The chance of increasing your garrison. Eric: I hold safe conduct here in my hand, Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; Jarl signed sorely against his will, With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. For another hour they will scarcely wait; Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. Hugo: Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly There is no great love between thou and I, As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, I would we were more, or thy foes were less. Abbot: I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. [The Abbot and Monks go out.] Eric: 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, 92 Norsemen and Hun will never relent; Their day of grace upon earth is spent. [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] SCENE — The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. Hugo: My day of grace with theirs is past. I might have saved them; 'tis too late — Too late for both. The die is cast, And I resign me to my fate. God's vengeance I await. Orion: The boundary 'twixt right and wrong Is not so easy to discern; And man is weak, and fate is strong, And destiny man's hopes will spurn, Man's schemes will overturn. Hugo: Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares The sinner swallows Satan's bait, Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate Of destiny and fate? Orion: Who first named fate? But never mind, Let that pass by — to Adam's fall And Adam's curse look back, and find Iniquity the lot of all, And sin original. Hugo: But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, Till seven times that sin may be By seventy multiplied; the wind 93 Is constant when compared with me, And stable is the sea! My hopes are sacrificed, for what? For days of folly, less or more, For years to see those dead hopes rot, Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, Beyond the surfs that roar! Orion: The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; Aye, swift to smite and not to spare — Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, Thy betters may ensnare. Hugo: Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven I felt last night, and well I knew The crisis; but my aid was given To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, For once thou'st spoken true. Having foretold it, there remains For grace no time, for hope no room; Even now I seem to feel the pains Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom Of my dishonour'd tomb. Thou who hast lived and died to save, Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! Thy great love pardon'd and forgave The dying thief upon the tree, Thou canst not pardon me! Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, For prayer must die since hope is dead; Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, Nor let my guilt be visited Upon a guiltless head! Ah! God is just! Full sure I am 94 He never did predestinate Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn — [To Orion, with sudden passion] Serpent! I know thee now, too late; Curse thee! Work out thy hate! Orion: I hate thee not; thy grievous plight Would move my pity, but I bear A curse to which thy curse seems light! Thy wrong is better than my right, My day is darker than thy night; Beside the whitest hope I share How white is thy despair! SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. (Hymn of the Nuns): Jehovah! we bless Thee, All works of Thine hand Extol Thee, confess Thee; By sea and by land, By mountain and river, By forest and glen, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! The heathen are raging Against Thee, O Lord! The ungodly are waging Rash war against God! Arise, and deliver Us, sheep of Thy pen, Who praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thou Shepherd of Zion! 95 Thy firstlings didst tear From jaws of the lion, From teeth of the bear; Thy strength to deliver Is strong now as then. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Thine arm hath delivered Thy servants of old, Hath scatter'd and shiver'd The spears of the bold, Hath emptied the quiver Of bloodthirsty men. We praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Nathless shall Thy right hand Those counsels fulfil Most wise in Thy sight, and We bow to Thy will; Thy children quail never For dungeon or den, They praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! Though fierce tribulation Endure for a space, Yet God! our salvation! We gain by Thy grace, At end of life's fever, Bliss passing man's ken; There to praise Thee for ever! And ever! Amen! SCENE — The Guest Room of the Convent. HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. Ursula: 96 Hugo, we reject thine offers, Not that we can buy Safety from the Church's coffers, Neither can we fly. Far too great the price they seek is, Let their lawless throng Come, we wait their coming; weak is Man, but God is strong. Eric: Think again on our proposals: It will be too late When the robbers hold carousals On this side the gate. Ursula: For myself I speak and others Weak and frail as I; We will not desert our brothers In adversity. Hugo (to the Nuns): Does the Abbess thus advance her Will before ye all? A Nun: We will stay. Hugo: Is this thine answer, Agatha? The wall Is a poor protection truly, And the gates are weak, And the Norsemen most unruly. Come, then. A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! Orion (aside to Hugo): Press her! She her fears dissembling, Stands irresolute; She will yield — her limbs are trembling, Though her lips are mute. 97 [A trumpet is heard without.] Eric: Hark! their savage war-horn blowing Chafes at our delay. Hugo: Agatha, we must be going. Come, girl! Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? Ursula: Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me Judge; I cannot give Orders to a novice. Agatha: Take me, Hugo! Let me live! Eric (to Nuns): Foolish women! will ye tarry, Spite of all we say? Hugo: Must we use our strength and carry You by force away? Ursula: Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, Yet thou wilt not do This thing. Shame! — on men make war, man, Not on women few. Eric: Heed her not — her life she barters, Of her free accord, For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs Have their own reward. Ursula: In the Church's cause thy father 98 Never grudged his blade — Hugo, did he rue it? Orion: Rather! He was poorly paid. Hugo: Abbess, this is not my doing; I have said my say; How can I avert the ruin, Even for a day, Since they count two hundred fairly, While we count a score; And thine own retainers barely Count a dozen more? Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, Bless me ere I go; She who under sod and slab is Lying, cold and low, Scarce would turn away in anger From a child so frail; Not dear life, but deadly danger, Makes her daughter quail. Hugo: Eric, will those faces tearful To God's judgment seat Haunt us? Eric: Death is not so fearful. Hugo: No, but life is sweet — Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; Wisest he who takes his skinful When the chance is his. (To Ursula): Lady Abbess! stay and welcome 99 Osric's savage crew; Yet when pains of death and hell come, Thou thy choice may'st rue. Ursula (to Orion): What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? Man or fiend, depart! Orion: Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, Yet I bear the smart. Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): I conjure thee by this symbol Leave us! [Orion goes out hastily.] Hugo: Ha! the knave, He has made an exit nimble; Abbess! thou art brave. Yet once gone, we're past recalling, Let no blame be mine. See, thy sisters' tears are falling Fast, and so are thine. Ursula: Fare you well! The teardrop splashes Vainly on the ice. Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes And your cowardice. Eric: Sorry am I, yet my sorrow Cannot alter fate; Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, He will come too late. Hugo: Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken Words we must not hear; Shall we pause for sign or token — Taunted twice with fear? 100 Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, Stand the swords in which we trusted Years ago. Their blades have rusted, So, perchance, have we. Ursula! thy words may shame us, Yet we once were counted famous, Morituri, salutamus, Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] SCENE — The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. Rudolph: Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; We offer'd thee peace — with gladness, We gladly accept thy war. Dagobert: And the clemency we extended To thee and thine we recall; And the treaty 'twixt us is ended — We are ready to storm the wall. Osric: Now tear yon parchment to tatters; Thou shalt make no further use Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters The scroll shall scatter the truce. Hugo: Jarl Osric, to save the spilling Of blood, and the waste of life, I am willing, if thou art willing, With thee to decide this strife; Let thy comrades draw their force back; I defy thee to single fight, I will meet thee on foot or horseback, And God shall defend the right. 101 Rudolph: No single combat shall settle This strife; thou art overbold — Thou hast put us all on our mettle, Now the game in our hands we hold. Dagobert: Our lances round thee have hover'd, Have seen where thy fellows bide; Thy weakness we have discover'd, Thy nakedness we have spied. Osric: And hearken, knight, to my story — When sack'd are the convent shrines, When the convent thresholds are gory, And quaff'd are the convent wines: When our beasts with pillage are laden, And the clouds of our black smoke rise From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden Is singled as Osric's prize. I will fit her with chain and collar Of red gold, studded with pearls; With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, The queen of my captive girls. Hugo (savagely): May the Most High God of battles The Lord and Ruler of fights, Who breaketh the shield that rattles, Who snappeth the sword that smites, In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, At whose breath they conquer or flee, Never show me His mercy, Norseman! If I show mercy to thee. Osric: What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, Already I count thee dead. 102 Rudolph: I crave thy pardon for baulking The flood of thine eloquence, But thou canst not scare us with talking, I therefore pray thee go hence. Osric: Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet The choice will perplex thy squire. Hugo: When the Norman rowels are goading, When glitters the Norman glaive, Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: They shall not hear thee nor save. "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, In the furious battle drive, So may God deal with me — more, also! If we separate, both alive! SCENE — The Court-yard of the Old Farm. EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. Thurston: Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. Eustace: Why, what's this bustle about, old man? Thurston: Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; He has gone in person to Osric's camp, 103 To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! But I guess he won't. Eustace: Then I hope he will, They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. Ralph: And I hope he won't — I begin to feel A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. [They begin to saddle and make preparations for a skirmish.] Thurston: I've a couple of blades to look to here. In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. A Man-at-arms: Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, And I scour at the rust and say, 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, That settles in the fairest way; For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, And it lowers the proud one's crest; And the law of the land is sometimes good, But the law of the sword is best. In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, The surest and best appeal; — What else can decide between man and man? (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; It has held its own on a grassy sward, When its blade shone bright and blue, Though it never has stricken in anger hard, 104 And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard With our favourite cut and thrust; Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, And his brain will be apt to reel, Should the trenchant blade come down on his head — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, It has done good service to him; It has held its own on an open wold, When its edge was in keener trim. It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, It may slacken the strongest limb, Make the brains full of forethought void and null, And the eyes full of far-sight dim; And the hasty hands are content to wait, And the knees are compelled to kneel, Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! Thurston (sings): Hurrah! for the sword — I've one of my own; And I think I may safely say, Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, And our quarrel shall end one way; One way or the other — it matters not much, So the question be fairly tried. Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, Thy clients will be satisfied. As a judge, thou dost judge — as a witness, attest, And thou settest thy hand and seal, And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest — (Chorus of all): Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse 105 of the song.] Hugo: Boot and saddle, old friend, Their defiance they send; Time is short — make an end Of thy song. Let the sword in this fight Strike as hard for the right As it once struck for might Leagued with wrong. Ha! Rollo, thou champest Thy bridle and stampest, For the rush of the tempest Dost long? Ho! the kites will grow fatter On the corpses we scatter, In the paths where we shatter Their throng. Where Osric, the craven, Hath reared the black raven 'Gainst monks that are shaven And cowl'd: Where the Teuton and Hun sit, In the track of our onset, Will the wolves, ere the sunset, Have howl'd. Retribution is good, They have revell'd in blood, Like the wolves of the wood They have prowl'd. Birds of prey they have been, And of carrion unclean, And their own nests (I ween) They have foul'd. Eric: Two messengers since Yestermorn have gone hence, 106 And ere long will the Prince Bring relief. Shall we pause? — they are ten To our one, but their men Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken Their own chief; And for this we give thanks: Their disorderly ranks, If assail'd in the flanks, Will as lief Run as fight — loons and lords. Hugo: Mount your steeds! draw your swords! Take your places! My words Shall be brief: Ride round by the valley, Through pass and gorge sally — The linden trees rally Beneath. Then, Eric and Thurston, Their ranks while we burst on, Try which will be first on The heath. (Aside) Look again, mother mine, Through the happy starshine, For my sins dost thou pine? With my breath, See! thy pangs are all done, For the life of thy son: Thou shalt never feel one For his death. [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] Orion: Stay, friend! I keep guard on Thy soul's gates; hold hard on Thy horse. Hope of pardon 107 Hath fled! Bethink once, I crave thee, Can recklessness save thee? Hell sooner will have thee Instead. Hugo: Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, Hath her Rubicon cross'd, She shall fly — saved or lost! Void of dread! Sharper pang than the steel, Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, Should I set the bruised heel On thy head. [He rides out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. Ursula: See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! While yet for the ladders they wait, Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner Within a few yards of the gate; It faces our window, the raven, The badge of the cruel sea-kings, That has carried to harbour and haven Destruction and death on its wings. Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, The pikemen of Rudolph behind Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen With faces to rearward inclined; Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, Their lances barb-headed and long: They come through the shades of the linden, Fleet riders and war-horses hot: 108 The Normans, our friends — we have sinn'd in Our selfishness, sisters, I wot — They come to add slaughter to slaughter, Their handful can ne'er stem the tide Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter Without them. How fiercely they ride! And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, And right on the many the few go! A sway and a swerve of the crowd! A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! A crashing and 'countering of steeds! And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Alas! I have striven To pray, but the lips move in vain When the heart with such terror is riven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, As fall by the sickle ripe ears, As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs — To the right hand they fall, to the left hand They yield! They go down! they give back! And their ranks are divided and cleft, and Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle To bridle, down-trampling the slain! Our friends, wielding swords never idle, Hew bloody and desperate lane Through pikemen, so crowded together They scarce for their pikes can find room, Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! A Nun (to Agatha): 109 Pray, sister! Agatha: First pray thou that heaven Will lift this dull weight from my brain, That crushes like crime unforgiven. Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: Close under the gates men are fighting On foot where the raven is rear'd! 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, His heel on the throat of his foe, Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, The steel through the bone grating low! And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed Two strokes, well directed and hard, On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, A blade crimson'd up to the guard. Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, The black banner topples and falls! Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! It clears a wide space next the walls. A Nun (to Agatha): Pray, sister! Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, With naught beyond this life to gain, Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: The gates are flung open, and straightway, By Ambrose and Cyril led on, Our own men rush out through the gateway; One charge, and the entrance is won! No! our foes block the gate and endeavour To force their way in! Oath and yell, Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! Those children of Odin fight well; 110 And my ears are confused by the crashing, The jarring, the discord, the din; And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; So when thunder to thunder is calling, Quick flash follows flash in the shade, So leaping and flashing and falling, Blade flashes and follows on blade! While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, Grows purple with blood of the slain, And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? Agatha: Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! Ursula: No more from the window; in the old years I have look'd upon strife. Now I go To the court-yard to rally our soldiers As I may — face to face with the foe. [She goes out.] SCENE — A Room in the Convent. THURSTON seated near a small fire. Enter EUSTACE. Eustace: We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. Thurston: And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. Where's Ethelwolf? Eustace: Dying. 111 Thurston: And Reginald? Eustace: Dead. And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. He may last till midnight — not longer. Nor Tyrrel, Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. Thurston: That Cyril, The monk, is a very respectable fighter. Eustace: Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. [Enter Ursula.] Thurston: Here she comes. Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? Eustace: 'Tis too late, He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. Thurston: Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. Ursula: Alas! is he dead, then? Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: "How heavy the night hangs — how wild the waves dash; Say a mass for my soul — and give Rollo a mash." Ursula: 112 Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear We listened and caught every syllable clear. Eustace: Why, his horse was slain, too. Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate To-morrow — though to-morrow for us is too late. Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead — if you like — Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. Eustace: Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. Ursula: But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. Thurston: Not we. In an hour or less, having rallied their force, They'll storm your old building — and take it, of course, Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. Ursula: Art thou hurt? Thurston: At present I feel well enough, But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] Eric: Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. 113 Thurston: Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. SCENE — The Chapel of the Convent. Dirge of the Monks: Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Ashes unto ashes go. Judge not. He who judgeth just, Judgeth merciful also. Earthly penitence hath fled, Earthly sin hath ceased to be; Pile the sods on heart and head, Miserere Domine! Hominum et angelorum, Domine! precamur te Ut immemor sis malorum — Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Will the fruits of life brought forth, Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, Profit in the day of wrath, When the dust returns to dust? Evil flower and thorny fruit Load the wild and worthless tree. Lo! the axe is at the root, Miserere Domine! Spes, fidesque, caritasque, Frustra fatigant per se, Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Fair without and foul within, When the honey'd husks are reft From the bitter sweets of sin, 114 Bitterness alone is left; Yet the wayward soul hath striven Mostly hell's ally to be, In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, Miserere Domine! Heu! heu! herba latet anguis — Caro herba — carni vae — Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) Pray that in the doubtful fight Man may win through sore distress, By His goodness infinite, And His mercy fathomless. Pray for one more of the weary, Head bow'd down and bended knee, Swell the requiem, Miserere! Miserere Domine! Bonum, malum, qui fecisti Mali imploramus te, Salve fratrem, causa Christi, Miserere Domine! (Miserere!) [End of Ashtaroth.] ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,